THE IRON THRONE OF ICE AND FIRE

The reports were troubling. The mountain clans had grown restless. Villagers spoke in hushed tones of distant war drums and shadowy figures moving through the forests.

Greene Kleb, ever a perfectionist, had intended to drill his men longer, refine tactics, and ensure every detail was accounted for before engaging in battle. But unease was spreading through the city. Fear had a way of breeding dissent. If he delayed too long, whispers would turn to doubt.

And doubt was poison.

He could not afford for his people to believe he feared the savages. That, more than the raiders themselves, would spell disaster.

So, after inspecting the Thorn Corps' latest volley drill, he turned and made his way toward the Lord's Meeting Hall. His stride was steady. He would not let them see hesitation.

The Council of War

Greene took his seat at the head of the hall, his back against the high-backed chair that bore the sigil of House Kleb—the golden swamp marigold.

Kalea, ever attentive, handed him a goblet of wine. He took a sip, his brow furrowing at the sharp, sour taste. But after a moment, he found himself nodding.

If you drink it enough, it isn't so bad.

His retainers lined the chamber, their gazes fixed on him.

Knight Mason was the first to speak. "My lord, the negotiations with the mountain clans are set. They will come at sunrise tomorrow."

"How many?"

Knight Pell, commander of the Survey Corps, answered. "A thousand, give or take."

Greene leaned his cheek against his knuckles and let out a quiet laugh.

At the sound, the hall fell silent—then, one by one, his men began to chuckle, jeer, and mock the savages.

Contempt was a weapon. Disdain for the enemy bolstered the courage of those who had to fight. It was a tradition in Kleb lands, one that turned fear into something sharper.

But tactics were not built on arrogance. Greene raised a hand, silencing them.

"Hershel, are the shields prepared?"

The old steward bowed. "Yes, my lord. We had thirty iron-rimmed shields in the armory, and the carpenters finished another seventy oak shields. A full hundred, as requested. Sir Mason has them now."

Greene passed his goblet back to Kalea. "Well done, Hershel."

The steward bowed again.

Greene exhaled, surveying his gathered men. "I will repeat the battle plan."

"All one hundred and twenty longbowmen of the Thorn Corps will carry two quivers, twenty arrows each. The range of our longbows is farther than anything those wildlings have. You've seen it yourselves."

"When they charge, they will first face a storm of arrows."

Greene turned to Mason. "Your shield line is crucial in the first phase. Hold firm. Protect the Thorn Corps. They will fire every last arrow before the lines close."

He let the words settle before continuing. "That means, before the first swords are drawn, the savages will have taken 4,800 arrows. That is the true beginning of the battle." He smirked. "I wonder how many of them will still have the stomach to fight after that? Perhaps they'll piss themselves before they even reach us."

The hall erupted with laughter.

Greene let them enjoy it for a moment before he pressed on.

"Once the arrows are spent, the second phase begins. Mason, your men advance—frontline warriors in plate armor. No retreat, no wavering. We drive them back, blade to blade."

"The Thorn Corps will remain in reserve, awaiting my command."

He went around the room, having each commander repeat their role.

This was not the way of old lords—barking orders and trusting their men to follow blindly. Greene knew better. Plans must be spoken, drilled, understood. Clarity won battles.

Time was always his ally.

When all was said, Greene tapped his fingers against his knee, his mind already five steps ahead.

This would be the first true coordination between the forces of Kleb lands. It had come together quickly, hastily—but there was no choice.

War waited for no man.

A Lord's Meal and a Steward's Reward

Lunch was simple—roast lamb with onions, vegetable soup, honey bread, and a jug of ale.

Greene took a sip of the ale and grimaced. Bitter. Off.

Strange. He remembered it tasting better last time.

He had no desire to finish it, but wasting good drink was an insult to his position. Instead, he reached for the flagon and poured what remained back into the jug.

He turned to Kalea with a slight smile. "Today's ale is excellent. Hershel has been working hard—give him this flagon as a reward."

Hershel, broad and well-fed, blinked in surprise before breaking into a pleased grin.

Kalea obeyed, and when she handed the jug to the old steward, the hall filled with cheers.

Hershel had indeed been running ragged under Greene's command, but this moment—this gesture—erased his exhaustion. He stood a little straighter, beaming.

A full belly and a full cup were sometimes more effective than a thousand words.

The Idea of Marigold Ale

The taste of ale lingered in Greene's mind as he ate.

Mermaid Harbor. The thought came unbidden.

Alcohol was one of the port's most profitable goods. But Kleb lands relied too much on imports. That had to change.

Famous brews commanded high coin—like Arbor Gold from the Reach.

With the resources available, malt liquor was the obvious choice.

Yet, there was a problem.

Greene had already noticed the issue of hygiene in the territory. Outside the castle, the concept barely existed. If his ale had soured, it was likely due to poor sanitation.

The solution was simple—strict regulations, with no room for disobedience.

Of course, the real challenge was enforcement. Any rule meant nothing if not upheld. Supervision would be key.

And just like that, Hershel had another duty.

But a good drink needed a name. A name made half the sale.

Mermaid Ale? No, too disconnected from Kleb's identity.

Swamp Marigold Ale? Closer, but too cumbersome.

Then it came to him.

Marigold Ale.

A golden brew, named for the golden flower of House Kleb.

Yes. That would do.

A Letter from King's Landing

Greene had felt a touch of drowsiness after the meal—until the letter arrived.

He read it once. Then again.

By the third reading, a slow grin spread across his face.

Two months from now, Queen Cersei would leave King's Landing for a royal hunt in the Kingswood.

And he—Greene Kleb—was to be part of the escort.

A small detail, to most. But for him, it was everything.

The Red Keep was the heart of the realm. The true game was played there, not in the Crab Claw Peninsula.

This was his first step toward it.

A step toward the game of thrones.

His rare show of excitement did not go unnoticed.

Kalea tilted her head. "Master Greene, you seem in good spirits. Would you like another glass of wine?"

Greene met her gaze, then smirked. "I will, if you'll join me. A small toast."

She hesitated, then nodded.

Greene raised his goblet.

"To Lady Cersei," he murmured.

And drained it in one gulp.