Archmaester Al of Whispering Sound, in order to enhance the credibility of his report, described the Claybo family's campaign to reclaim their ancestral lands in as much detail as possible when reporting to the Citadel.
Archmaester Al had no intention of leaking House Claybo's secrets; it was merely a product of his habitual academic rigor—and a touch of pride.
The lords of Crackclaw Point throughout history had always been brave, but lacked education.
From the moment Green learned to read, it was Archmaester Al who taught him. The old man enjoyed reminiscing, and looking back now, he felt a strong sense of accomplishment.
Though Archmaester Al was highly knowledgeable, he was not a military man. Strictly speaking, he had inadvertently revealed some classified information.
Thanks to Archmaester Al's feather quill embellishments, Claybo's military maneuvers took on a certain artistic flair. Most of Westeros's nobility scoffed at the tale—except for a small number of discerning individuals. "Fighting wildlings? Please, even I could do that."
Samwell Tarly, eager to win his father's approval, was one of those few who took a keen interest.
Once the information reached the Citadel, it was simplified before being sent by raven to the maesters serving the "friendly" lords of Westeros.
At Horn Hill, only Samwell—who spent his days buried in books—took notice. He even asked the castle's maester to request the full, original report from the Citadel.
Under Randyll Tarly's stern presence, Samwell always stammered when he spoke, which only deepened his father's disgust.
"F-Father... I've... been studying House Claybo's campaign," Samwell stammered.
Randyll acted as if he hadn't heard him.
Still, Samwell pressed on. For him, simply standing here and offering counsel to his father was already an act of great courage.
"I looked up a lot of material. The wildlings of Crackclaw Point are natural-born warriors... They aren't weak. For Baron Green to defeat them with so few men—he's someone worth paying attention to. His methods of warfare are unlike the ones we're used to..."
Randyll Tarly was a proud man—and rightfully so. His own military record was distinguished.
During Robert's Rebellion, the army under his command delivered Robert Baratheon's only defeat in the Battle of Ashford.
Straightforward and rigid, Randyll had a will of steel and a sharp mind. Kevan Lannister once called him the most capable man to end Westeros's wars after the death of Tywin Lannister.
Of course Randyll had read the brief reports on the campaign in Crackclaw Point. His eldest son was a coward, and his youngest still too young. He could only sigh and think, "Shame he's not mine."
Randyll cut Samwell off mid-sentence.
"So, what use is all this studying? If you were to meet Claybo on the battlefield, could you defeat him? Or do you believe you're braver than wildlings who fear nothing? When the warhorses charge, will you still be able to hold your sword?"
"Get out of my sight."
Terror and anxiety overtook Samwell. He felt certain there was something unusual about Claybo's archery tactics, something that needed further study. Horn Hill should gather intelligence in advance. There were so many details he needed to report to his father.
Sweat poured down his face like rain, dripping from his forehead to his jaw.
"Get out!!"
Samwell flinched violently. Under Randyll's cold gaze, what little courage he had gathered completely vanished. He fled the dining hall in a panic.
Tyrion came calling again. He also told Green that Her Grace the Queen was currently recovering from her injuries. Until the scars on her face fully healed, she would not receive him—after all, it would damage her noble image.
After quietly revealing some "confidential" information, Tyrion dragged Green off for wine and music.
For five consecutive days, Green saw Tyrion's short figure wobble into view each evening.
Each time, Tyrion had a reason that made it hard for Green to refuse.
Green was quite familiar with Tyrion's tactics—he had used them himself in his past life.
At first, you offer sincere advice, drop what seems to be an important secret, quickly bypass the awkward early stage, and close the distance between the two parties. Add some fine wine and beautiful women, and if all goes smoothly, the other person will lower their guard and have no more secrets from you.
Green honestly wanted to tell Tyrion that the best hunters often appear as prey.
Following Tyrion, Green indulged in the decadent lifestyle of King's Landing's nobility while diligently playing the role of the perfect lord—humble, honest, compassionate, wise, brave, just, self-sacrificing, and honorable.
A serious Green was terrifying—so deep into the act that he almost started to believe it himself.
Red Keep, Garden.
Tyrion, with heavy dark circles under his eyes, sat on a wooden bench, blankly watching his nephew Tommen and niece Myrcella playing.
He reached out a small hand and caught an apple tossed toward him. Crunch—he took a big bite.
Jaime, amused by Tyrion's state, sat down beside him, watching Tommen and Myrcella with a gentle expression.
Tyrion let out a long, wine-soaked belch. "Jaime, I've decided. Starting tomorrow, I'm swearing off all wine. May the Seven bear witness!"
Jaime chuckled. "I've lost count of how many times you've said that."
"Alright, alright, I'm forgetful. But I really do need a few days' rest."
"You're getting along well with the little wildling, aren't you?"
Tyrion nodded. "So young, yet so calm—never anxious, even living among savages. He learns quickly, craves knowledge, has desires but not greed. Most rare of all, he has a kind heart."
Jaime leaned back comfortably against the bench. "Are you describing him—or yourself, dear brother?"
Tyrion paused, then grinned. "Dear brother, do you really see me in such a noble light?"
Jaime glanced at Tyrion's toothy grin. "It seems you're quite fond of that little wildling."
Tyrion scooted closer and lowered his voice. "If I were Cersei…"
He lifted his chin toward Myrcella, drawing Jaime's gaze. "That girl's betrothal—she could consider the wildling. He's worthy. He's the kind of…"
Jaime cut him off angrily. "Enough!"
Tyrion, unfazed by the outburst, looked at him curiously. "Jaime, aren't you overreacting a bit? You should trust that I've thought this through."
Jaime stood and paced, gripping the hilt of the sword at his waist. "Tyrion, Myrcella is still a child. I won't allow her to become a pawn in any political scheme. I'll keep her far from all this conflict—she will be happy, always. My sword will strike down any dark hand that reaches for her."
Tyrion blinked, seeming to digest Jaime's intensity.
Jaime, realizing how emotional he'd become, looked embarrassed. He sighed and sat down again, patting Tyrion's shoulder. "I'm sorry. I hate marriages arranged for power. I lost my temper. Tyrion, I didn't mean to hurt you—it wasn't personal."
Tyrion shook his head and said gravely, "When Father arranged Cersei's marriage to Robert, I saw you lose control for the first time—your first real fight with our beloved father. So I can try to understand your feelings. I like Myrcella too. She embodies everything good I can imagine."
"My suggestion is sincere. It's not about trading favors. I'm her uncle too."
"But, just as a reminder, dear brother… our family name is Lannister. Lannister…"
"Don't overthink it. You know I love to joke, Jaime."
Jaime remained silent.
He clenched his fists tightly, his brows knitting together.
.
.
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