A Heart That Longed for Peace?

Gryn hadn't expected to run into an important "story character" on his very first day in King's Landing.

Gryn's thoughts stirred. There couldn't be that many coincidences in the world. The Lannisters were still a "loving family" at this point. Was Tyrion sounding things out for Cersei in advance?

Tyrion Lannister's announcement that he was buying everyone drinks earned loud cheers from the crowd in the tavern.

Tyrion's retainer tossed a bulging sack of Gold Dragons into the tavern keeper's arms.

From where Gryn sat, he could see Tyrion stand up straight, his little chest puffed out as he modestly acknowledged the crowd's loud thanks.

It was September of 297 in the Westerosi Calendar. The young Daenerys was likely living with her brother at the mansion of Illyrio Mopatis, Magister of Pentos, in Essos.

The future Hand of the King, Tyrion, was spending money like water in Westeros, simply enjoying himself to the fullest.

Life was full of surprises.

Tyrion hopped into the chair opposite Gryn. His retainer brought over two empty goblets, placing one in front of Gryn and one in front of Tyrion, then filled them both from a wine pitcher.

Tyrion raised his goblet toward Gryn, took a sip, then savored it before remarking, "Summer Wine from Dorne, rich with the aroma of fruit and sweet on the palate. It's my favorite..."

Tyrion grinned and continued, "Every sip is like savoring a maiden's fragrance, leaving you longing for more."

Gryn smiled.

He put a hand to his chest and inclined his head. "Good evening, Lord Tyrion Lannister."

Tyrion leaned back in his chair, goblet in hand. "Has my fame spread across the continent already? I'm rather surprised, and honored."

Gryn raised his goblet and took a sip of the Summer Wine. This time, he didn't grimace. It was pretty good.

"When I was little, whenever I didn't want to go to sleep, my mother would scare me with tales of your infamy. You were the shadow of my childhood. When I grew up, I made a point of learning the truth. It was just a well-meaning lie. So it's no surprise I recognized you."

"Ah, what a tragic memory!"

Gryn smiled, as if reminiscing. "My home is very far away."

Tyrion reached straight for a piece of roast meat from the plate and popped it into his mouth. As he chewed, he suddenly asked, "Aren't you worried about the Hand of the King?"

Gryn shook his head. "Important people don't pay special attention to nobodies."

Tyrion raised his goblet toward him again. "When I was your age, I often dreamed of having a dragon of my own one day. Are you troubled by inheriting your family's lands?"

"My legs are too short, and my head's too big. Fortunately, this head suits me just fine. It tells me exactly what I can and can't do. It's my weapon. Jaime has his sword, King Robert has his warhammer, and I have my wits... What about you, Little Baron?"

There was a note of scorn in Tyrion's final words.

Yet Gryn unexpectedly sensed a kindly warning in them.

Tyrion lowered his head to drink, then looked up and glanced at Gryn, who remained unmoved.

Tyrion set down his goblet and regarded Gryn with interest.

A faint smile touched Gryn's lips. "A heart that longs for peace? I don't think anyone would have the heart to stop one that longs for peace."

Tyrion was taken aback by Gryn's answer. After a moment, he burst into laughter. "That's right. Everyone loves peace. Here's to peace!"

After he finished laughing, Tyrion's tone turned serious. "If I were you, I'd make much the same choice. But, young man, I should warn you: our Queen can be rather willful at times—and not in the way people generally mean. My advice is to bring Jaime along when that happens. Only Jaime can talk Her Grace down."

"I'll remember that, Lord Tyrion."

Tyrion leaned so far over the table that almost his entire little body was sprawled across it. He stared at Gryn, his voice even more serious. "Now, Lord Gryn, tell me: are you still a virgin?"

Sure enough, Gryn had thought Tyrion was about to start fooling around again.

Facing the now-grinning Tyrion, Gryn gave him a complicated look and firmly shook his head.

Tyrion laughed even louder.

Gryn propped his cheek on one hand. Maybe he should go listen to music at a pleasure house tonight? The important part was listening to music.

The next morning, Hook Harbor, temporary residence.

Gryn woke and rubbed his head.

Being drunk was like loving the wrong person: once the effects wore off, you woke up—and then Gryn regretted it. He regretted the Gold Dragons he'd spent.

Tyrion's mind was full of Westeros's secrets, and he was quite the smooth talker. Gryn had kept drinking as he listened and hadn't realized he'd gotten drunk.

Not yet satisfied, the two of them had gone off to listen to music together, and Gryn had generously tossed money around.

Gryn regretted it and warned himself: just this once.

The Reach, Horn Hill, as the sun rose.

Samwell Tarly dragged his overlarge body along, holding his breath as he went to see his father, Randyll Tarly.

Samwell Tarly was extremely fat, with dark hair and gray eyes set in a huge, round face.

Balding Randyll Tarly sat sternly at the dining table, eating breakfast with his family. The table was quiet, broken only by the faint sounds of cutlery and hushed conversation.

Samwell Tarly's arrival seemed to shatter the family's warm breakfast. Randyll Tarly merely glanced at him from the corner of his eye, ignoring Samwell's timid gaze.

Of everyone at the table, only Randyll Tarly's youngest son, Samwell Tarly's brother Dickon Tarly, quietly greeted Samwell.

"F-Father, forgive my... interruption. I..."

Samwell couldn't help wiping the cold sweat from his brow.

Bang!

Randyll Tarly put down his knife and fork, and everyone else fell silent.

"Idiot. If you know you're interrupting us, why come now? Look at yourself, covered in useless fat!"

Samwell shrank his neck in fright.

"Spineless, fat, and all you do is bury your face in books, spending your days reading about the achievements of people better than you."

"You're nearly a man, but you're not fit to inherit my lands and title."

Randyll Tarly's wife, Melessa Florent, could bear it no longer. But she didn't want to argue with her husband in front of the children, so she could only storm away from the table, making her displeasure clear.

His wife's departure had its effect. Randyll Tarly stopped humiliating Samwell.

Samwell looked guiltily after his mother as she left.

Samwell had been born into this family carrying Randyll Tarly's hopes and expectations. From the moment he was born, too much had been expected of him.

As the eldest son, Samwell had been given far too much hope by his father, Randyll.

When Samwell was very young, Randyll Tarly had loved him dearly. But as Samwell grew older, Randyll realized his son wasn't what he had hoped for.

Though Randyll Tarly had devoted himself to raising Samwell, he was at a loss when it came to his son.

As those hopes crumbled bit by bit, the upright, inflexible Randyll Tarly gave up on his son completely—he even came to hate him.

"F-Father, I... I've been studying House Crabb's battle tactics."