The Northern Tyrant [Game of Thrones] Chapter 38 - Kingsguard Down, A Wolf’s Advice, Too Good To Be True & The Royal Bet

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Chett was tired that night, but he didn't want to slack off and bring shame to his lord. Thankfully, the feast had gone well without any troubles. The King had gone to sleep, so had the lord. Normally, he would also go to sleep at that hour. 

But that night, because the King was living in the castle, he chose to make some rounds around the castle personally. Taking tiny naps on a chair instead, and then making more rounds. 

His armor joints clanged as he walked, dressed as he would for a battle, minus the helmet, as they were within the castle, and it was dark despite the torches. The visor would only make it impossible to see. 

I'm hungry again. 

Thud!

But right as he turned a corner, he heard a sound and became alert. It was distant, a voice, a female. He rushed towards the voice as fast as his feet allowed. 

"Let me go!" 

"Seven hellllsss take ya, ya filthy little whoooore! Hic! I heeeard it from the bloody eunuch. You werrre whorin’ yerself out, weren’t ya? Then that giant took a fancy to yer cuuunt, eh? Wellll.. I’ve got goooold, reaaal goooold… Hic.. Come warm my bed toniiight…. Hic—burp! Let’s seee… What that giant was ruuuttin’ onnn…"

Chett's blood boiled the moment he heard that exchange. He recognised the female voice, Ros. He liked her, and she was like a sister to him. Ros and Anna were both nobodies before, smallfolk just surviving, like him. They understood each other the best and shared their admiration for Lord Wylis. 

"Leave her alone, filth!" 

Chett shouted and rushed over, pulling his blade out as he did. He recognised the lowly creature right away, one of the Kingsguards, the worst one, Boros Blount. He'd seen him drink throughout the feast and mock Small Paul the whole time. 

One look at the scene and he knew what must have happened. There was water on the floor, a jar tipped over. Ros must have been out to get some water for herself, as most servants were busy cleaning and preparing for the next day, and caring for additional guests. 

"Heh? Who might ya beee? Her lander? Shall I paaay youuu…. to use her cuuunt, eh?”

Chett didn't listen anymore and lunged forward to strike. He'd been given a clear command by Lord Wylis. If anyone dared try anything in Ramsgate, he was allowed to strike to kill. Even if it was the King himself, he was allowed to strike, wound, or kill. Damned be the consequences, was what Lord Wylis said. 

And damned they be indeed. 

Clank!

But no matter the intent, the difference in abilities couldn't be overcome with simple will. Chett had only started getting better at the blade and was finally a squire. But Boros Blount was an experienced knight who had faced many battles and duels.  

In the split moment, drunk Boros had already backstepped and drawn his own sword; the man was still dressed in his Kingsguard armor. They clashed, and the Kingsguard got pushed back, no match for Chett, who was physically larger and stronger. 

Yet the technique mattered. The Kingsguard sidestepped, dragged his blade across Chett's blade, low, and stabbed into the narrow gap between Chett's elbow guard and vambrace. As Blount's sword stabbed its pointy end, the chainmail didn't help as much. 

"Ugh!" Chett staggered back, feeling the pain, blood dripping, and collected underneath his armor. "Lady Ros! Go inside and lock the door." 

"Chet—"

"Go!" He shouted, glaring at the smug, drunk Boros Blount. "You're skilled. I see your white cloak is not without meaning."

"Heh-heh! Woulda been a gods-damned praise coming from the giant. But you… you… worthless little cunt… you’re… beeeeneath meee!"

Chett prepared himself to face the drunken, rageful strike. At least Ros had gone inside, so he didn't care anymore. It hurt like hell in the arm, but he gripped the hilt tight, waiting for the chance. 

Clash!

He received the blow head-on and once again won with superior strength. But he knew it wouldn't last long. He wasn't as good with a sword. But, right then, he smirked and let go of his sword entirely. 

Bam!

Chett punched Blount in the face and then stepped in, leaving no space to move the sword. Before he landed another punch, he circled a foot behind Blount's heel and then…

"Gah!"

