-19- Robust Physique?

Tyrion chuckled, "Haha, brother, that's wishful thinking! How can a Lannister dare to hope for ridiculous happiness? Our lifelong pursuit is absolute power."

Tyrion's tone changed, full of mockery.

Jaime shrugged bitterly.

The two Lannister brothers drifted off in their own thoughts, no longer speaking.

After a while, Cersei's handmaiden approached gracefully, bowing in greeting, "Ser Jaime, Her Grace requests your presence."

Tyrion interjected, "Didn't my fragile sister also think of inviting her other brother along? Hmm... Your expression tells me I didn't receive an invitation!"

Tyrion jumped down from the railing, straightened his clothes, and began to walk away, "Seeing me at this time will only worsen my sister's mood. Farewell, dear brother who hopes for our sister's happiness!"

With that, Tyrion turned his back to Jaime, raised his right hand in a wave behind him, and continued walking away.

Jaime stared at his little brother's retreating figure, sensing Tyrion's desolation, and opened his mouth to speak.

Jaime knew well that Tyrion had a kind heart. Despite Cersei's open disdain for Tyrion, he never truly hated her in return. Instead, Tyrion had always longed for familial affection.

Whenever Cersei was in trouble, Tyrion's small figure would always appear nearby, unseen by Cersei, only observing from a distance.

Jaime loved his brother, but Cersei, his greatest love, had loathed Tyrion since childhood.

Jaime had tried to mediate, but failed. Now, Jaime only hoped that the relationship between Cersei and Tyrion would not worsen further for his sake.

Red Keep, Queen's chambers.

Cersei sat in front of the vanity, seemingly unconcerned about others seeing the bruises on her face. She lifted her chin slightly, lips curling into a smile, but her tone was cold, "Jaime, I want you to kill Robert."

Jaime was taken aback, placing his hands on Cersei's delicate shoulders, "Cersei, I understand your anger, but we can't act impulsively. Robert is the king, I am a Kingsguard, and..."

Cersei angrily pushed Jaime away, as if hearing something particularly ridiculous, "Kingslayer, are you talking to me about the duties of a Kingsguard?"

As Jaime heard the words "Kingslayer," his palms clenched slightly, a flash of anger crossing his face.

Suppressing his anger, Jaime whispered, "Cersei, you can't act rashly. Killing Robert won't be easy, and it could bring disaster to House Lannister if we're not careful. Father won't forgive us."

When Jaime mentioned House Lannister, Cersei calmed down momentarily.

The memory of Tywin Lannister's intimidating gaze, which made her feel unable to even breathe, resurfaced in her mind. She thought it had faded since becoming queen, only to realize it was still so vivid, terrifyingly clear.

Jaime walked behind Cersei and gently embraced her.

Cersei, still filled with residual anger, resisted Jaime's touch at first, but after a few attempts, she allowed herself to be held by him.

Jaime felt Cersei's warmth and was willing to accept everything about her.

Cersei's beautiful eyes trembled slightly, but in her mind floated the image of Gallen Crabb, the lord of Crackclaw Point.

She felt it was time to have a sword of her own, not subject to the Lannisters or anyone else, a sword that truly belongs to her.

According to Maester Pycelle's intelligence, this little lord was skilled in warfare, defeating 20,000 men with only 1,000.

He's quite a sharp sword indeed.

...

...

Whispers, Lord's study.

Gallen took a sip of sour red wine, somewhat nostalgically, then frowned, still not enjoying it!

Back in Whispers, Gallen's mood seemed to be consistently good, "So, Maester Ars, did you tell the Citadel that we defeated 20,000 men with just 1,000?"

Maester Ars grinned, revealing the few remaining teeth he had, "I was actually going to write 30,000, but I was afraid it would scare the old codgers, so I lowered the number a bit."

Gallen smiled faintly, "Dear Ars, sincere thanks for your continued support."

Maester Ars trembled as he stood up, bowing to Gallen, "My lord, you are right. Learning to showcase one's strength is also an important political maneuver. Since entering the Red Keep is equivalent to joining the game of thrones, anonymity brings not only contempt but also silent death. I just wanted to inform the big shots through the Citadel in advance that there are others beside Randyll Tarly who are skilled in warfare."

"You're worrying about whether the Citadel will hold me accountable in the future and affect my reputation, but I am already very old. I just want to do my best for you while I still can move. Between you and the Citadel, my loyalty will always be with you, my lord."

Maester Ars blinked, "By displaying your mighty military prowess outwardly, I also don't have to worry about you having to climb into the beds of noblewomen for the sake of our territory."

Gallen chuckled.

...

Whispers, Smithy.

Mordin stretched out his arms, puffing out his large belly, allowing the craftsmen to take his measurements.

After measuring, the blacksmith respectfully said, "Ser Mordin, your physique is robust. It will require the quantity of two and a half suits of plate armor."

Hershel asked, "How long does it take to make a complete set of plate armor?"

"Sir, with enough manpower, it can be completed in two months."

After a moment of contemplation, Hershel, supporting his hands on his much smaller belly compared to Mordin's, said, "Lord Gallen will depart no later than a week from now, and Mordin will accompany him. As for the armor... start by making a breastplate for Mordin, and simultaneously arrange for someone to dismantle and modify a ready-made chainmail to fit Mordin's size..."

"I'm will give you five days."