Chapter 19: The Bearing of a Great General

Tyrion chuckled and said, "Ah, dear brother, that's wishful thinking! How can a Lannister dare to long for such laughable things as happiness and joy? What we strive for in life is limitless power."

As he spoke, his tone shifted, laced with sarcasm.

Jaime shrugged bitterly, his expression full of helplessness.

The two Lannister brothers each fell into their own thoughts, no longer speaking.

After a long moment, Queen Cersei's handmaiden approached gracefully and bowed. "Ser Jaime, Her Grace requests your presence."

Tyrion interjected, "And my dear, delicate sister hasn't thought to also summon her most beloved brother? Hmm… your expression tells me no such invitation was extended!"

Jumping down from the balustrade, Tyrion dusted off his clothes and began to walk away. "Seeing me now would only worsen her mood. Farewell, brother who so dearly hopes for our sister's happiness."

With that, Tyrion turned his back to Jaime and waved his right hand in farewell as he walked off without pause.

Jaime stared at the small figure as he left, feeling the loneliness radiating from Tyrion. He opened his mouth, but no words came.

Jaime knew full well that Tyrion possessed a kind heart. Cersei had never hidden her disgust for Tyrion, yet he had never truly hated her in return. On the contrary, he had always yearned for familial love.

Every time Cersei was in trouble, Tyrion's small figure would always appear nearby—never too close, but always present.

Jaime loved his little brother deeply, but the sister he loved most had despised Tyrion since childhood.

He had tried to change that once, but had failed. Now, Jaime only hoped that the relationship between Cersei and Tyrion wouldn't grow any worse—for his sake, if nothing else.

Red Keep, the Queen's chambers.

Cersei sat before her dressing table, completely unbothered by the visible bruises on her face. She lifted her chin slightly, curled her lips into a cold smile, and said, "Jaime, I want you to kill Robert."

Jaime was shocked. He grabbed her delicate shoulders with both hands. "Cersei, I understand your anger, but we mustn't act rashly. Robert is the king. I'm a member of the Kingsguard. And…"

Furious, Cersei shoved him away as if he'd said something utterly ridiculous. "Jaime Lannister, the Kingslayer—are you seriously preaching the duties of the Kingsguard to me?"

Hearing the word "Kingslayer," Jaime's hands clenched slightly, a flash of anger crossing his face.

He swallowed his rage and lowered his voice. "Cersei, you can't be reckless. Robert isn't so easy to kill. A single misstep could bring disaster to House Lannister. Father would never forgive us."

Mentioning Tywin Lannister seemed to bring Cersei back to her senses.

Memories of the old lion's cold, intimidating gaze—so sharp it once made her afraid to even breathe—resurfaced vividly. She had thought those days were behind her after becoming queen. But now, she realized how deeply etched they were in her mind.

Jaime moved behind her and gently embraced her.

Still fuming, Cersei tried to resist his touch, but after a few failed attempts, she stopped struggling and let him hold her.

Jaime relished her warmth—he was willing to embrace all that she was.

But in that moment, Cersei's beautiful eyes flickered slightly, her mind drifting not to Jaime, but to Baron Greem Clab of the distant Crackclaw Point.

She felt it was time to wield a sword of her own—not one tied to House Lannister or anyone else. A sword that would truly belong to her alone.

According to the intelligence provided by Grand Maester Pycelle, this young baron was a cunning commander—he had defeated a force of twenty thousand with only one thousand men.

A sword sharp enough indeed.

Whispering Keep, the Lord's study.

Greene took a deep sip of the sour red wine—surprisingly nostalgic—and furrowed his brow. Still awful.

Back within the stone walls of Whispering Keep, Greene's mood seemed lighter than it had been in weeks. "So, Archmaester Al, did you tell the Citadel we crushed twenty thousand men with a thousand?" he asked with a half-smile.

Archmaester Al's cracked lips pulled into a grin, revealing the few teeth still clinging to his gums. "I was tempted to write thirty thousand, truth be told. But I feared the old fools in Oldtown might have a seizure. So I trimmed it down a bit. Heh."

Greene chuckled. "My dear Archmaester, your loyalty never wavers. I thank you."

Al rose slowly, bowing with the stiffness of age. "My lord baron, you are right. Learning to wield one's reputation is as important as wielding a sword. By entering the Red Keep, you step into the game of thrones itself. To go nameless is not only to be underestimated—but to die without a whisper. I simply wished to let the great lords know there's more to war than Lord Randyll Tarly."

"You worry the Citadel might hold me accountable and tarnish my name. But I am old, my lord, and all I want is to serve while I still have strength in my limbs. Between you and the Citadel, my loyalty lies with you."

He blinked slowly, a twinkle in his eye. "Besides, with you demonstrating such martial prowess, I no longer need fear you'll end up warming some highborn lady's bed just to secure our lands."

Greene laughed aloud, his voice echoing through the chamber.

Whispering Keep, the blacksmith's forge.

Mondon spread his arms wide, belly pushed forward, allowing the blacksmiths to take his measurements.

The master smith gave a respectful nod. "Ser Mondon's frame is... impressive. We'll need material enough for two and a half suits of plate."

"How long would a full suit take?" asked Herschel, the steward.

"With enough hands, my lord? Two months."

Herschel stroked his smaller belly thoughtfully. "Ser Greene departs no later than a week from now, and Mondon rides with him. The full suit can wait. Begin with a breastplate fitted to his size, and rework a hauberk into something that'll serve in the meantime."

He narrowed his eyes. "You have five days."

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