According to the villagers’ reports, the nearby mountain wildlings had grown more active.
Grim, habitually striving for perfection, had originally planned to let the company train together for a few more days to iron out the details.
But with the people of his domain growing increasingly restless, Grim realized he could delay no longer.
He had to go to war.
Any further delay, and his subjects would mistakenly believe he was too cowardly to face the wildlings.
After leading his men to inspect the Thorn Company’s volley training, Grim strode toward the lord’s hall in the Whispers, his steps steady as ever.
The Whispers, the lord’s hall.
Grim sat high upon the lord’s high-backed chair, its crest bearing the bog marigold sigil of House Crabb.
Grim took the goblet Kaleia offered and took a sip of the red wine, frowning.
*Got to admit, once you get used to this sour red, it really hits the spot!* The retainers of House Crabb stood flanking the hall.
Ser Mason spoke first.
“My lord, negotiations with the wildlings are concluded.
The time is set for tomorrow, after sunrise.” “How many men have they gathered?” Ser Pell, commander of the Survey Corps, answered, “An estimated one thousand.” Grim rested his cheek against the back of his hand and let out a scoffing laugh.
Hearing their lord’s mocking laughter, the hall fell silent for a moment before the men erupted into various jeers directed at the wildlings.
*Despising the wildlings is a strategic necessity; it invisibly boosts morale.* This was a long-standing atmosphere within the domain anyway.
*But tactically, I’d never underestimate them.* Grim motioned for silence.
“Herschel, are the shields ready?” Steward Herschel’s tone remained respectful.
“Yes, my lord.
Thirty iron-banded shields from the armory, plus seventy oak shields crafted by the carpenter’s shop—one hundred in total.
They have all been handed over to Ser Mason.” Grim handed his goblet back to Kaleia beside him.
“Well done, Steward Herschel.” Herschel bowed deeply.
“I will reiterate the battle plan.” “The one hundred and twenty longbowmen of the Thorn Company will carry two quivers each, with twenty arrows per quiver.” “The Crabb longbow has ample range, as you have all witnessed.” “When the wildlings charge us, the first thing they will face is a volley from the Thorn Company.” “Mason, in the first phase of the battle, your task is to take the hundred shields and lead the household guard to hold the line.
You will protect the Thorn Company until every arrow in their quivers is spent.” “Once the Thorn Company finishes their volleys, the first phase of the battle is complete.” “After eating four thousand eight hundred arrows from the Thorn Company in one go, I wonder how much of the mountain wildlings’ laughable courage will remain?
When the time comes, be sure to check if they’ve pissed their breeches in terror.” The men in the hall roared with laughter.
Grim continued, “In the second phase of the battle, the plate-armored warriors will take the vanguard.
The entire household guard will advance steadily to engage in close combat and utterly crush the wildlings.” “Meanwhile, the Thorn Company will hold their ground, rest, and await my orders.” Having finished, Grim had each commander repeat their respective roles in the battle plan.
Grim’s war councils were vastly different from the domain’s past customs.
As lord, he needed ample patience and repetitive communication to ensure everyone truly understood his intentions.
*You always have to take the first step.
Time is on my side.* Grim tapped his fingers against his knee, sighing inwardly.
*It should be enough.* The first formal combined-arms operation between the different forces of the Crabb lands was hastily preparing to commence due to the pressing lack of time.
Grim’s lunch consisted of roast mutton with onions, vegetable soup, honey bread, and a flagon of ale.
Grim took a sip of the ale and frowned again.
*Tastes awful.
Bitter as hell.* *Why does the taste of this ale keep changing?
I swear it was pretty good last time!* Grim didn’t want to drink it anymore, but being a *broke-ass lord*, he didn’t want to waste it either.
He reached for the flagon and poured the remaining ale from his cup back into it.
Grim smiled gently at Kaleia.
“Today’s ale is excellent.
Herschel has been working very hard lately; take this flagon to him.” *Herschel is a big, broad man.
Consider this his lord’s tender loving care.* Kaleia nodded, faithfully executing her lord’s command.
In the hall, Steward Herschel, dining with the others, received the flagon from Kaleia amidst the envious gazes and cheers of the men.
Herschel had indeed been working hard these past few days, ordered around by Grim until he was running his legs off.
This was his lord’s affirmation of his abilities.
Herschel’s exhaustion was swept away, his body suddenly brimming with vigor.
The ale made Grim think of Mermaid Port as he ate.
He thought of alcohol, one of the port’s vital sources of income.
*Relying entirely on imported booze is going to cause problems down the line.* *It would be best to have our own famous, self-produced brew, like Arbor wine.* *Given the resources of the Crabb lands, developing ale is the optimal choice.* Grim had long since noticed that outside the castle, the concept of sanitation was practically non-existent.
*I bet the wildly fluctuating taste of our ale has a lot to do with poor hygiene management.* Sometimes, Grim was relieved that a lord didn’t need to reason with people when issuing laws.
*Otherwise, just explaining what ‘sanitation’ means would exhaust me to death.* For instance, sanitation issues in brewing could be solved through strict regulations.
No one would openly defy rules set by their lord.
*There will definitely be hiccups in implementation, so effective supervision and oversight mechanisms need to keep pace.* *Thinking of this, giving away that ale just now was a brilliant move.
Steward Herschel just got another task added to his plate.* *The ale also needs a catchy yet elegant name.
A good name is half the battle won.* *Mermaid Ale?* *Not enough relevance.
Too forced.* *Bog Marigold Ale?* *That works.
Ale itself is a golden color.* *Gotta drop the ‘Bog’ part, though.
Lowers the class.* *Let’s just call it—Marigold Ale.* After lunch, a slightly drowsy Grim was instantly jolted awake when he received a reply from King’s Landing.
After reading over the contents of the letter several times, Grim couldn’t help but snap his fingers.
According to the letter, in the middle of the year—about two months from now—Her Grace the Queen would leave King’s Landing to hunt in the kingswood, and Grim was to be responsible for a portion of her escort.
Grim was to gather the escort from his own domain, with a quota of twenty men.
Grim’s goal was exactly this: to use Queen Cersei to gain an opportunity to show his face in the Red Keep.
*The game of thrones is about to begin, and Crackclaw Point is too far away.* Seeing the usually stoic Grim so happy, Kaleia was unconsciously infected by his mood, her own spirits lifting.
“Lord Grim, it is rare to see you so pleased.
Would you care for a cup of red wine?” Grim shifted his gaze to her.
“Alright.
Pour one for yourself as well.
Let us drink together as a small celebration.” Grim raised his goblet to Kaleia in a toast and drained it in one gulp.
*Thank you, Queen Cersei.*