Grim hadn’t expected to run into a major “plot character” on his very first day in King’s Landing.
Grim’s mind raced.
*There aren’t that many coincidences in the world.
The Lannisters are still a ‘loving’ family at this point.
Is Tyrion testing the waters for Cersei?* Tyrion Lannister’s announcement to buy a round for the house was met with loud cheers from the tavern crowd.
Tyrion’s squire tossed a heavy pouch of golden dragons straight into the tavern keeper’s arms.
In Grim’s line of sight, Tyrion straightened his little back, offering a reserved, dignified response to the crowd’s boisterous thanks.
It was the ninth moon of 297 AC.
The blooming young Daenerys should still be living with her brother in the manse of Illyrio Mopatis, a magister of Pentos across the narrow sea in Essos.
The future Hand of the Queen, Tyrion, was currently throwing money around in Westeros, doing nothing but indulging himself to the fullest.
*Life is strange enough.* Tyrion hopped up into the chair across from Grim.
His squire brought over two empty cups, placed them before Grim and Tyrion, and filled them from a flagon of wine.
Tyrion raised his cup in a toast to Grim, took a sip, and savored the taste.
“Summerwine from Dorne, rich with the scent of fruit, sweet on the tongue.
It is my favorite…” Tyrion grinned, continuing, “Every sip is like tasting the sweet fragrance of a maiden, leaving an endless aftertaste.” Grim smiled.
He placed a hand over his heart and bowed his head.
“Good evening, Lord Tyrion Lannister.” Tyrion leaned back in his chair, cup in hand.
“Has my fearsome reputation already echoed across the peninsula?
I am unexpectedly honored.” Grim raised his cup and tasted the summerwine.
This time, he didn’t frown; the taste was quite good.
“In my childhood memories, whenever I refused to sleep, my mother would use your fearsome name to frighten me.
You were the shadow over my childhood.
When I grew older, I looked into it and realized it was just my mother’s white lie.
So, it is no surprise that I recognize you, my lord.” “Aha, that must be a tragic memory!” Grim smiled, as if sighing with emotion.
“My home is far too distant.” Tyrion reached out, grabbed a piece of roast meat from the plate, and chewed on it.
Suddenly, he asked, “Are you not worried about the Hand of the King?” Grim shook his head.
“Great lords do not go out of their way to pay attention to small men.” Tyrion raised his cup again.
“When I was your age, I often dreamed of having my own dragon one day.
Are these the burdens of inheriting a family estate?” “My legs are too short, and my head is too large, but at least this head suits me well enough.
With it, I know exactly what I can and cannot do.
It is my weapon.
Jaime has his sword, King Robert has his warhammer, and I have my mind…
What about you, little baron?” Tyrion’s final tone carried a hint of disdain.
Surprisingly, Grim sensed a well-meaning warning hidden in Tyrion’s words.
Tyrion lowered his head to drink, his eyes flicking up to glance at the still-unfazed Grim.
He set down his cup, staring at Grim with keen interest.
A faint smile touched Grim’s lips.
“A heart yearning for peace?
I imagine no one could bear to stop a heart that yearns for peace.” Tyrion was surprised by Grim’s answer.
He paused for a moment, then burst into loud laughter.
“Yes, everyone loves that.
To peace!” His laughter fading, Tyrion’s tone turned serious.
“If I were you, I would make much the same choice.
But, young man, I must warn you—our Queen can occasionally be quite willful, and not in the commonly understood sense.
My advice to you is to bring Jaime along at such times.
Only Jaime can talk our Queen down.” “I will remember that, Lord Tyrion.” Tyrion leaned his entire small frame almost flat across the table, staring intently at Grim, his tone growing even graver.
“Then tell me, Baron Grim…
are you still a virgin?” *Sure enough.* Grim had just been thinking Tyrion was about to play the fool again.
Faced with a now-grinning Tyrion, Grim wore a complicated expression and firmly shook his head in denial.
Tyrion’s laughter grew even louder.
Grim rested his chin on his hand.
*Maybe I should hit up a brothel tonight to listen to some tunes?
The key point being the tunes.* The next morning.
The Hook, the rented house.
Grim woke up and rubbed his head.
*Getting drunk is like loving the wrong person—once the buzz wears off, you wake up.* And then Grim felt the heartache.
*My poor golden dragons.* Tyrion’s head was stuffed with too many of Westeros’s secrets, and his eloquence was formidable.
Grim had listened and drank, unwittingly getting completely hammered.
Still wanting more, the two of them had linked arms and gone off to “listen to tunes,” with Grim generously throwing money around everywhere.
Grim felt a pang of regret and warned himself: *Just this once.* The Reach.
Horn Hill.
The morning sun was just rising.
Samwell Tarly dragged his overly massive frame, holding his breath as he sought out his father—Randyll Tarly.
Samwell Tarly was exceedingly fat, with dark hair and a pair of pale grey eyes set in a massive, round face.
The balding Randyll Tarly sat imperiously at the dining table, having breakfast with his family.
The table was quiet, save for the faint clinking of cutlery and low murmurs.
Samwell’s arrival seemed to shatter the family’s warm meal.
Randyll Tarly merely glanced over from the corner of his eye, ignoring the cautious, fearful look Samwell directed at him.
At the entire table, only Randyll Tarly’s youngest son, Samwell’s younger brother Dickon Tarly, offered a quiet greeting to Samwell.
“F-Father, f-forgive my intrusion.
I…” Samwell couldn’t help but raise a hand to wipe away his nervous sweat.
*Bang!* Randyll Tarly slammed his cutlery down.
The rest of the family silently stopped eating.
“Fool.
If you know it is an intrusion, why come here now!
Look at you, covered in useless fat!” Samwell shrank his neck in terror.
“Soft and fat.
You do nothing but bury your face in books, spending all day reading about the achievements of men better than you.” “You are nearly a man grown, yet you are unfit to inherit my lands and titles.” Randyll Tarly’s wife, Melessa Florent, could not bear to listen any longer.
Not wanting to quarrel with her husband in front of the children, she rose angrily and left the table to express her displeasure.
His wife’s departure had some effect; Randyll Tarly ceased his humiliation of Samwell.
Samwell looked guiltily at his mother’s retreating back.
Samwell had been born into this family carrying Randyll Tarly’s hopes and dreams.
From birth, he had been burdened with far too many expectations.
As the firstborn son, Samwell had been given too much hope by his father, Randyll.
When Sam was very young, Randyll Tarly had loved this son dearly.
But as Sam grew older, Randyll discovered that his son was nothing like what he had hoped for.
Though Randyll Tarly had exhausted his efforts trying to mold Samwell, he found himself utterly helpless when it came to the boy.
As those hopes shattered bit by bit, the rigid and uncompromising Randyll Tarly became thoroughly disappointed in his son, even coming to hate him to the bone.
“F-Father…
I…
I have been studying the battles of House Crabb.”