Chett's second punch tripped Blount down on his ass. This was what Chett knew well. Lord Wylis had taught him that a battle between armored knights was less about swords and more about wrestling. After initial sword strikes, it always turned into a brawl, where both knights used their daggers to stab through the gap in each other's armor. 

Lord Wylis had trained him extensively in that, so even if his swordplay wasn't the best, he would still win eventually. But he knew there was still a limit. If Blount wasn't drunk, maybe it wouldn't have been this easy. 

"I’ll kill you!"

Blount was moving by instinct. He had also grabbed his dagger from his waist and tried to stab Chett. Since they weren't wearing helmets, Blount got a lucky strike and sliced Chett's right cheek. 

Chett initially didn't want to kill him and cause trouble for Lord Wylis. But seeing how willing Blount was to stab his throat, he did the same. 

Bam!

Clash!

It wasn't easy, still. He had to overpower him. Blount's body moved on its own and tried to stop him from stabbing the throat while he straddled the chest. It was a last stand of strength. He tried to shove the dagger down, tip aimed at the throat. 

Blount tried to push away his hand. 

"Aaaaaah!"

Both of them screamed at each other's faces. But Chett was naturally stronger. He pressed his injured hand as well and, in a very slow, agonizing way, stabbed. Inch by inch, he punctured Blount's throat. Death didn't come fast. 

First came a cough of blood, as it filled his airway. Then the strength was lost, and Blount's hands gave way. Chett fully stabbed and jammed his entire dagger to the hilt into the throat. 

For a few moments, Blount's big, red eyes shook in disbelief. His feet thrashed metallic sounds on the floor. Then, he died. 

At last, Chett slid off and lay beside the deadbody, panting. He was really nervous. This was his first real fight against an actual knight who was clearly far more experienced than he was. He had no idea if he'd win when he entered it. 

If he wasn't drunk…

He gulped, throat dry. He knew he'd have died if Blount hadn’t drunk. And after killing him, he'd have broken Lady Ros' door and…

Chett clenched his fist, forgetting the pain. A desire to get better rose. Ramsgate Castle didn't keep many soldiers inside because of the women they hid, and the castle was impossible to invade or sneak into. 

But clearly, that wasn't enough. Sometimes, even the welcomed guests could be wolves in sheep's clothing. 

Better train Small Paul for it. 

At last, he heard the sound of someone coming. He just hoped this wouldn't cause his lord too much trouble. 

####

Thud!

Squelch! 

Thud!

"You filthy fat waste of air!" 

Squelch!

"Feasted in my goddamn hall! Drank my fucking ale! And then eye my own woman!" 

Squelch! 

Thud!

Not a single man, servant, or noble present dared utter a single word to stop Wylis. Lord Arryn was there, and Ser Barristan had also appeared. The King was just arriving. But no one dared step forward as Wylis stomp-kicked on Ser Blount's dead skull and battered it into a fine meat paste. 

Bam!

Bam!

Blood spilled all over the floor. His fury was true. He really was angry. If Chett hadn't killed him, he'd have done it in far worse, tormenting ways. He considered Ramsgate Castle his safehouse. One place he could breathe in peace and be with the women he cherished. 

He was forced to hide half of them underground like rats. One had to take a false identity. And one almost got raped. He had every right to be furious at such a lowlife nobody not knowing his place. 

His peace was ruined. A wakeup call that nobody could be trusted. That every guest welcomed in his halls was to be doubted.

Finally, after it was clear that Ser Blount's body was thoroughly headless, he stopped and stepped back, gathering his breath. 

"Filth like this doesn't deserve so much as a pyre. His rotting carcass can feed the fish and be done with it," Wylis snarled, and finally looked up at Ser Barristan standing beside half-awake Robert, who was surprisingly silent. "Is this the caliber of your damn order? This is what the Kingsguard has been reduced to? A whoring drunkard?"

"Good fucking riddance." Finally, words came from Robert's mouth. "Was a rotten thing he tried on your woman, Wylis. I see the fault clear enough. Never could stand the bastard, but after the war, favors got handed out like whores at a tourney, and five seats were empty. Couldn't just toss the man out or gut him myself, much as I wanted to."

Then why the fuck do you wear a crown? 

