According to reports from the villagers, the nearby mountain wildlings were growing increasingly active.
Accustomed to striving for thoroughness, Green had intended to let the corps practice together for a few more days and refine some details.
However, unrest among the domain’s populace was growing.
Realizing delay was no longer an option, Green was forced to initiate the war.
Any further delay, and the smallfolk might mistake Green for a coward terrified of the wildlings.
After leading the men to inspect the Thorn Corps’ volley archery practice, Green turned toward the Whispers Castle lord’s council hall, his steps steady as ever.
*** Whispers Castle, Lord’s Council Hall.
Green sat high upon the high-backed lord’s chair, its back carved with the bog marigold sigil of House Crabb.
Green took the wine goblet handed over by Callaia and took a small sip of the red wine, his eyebrows knitting slightly.
Truth be told, once you got used to this sour red wine, it was actually quite invigorating!
House Crabb’s retainers stood on either side of the hall.
Ser Marston spoke first: “My Lord, negotiations with the wildlings are concluded.
The time is set for sunrise tomorrow.” “How many have they gathered?” Ser Pere, who was in charge of the Recon Corps, replied, “Estimated at one thousand.” Green rested his cheek against the back of his hand and let out a light, mocking scoff.
Hearing their lord’s sarcastic laugh, the hall fell silent for a moment before everyone began voicing various taunts toward the wildlings.
Despising the wildlings was a strategic necessity; it subtly boosted morale.
Besides, this was a mindset long established in the territory.
Tactically, however, Green would never underestimate the wildlings.
Green gestured for quiet.
“Hershel, are the shields ready?” Steward Hershel’s tone remained respectful: “Yes, my master.
The thirty iron-rimmed shields in the storehouse, combined with the seventy oak shields finished by the woodworking shop, total one hundred.
All have been handed over to Ser Marston.” Green handed the wine goblet back to Callaia beside him.
“Steward Hershel, well done.” Hershel bowed deeply.
“I will reiterate the battle plan.” “The 120 longbowmen of the Thorn Corps will each carry two quivers.
Quivers and arrows must be prepared in advance.” “The range of the Crabb Longbow is long enough; you have all witnessed it.” “When the wildlings charge us, the first thing they will face is a volley from the Thorn Corps.” “Marston, in the first phase of battle, your task is to use those one hundred shields and lead the house troops to hold the line, protecting the Thorn Corps until further orders.
Not a single step back.” “Once the Thorn Corps finishes their volleys, the first phase of the battle is complete.” “After eating several waves of arrows from the Thorn Corps, I wonder how much of the mountain wildlings’ laughable courage will remain.
Be sure to check if any of them wet themselves while you’re at it.” Laughter erupted across the hall.
Green continued: “In the second phase, plate-armored warriors will lead the charge while all house troops advance steadily into close-quarters combat, completely crushing the wildlings.” “Meanwhile, the Thorn Corps will rest in place and await my orders.” After speaking, Green had each commander repeat their respective duties.
Green’s war council differed greatly from past domain habits.
As lord, Green needed sufficient patience and repeated communication to ensure everyone truly understood his intent.
One must always take the first step; time was Green’s ally.
Green tapped his finger against his knee, reflecting internally that this should be enough.
The first official combined arms operation between the various branches of the Crabb forces was hurriedly set to begin under the pressure of time.
*** Green’s lunch consisted of roasted mutton with onions, vegetable soup, honey bread, and a flagon of ale.
Green took a sip of the ale and frowned again.
Foul-tasting and bitter.
Why did the flavor of this ale keep changing?
He remembered it tasting quite decent last time!
Green didn’t want to drink any more, but being a penniless lord, he didn’t want to waste it either.
Reaching out, he picked up the flagon and poured the remaining ale in his cup back into it.
Green offered Callaia a gentle smile.
“Today’s ale is excellent.
Hershel has worked very hard recently—take this flagon to him.” Hershel was broad and heavy-set; this was a sign of affection from his lord.
Callaia nodded, faithfully executing the lord’s command.
In the hall, Steward Hershel—who was dining with the others—received the flagon from Callaia amidst envious looks and cheers from the crowd.
Hershel had indeed worked tirelessly over the past few days, run off his feet at Green’s beck and call until his legs had grown thin.
This was recognition of his capability from the lord.
Hershel’s exhaustion evaporated instantly, replaced by a surge of energy.
*** Because of the ale, Green’s thoughts drifted to Mermaid Harbor during lunch.
He recalled that one of the harbor’s major sources of revenue was alcohol.
Relying entirely on imported alcohol could easily cause problems down the road.
It would be best to produce and sell a signature liquor of their own, much like the wine of The Arbor.
Given the resources of the Crabb domain, developing an ale was the optimal choice.
Green had long noticed that outside the castle, basic hygiene was practically non-existent.
He suspected the inconsistent taste of his family’s ale was closely tied to hygiene management.
What occasionally comforted Green was that a lord enacting laws didn’t need to explain the logic behind them.
Otherwise, just trying to explain what hygiene meant would exhaust him to death.
For instance, hygiene management in brewing could be solved through strict regulations; no one would dare openly defy rules set by the lord.
There would certainly be issues during execution, so effective supervision and monitoring mechanisms had to be put in place.
At this thought, Green felt that sending the ale earlier had been a brilliant move—just in time to add another task to Steward Hershel’s list.
The ale also needed a catchy yet refined name; a good name was half the battle.
Mermaid Ale?
Not enough connection, too forced.
Swamp Marigold Ale?
This worked—ale itself belonged to the golden-yellow color spectrum.
Though “Swamp” needed to be dropped; it dragged down the classiness.
It would simply be called—Marigold Ale.
*** After finishing lunch, Green, who had been feeling somewhat sleepy, instantly perked up upon receiving a reply from King’s Landing.
After reading through the contents several times, Green couldn’t help but snap his fingers.
According to the letter, around mid-year—about two months from now—Her Majesty the Queen would leave King’s Landing for a royal hunt in the Kingswood, and Green would be responsible for part of her escort.
Green was to recruit twenty escort men from within his own domain.
Green’s objective was to use Queen Cersei as a stepping stone to gain an opportunity to show his face in the Red Keep.
The Game of Thrones was about to begin, and Crackclaw Point was too far away.
Seeing the usually solemn Green so delighted, Callaia was infected by his mood.
“Lord Green, it is rare to see you so happy.
Would you like a glass of red wine?” Green shifted his gaze.
“Very well.
Have a glass yourself—let’s drink together as a small celebration.” Green raised his goblet to Callaia in a toast and drained it in one gulp.
Thank you, Her Majesty Cersei.