Chapter 19: The Makings of a Famed General
Tyrion chuckled. "Hahaha, my dear brother, that's a pipe dream! How could a Lannister ever hope for something as absurd as happiness? Our lifelong pursuit is limitless power."
As Tyrion spoke, his tone shifted, filled with mockery.
Jaime shrugged, his expression bitter.
The two Lannister brothers were lost in their own thoughts, speaking no more.
After a while, Queen Cersei's handmaiden approached gracefully and curtsied. "Ser Jaime, Her Grace the Queen requests your presence."
Tyrion interjected, "My sister, so delicate at this moment, didn't happen to ask for her most beloved little brother as well? Hmm... your expression tells me I did not receive an invitation!"
Tyrion jumped down from the railing, straightened his clothes, and started to walk away. "Seeing me right now would only worsen my dear sister's mood. I'm off. You go on, brother, you who hopes for our sister's happiness!"
With that, Tyrion turned his back to Jaime, raised his right hand in a wave without looking back, and departed without pause.
Jaime stared at the small, retreating figure, sensing Tyrion's loneliness. He opened his mouth to speak but said nothing.
Jaime knew in his heart that Tyrion possessed a kind soul. Cersei never hid her disgust for Tyrion, but he never truly hated her for it. On the contrary, Tyrion had always longed for familial affection.
Whenever Cersei was in trouble, Tyrion's small figure would always appear somewhere nearby, out of her sight, but he never drew close.
Jaime loved his younger brother dearly, but Cersei, whom he loved most, had hated Tyrion to the bone since they were children.
Jaime had tried to mediate in the past, but he had failed. Now, he could only hope that, for his sake, the relationship between Cersei and Tyrion would not worsen.
Red Keep, the Queen's bedchamber.
Sitting before her vanity, Cersei seemed completely unconcerned about others seeing the marks on her face. She lifted her chin slightly, a smile playing on her lips, but her tone was cold. "Jaime, I want you to kill Robert."
Jaime's heart skipped a beat. He placed his hands on Cersei's delicate shoulders. "Cersei, I understand your anger, but we cannot be rash. Robert is the King, and I am a knight of his Kingsguard. Besides..."
Cersei angrily shoved Jaime away, as if she had heard something utterly ridiculous. "Jaime the Kingslayer, are you lecturing me on the duties of the Kingsguard?"
Upon hearing the word "Kingslayer," Jaime's palms tightened slightly, a flash of anger in his eyes.
Suppressing his rage, Jaime urged in a low voice, "Cersei, you cannot be impulsive. Robert is not so easily killed. One misstep could bring disaster upon House Lannister. Father will not forgive us."
The mention of House Lannister managed to cool Cersei's temper for a moment.
The memory of how a single glance from the Old Lion, Tywin Lannister, could make her afraid to even breathe resurfaced in her mind. She had thought that becoming Queen had dispelled that fear, only to find the memory was still so deeply etched, so terrifyingly clear.
Jaime came up behind Cersei and gently embraced her.
Her anger still lingering, Cersei was unwilling to be touched by Jaime. She struggled a few times, but when she couldn't break free, she relented and let him hold her.
Jaime felt Cersei's warmth, willing to tolerate all her flaws.
Cersei's beautiful eyes trembled slightly. Her thoughts, however, turned to Lord Glyn Crabbe, far away on Crackclaw Point.
She felt it was time to grasp a sharp sword of her own—one not controlled by the Lannisters or anyone else, a truly personal weapon.
According to the intelligence provided by Grand Maester Pycelle, this minor lord was very skilled in warfare, having defeated twenty thousand men with only one thousand.
A sufficiently sharp sword indeed.
...
...
The Whispers, the Lord's Study.
Glyn took a large sip of the sour red wine, which he surprisingly missed a little. Glyn frowned. It was still terrible!
Having returned to The Whispers, Glyn seemed to be in high spirits. "So, Maester Al, did you tell the Citadel that we defeated twenty thousand men in a single battle with only a thousand?"
Maester Al grinned, revealing the few teeth he had left. "I was originally going to write that you defeated thirty thousand, but I was worried I'd give the old fellows a heart attack, so I made the number a bit smaller. Hehehe."
Glyn revealed a smile. "Honorable Maester Al, I sincerely thank you for your continued support."
Maester Al shakily stood up and bowed his head to Glyn. "My Lord, you are correct. Learning to display one's strength is also an important part of political maneuvering. Since you intend to enter the Red Keep, it is akin to joining the game of thrones. Anonymity brings not only contempt but also a silent death. I simply wanted to use the Citadel to inform the great figures in advance that Lord Randyll Tarly is not the only one who knows how to fight a war."
"Your kind heart worries that the Citadel might hold me accountable in the future, affecting my reputation, but I am already very old. I only wish to do my part for you while I am still able. Between you and the Citadel, my loyalty will always be with you."
Maester Al blinked. "Now that you have demonstrated your formidable military prowess to the outside world, I no longer have to worry that you might be forced into the beds of noble ladies for the sake of our lands."
Glyn threw his head back and laughed.
...
The Whispers, the Smithy.
Montun spread his arms, sticking out his large belly, and let the smiths measure him.
The smith who finished the measurements said respectfully, "Lord Montun has a very stout frame. It will require about the materials for two and a half suits of plate armor."
Herschel asked, "How long will it take to make a full suit of plate armor?"
"Steward, if we have enough manpower, it can be completed in two months."
Steward Herschel pondered for a moment, patting his own belly, which was much smaller in scale compared to Montun's. "Lord Glyn is departing in a week at the latest, and Montun must accompany him. The plate armor... Forge a breastplate for Montun first. At the same time, arrange for some men to take apart and modify an existing suit of chainmail to fit Montun's size..."
"I'll give you five days."
(end of chapter)