Wylis sneered and walked over to Chett, who still sat against the wall, holding his wounded arm. "Let's go. Qyburn will see to that arm before it festers. And Barristan, pass the word to the men outside. If any one of them falters, I'll personally skin them alive."

Not in the mood to speak with Robert either, he just left with Chett and Ros.

####

Winterfell, 

"Not rusted, I see." 

"Bah! Like I ever would. I'm the next admiral of the largest Westerosi fleet." Brandon Stark scoffed, panting, having defeated Eddard in a mock duel in the Winterfell courtyard. 

"You believe that?" asked Eddard. 

Brandon shrugged, sheathing his blade. "Aye, I do. Wylis don't flap his gums unless he plans to follow through. It might take time, but eventually he does it. But enough of Wylis and Ramsgate, you're mooning over him like a virgin offering up her maiden cunt. Tell me about Winterfell instead. Some of those lords giving you trouble, eh?"

Eddard nodded, a faint frown on his face, and turned back toward the castle. “They were ready to work with you after Father. They were even afraid of you. I’m a new face and a new voice to them. They test me, push me, see how far they can go, how much they can bend me to gain some small favors.”

Brandon curled his lip and let loose a string of loud curses, damning them all and their ten generations. “That’s why I’m standing here. I don’t live in Winterfell anymore, but unless you exile me, I'll remain a Stark."

"I would never do that, brother."

"Aye, Ned, I know. Still, Wylis is as much my brother as you are, blood or no. I owe the man more than I can ever repay with coin or steel. And I know you don't trust a hair on his ass. Listen to me, little brother, don't turn into our stiff-necked father all over again. I spent years on my knees begging the old man to knight Wylis, and we bloody lost him for it. Don't repeat that."

Eddard had stopped in his tracks, turning to face him. "What are you getting at with this?"

Brandon sighed, many memories flashing before his eyes. He'd seen Wylis over the years, seen him improve. He didn't understand how Wylis learned all the things he knew. That healing medicine, he didn't understand how his big-boned friend came up with it. He kept an eye, trying to see if someone was secretly teaching him all that. 

But in the end, the only conclusion was that somehow Wylis was coming up with everything.

He'd asked Wylis as well, and in the solar, Wylis had shown him some of the designs. The design of the printing press. They made no sense to him, but he saw the effort that went into them. He also saw a drawn map of Ramsgate that Wylis wanted to make. It was so bloody grand. There was more, so much he didn't understand. 

He didn't ask a lot either. By then, he knew enough. Wylis wasn't just talented in battle, but also in the brain. 

Winterfell's lost its brightest jewel already. Only thing we can do now is get down on our knees and plead for whatever piss-warm leftovers we can get.

Brandon had learned about the North and ruling it from his father. He understood the North's challenges and finances the best. In simple words, the North was shit. House Stark couldn't even be considered wealthy. 

"Grab Wylis by the fucking hand and ride whatever mess he’s riding into. If you give a damn about House Stark prospering, and the North not freezing or starving with us, take my word. Get cozy with him, be his drinking brother, his sword brother, whatever. Fuck all the other houses sideways, especially the Boltons. If there’s one bastard you need watching your back, it’s him.”

Of course, Brandon knew his brother wasn't without pride. That scrunched sneer was enough to see it. 

"I can't speak more, or I'll be betraying Wylis. Just know this, the bastard’s never lost a fight in his whole damn life. Now he’s about to get his hands dirty in trade, and Ramsgate’s going to start making coin hand over fist. If you want a taste, now’s the time. Get your arse on the ship before it sails, or stand there on the shore waving like a fool with your cock in the wind."

Silence fell between the two brothers. Eddard stared at him reluctantly, as if even considering the proposal was beneath him. 

"You want me to submit to a newly founded house?"

Brandon scowled. “Gods, are you listening to the shit coming out of your mouth? You think I kneel around him? I said, make him your friend. Your drinking brother. Watch his back, and he’ll watch yours. And you think nobility means shit? You wiped out the last dragon-riding noble house that ruled the whole damn realm not two years back. Bloodlines don’t mean piss. Capability does, and Wylis has plenty. Choice is yours. I came to give advice and to take Benjen with me.”

"Benjen has already prepared to join the Night's Watch."

