Green had not expected to run into a major plot figure on his very first day in King’s Landing.
Green’s mind whirred.
Coincidences were rarely so convenient in this world.
Right now, the Lannister family was still a “loving” family.
Was Tyrion scouting the waters early on Cersei’s behalf?
Tyrion Lannister’s announcement that drinks were on him drew loud cheers from everyone in the tavern.
Tyrion’s squire tossed a heavy pouch full of Gold Dragons straight into the innkeeper’s arms.
Through Green’s eyes, Tyrion straightened his brief torso and offered a modest nod in response to the crowd’s raucous gratitude.
It was currently the ninth month of the year 297 AC.
A young, blooming Daenerys was likely staying with her brother at the manse of Illyrio Mopatis, a magister of Pentos across the Narrow Sea on the continent of Essos.
Meanwhile, Tyrion, the future Hand of the Queen, was squandering gold like water back on the continent of Westeros, indulging himself to his heart’s content.
Life was wondrous indeed.
Tyrion hopped up into the chair opposite Green’s table.
His squire brought over two empty wine cups, set one before each of them, and filled them to the brim from a pitcher.
Tyrion raised his cup in a brief gesture toward Green, took a sip, and sighed with lingering enjoyment.
“Summer Red from Dorne.
Fruity aroma, sweet on the tongue—my absolute favorite…” Tyrion grinned and added, “Every sip is like tasting the fragrant breath of a young maiden.
Endless aftertaste.” Green smiled faintly.
Green placed a hand over his chest and bowed his head.
“Good evening, Lord Tyrion Lannister.” Tyrion leaned back against his chair, cup in hand.
“Has my glorious name already resounded across the peninsula?
I must say, I am surprisingly honored.” Green raised his glass and took a sip of the Summer Red.
This time he didn’t knit his brows; it actually tasted quite good.
“In my childhood memories, whenever I refused to go to sleep, my mother would use your terrifying reputation to scare me.
You were the nightmare of my childhood.
Only when I grew up did I look into it and realize it was just a mother’s well-meaning lie.
So it is hardly surprising that I recognize you, My Lord.” “Aha, that must have been a tragic memory!” Green smiled, sounding almost wistful.
“My home is simply too far away.” Tyrion reached out, snatched a piece of roast meat off the plate, and popped it into his mouth.
As he chewed, he abruptly asked, “Aren’t you worried about the Hand of the King?” Green shook his head.
“Great figures do not waste their attention on small fry.” Tyrion toasted him again.
“When I was your age, I used to dream of having my own dragon.
Are your worries merely those of inheriting a family estate?” “My legs are too short and my head is too big, but at least this head fits 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 words carried a trace of disdain.
Surprisingly, however, Green caught the underlying intent behind Tyrion’s words: a subtle, well-meaning warning.
Tyrion lowered his head to drink, his eyes cutting upward to glance at Green, who remained completely unbothered.
Setting his wine cup down, Tyrion peered at Green with keen interest.
A faint smile curled Green’s lips.
“A heart that longs for peace?
I doubt anyone would have the heart to thwart a soul that desires peace.” Tyrion was caught off guard by Green’s reply.
After a brief pause, he burst into hearty laughter.
“Ah, yes!
Everyone loves peace.
To peace!” Once his laughter died down, Tyrion’s tone grew serious.
“If I were you, I would make a similar choice.
But, young man, I must warn you: Her Grace the Queen can be willful at times—and not in the ordinary sense of the word.
My advice to you is to bring Jaime along on such occasions.
Only Jaime can reason with Her Grace.” “I shall keep that in mind, Lord Tyrion.” Tyrion leaned his brief torso almost flat across the table, gazing intently at Green, his tone turning even more serious.
“So, Baron Green…
tell me, are you still a virgin?” As expected, Green had felt all along that Tyrion was about to start fooling around again.
Faced with the grinning imp, Green gave him a look of complex amusement and firmly shook his head in denial.
Tyrion laughed even louder.
Green rested his cheek on his hand.
*Maybe go listen to some music at a brothel tonight?
The focus being the music, of course.* *** The following morning, at their temporary residence in Hook Harbor.
Green woke up and rubbed his temples.
Drunkenness was much like loving the wrong person: once the intoxication wore off, sanity returned—and then came the heartbreak over the wasted Gold Dragons.
Tyrion’s head was packed with far too many secrets of Westeros, and his tongue was sharp and persuasive.
Green had drunk as he listened, gradually getting swept up in the mood.
Still unsatisfied, the two of them had stumbled off together to “listen to music,” with Green squandering money left and right.
Filled with regret, Green warned himself: *Never again.* *** In The Reach, at Horn Hill, the morning sun was just rising.
Samwell Tarly dragged his colossal frame forward, holding his breath as he approached his father, Randyll Tarly.
Samwell Tarly was extremely fat, with dark hair and grey eyes set in a massive round face.
The balding Lord Randyll Tarly sat majestically at the head of the dining table, sharing breakfast with his family.
The dining hall was quiet, filled only with the faint clatter of cutlery and soft murmurs.
Samwell’s arrival shattered the warm family meal.
Randyll merely spared him a glance out of the corner of his eye, completely ignoring the timid, cautious gaze Samwell directed at him.
At the entire table, only Randyll’s younger son—Samwell’s younger brother, Dickon Tarly—whispered a brief greeting to Sam.
“F-Father…
forgive me…
for intruding.
I…” Samwell couldn’t help raising a hand to wipe away his cold sweat.
*Clang!* Randyll Tarly set down his knife and fork, and the rest of the family instantly stopped eating in silence.
“Fool!
If you know you are intruding, why come interrupting now?
Look at you, dripping with useless fat!” Samwell pulled his head back in terror.
“Weak, fat, doing nothing but burying your face in books all day, reading about the achievements of men far better than you!” “You are nearly of age, yet you are utterly unworthy to inherit my lands and titles.” Randyll’s wife, Melessa Florent, could no longer bear to listen.
Unwilling to argue with her husband in front of the children, she stormed away from the table in anger, showing her displeasure.
His wife’s departure had its effect; Randyll Tarly finally ceased his verbal abuse of Samwell.
Samwell looked at his mother’s retreating back, his face filled with guilt.
Samwell had been born into this family carrying all of Randyll Tarly’s hopes and expectations.
From the day he was born, he had been burdened with far too much.
As the firstborn son, Samwell had been given immense hope by his father.
When Sam was very young, Randyll Tarly had doted on him.
But as Sam grew older, Randyll realized that his son was nothing like what he had envisioned.
Though Randyll Tarly had spared no effort in raising Samwell, he found himself utterly helpless when dealing with him.
As those hopes shattered piece by piece, the rigid and uncompromising Randyll Tarly became utterly disillusioned with his son, to the point of deeply despising him.
“F-Father…
I…
I studied the battles of House Crabb.”