Chapter 23: A Farsighted Suggestion
To increase the credibility of his report, Maester Al of The Whispers described the campaign of House Clegane's reclamation of its ancestral lands to the Citadel in as much detail as possible.
Maester Al didn't intentionally leak House Clegane's secrets, but rather acted out of his usual rigorous academic habits and a touch of scholarly pride.
The successive lords of Crackclaw Point had always been brave, but they lacked knowledge.
Glyn had been taught by Maester Al since he first learned to read. The old maester enjoyed reminiscing, and now recalled Glyn's education with a great sense of accomplishment.
Maester Al's knowledge was vast, but he was no general. Strictly speaking, he had inadvertently leaked some information.
Under Maester Al's quill, Glyn's battle reports were infused with an artistic flair. Apart from a small number of discerning individuals, most of the nobility in Westeros scoffed at the news. "It's just fighting wildlings, isn't it? I could do that too!"
Randyll Tarly's eldest son, Samwell, ever eager for his father's approval, was one of these few discerning individuals.
Once Maester Al's letter reached the Citadel, its contents were simplified before being sent by raven to the maesters of "friendly" lords throughout Westeros.
Only Samwell, who spent his days reading in Horn Hill, noticed it. He even requested that the castle's maester ask the Citadel for the more detailed original text.
...
Under Randyll's stern gaze, Samwell always stammered when he spoke, which only made his father dislike him even more.
"Fa... Father, I... I have been studying House Clegane's campaign."
Randyll acted as if he hadn't heard.
Samwell continued on his own. For him, to proactively stand here and advise his father was already the greatest act of courage he could muster.
"I've researched a lot of information. The wildlings of Crackclaw Point are natural-born warriors... they are not weak. Lord Glynn was able to defeat them with a small number of soldiers. He is worth our attention. His method of warfare is different from what we are familiar with..."
The renowned general Randyll Tarly was a proud man, and his military achievements gave him every right to be.
During the War of the Usurper, the army he commanded inflicted the only defeat on Robert Baratheon's forces at the Battle of Ashford.
Randyll Tarly was stern and inflexible, but he possessed an iron will and a sharp mind. Tywin Lannister himself had once praised him as the man most capable of ending the wars in Westeros after his own time.
Randyll had, of course, read the brief report on the battle at Crackclaw Point. His eldest son was a craven, and his youngest was still a boy. He could only sigh with regret, "If only he were my son."
Randyll interrupted Samwell.
"So, what's the use of all this research? If you met him on the battlefield, could you defeat him? Or do you think a coward would be braver than wildlings who don't fear death? Faced with a roaring warhorse, could you even hold the sword in your hand?"
"Get out! Get out of my sight!"
Samwell was terrified and flustered. He felt there must be something unusual about Clegane's archers that required further investigation. Horn Hill should have learned this information beforehand, and there were so many more details he needed to tell his father.
Sweat immediately broke out on Samwell's back. It streamed down his forehead like rain, slid to his chin, and dripped to the floor.
"Get out!!"
Samwell flinched. Under Randyll's icy glare, the courage he had so painstakingly gathered vanished. He hastily fled the dining hall.
...
...
Tyrion came looking for Glyn again. He told him that Queen Cersei was still recuperating and would not see him until the scars on her face had completely faded, as it would tarnish her noble image.
After subtly divulging this "secret," Tyrion dragged Glyn off for wine and music.
For five consecutive days, Glyn saw Tyrion's small figure swaying leisurely before him every evening.
Each time, Tyrion had a reason that Glyn found impossible to refuse.
Glyn was very familiar with Tyrion's methods; he had used them himself in his past life.
First, you offer sincere suggestions, letting slip what appear to be important secrets. This quickly bypasses the initial stage of unfamiliarity, directly closing the distance between two people. Add fine wine and beautiful women, and then... if all goes well, the other party drops their guard, and there are no more secrets between you.
Glyn actually wanted to tell Tyrion that the most skilled hunters often appear in the guise of prey.
Following Tyrion, Glyn experienced the extravagant life of King's Landing's nobility, all the while carefully playing the part of a humble, honest, compassionate, wise, brave, just, self-sacrificing, and honorable lord.
A serious Glyn was a terrifying thing. He got so deep into character that in the end, he even started to believe it himself.
...
The Red Keep's gardens.
Tyrion, sporting thick dark circles under his eyes, sat on a wooden bench, staring blankly at his nephew Tommen and niece Myrcella as they played.
Tyrion reached out his small hand and caught an apple thrown to him. With a loud crunch, he took a large bite.
Jaime chuckled at Tyrion's state. He sat down beside him, his expression softening as he watched Tommen and Myrcella.
Tyrion let out a long belch that reeked of wine. "Jaime, I've decided! Starting tomorrow, I will stay away from all fine wine. The Seven be my witness!"
Jaime laughed merrily. "I've lost count of how many times you've said the same thing."
"Alright, I'm always forgetful. But I really do need to rest for a few days."
"You and the little wildling are getting along well?"
Tyrion nodded. "So young, yet he shows no haste, no anxiety. He lives in a savage land, yet he is eager to learn, thirsty for knowledge. He is ambitious but not greedy. And, most rarely, he possesses a kind heart."
Jaime leaned back comfortably on the bench. "Are you describing yourself, dear brother?"
Tyrion paused, then grinned. "Dear brother, am I so magnificent in your eyes?"
Jaime turned his head to look at Tyrion's gap-toothed smile. "It seems you hold that little wildling in high regard."
Tyrion wiggled closer to Jaime and whispered, "If I were Cersei..."
Tyrion gestured with his chin, and Jaime's attention shifted toward Myrcella. "Myrcella's future match could be the little wildling you speak of. He is worthy. This is a..."
"Enough!" Jaime interrupted angrily.
Tyrion wasn't startled by Jaime's sudden shout. Instead, he asked curiously, "Jaime, isn't your reaction a bit extreme? You should trust my judgment on this. I've given it a great deal of thought."
Jaime shot to his feet and paced, his hand gripping the hilt of the longsword at his waist. "Tyrion, Myrcella is still a child. I don't want you including her in any of your schemes. I will make sure she stays far away from all this conflict, that she's always happy. The sword in my hand will cut down any dark hand that reaches for her."
Tyrion blinked, seeming to process Jaime's state of mind.
Jaime collected himself, his expression a little strained. He sighed and sat down again, patting Tyrion's small shoulder lightly. "I'm sorry. I truly detest these political marriages. I was being irrational. Tyrion, I hope I didn't hurt you. I wasn't aiming that at you."
Tyrion shook his head and said in a low voice, "The year Father arranged for Cersei to marry Robert, I saw you lose your composure for the first time, argue with our beloved father for the first time. I can try to understand how you feel. I'm also very fond of Myrcella; she possesses every good quality I can imagine."
"My suggestion is sincere, not some exchange for political gain. I am Myrcella's uncle, too."
"But, I still feel the need to remind you, my dear brother, our name is Lannister. A Lannister..."
"Don't think about it anymore. You know I like to joke, Jaime."
Jaime remained silent.
Jaime clenched his fists tightly, his brow furrowed in thought.
(end of chapter)