Brandon damn near bellowed at his little brother. "And you just let him do it! That’s the problem, Ned. What happened to the wolfpack?"

"It's an honorable—"

“Eh? Is it? That why we toss all the murderers, rapists, and other sorry shits up there? Climb off the fucking high horse, Ned. The realm doesn’t give a piss about honor. Father’s honor damn near got us all slaughtered. And I’ve spoken with Mother. She doesn’t want Benjen taking the Black either.”

With that, he left Eddard standing there alone. 

Brandon knew better than most. Benjen wasn't the sort to chase the Black. No, he knew what was in his youngest brother's heart. Guilt was eating him for not being able to save Lyanna. Benjen and Lyanna were close as both of them grew in Winterfell, while he and Ned were fostered. He doubted that Lyanna had told Benjen about her feelings for Wylis. 

It seemed Benjen was trying to take self-exile as a form of punishment for himself. 

Like I'd let him. 

He was ready to drag Benjen's ass all the way to Ramsgate if he had to. 

####

The sentiment in Ramsgate town had changed completely. As the morning came, and the word spread of what had occurred inside the castle, non-verbal and non-physical hostilities became noticeable. 

Before, the soldiers and servants who had come with the King's entourage were welcomed in the town. It was like a festival, singing and drinking in taverns, all the laughter and more. But now, the people of Ramsgate eyed all the visitors with suspicion and disgust. 

The people of Ramsgate were loyal to their lord. No, they loved their lord. By that extension, they also loved the women their lord was involved with. Besides, Ros was known to most as she frequented the town, spoke with nearly all the women, and listened to their problems. 

From a festival, it turned to simple trade. They still served the food and ale, but they refused to talk or sing again. 

Wylis was made aware of it by his men patrolling the town. Normally, he would have intervened, but he didn't bother this time. He wanted to send Robert away as soon as possible. 

Even now, he stalled meeting Robert for sparring. So, he sat alone in his top-floor solar and worked on the ledgers, counting the coins spent. That was all, he was only spending at the moment. 

However, he wasn't really alone. 

Knock! Knock!

Since Chett was resting, Kyle stood guard outside. The man opened the door and alerted him. 

"My lord, Lord Arryn is here."

"Let him in." Wylis sat straight in the chair and watched the door open, the old man soon walking inside. It wasn't that he didn't want to stand up; he just couldn't, as his breeches hung low around his ankles. 

Good thing I refused Lysa. 

But still, there was another cock-starved woman in the castle who had no reason to hide. And she sat under his table, her gown pushed down to her waist, her fat, round tits engulfing his cock in between, while her golden head bobbed with the filthy friction of her luscious lips.

Genna knew that Robert didn't think very highly of the Lannisters. So, she'd stayed away from the King as much as possible during the welcome feast. But finally, she'd found a chance to be alone with the man who toyed with her, and she let him.

Wylis enjoyed it, like a mood-fresher that morning. And Genna was enthusiastic, aiming to take his impossible girth and length, balls deep, an impossible quest from the beginning. But her cloud-like, silken tits added to the bliss, warm, spit, and precum coated. 

There was no need for him to do this. Genna was already with his babe. And he wasn't sex-starved. But Genna had told him that she needed to visit her husband at the Twins soon to excuse her 'mysterious' pregnancy. And before she went, he wanted to bring her loyalty above 90%, where it stood right now.

"Have a seat, my lord." Wylis kindly gestured, one hand below the table, gently caressing Genna's scalp, her messy and untied hair glued to her face, his cock, everything. 

He cleared his mind from the pleasures he was receiving from underneath the table and focused on the old man who ruled the realm in truth, at the King's pleasure. And he had to say, Jon wasn't doing a great job. 

"Robert is swinging his hammer alone in the courtyard."

"I will be with him shortly," Wylis answered emptily. "What brings you here?"

“I came to discuss the important matters you mentioned. I have also taken time to walk the town. There is great activity, with the town and ports growing at once. The smallfolk welcome the chance to earn their bread.”

That was the intention behind waiting. He didn't want to appear too desperate to Jon. 

“Ah, that. Aye, it matters. More than most things.” Wylis leaned back, able to see the obscenity that Genna had created between his legs. The sheer mess that coated her face was shameless. 

