Chapter 37: The Beasts That Lurk Beside Me (Second Entry)

The Beasts That Lurk Beside Me (Second Entry)

Lancel's endless babbling had become unbearable.

Tyrion, at his wit's end, motioned for Lancel's squire to carry him away — and peace fell over the courtyard like a blessing.

Tossing a few more logs into the fire, Tyrion remarked, "The Queen may appoint you to oversee the royal hunt in two days' time."

Greene leaned back in his chair, relaxed yet keen.

He took a quiet sip of summerwine, eyes drifting toward Tyrion.

Tyrion gave a slight shrug. "My sister feels everything fiercely. Love or hate, there is no middle ground. When she likes someone, she pours everything into him — her power, her trust, her fire."

His tone shifted, the jest falling from his voice. "But if that affection sours, she'll want you dead — and the crueler your end, the more she'll savor it."

Lifting the wine jug, he poured himself another cup. "You'll be busy soon. Of all in King's Landing, none holds her heart as tightly as you."

But his solemnity barely lasted a moment before the mischief returned to his grin.

Greene let out a low chuckle. "I shall do my best not to disappoint, and to preserve Her Grace's favor for as long as I can. Your warning is well-heeded, Lord Tyrion."

Tyrion chuckled. "Yes — preserve it. Keep it going. Like a proper man's... well, I nearly made a jest about my dear sister's bedroom habits."

Raising his cup in mock salute toward the Red Keep, he declared, "Forgive me, sweetest sister of mine!"

Greene couldn't help but laugh, tilting his head to the stars.

Elsewhere in the yard, Monton and Ange sat by another fire — one broad and the other tall, their silhouettes dancing in the flame's glow.

Ange was cheerfully downing malt ale, though his eyes kept straying toward Greene's direction.

Monton shoved a fist-sized hunk of smoked beef into his mouth, chewed, then said, "Quit guzzling and eat. This smoked meat's damn good tonight."

Ange tore off a piece with his teeth. "Not bad, but I prefer the ale."

Monton grinned dumbly. "This malt's passable, but Marigold Malt's better."

Ange blinked. "Never heard of it. Marigold... you mean?"

Monton nodded proudly. "From our own land. It had different names once, but Steward Hershel refined the brew and named it anew. Too bad you won't taste it soon."

Ange kept glancing around, ever watchful.

He stretched with a yawn, his eyes glinting even in the dark.

At last, he sighed. "Thank the Seven, and thank Lord Greene. I haven't even set foot there yet, but Whispering Town already feels like home. I love it."

He downed another swig and wiped his mouth with his sleeve. "When I return, I'll find a bride, sire a son, teach him to shoot. The Seven know, I never dared dream of such things in the past."

Monton grinned. "Spill enough blood and earn your merit. Lord Greene will grant you a manor."

Ange nodded fervently, then added, "You think the girls of Whispering Town will like me?"

Monton thought it over. "They fight like men over there. You're good-looking, but careful — if one takes a liking to you, she'll throw you over her shoulder and carry you off. And if you lose that fight, you're hers for life."

Why fight? Why resist?

Gods, could Whispering Town be the cradle of the Seven? What a glorious place this is!

"Honestly," Ange murmured, wearing a lewd grin, "I rather like being the one taken."

Monton, perceptive as ever, saw the grin for what it was — and joined him in laughter.

The laughter halted in an instant.

Both men's eyes snapped toward the same direction.

One of Petyr Baelish's servants had just stepped into the yard, guided by Greene's retainer. He froze at once, a chill crawling down his spine.

It felt as though two great beasts had turned their glowing eyes on him — and if he so much as twitched, they would tear out his throat.

The danger passed, but his back was soaked in cold sweat.

Eyes lowered, he dared not look up. Only after a second nudge from Greene's men did he force his feet to move again, breathing shallowly.

At last, trembling all over, he reached Greene and bowed deeply — more humbly, he swore, than he ever had to Petyr himself.

Tyrion watched with amused curiosity. He recognized the man, having seen him before.

The servant bent nearly double, raising the folded letter with trembling hands.

Greene noted how Baelish's training had gone a bit too far — the man's manners bordered on theatrical.

He gestured for his own squire to take the message.

Once the man had gone, Tyrion doubled over, laughing so hard he clutched his sides.

Greene watched him, smiling faintly. "You seem unsurprised. Did you know Petyr's servants were this... elaborate?"

Tyrion wiped a tear from his eye. "You command beasts, Greene. Were I not familiar with the Mountain, your guards might've made me piss myself. That poor wretch thought he was staring down two wild animals."

[Ser Gregor Clegane, known as the Mountain — a knight sworn to House Lannister. Towering, bloodthirsty, and merciless.]

Tyrion wasn't above mocking himself and did so freely.

Greene read the letter's contents, brow furrowed. "It's from Duke Jon. He wants to meet me."

Tyrion's eyes narrowed as he took the letter and read it closely.

"This is ghostwritten — far too polished, overly polite."

He slapped his thigh. "I must be drunk. Of course it's Baelish's doing."

Rubbing his chin, he muttered, "Don't take this the wrong way. You're a baron, after all. But a personal summons from the Hand of the King, with the Master of Coin delivering the message? It's too much — it doesn't add up."

Greene nodded. "It's a move that denies me any chance to refuse."

"Exactly!" Tyrion agreed. "That's the trick."

His gaze wandered as thoughts spun in his head.

Greene suddenly asked, "Has Petyr always been this bold?"

Tyrion paused, a flicker of confusion in his eyes. "He dresses himself in elegance and caution… but…"

He trailed off, meeting Greene's unflinching gaze.

"He floats above the surface, but in truth…"

Greene struggled to find the Westerosi phrase. "He stands in the open, yet precisely where no one thinks to look."

Tyrion picked up the thread. "A rushed summons. A loud invitation. All cloaked in the Hand's shadow… Littlefinger is sly as ever."

Greene frowned. Were they underestimating him? Or was something else at play?

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