Mace Tyrell's cheeks slowly puffed out. After a brief moment of thought, he asked gravely, "Is that thing dangerous?"
Gryn was taken aback. "His danger lies in his keen ears and eyes. In those respects, he far surpasses us."
At that, Hand Mace's grave expression immediately faded.
Yet he still asked uneasily, "A sword should be able to stab him to death, shouldn't it?"
Seeing Gryn nod, Hand Mace's fat face turned grave again. "Your Grace, since that thing calls himself a god, I have reason to suspect that he may become an obstacle to the Seven Kingdoms, perhaps even undermine the kingdom's great undertaking."
Moving over to the table covered with a map of the North, Gryn studied it for a while before nodding. "Your concerns are valid. After all, I sent people to capture him. If Melisandre fails, it will kindle the flames of hatred."
Hand Mace hesitated briefly, then moved closer to Gryn. "Your Grace, perhaps I could go and support her, to ensure your plan proceeds smoothly?"
Gryn shook his head outright. "It is too risky. The kingdom needs you. Dany and I need you as well, my Hand."
Hand Mace could not help but feel a swell of emotion. Courtly language might be indirect, but at crucial moments, King Gryn never concealed his trust in him.
The bond between House Tyrell and Crabb was harder than rock. The Starks had merely enjoyed a stroke of luck; this only proved Gryn's mercy and tolerance.
Besides.
To be honest, he had no desire to take part in that "Stannis" witch's operation. That woman seemed far too dangerous. His offer had merely been the fulfillment of his duty as Hand of the King—when the king dreamed, the Hand built the dream.
Nor did he ever dare forget the