“You saw the carriages that brought us here. I built them. I shaped the iron, I drew the lines. More ideas burn in me still. But the moment those wheels roll beyond Ramsgate, every fat merchant and scheming house with coin will imitate them. They’ll drown the markets in cheaper imitations and laugh while I starve. So I hoped the Crown could make a royal registry of new designs and inventions. Let the first maker have the sole right to sell. And if another steals the work, let him be cast out of trade in King’s Landing and the great cities besides.”

Ugh… Slow down, woman. 

Wylis’s jaw tightened as Genna’s teeth grazed the sensitive ridge just under his swollen crown. Teasing, a wicked little nip that sent a jolt straight up his spine. He forced his expression to remain calm, almost bored, while his gaze flicked downward. 

The sight was pure debauchery. Her golden hair spilling in disheveled waves, lips stretched wide around his girth, cheeks hollowed so fiercely they looked bruised. A thin thread of spit dangled from the corner of her mouth, swaying with every slow bob of her head. The word scandalous couldn’t cover it.

Those famous Lannister green eyes were locked to his, glittering with filthy mischief. Both her hands cupped her own heavy breasts, mashing the soft mounds together until they enveloped the thick base of his shaft that her mouth couldn’t reach. Every glide produced a soft, wet squelch that blended into the low crackle of the hearth fire.

"I see," Jon Arryn said softly, fingers at his chin. "You fear your trade being taken from you. But if it is something all men desire, and you alone can make it, does that not do a disservice to the realm? As the only maker, the price would rest in your hands. A thing that may be worth silver might be sold for gold because you wish to."

"That is why the rights to sell and make such things may be sold as well. Say House Arryn wishes to build these carriages. All they need is my leave, and in return, I take a small share from each one they sell. Less than a tenth will do. In this way, if a clever fellow from Flea Bottom thinks up something fine but lacks the means to make or sell it, he still profits by letting others do so. It gives the whole realm reason to learn, to think, and to craft better things for daily life."

Once again, the old man silently deliberated. 

Wylis leaned forward this time, elbows on the table as he felt close to erupting in her mouth. He felt his toes curl in his boots, her tight throat massaging him. 

What motivates her to do this? 

Wylis had seen Genna's husband if he remembered it. The man was average, perhaps even below. He couldn't understand how bad he must be at satisfying his woman that she ended up like this. 

Genna loved it. Gods, how she loved it.

Not just the act, though, the sheer masculine scent of him filling her mouth was sinful enough. The thick, pulsing vein along the underside that throbbed against her tongue, the salty musk of his skin that coated her palate. 

No, she could easily find a large enough cock with the coin she had. But what set her cunt throbbing under her gown was what Wylis did to her mind.

As a woman of House Lannister, she had grown in luxury and wealth, and she had seen power as well. All men were intimidated by her and her figure, including her husband. None of them had ever fucked her like her name, her eyes, her golden hair, her mountains of gold meant nothing at all.

But Wylis had.

She followed his tale as he became a knight, won the Rebellion, slew the Mad King, and became a lord. That did something to her mind. She often found her fingers buried between her thighs in the dark of her marital bed, hips jerking as she pictured Wylis’ hands pinning her, that same voice growling commands while he used her without mercy.

It was this majesty, power, and confidence of a man that moved her. No man had ever made her feel so fragile, so deliciously small, not since she was a girl trembling from her first stolen kiss. And she needed that feeling again. More and more each time, like an obsessed addict, needing to feel higher and higher.

Slurp! Slurp!

And Seven Hells, his cock was obscene, thick, ridged with veins that pulsed hot against her tongue, the skin stretched taut. The taste assaulted her in waves. Heavy salt from the sweat in the crease of his groin, the faint iron tang of skin warmed by blood. Every breath through her nose dragged in the thick musk of him made her head spin, her cunt throb emptily, begging. 

She smothered herself against him without mercy. She dragged her face down his full length, lips smearing spit in glossy streaks. She nuzzled the heavy sac, inhaling the ripe scent before sucking one swollen ball into her mouth, feeling it tighten and twitch. Her other hand stroked the glistening shaft in long, twisting pulls. 

