Marigold Ale

According to reports from villagers, the Mountain Wildlings in the vicinity have become increasingly active.

Gryn, who habitually pursued perfection, had intended to let the legion drill for a few more days to refine the finer details.

However, with the hearts of the people in the territory growing more unsettled, Gryn realized he could delay no longer and was forced to go to war.

If he delayed any further, the subjects would mistakenly believe that Gryn was cowardly and afraid of the wildlings.

After leading everyone to inspect the volley training of the Thorn Legion, Gryn walked toward the lord's council hall in Whispers, his footsteps remaining steady.

In Whispers, the lord's council hall.

Gryn sat high above, the back of the lord's high-backed chair adorned with the Marsh Marigold emblem of House Crabb.

Gryn took the wine glass handed to him by Kalaia and took a sip of the red wine with a frown.

Must say, once you get used to this sour red wine, it's quite potent!

The retainers of House Crabb stood to the sides of the hall.

Sir Mason spoke first: "My Lord, the negotiations with the wildlings are concluded. The time is set for after sunrise tomorrow."

"How many have they gathered?"

Sir Pell, who was in charge of the Survey Corps, replied: "Estimated at one thousand."

Gryn rested his cheek against the back of his hand and let out a scoffing "Heh."

Hearing the lord's mocking laughter, the room fell silent for a moment before everyone began to voice their own ridicule of the wildlings.

Contempt for the wildlings was a strategic necessity; it would invisibly boost morale.

This was a mindset that had long since formed within the territory.

Tactically, however, Gryn would never underestimate the wildlings.

Gryn signaled for silence: "Herschel, are the shields ready?"

Steward Herschel's tone remained respectful: "Yes, my master. The 30 iron-clad shields in the storehouse, plus the 70 oak shields finished by the carpentry workshop, make 100 in total, all of which have been handed over to Sir Mason."

Gryn handed the wine glass back to Kalaia at his side: "Well done, Steward Herschel."

Herschel bowed in salute.

"I will reiterate the battle plan."

"The 120 longbowmen of the Thorn Legion will each carry two quivers, with 20 arrows in each."

"The range of the Crabb Longbow is sufficiently long, as you have all witnessed."

"When the wildlings charge toward us, the first thing they will face is the volley from the Thorn Legion."

"Mason, for the first phase of the battle, your task is to use the 100 shields to lead the clan soldiers in holding the line and protecting the Thorn Legion until every arrow in the quivers has been spent."

"Once the Thorn Legion finishes their volley, the first phase of the battle is considered complete."

"After taking 4,800 arrows from the Thorn Legion all at once, I wonder how much of the Mountain Wildlings' ridiculous courage will remain? Remember to check if the wildlings have wet themselves in fear when the time comes."

Everyone in the hall burst into laughter.

Gryn continued: "In the second phase of the battle, the plate-armored warriors will take the lead, and all clan soldiers will advance steadily to engage in close-quarters combat and thoroughly crush the wildlings."

"Meanwhile, the Thorn Legion will remain in place to rest and await my orders."

After speaking, Gryn had each person in charge repeat their own combat duties.

Gryn's war council was vastly different from the territory's past habits; as the lord, Gryn needed to have sufficient patience and engage in repeated communication to ensure everyone truly understood his intentions.

One must always take the first step, and time was Gryn's ally.

Gryn tapped his fingers against his knee, thinking to himself that this should be enough.

The first formal coordinated operation between the various branches of the Crabb Territory, due to the urgency of time, began in a rush.

Gryn's lunch consisted of roasted mutton with onions, vegetable soup, honey bread, and a flagon of ale.

Gryn took a sip of the ale and frowned again.

Disgusting, bitter as gall.

How does the taste of ale keep changing? I remember it being quite good last time!

Gryn didn't want to drink it anymore, but as a penniless lord, he didn't want to waste it, so he reached out, took the flagon, and poured the remaining ale from his cup back into it.

With a gentle smile, Gryn said to Kalaia: "Today's ale is excellent. Herschel has been working very hard lately; take this flagon to him."

Herschel was broad and stout; this was a token of the lord's affection.

Kalaia nodded, faithfully executing the lord's order.

In the hall, Steward Herschel, who was dining with the others, received the flagon from Kalaia's hands amidst the envious gazes and cheers of the others.

Herschel had indeed been working very hard these past few days, being run ragged by Gryn's commands until his legs had grown thin.

This was the lord's affirmation of his capabilities; Herschel's fatigue was swept away, and his entire body was filled with vigor.

Because of the ale, Gryn, who was in the middle of his meal, found his thoughts drifting to Mermaid Harbor.

Gryn thought about the liquor trade, which was one of the port's primary sources of income.

If they relied entirely on imported spirits, problems would easily arise in the future.

It would be best to possess a famous, self-produced liquor, much like the wines of the Arbor.

Given the resources of Crabb Territory, developing ale was the optimal choice.

Gryn had long ago discovered that outside of the castle, there was practically no concept of hygiene.

Gryn surmised that the inconsistent taste of his household's ale had a great deal to do with the lack of sanitary management.

Sometimes, Gryn felt relieved that when the lord issued laws, there was no need to reason with anyone.

Otherwise, just explaining what a hygiene issue was would have been enough to exhaust Gryn to death.

For instance, the issue of sanitary management in brewing could be solved through strict regulations; no one would openly defy the rules established by the lord.

There would certainly be various problems during implementation, so effective supervision and oversight mechanisms would have to keep pace.

Thinking of this, Gryn felt that the ale he had sent earlier was a brilliant move; Steward Herschel's task list had just gained an entry.

The ale also needed a resounding and elegant name; a good name was half the battle.

Mermaid Ale?

The connection was insufficient, too far-fetched.

Marsh Marigold Ale?

This was acceptable, as the ale itself was golden in color.

He had to remove "Marsh," as it lowered the prestige.

Let's call it—Marigold Ale.

After finishing lunch, Gryn, who had been feeling a bit drowsy, was instantly energized upon receiving a reply from King's Landing.

After reading the contents of the letter several times, Gryn couldn't help but snap his fingers.

According to the letter, in the middle of this year, about two months from now, Her Grace the Queen would depart King's Landing for a hunt in the Kingswood, and Gryn would be responsible for a portion of the escort.

As for the escort personnel, Gryn would recruit them himself within his territory, with a quota of twenty men.

Gryn's goal was to use Queen Cersei to gain an opportunity to make an appearance at the Red Keep.

The Game of Thrones was about to begin, and Crackclaw Point was simply too far away.

Seeing Gryn, who rarely showed much expression, so happy, Kalaia was inevitably influenced, and her mood improved: "Lord Gryn, it is rare to see you so happy; would you like a glass of red wine?"

Gryn shifted his gaze: "Very well, I shall have one for you as well; let us have a drink together to celebrate this small victory."

Gryn raised his glass to signal Kalaia and drained it in one gulp.

My thanks to Her Grace, Cersei.