## Chapter 8 Golden Chalice Ale
According to reports from villagers, the wildlings in the nearby mountains have become more active.
Glyn, who habitually strove for perfection, had originally planned to let the corps drill for a few more days to refine some details.
But the morale of his people was growing restless, and Glyn realized he could no longer delay; war was inevitable.
Any further delay would lead the common folk to believe Glyn was a coward who feared the wildlings.
After Glyn led everyone to inspect the Thorn Corps' volley fire training, he strode towards the great hall of The Whispers, his footsteps still steady and firm.
...
The Whispers, the lord's great hall.
Glyn sat high on his seat; behind the lord's high-backed chair was the marsh marigold sigil of House Crabbe.
Glyn took the wine glass handed to him by Carlaia, frowned, and took a sip of red wine.
I have to admit, once you get used to this sour red wine, it's quite potent.
Inside the hall, the retainers of House Crabbe stood on either side.
Knight Ma spoke first, "My lord, negotiations with the wildlings are complete. The time is set for tomorrow after sunrise."
"How many have they gathered?"
Ser Pell, responsible for the scouting party, replied, "An estimated one thousand men."
Glyn rested the back of his hand against his cheek and gave a soft, derisive laugh.
Hearing the lord's sardonic laughter, the hall quieted for a moment before everyone erupted in various jeers at the wildlings' expense.
Disdaining the wildlings was a strategic necessity; it would subtly boost morale.
This had long been the prevailing sentiment within the territory.
In terms of tactics, however, Glyn would never underestimate the wildlings.
Glyn gestured for silence. "Herschel, are the shields ready?"
Steward Herschel remained as respectful as ever. "Yes, my lord. The thirty iron-plated shields from the storeroom, along with the seventy oak shields from the carpenters, for a total of one hundred, have all been handed over to Knight Ma."
Glyn handed the wine glass back to Carlaia, who stood nearby. "Steward Herschel, well done."
Herschel bowed.
"I will reiterate the battle plan."
"The 120 longbowmen of the Thorn Corps will each have two quivers. The arrows must be prepared in advance."
"The longbows of House Crabbe have sufficient range, as you have all witnessed."
"When the wildlings charge us, they will first face the volley fire from the Thorn Corps."
"Ma, in the first stage of the battle, your task is to use the one hundred shields to lead the house soldiers, hold the line, and protect the Thorn Corps. You are not to retreat a single step until you receive the next order."
"Once the Thorn Corps' volley is complete, the first stage of the battle is concluded."
"After taking a few waves of arrows from the Thorn Corps, I wonder how much of the mountain wildlings' laughable courage will remain? When the time comes, remember to check if any of them have pissed their breeches."
Everyone in the hall burst into laughter.
Glyn continued, "In the second stage of the battle, the plate-armored warriors will take the front. All house soldiers will advance steadily, with the spearmen engaging to utterly crush the wildlings."
"Meanwhile, the Thorn Corps will rest where they are and await my command."
After speaking, Glyn had each person in charge reiterate their part of the battle plan.
Glyn's war councils were significantly different from the territory's past customs. As lord, Glyn needed immense patience, requiring repeated communication to ensure everyone truly understood his intentions.
One must always take the first step, and time was Glyn's ally.
Glyn tapped his fingers on his knee, feeling it should be enough.
The first formal coordinated battle between the various forces of the Crabbe lands was about to begin, hastily prepared due to the urgency of the situation.
...
Glyn's lunch consisted of onion-roasted lamb, vegetable soup, honeyed bread, and a pitcher of ale.
Glyn took a sip of the ale and frowned again.
It tasted awful, utterly bitter.
Why does the ale's taste keep changing? I remember it was quite good last time.
Glyn had no desire to drink any more, but as a poor lord, he couldn't bear to waste it. He reached for the pitcher and poured the remaining ale from his cup back into it.
Glyn smiled warmly at Carlaia. "Today's ale is excellent. Herschel has been working very hard recently. Take this pitcher to him."
To the stout and portly Herschel, this was a sign of the lord's care.
Carlaia nodded solemnly and faithfully carried out the lord's command.
In the great hall, Steward Herschel, who was dining with the others, received the pitcher from Carlaia's hands amidst the envious gazes and cheers of the men.
Herschel had indeed been working hard these past few days, constantly being ordered about by Glyn until his legs were nearly run off.
This was the lord's affirmation of his capabilities. Herschel's fatigue vanished instantly, and his body filled with renewed vigor.
...
Because of the ale, Glyn, still at his meal, began to think of Mermaid Port.
Glyn thought of wine, one of the harbor's most important sources of income.
Relying entirely on imported wine could easily lead to problems in the future.
It would be best to have their own famous vintage, like the wines from the Arbor.
Given the resources of the Crabbe lands, developing their own ale was the clear choice.
Glyn had long discovered that outside the castle proper, the concept of hygiene was virtually nonexistent.
Glyn surmised that the inconsistent taste of their ale was closely related to poor sanitation management.
Glyn sometimes took comfort in the fact that, as lord, he could issue edicts without having to justify them.
Otherwise, just trying to clearly explain the concept of hygiene would be enough to kill him from exhaustion.
For example, sanitation issues in brewing could be solved through strict regulations; no one would openly defy rules set by their lord.
Of course, various problems were bound to arise during implementation, so effective supervision and monitoring mechanisms had to follow.
Thinking of this, Glyn felt that giving the ale to Herschel was an excellent idea. It was the perfect new task for the steward.
The ale also needed a resonant and elegant name. A good name was half the battle won.
Mermaid Ale?
The connection wasn't strong enough. It felt too forced.
Marsh Marigold Ale?
This one had potential. The ale itself was a golden hue.
But the "Marsh" part had to go. It cheapened the brand.
It shall be called... Golden Chalice Ale.
...
After lunch, Glyn, who had been somewhat drowsy, was instantly energized upon receiving the reply from King's Landing.
He reread the contents of the letter several times, unable to stop himself from snapping his fingers.
According to the letter, in the middle of this year, about two months from now, Her Grace the Queen would be leaving King's Landing to hunt in the Kingswood, and Glyn would be responsible for a portion of her escort.
Glyn was to assemble the twenty men for the escort from his own territory.
Glyn's objective was to use Queen Cersei to gain an opportunity to make an appearance in the Red Keep.
The game of thrones was about to begin, and Crackclaw Point was too far from the action.
Seeing Glyn, who was usually so stoic, looking so pleased, Carlaia couldn't help but be influenced, her own mood brightening considerably. "Lord Glyn, it's rare to see you so happy. Would you care for a glass of red wine?"
Glyn's gaze shifted to her. "Yes, and pour one for yourself as well. Let's have a drink together, as a small celebration."
Glyn raised his glass to Carlaia in a silent toast and drained it in one gulp.
Thank you, Queen Cersei.
(end of chapter)