The other sac followed, wet and obscene, her cheeks hollowing as she suckled it. Her tongue traced the sensitive seam underneath, lapping at the tender skin where balls met cock. The taste made her moan low in her throat.

Genna heard nothing of registry or crowns. Only the wet suck of her own mouth, the thunder of her pulse in her ears. Too lost in the taste of a true man. 

She was drowning in the memory of how he had once possessed her, how this cock had splayed her open with brutal strokes. That same overwhelming presence throbbed now between her lips, and she chased it with desperate greed, needing to feel fragile again, used again, until nothing remained.

She yanked the foreskin back, exposing the flushed cockhead completely. Her tongue attacked like a lash; frantic circles around the flared rim, stabbing into the slit to drag out thick beads of precum. The bitter-sweet taste coated her tongue and made her pussy clench so hard she nearly whimpered.

Then she abruptly shoved her face down, taking him to the root until her nose mashed into his pubic hair and her throat convulsed. Tears streamed instantly; her gag reflex fluttered uselessly, throat muscles rippling in frantic spasms that milked him deeper.

She held there, choking, drooling, until spit bubbled from the corners of her mouth.

She wrenched back and immediately crushed her heavy breasts around his soaked shaft. She squeezed until the creamy swells spilled between her fingers, nipples scraping his skin with every filthy slide. She latched her lips around the tip again while her tits fucked him in slow, slippery strokes.

His cock was throbbing violently now, urgent jerks that made his cock swell impossibly thicker against her tongue. He was close, perilously close, and she knew it. She knew he was right there on the edge.

Their eyes locked. Wylis gaze was molten. No scorn, no mockery. Just the same possessive fire. She would never tire of being looked at like that, like prey he intended to devour slowly.

Slurp!

Genna clamped her lips tight, swallowing every sound.

Then, she felt his wide palm slide under the table and fisted her hair. Fingers dug into her scalp, pressing her down with a bit of pressure. She knew he wanted to fill her mouth, and of course, she wanted it even more. 

She released her breasts, letting them sway under her, and took his beast of a cock deep again. Half his length stretching her jaw, hand pumping the slippery base in frantic twists. 

She felt his hips jerk, once, twice, short and helpless. The instinct to chase pleasure, reaching the gold at the end of the tunnel. 

And finally, she could taste it. The potent musk, the scent of his seed, and oh, how much it was. 

The first jet hit her tongue. Rope after savage rope followed, flooding her mouth until her cheeks ballooned and the overflow threatened to spill. She held it there deliberately, letting the heavy load slosh across her tongue in filthy waves. It coated every surface, painting the head of his cock in viscous white strands. 

The taste was bitter musk and man, a real man. The same scorching heat that had filled her love-hole, swelling her womb. The thought made her shiver, made her swallow around him, milking the last weak pulses with greedy suctions of her throat.

Genna kept him in her mouth a moment longer, tongue swirling lazily through the thick cream, cleaning him of every clinging drop. While her eyes never left his, she swallowed in three slow, wicked gulps. Each one drawing the hot batter down her throat.

And at last, she cleanly gulped it all down. 

Wylis waited for Jon to speak, but before the old man did, he came into her mouth. And right when she drank it, he opened the Tyrant's Squire interface to check Genna's loyalty. 

[Name: Genna LannisterAge: 39Occupation: Mother, AdvisorCurrent Loyalty: 92%]

Swallowing it increased loyalty? She loved it that much?

Wylis was surprised. It made no sense, but at that point, making sense didn't matter anymore. The concept of such bound loyalty itself was absurd. He just dismissed it as yet another Tyrant Squire's effect. 

Still, Genna hadn't stopped lapping him. She was still licking him in tiny teasing strokes, even more giddily now. 

"My lord?" He called, trying to wake Jon up from his deep thoughts. "What are you thinking?" 

Jon Arryn spoke calmly, “I’m weighing what effects such a thing would have upon the realm. If the people begin to feel a desire to be more learned…”

So you knew, you old goat. 

Wylis had plans for his own fief to increase the literacy rate. But it seemed Jon also knew what would happen if too many people became literate. 

