According to reports from the villagers, the mountain wildlings nearby had become more active.
Green, who had a habit of thorough preparation, had originally planned to let the corps train together for a few more days and refine some details.
But the mood among the people of the territory was growing increasingly restless. Green realized he could no longer delay—it was time for war.
Any further delay, and the common folk might think he was too afraid of the wildlings.
After inspecting the Thorn Corps' volley training with his men, Green walked steadily toward the Whispering City's lord's council hall.
Whispering City, Lord's Council Hall
Green sat high on his seat, the tall-backed lord's chair adorned with the Clegborn family's golden marigold-on-swamp crest.
He accepted the wine cup handed to him by Callea, took a sip of the sour red wine, and frowned.
Truth be told, he had grown fond of that sour wine—it had a kick to it!
The retainers of the Clegborn family stood at either side of the hall.
Knight Mason was the first to speak: "My lord, negotiations with the wildlings are complete. The time is set for tomorrow, at sunrise."
"How many have they gathered?"
Knight Pell, in charge of the Recon Corps, replied, "Approximately one thousand."
Green pressed the back of one hand against his cheek and let out a derisive chuckle.
Hearing their lord's mocking laughter, the hall fell silent for a moment before everyone began ridiculing the wildlings.
Contempt for the wildlings was a strategic necessity—it quietly boosted morale.
It was also a deeply ingrained tradition in the territory.
But in tactics, Green would never underestimate them.
He signaled for silence. "Herschel, are the shields ready?"
Butler Herschel respectfully replied, "Yes, my lord. Thirty iron-rimmed shields from the armory, plus seventy oakwood shields from the carpenters' workshop—one hundred in total. All have been delivered to Sir Mason."
Green handed the wine cup back to Callea. "Well done, Herschel."
Herschel bowed deeply.
"I'll repeat the battle plan."
"The Thorn Corps' 120 longbowmen, each with two quivers—make sure all arrows are prepared in advance."
"Everyone has seen the range of the Clegborn longbow—it's more than enough."
"When the wildlings charge, the first thing they'll face is the Thorn Corps' volleys."
"Mason, in Phase One, your job is to lead the clan soldiers and hold the line with all one hundred shields to protect the Thorn Corps. Do not retreat a single step until given the next order."
"Once the Thorn Corps finishes their volleys, Phase One is complete."
"After enduring several waves of arrow rain, how much of the wildlings' laughable courage will remain? See if any of them wet themselves!"
The hall erupted in laughter.
Green continued, "In Phase Two, the plate-armored warriors lead the charge, and all clan soldiers advance steadily for close combat—break the wildlings completely."
"At the same time, the Thorn Corps will rest on the spot, awaiting further orders."
Afterward, Green had each officer repeat their orders to ensure they fully understood.
Green's war meetings were quite different from traditional practices in the territory. As lord, he needed patience and repeated communication to ensure his intentions were clear.
One had to take the first step—time was Green's ally.
Tapping his knee with his fingers, Green thought to himself: "This should be enough."
It would be the first official joint operation between the Clegborn territory's various military units. Due to time constraints, preparations had begun hastily.
Green's lunch consisted of roasted lamb with onions, vegetable soup, honey bread, and a jug of malt ale.
After a sip of the ale, Green furrowed his brows again.
Terrible taste. Bitter as hell.
Why does the malt ale keep changing flavors? I swear it tasted pretty good last time!
Green didn't feel like drinking anymore. A broke lord like him couldn't afford to waste anything, though—so he picked up the jug and poured the leftover ale back into it.
With a gentle smile, Green turned to Callea and said, "Today's malt ale is excellent. Herschel has been working hard lately—give him this jug."
Herschel was stout and heavyset—this was the lord's way of showing his care.
Callea nodded and faithfully carried out her lord's command.
In the hall, where everyone was dining together, Butler Herschel received the jug from Callea under the envious gazes and cheers of the others.
Herschel had been run ragged over the past few days, constantly hustled about by Green—his legs had practically thinned from all the running.
This gift was the lord's recognition of his efforts, and just like that, Herschel's exhaustion vanished—he was re-energized.
The malt ale reminded Green of Mermaid Port during his meal.
He thought about one of the port's key sources of income: alcohol.
Relying entirely on imported liquor was bound to become a problem down the line.
It would be far better to produce and sell a locally made, high-quality signature drink—just like Arbor wine from the Isle of Arbor.
Given the resources in the Clegborn territory, developing malt ale was the ideal choice.
Green had long noticed that, outside the castle, people basically had no concept of hygiene.
He suspected the ale's constantly changing taste had a lot to do with that lack of sanitation.
One of the few comforts of being a lord, Green reflected, was being able to enforce laws without having to argue about them.
Otherwise, just trying to explain what hygiene even was would be enough to exhaust him.
Take cleanliness in brewing, for example—it could be addressed through strict regulation. No one dared defy rules set by the lord.
Of course, problems would still arise in practice, so strong supervision and mechanisms had to be put in place.
Thinking of all this, Green was even more satisfied he'd given the ale to Herschel—now Herschel had one more task to handle.
The malt ale also needed a name. A good, elegant name was half the battle.
Mermaid Malt Ale?
No—too much of a stretch, not enough connection.
Swamp Marigold Malt Ale?
Better. Malt ale was golden in color.
But the "swamp" part—drop that, it cheapens the name.
Let's just call it: Marigold Malt Ale.
After lunch, Green had been feeling a little drowsy, but a letter from King's Landing quickly snapped him awake.
He read and re-read the contents several times before snapping his fingers in delight.
According to the letter, in about two months—mid-year—Her Majesty the Queen would be leaving King's Landing for the royal hunt. Green would be responsible for part of her escort.
He was allowed to personally select twenty men from his own territory to accompany him.
Green's real goal was to use this opportunity, through Queen Cersei, to appear at the Red Keep.
The game of thrones was about to begin—and the Crab Claw Peninsula was simply too far away.
Seeing Green—usually so expressionless—smiling so broadly, Callea couldn't help but be affected. Her mood lifted as well. "My lord Green, you're rarely this happy—how about a glass of red wine?"
Green turned to her. "Sure. Pour one for yourself too—let's share a glass. A small celebration."
He raised his cup toward Callea and drank it all in one go.
Thank you, Lady Cersei.
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