A Visionary Suggestion

Maester Al of the Whispers, in order to bolster his credibility, described the campaign of House Crabb reclaiming their ancestral lands to the Citadel in as much detail as possible.

Maester Al did not leak the secrets of House Crabb intentionally; it was merely a result of his habitual academic rigor and a small, lingering desire to show off.

The successive lords of Crackclaw Point had always been brave enough, but they lacked scholarly learning.

Gryn had been taught by Maester Al since he first learned to read, and the old man, who enjoyed reminiscing, felt a great sense of accomplishment when he looked back on it now.

Maester Al possessed vast knowledge, but he was no military commander; strictly speaking, he had inadvertently leaked a portion of sensitive intelligence.

Under the flourish of Maester Al's quill, the combat of House Crabb took on an artistic quality. Aside from a small number of interested parties, most nobles in Westeros simply scoffed: It's just fighting Wildlings, I could do that too!

Samwell, the eldest son of Randyll, who was desperate to earn his father's approval, was precisely one of those few interested parties.

The content provided by Maester Al would be further simplified upon reaching the Citadel, then sent via raven to the maesters of "friendly" lords across Westeros.

Only Samwell, who spent his days reading in Horn Hill, noticed the reports, even going so far as to request that the maester of Horn Hill petition the Citadel for the more detailed original records.

Under the weight of Randyll's authority, Samwell always stammered when he spoke, which only resulted in Randyll disliking him all the more.

"Fa... Father, I... I have been studying the combat methods of House Crabb."

Randyll acted as if he hadn't heard a word.

Samwell continued on his own; for him, simply standing there to offer counsel to his father had already required the greatest courage he could muster.

"I have consulted many records, and the Wildlings of Crackclaw Point are born warriors... they are not weak. Lord Gryn was able to defeat them with only a small force, which makes him worthy of attention. His style of warfare is different from what we are familiar with..."

The renowned commander Randyll was a proud man, and his military record was certainly something to be proud of.

During the War of the Usurper, the army he led inflicted the only defeat Robert Baratheon's forces suffered at the Battle of Ashford.

Randyll Tarly was upright and rigid, yet possessed an iron will and sharp intellect; he had even been hailed by Kevan Lannister as the man most capable of ending the wars in Westeros after the death of Tywin Lannister.

Randyll had naturally read the brief reports regarding the campaign in Crackclaw Point. With a cowardly eldest son and a youngest son who was still too small, he had merely sighed, lamenting that it was a pity such a talent was not his own child.

Samwell's words were cut short by Randyll.

"And so, what is the use of your research! If you met on the battlefield, could you defeat Crabb? Or do you think you are braver than a Wildling who fears no death? When facing the roar of warhorses, would you even be able to hold your sword?"

"Get out. Get out of my sight."

Samwell felt both fearful and anxious. He believed there was something deeply significant about the bows used by House Crabb that required further investigation. Horn Hill should be ahead of the curve in mastering such information, and there were many more details he needed to present to his father.

Samwell was suddenly drenched in sweat, droplets sliding from his forehead to his chin before dripping onto the floor.

"GET OUT!!"

Samwell shuddered violently. Under Randyll's icy gaze, the courage he had struggled to summon vanished entirely, and he fled the dining hall in a panic.

Tyrion sought him out again, telling Gryn that the Queen was currently recovering from her injuries and would not receive him until the marks on her face had completely vanished, as it would affect her noble image.

After quietly whispering this "confidential" intelligence, Tyrion dragged Gryn off to drink and listen to music.

For five consecutive days, Gryn saw Tyrion's small frame swaying into view every evening.

Each time, there was a reason that made it difficult for Gryn to refuse or avoid him.

Gryn was very familiar with Tyrion's tactics; he had used them himself in his past life.

Start with the most sincere advice, reveal seemingly important secrets to quickly bridge the gap between strangers, add fine wine and beautiful company, and then... if things go smoothly, the other party will have no defenses left in front of you, and there will be no more secrets.

Gryn actually wanted to tell Tyrion that high-level hunters often appear in the guise of the prey.

Gryn followed Tyrion, experiencing the extravagant life of the King's Landing nobility while earnestly playing the role of an excellent lord—one who embodied humility, honesty, compassion, wisdom, bravery, justice, sacrifice, and honor.

A serious Gryn was terrifying; he became so immersed in the role that, in the end, he even believed it himself.

The Red Keep, gardens.

Tyrion sat on a wooden bench with dark circles under his eyes, staring blankly at his nephew Tommen and niece Myrcella as they played.

Tyrion reached out a small hand, caught an apple tossed his way, and took a large, crunchy bite.

Jaime watched Tyrion's state with amusement, sitting down beside him and looking at Tommen and Myrcella with a gentle expression.

Tyrion let out a long, wine-scented belch: "Jaime, I've decided. Starting tomorrow, I shall abstain from all wine. The Seven themselves are my witnesses!"

Jaime laughed pleasantly: "I can't even remember how many times you've said the exact same thing."

"Fine, I am always forgetful. But I truly do need to rest for a few days."

"Are you getting along well with the little Wildling?"

Tyrion nodded: "At such a young age, he is neither impatient nor restless. Despite living in a savage land, he is eager to learn and hungry for knowledge. He has desires, but he is not greedy. What is rare is that he possesses a kind heart."

Jaime leaned back comfortably against the bench: "Are you describing yourself, my dear brother?"

Tyrion paused, then grinned: "My dear brother, am I truly so magnificent in your eyes?"

Jaime turned his head to look at the grinning Tyrion: "It seems you think quite highly of that little Wildling."

Tyrion shifted his weight to move closer to Jaime, lowering his voice: "If I were Cersei..."

Tyrion tilted his chin, drawing Jaime's attention toward Myrcella: "For Myrcella's marriage, the little Wildling you mentioned is worth considering; he is worthy. This is a..."

Jaime interrupted with an angry shout: "Enough!"

Tyrion was not startled by Jaime's sudden outburst; instead, he asked with curiosity: "Jaime, isn't your reaction a bit too extreme? You should trust my judgment after careful consideration."

Jaime stood up and paced back and forth, his hand gripping the hilt of the longsword at his waist: "Tyrion, Myrcella is still very young. I do not want you to calculate her into any political schemes. I will ensure she stays far away from conflict and remains happy forever. The sword in my hand will sever any dark claws that reach out toward her."

Tyrion blinked, seemingly processing Jaime's current state.

Jaime regained his composure, his expression turning slightly embarrassed. He sighed, sat back down, and patted Tyrion's small shoulder: "I am very sorry. I simply loathe marriages made for profit so much that I lost my reason. Tyrion, I hope I didn't hurt you; I wasn't targeting you."

Tyrion shook his head and said in a low voice: "When Father arranged for Cersei to marry Robert, it was the first time I saw you lose your composure and the first time you argued with our respected father. I can try to understand your feelings. I am also very fond of Myrcella; she possesses all the goodness I can imagine."

"My suggestion is sincere, not for the sake of some so-called exchange of interests. I am Myrcella's uncle, too."

"However, I still wish to remind you, my dear brother, that our surname is Lannister. A Lannister..."

"Don't dwell on it anymore. You know I like to joke, Jaime."

Jaime remained silent.

Jaime's hands were clenched tight, and his brows could not help but knit together.