"It won’t come to pass in a year or two. It will take decades. But is that not the way of any realm? When the land prospers, its people grow wiser. When the lands grow wealthy, the crown grows strong beside them."

The fact about Robert's reign was that the realm wasn't moving forward. It had stagnated, and it seemed Jon and the Small Council were content in keeping it that way. No progress, no regression, just where it was, which wasn't a very good place. 

“And how, in your judgment, should the Crown respond to those who refuse obedience to the royal registry?” Jon asked.

"Simple enough. The offenders will be merchants, and merchants tied to noble banners. Break the law, and they lose the right to trade in King’s Landing and the other cities. With King’s Landing at the heart of trade, that alone should suffice. If it does not, we set bounties for their capture.”

"Bounties?"

“I’ll pay the cost myself, if such trouble comes,” Wylis said quickly, before Jon could start on the Crown’s empty coffers. “This is only to guard what I’m raising here, my lord. You know the North as well as I do. We’re not rich. What little I have, I must keep safe.”

At last, Jon nodded. 

"Making the registry is simple enough. When I return to King’s Landing, I’ll see that it is done.”

Wylis still couldn't get up. 

"When are you leaving?"

"Robert will head to Winterfell in four days. I will leave at the same time."

Four days? That's… great. 

Finally, Jon rose to his feet to leave. “What happened last night is not without my regret. The Rebellion demanded more than swords; it demanded faith, and the Crownlands were difficult to win. House Blount showed uncommon resolve in standing against the Targaryens. Robert saw fit to reward that stand with a post in the Kingsguard. I would ask that you not judge him harshly for it.”

Wylis said nothing and just gave a firm nod. Ros was with his babe, if something had happened to her or the life in her womb… that was why he was still angry. 

He was angry at Robert for slowly turning into the fat, whore mongering piss drunk King he remembered. 

"I'll go spar with him."

"Thank you, my lord," Jon said and left the solar at last. 

Wylis pushed his chair back right away, already hard again from Genna's hard work. He pulled her up, turned her, and shoved her over the table until her tits flattened, his hands fumbling with her gown. 

"We don't have long, Genna," he warned, gripping her gloriously soft, wide, pale hips, spreading them. She was scorching wet down there.

"I'll bite my teeth." 

There was no gentleness. No slow entry. 

Wylis drove in and gave her what she desired. And he received what he hoped for, loyalty. 

####

Casterly Rock, Westerlands, 

"Have you made up your mind, my lord?"

Tywin said nothing, tapping his fingers on the table. Days had passed since he had received a clear response from Genna, detailing what Lord Wylis desired. It was a thought-out proposal, and a long-term one. He could feel how confident Lord Wylis was. 

Fifty ships, the right to mine with ten of his men, and keep whatever he'd find. The terms were detailed with fail-safes and time limits. It wasn't too much, but at the same time, curious. What did he aim to gain with a mere ten men in the mines? 

Tywin had deliberated a lot over the past few days. He wasn't a stranger to making deals, and usually, he had to push a few hands to gain the upper hand. But in this case, a deal had reached the table that benefited him immensely, and gave the other side marginal benefits. 

He couldn't help but doubt Lord Wylis' intentions. 

"It's a great arrangement, my lord."

Tywin looked up at Kevan. “That is exactly why I weigh this so carefully. No man with sense, who knows the mines’ locations, would trade them for a handful of ships and consent for ten men to dig.”

“Brother, I see it no clearer than you did. After weighing it, I find only one answer. His aim is goodwill with House Lannister. Pushing us would bring him no benefit. As a fledgling house, he stands to gain far more from an alliance than from short-lived gains.”

Tywin sneered, as if the idea was nonsensical. "Would you go this far for mere goodwill?"

“I would not,” Kevan said plainly. “The gains in the short term are simply too great. Still, I find Lord Wylis to be a most unorthodox man, something of a riddle. He isn’t easily read.”

Tywin nodded to that. He had followed Lord Wylis' journey from the day he arrived at Casterly Rock during the bandit hunt. Half the realm thought the giant was King Aerys' pet. But then the giant escaped and joined the Rebellion. 

Going as far as killing the King with his own hands and saving the city. Jaime had attested to everything. 

