Tyrion laughed playfully, "Hah, brother, that is wishful thinking! How can a Lannister aspire to such a laughable thing as happiness? Our lifelong pursuit is infinite power."
As Tyrion spoke, his tone shifted, becoming filled with mockery.
Jaime shrugged, a bitter expression on his face.
The two Lannister brothers drifted into their own thoughts, falling silent.
After a good while, one of Queen Cersei's handmaidens approached gracefully and curtsied. "Ser Jaime, her grace requests your presence."
Tyrion interjected, "Did my currently frail sister not summon her favorite brother as well? Hmm... your expression tells me I haven't received an invitation!"
Tyrion hopped down from the railing, straightened his clothes, and strode off. "Seeing me right now would only make her mood worse. I'm off. Good luck, brother who hopes for our sister's happiness!"
Having said his piece, Tyrion turned his back to Jaime, raised his right hand to give a backward wave, and walked away without pausing.
Jaime stared at the diminutive retreating figure, sensing Tyrion's loneliness, and opened his mouth as if to speak.
Jaime knew in his heart that Tyrion possessed a kind heart. Cersei never hid her loathing for Tyrion, yet Tyrion never truly hated Cersei in return; instead, he constantly yearned for familial affection.
Every time Cersei was in trouble, Tyrion's small figure would appear nearby, just out of her sight, never approaching directly.
Jaime loved his brother very much, but his beloved Cersei had hated Tyrion since childhood.
Jaime had tried to bridge the gap but failed. Now, he only hoped that for his sake, the relationship between Cersei and Tyrion wouldn't deteriorate further.
–
Sitting before her vanity, Cersei seemed not to care in the slightest that the bruises on her face were visible to others. She lifted her chin slightly, the corner of her lips curling into a smile, though her tone was icy. "Jaime, I want you to kill Robert."
Jaime was startled. He placed his hands on Cersei's frail shoulders. "Cersei, I understand your anger, but we cannot be impulsive. Robert is the King, and I am a Kingsguard... and..."
Cersei pushed Jaime away in anger, as if she had heard something incredibly ridiculous. "Jaime the Kingslayer, are you lecturing me about the duties of a Kingsguard?"
Hearing the word "Kingslayer," Jaime's hands clenched slightly, a flash of anger crossing his face.
Jaime suppressed his rage and whispered persuasively, "Cersei, you cannot be impulsive. Robert is not so easily killed. One misstep could bring disaster upon the Lannisters. Father would never forgive us."
The mention of the Lannisters actually calmed Cersei down 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 thought becoming Queen had dispelled it, only to realize the memory was still profoundly deep and terrifyingly clear.
Jaime walked behind Cersei and gently embraced her.
Still lingering in her anger, Cersei was unhappy with Jaime's touch. She tried to struggle a few times, but finding she couldn't break free, she allowed him to hold her.
Jaime felt Cersei's warmth; he was willing to tolerate everything about her.
Cersei's beautiful eyes trembled, but what surfaced in her mind was Lord Glyn Crabb, far away on Crackclaw Point.
She felt it was time to wield a sword of her own—one not controlled by the Lannisters or anyone else, a sword that truly belonged to her.
According to intelligence provided by Grand Maester Pycelle, this petty lord was skilled in warfare, having defeated 20,000 men with only 1,000.
A sufficiently sharp sword.
–
Glyn took a large sip of the sour red wine he had actually somewhat missed, then frowned—it still tasted terrible!
Back at The Whispers Town, Glyn seemed to be in a perpetually good mood. "So, Maester Al, did you tell the Citadel that we defeated twenty thousand men in a single battle with only one thousand?"
Maester Al grinned, revealing his few remaining teeth. "I originally intended to write that we defeated thirty thousand, but I worried I might scare the old fellows into illness, so I reduced the number a bit, heh heh heh."
Glyn smiled. "Maester Al, I sincerely thank you for your unwavering support."
Maester Al rose shakily and bowed his head to Glyn. "Lord Crabb, you are correct. Learning to display one's strength is also an important part of political strategy. Since you intend to enter the Red Keep, you are joining the Game of Thrones. Obscurity brings not only contempt but also silent death. I merely wished to use the Citadel to inform the great lords in advance that Lord Randyll Tarly is not the only one who knows how to fight a war."
"Your benevolent heart worries that the Citadel might hold me accountable later and tarnish my reputation. But I am very old. I only wish to contribute what I can to you while I can still move. Between you and the Citadel, my loyalty will forever be yours."
Maester Al smiled mischievously. "By displaying powerful military capability to the outside world, I also spare myself the worry that you might be forced to climb into noblewomen's beds for the sake of your territory."
Glyn threw his head back and laughed.
–
Mandon spread his arms and stuck out his large belly, allowing the craftsmen to take his measurements.
The blacksmith, having finished measuring, spoke respectfully: "Ser Mandon has a very strong physique; it will require about the amount of material for two and a half sets of plate armor."
Herschel asked, "How long will it take to make a full set of plate armor?"
"Steward, if we have enough hands, it can be done in two months."
Steward Herschel pondered for a moment, his hands resting on his own belly, which was much smaller in scale than Mandon's. "Lord Glyn sets off in a week at the latest, and Mandon must accompany him. As for the plate armor... forge a breastplate for Mandon first. At the same time, arrange for someone to dismantle a ready-made suit of mail and resize it to fit Mandon..."
"I give you five days."
(End Of Chapter)
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30 Powerstones = 1 Bonus Chapter.