The Beasts Beside Me (Second Update)

Lancel's incessant chatter was a nuisance.

Tyrion couldn't help but signal Lancel's squire to haul him away, and the world instantly became a much more pleasant and quiet place.

Tyrion tossed a few logs into the campfire: "Queen Cersei will likely put you in charge of the Kingswood hunt in two days."

Gryn leaned back in his chair, his posture relaxed.

Gryn took a sip of Summer Wine, his gaze shifting toward Tyrion.

Tyrion shrugged: "My sister's emotions are intense—whether love or hate. When she likes you, she wants to give you everything she has."

Tyrion's smile faded, his tone turning grave: "But if she hates you, she will want you dead, and the more cruel the method, the happier she will be."

Tyrion reached for the flagon, pouring wine as he spoke: "You will be very busy soon. My dear sister—well, of all the people in King's Landing, she loves you the most."

Tyrion couldn't maintain his seriousness for more than three seconds before his words devolved into mockery.

Gryn curled his lips slightly: "Lord Tyrion, I shall try my best not to falter and to prolong Her Grace's favor as much as possible. I sincerely thank you for your counsel."

Tyrion grinned: "Yes, prolong it as much as possible, make it last—like a man's... er, I almost made a joke about Cersei's bedroom habits."

Tyrion raised his cup toward the direction of the Red Keep: "Forgive me, my dearest sister!"

Gryn couldn't help but laugh aloud.

Mutton and Anguy, one broad and one tall, sat together by another campfire in the backyard.

Anguy drank his ale with relish, his attention fixed on Gryn's direction not far away.

Mutton popped a fist-sized chunk of roasted beef into his mouth, chewed for a moment, and swallowed: "Anguy, don't just focus on the ale; the smoked meat today is excellent."

Anguy reached into the platter, tore off a piece of meat, and popped it into his mouth: "Not bad, but I still prefer the ale."

Mutton said honestly: "The ale here is average. Marigold Ale is much better."

Anguy was puzzled: "Is it famous? How have I never heard of it? Marigold... could it be?"

Mutton's large head nodded: "It's the ale from our own lands. It had several names before, but I heard Steward Herschel improved the brewing process and settled on a new name. It's a pity you can't drink it for now."

Anguy scanned his surroundings every few moments.

Under the guise of stretching, Anguy shifted his gaze; even in the dark of night, his eyes remained sharp and bright.

After finishing his movement, Anguy spoke: "Thank the Seven, thank Lord Gryn. Although I haven't been there yet, I finally have a home. I love the Whispers."

Anguy took a deep gulp of ale and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand: "When I go back, I want to find a bride, I want to have a son, and I want to teach him archery with care... By the Seven, I never dared to dream of such things when I was living day to day."

Mutton chuckled: "Kill more men, earn enough merit, and Lord Gryn will reward you with an estate."

Anguy nodded heavily, then suddenly asked: "I wonder if the girls at the Whispers will like me!"

Mutton thought for a moment and said bluntly: "The women at the Whispers don't lose to men in a fight. You're quite handsome, so you'd better be careful. If one takes a fancy to you, she'll just throw you over her shoulder and carry you off. If you can't beat her, you'll be hers from then on."

Why would one fight? Why would one resist!

Good heavens, is the Whispers the home of the Seven? How could such a wonderful place exist in this world!

"Actually, I quite like being passive."

After saying this, Anguy's smile turned somewhat lewd.

The clever Mutton understood the look on Anguy's face and joined in with a low chuckle.

The two laughing men suddenly stopped, their gazes locking onto the same spot simultaneously.

Petyr's servant, led by Gryn's own man, had just walked into the backyard when he felt a sudden chill run down his spine, causing him to freeze in his tracks, unable to move.

He felt as if he had been targeted by two—or perhaps several—predators, as if one more step would result in his throat being torn out.

The feeling of being in mortal danger vanished, but the back of Petyr's servant was already soaked in cold sweat.

He dared not look up, and under the renewed urging of Gryn's servant, he moved his feet with great difficulty, subconsciously slowing his breathing.

Petyr's servant finally reached Gryn, trembling, and bowed with extreme reverence.

He swore that he was more submissive now than he ever was when facing Petyr—it was truly from the bottom of his heart.

Tyrion observed Petyr's servant, whom he had encountered a few times before, with great interest.

The servant bent his body into an inverted V, holding the folded invitation high with both hands.

Gryn judged that the etiquette Petyr instilled in his servants was excessive—far too high.

Gryn signaled for his own servant to take the invitation.

Once Petyr's servant had departed, Tyrion could no longer hold back and burst into laughter, clutching his stomach.

Gryn looked at Tyrion, who was nearly gasping for air, a hint of a smile flashing in his eyes: "I was also surprised by how overly polite Lord Petyr's servant was. It seems you already know something?"

Tyrion waved his small hand, wiping the tears from the corners of his eyes before saying: "You are a beast master; you've long since grown accustomed to the predators by your side. If I hadn't already dealt with the Mountain, your guards would have scared me into wetting myself. He was simply terrified."

[Gregor Clegane, a sworn knight loyal to House Lannister, nicknamed the Mountain, possesses a massive physique, a cruel and bloodthirsty nature, and a penchant for slaughter.]

Tyrion grinned as he used himself as an example, not minding in the slightest to poke fun at his own expense.

At this moment, Gryn finished reading the contents of the invitation and furrowed his brows slightly: "To think it is Lord Jon who wishes to see me."

Tyrion's eyes flickered, and he reached out to take the letter from Gryn's hand.

Tyrion read it with great focus: "This was ghostwritten; the tone is excessively polite!"

Tyrion slapped his thigh and continued: "Look at me, I've drunk myself muddled. It is clearly ghostwritten by Petyr."

Tyrion rubbed his chin and muttered: "It is not that I underestimate you, but after all, you are merely a baron. To have the Hand of the King extend an invitation with the Master of Coin acting as the errand boy—the protocol is excessive. It is not normal."

Gryn nodded slightly: "This is to leave me no room for refusal."

Tyrion agreed: "Correct! That is exactly the point!"

Tyrion pondered, his eyes darting back and forth.

Gryn suddenly asked: "Has Petyr always been this bold?"

Why ask about the extent of Petyr's boldness? A look of confusion appeared on Tyrion's face: "He is a man who arms himself tightly with elegance; he is a very cautious..."

As he spoke, Tyrion seemed to think of something and paused, meeting Gryn's steady gaze: "It appears as though he has surfaced above the water, but in reality..."

The greatest hermit hides in the city. Gryn could not translate this phrase into Westerosi: "Huiquan truly favors you. He appears conspicuous standing before the crowd, yet he stands precisely where he is most easily overlooked."

Tyrion chimed in: "The urgent timing, the high-profile invitation, the radiance of the Hand of the King... Littlefinger is indeed cunning!"

Gryn felt a bit puzzled. Was he being underestimated? Or was it...

As agreed, I am attempting two updates a day starting today. Lords, I beg for your votes and support!