And it was that very fact of how unpredictable yet ambitious Lord Wylis was that Tywin tried to be careful. Any man who could go from a stableboy to a knight and then a lord, with name and fame both, was no ordinary man. 

"We should have forced him to become a knight under House Lannister at the tourney," Kevan blurted. 

Tywin found himself agreeing with that. He had lost the Mountain already, and Wylis was a far greater version. Having a dog like that would have made matters much easier to deal with. 

“Send word to Genna. She is to return to Casterly Rock. There is no urgency in finding new mines. We will wait.”

Kevan's jaw tightened. 

Tywin noticed it. "You have something to say?"

“Brother, such terms are offered only because Lord Wylis amounts to nothing. He has no coin, no fleet, no true authority. If we delay and grant him time to grow, do we not invite harsher terms in return? Ones far less favorable than these?”

Tywin hummed and relaxed back in his chair. Of course, Lord Wylis' journey had been nothing but remarkable until now. But rising in ranks and growing wealth were two entirely different things. 

“How much can he truly grow in a year or two? We will use the time to learn his intentions first. Send a few competent eyes and ears to live in Ramsgate.”

####

Ramsgate, 

Bam!

Wylis had defeated Robert three times already. The King's hammer was no match for his sword. But then Robert suggested they fight bare-handed with a bet. So, both of them removed their armor. Wylis removed his tunic as well, going bare-chested, showing his sculpted body. 

Robert did the same, but his belly had grown a bit. Still, the King was just as imposing, but a little shorter than Wylis. 

Thud!

Wylis gave Robert the true wrestling experience, rolling in the courtyard mud, putting him in various types of locks where he could break bones. He made sure Robert felt it, each time, how close he came to losing one of his limbs. 

Wylis had locked Robert's arm between his legs, keeping him pinned.

"Gaaaah! Seven hells!"

Robert roared and got up, lifting him with his sheer strength. 

Wylis was amazed, but not in danger. He quickly released the arm and stood straight, dodging a few punches from Robert, then hit back with a punch square in the center of Robert's belly, sending visible shockwaves through his flesh. 

"Wraaaaa!"

Robert still didn't admit defeat. Of course, there was a reason behind it. The bet was enticing.

"You… giant… bastard!" Robert roared, lunging forward, both his feet leaving the ground. 

Wylis smirked, crouched slightly, bringing himself under Robert's leaping body's trajectory. He grabbed Robert mid-air and hauled him down, slamming him into the mud, face-first. Since the mud was rather soft, there was no risk of killing the King. 

Fuck, just stay down. 

Wylis was out of breath, to his own surprise. Although he hadn't gone all out yet, sparring for that long with Robert was exhausting. And unlike others who danced around Robert, dodging, he clashed head-on. That seemed to have woken something up in Robert.

Moments passed. When Wylis saw that Robert wasn't getting up, he hurried over and tried to roll him on his back. 

Don't die, don't you di—

Woosh!

Thud!

"Bah! Got you!" 

It was a trap. 

Robert rolled, grappled Wylis's head, and pulled him on top of himself back to his chest, finally landing a firm headlock. He squeezed hard on the neck, using more strength than needed, truly trying to knock Wylis out. 

Wylis chuckled, feeling the effect of the headlock. Robert was likely one of the few men in the realm who could do this to him and maintain that lock. But still, he was inherently stronger, the same for his neck. 

"I won!" Robert bellowed. "Give up!"

Wylis said nothing and turned over, pulling Robert along with himself. He rolled onto his belly, tucked his knees, and tried to stand up, keeping Robert on his back the entire time, maintaining the headlock. 

It was the most absurd sight. Wylis and Robert were both behemoths of men. And there was Wylis, lifting Robert in the air. 

"Uuuuugh!" Robert squeezed harder. "Give up! Hand me Chett! I need a new Kingsguard!" 

"Keep… fucking dreaming!" Wylis barked back. "Chett's… mine!"

"..."

That was the bet. 

Poor Chett, injured, standing not far away watching, dumbly looked left and right at the mention of his name. He felt embarrassed thinking about what was happening. 

The King of the Seven Kingdoms and the Lord of Ramsgate were fighting over him.