Maester Al of Whispers described the battle in which House Crabb reclaimed its ancestral lands to the Citadel in as much detail as possible, hoping to make his account more credible.
Maester Al hadn't deliberately revealed House Crabb's secrets. He had simply acted out of his usual scholarly thoroughness and a little desire to show off.
The lords of Crackclaw Point throughout the ages had all been brave enough, but lacked learning.
Maester Al had taught Gryn everything from the moment he began learning his letters. The old man liked to reminisce, and looking back now, he felt a great sense of accomplishment.
Maester Al was learned enough, but he was no commander. Strictly speaking, he had inadvertently let some intelligence slip.
Under Maester Al's quill, Crabb's campaign had taken on an almost artistic quality. Yet aside from a few interested parties, most of the nobles of Westeros scoffed at it. "They were only fighting Wildlings. I could do that too!"
Samwell, Randyll's eldest son, was one of those few interested parties, eager to earn his father's approval.
Once Maester Al's account reached the Citadel, it would be condensed further before being sent by raven to the maesters of the "friendly" lords of Westeros.
In Horn Hill, only Samwell, who spent every day reading all sorts of things, had noticed the account. He had even asked Horn Hill's maester to request the more detailed original from the Citadel.
Under Randyll's imposing authority, Samwell always stammered when he spoke, which only made Randyll dislike him more.
"F-Father, I... I've been studying House Crabb's campaign."
Randyll acted as if he hadn't heard him.
Samwell pressed on by himself. For him, simply finding the courage to stand before his father and offer advice was already a tremendous feat.
"I've looked up a lot of information. The Wildlings of Crackclaw Point are warriors by nature... They're not weak. Lord Gryn managed to defeat them with only a small number of men. He's worth paying attention to. His way of fighting is similar to the ones we know..."
The famed commander Randyll was proud, and his record gave him every reason to be.
During the War of the Usurper, his army had inflicted the only defeat on Robert Baratheon's forces, at the Battle of Ashford.
Randyll Tarly was forthright and rigid, but possessed an iron will and a keen mind. Kevan Lannister had even praised him as the man most capable of ending the war in Westeros after Tywin Lannister's death.
Randyll had naturally read the brief reports about the battles on Crackclaw Point. His eldest son was a coward, and his youngest was still too young. He had merely sighed that it was a pity the boy wasn't his son.
Randyll cut Samwell off.
"So what use is all this studying? If you met Crabb on the battlefield, could you defeat him? Or do you think you're braver than those fearless Wildlings? If a warhorse charged at you, could you even keep hold of your sword?"
"Get out. Disappear from my sight."
Samwell was terrified and restless. He was certain there was something unusual about Crabb's archers, and it needed to be investigated. Horn Hill ought to learn about this information in advance, and there were still plenty of details he needed to bring to his father's attention.
Samwell immediately broke into a sweat. It ran from his forehead to his jaw like rain, then dripped down.
"Get out!!"
Samwell shuddered. Under Randyll's icy gaze, all the courage he had struggled to summon vanished. He hurriedly fled the dining room.
Tyrion had come by again. He also told Gryn that the Queen was recovering from her injuries and wouldn't receive him until the scars on her face had completely disappeared, since they would mar her noble appearance.
After quietly sharing this "secret" intelligence, Tyrion dragged Gryn off to drink and listen to music.
For five days straight, Gryn saw Tyrion's small frame wobble into view every evening.
Each time, Tyrion had some reason Gryn simply couldn't refuse.
Gryn knew Tyrion's tricks well. He had used them himself in his previous life.
First, offer the most sincere advice and let slip a secret that seemed very important. Quickly skip past the unfamiliar stage and draw the two of you closer. Add fine wine and beautiful women, and then... if all went well, the other person would let down their guard around you and have no more secrets.
Gryn had actually wanted to tell Tyrion that the most skilled hunters often appeared as prey.
As he followed Tyrion in sampling the extravagant life of King's Landing's nobility, Gryn earnestly played the part of an excellent lord, embodying humility, honesty, compassion, wisdom, courage, justice, sacrifice, and honor.
When Gryn took something seriously, he was terrifying. He got so deeply into character that, in the end, he believed it himself.
The Red Keep, the gardens.
Tyrion sat on a wooden bench, deep dark circles under his eyes, staring blankly at his nephew Tommen and niece Myrcella as they played.
Tyrion reached out and caught the apple someone tossed his way. With a sharp crunch, he took a big bite.
Jaime watched Tyrion's state with amusement, then sat beside him and gazed at Tommen and Myrcella with a gentle expression.
Tyrion let out a long, wine-scented belch. "Jaime, I've made up my mind. Starting tomorrow, I'm giving up all wine. The Seven are my witnesses!"
Jaime laughed merrily. "I've lost count of how many times I've heard you say that."
"Fine, I'm always forgetting things. But I really do need a few days' rest."
"You and the little Wildling are getting along?"
Tyrion nodded. "So young, yet neither impatient nor anxious. He lives in a barbarous land, but he's eager to learn and hungry for knowledge. He has desires but isn't greedy. Most unusually, he has a good heart."
Jaime leaned comfortably against the back of the bench. "Are you describing yourself, my dear brother?"
Tyrion stared at him for a moment, then grinned. "Dear brother, do you really think so highly of me?"
Jaime glanced at Tyrion's toothy grin. "I see you're quite taken with that little Wildling."
Tyrion shifted closer to Jaime and lowered his voice. "If I were Cersei..."
Tyrion raised his chin, and Jaime's attention shifted to Myrcella. "Myrcella's marriage could be arranged with that little Wildling you mentioned. He's worthy of her. He's a—"
Jaime interrupted angrily. "Enough!"
Tyrion wasn't startled by Jaime's sudden shout. Instead, he looked puzzled. "Jaime, don't you think you're overreacting? You should trust my considered judgment."
Jaime stood and paced back and forth a few times, gripping the hilt of the longsword at his waist. "Tyrion, Myrcella's still very young. I don't want you involving her in any schemes. I'll make sure she stays far from all conflict and lives happily forever. My sword will cleave apart any dark hand reaching for her."
Tyrion blinked, seeming to take in Jaime's state of mind.
Jaime came to his senses. Looking a little embarrassed, he sighed and sat back down, gently patting Tyrion's small shoulder. "I'm very sorry. I hate marriages made for profit so much that I lost my head. Tyrion, I hope I didn't hurt you. I wasn't attacking you."
Tyrion shook his head and said solemnly, "When Father arranged Cersei's marriage to Robert, I saw you lose your temper for the first time. It was the first time you argued with our beloved father. I can try to understand how you felt. I love Myrcella too. She has every good quality I can imagine."
"I'm offering this advice sincerely, not to bargain for some supposed benefit. I'm Myrcella's uncle too."
"But I still want to remind you, my dear brother: our name is Lannister. Lannister..."
"Don't think about it anymore. You know I like to joke, Jaime."
Jaime remained silent.
Jaime clenched both hands tightly, his brows drawing together despite himself.
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