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After the formal greetings ended and Father disappeared into the big pavilion with the other lords for "important discussions," Adrian finally got his chance to explore. The festival grounds stretched out like a wonderland of colors and sounds and smells that made his nose twitch with excitement.
"Can we really go anywhere we want?" Rollam Westerling asked, bouncing on his toes beside Adrian. The freckled boy had stuck close ever since their introduction, looking at Adrian like he was the most interesting person in the Seven Kingdoms.
"Anywhere safe," Adrian replied, glancing at Sandor who loomed behind them like a grumpy mountain. "Right, Sandor?"
"Anywhere I can see you," Sandor grunted. "And nowhere with too many exits or dark corners or places for people to hide knives."
The twin Banefort girls, Mira and Mora, exchanged wide-eyed looks. "Do people really try to stab lords?" one of them asked.
"Only the important ones," Sandor said matter-of-factly.
"That's not very comforting," Adrian muttered under his breath, which made Rollam giggle nervously.
They started walking through the festival grounds, and Adrian's eyes went everywhere at once. Merchants were setting up stalls with bright cloth awnings, displaying everything from jewelry to spices to toys. Performers practiced their acts—jugglers tossing colored balls, singers testing their voices, and a man on stilts who was taller than Sandor.
"Look at that!" Rollam pointed to a puppet show where tiny wooden knights were fighting a dragon. "The dragon's winning!"
"Dragons always win in the stories," Adrian said, then caught himself. That sounded like something that might make people curious about why he liked dragons so much. "I mean, until the heroes figure out how to beat them."
A merchant with a cart full of ribbons and trinkets called out as they passed. "Fine goods for young lords and ladies! Silk from Lys, silver from Pentos!"
Adrian stopped, remembering his promise to Joy. "Do you have anything a little girl might like? Hair ornaments, maybe?"
The merchant's eyes lit up when he saw Adrian's fine clothes and the lion pin on his cloak. "Of course, young lord! The finest pieces for the finest families!"
He spread out his wares on a velvet cloth, and Adrian studied them carefully. There were combs carved from ivory, ribbons in every color, and delicate silver clasps shaped like flowers and birds.
"This one," Adrian said, pointing to a silver hair clasp shaped like a tiny rose. It was beautiful and delicate, just like Joy. "How much?"
"For you, young lord, only two silver stags," the merchant said with a bow.
Adrian reached into his coin purse—Father gave him his own spending money for the festival—and counted out the coins. As he handed them over, he noticed Sandor watching the transaction with those storm-grey eyes.
"What do you think Joy will like about it?" Adrian asked, holding up the clasp to catch the sunlight.
Sandor stared at him for a moment, then made a noise like an angry bear. "How the fuck am I supposed to know what little girls like?"
"Sir Sandor!" Rollam gasped, looking scandalized at the curse.
Sandor just grumped, looking very annoyed that he had to take care of little children.
Adrian tucked the hair clasp carefully into his pouch with Joy's wooden lion. Then he looked up at Sandor thoughtfully. "Do you want something from the festival? I could buy you something nice."
Sandor's scarred face darkened like a thundercloud. "I don't need your pity, boy."
"It's not pity," Adrian said, confused. "It's being nice. Friends buy each other things sometimes."
"We're not friends," Sandor said flatly. "I'm your guard. You're my job."
That stung a little, but Adrian could kind of understand it. Maybe Sandor just didn't know how to be friends with anyone. That seemed sad.
"Well," Adrian said carefully, "if you change your mind, just tell me."
They continued through the market square, past stalls selling honey cakes and roasted nuts and meat pies that smelled so good Adrian's stomach rumbled despite the big breakfast he'd had. Street performers called out for coins, and everywhere people bowed when they recognized him.
"You're like a prince," Mira (or maybe Mora) said admiringly.
"I'm just Adrian," he replied, but he had to admit it felt nice to have people treat him so respectfully. Not scary-respectful like with Father, but warm and happy.
"My lord! Young lord!" A juggler with painted blue hair waved at them. "Would you like to see something magical?"
Adrian looked at Sandor, who shrugged. "Magic tricks aren't dangerous. Usually."
The juggler made three balls disappear and reappear, then pulled a flower from behind Rollam's ear, which made all the children laugh and clap. Adrian tossed him a copper penny, and the man bowed so low his blue hair swept the ground.
"You're very generous," Rollam observed as they walked on.
"Father says a lord should be generous to his people," Adrian replied. "But not so generous that they think you're weak or foolish."
"How do you know the difference?" asked one of the twins.
Adrian thought about it. "I guess... give enough to show you care, but not so much that they expect it every time?"
Sandor made that sound that might have been a laugh. "Not bad advice for a six-year-old."
They wandered toward the harbor, where the sounds and smells got stronger. Salt air mixed with tar and rope and fish, and seagulls wheeled overhead crying like cats. The sight of all those ships bobbing in the water made Adrian's breath catch.
But something was different from what he'd expected. Mixed in with the merchant vessels and fishing boats were ships that looked... harder. Meaner. Built for fighting instead of carrying cargo.
"Sandor," Adrian said quietly, not wanting to alarm his new friends, "are there usually so many warships in Lannisport's harbor?"
Sandor's eyes followed Adrian's gaze, and his hand moved closer to his sword hilt. "Some. Lords bring their own ships to festivals for protection."
"But that many?" Adrian counted at least a dozen vessels that looked built for war.
"You ask too many questions, boy," Sandor said, but he was scanning the horizon like he was looking for something. "Come on. Let's see the rest of the festival."
As they turned away from the harbor, Adrian caught Rollam staring at him with something like awe.
"What?" Adrian asked.
"You notice things other people don't," Rollam said. "My father says that's the mark of a good lord. Seeing what others miss."
"I just like ships," Adrian said, but he felt pleased by the compliment.
They spent the next hour exploring more of the festival. Adrian watched Mira and Mora try to confuse people about which twin was which (they fooled a baker into giving them extra honey cakes). He listened to Rollam's stories about his horse and his sword lessons. He bought small gifts for his new friends—a wooden sword for Rollam, matching hair ribbons for the twins.
Everywhere they went, people smiled and bowed. Merchants offered their finest wares. Street performers competed for his attention. Even the common folk seemed genuinely happy to see him, not just respectful because they had to be.
"This is the best day ever," Rollam declared as they headed back toward the pavilions.
Adrian grinned. It really was amazing. He was making friends, representing his family well, and learning so much about the world outside Casterly Rock.
But he couldn't shake the image of those warships in the harbor, or the way Sandor's eyes kept darting to the horizon like he expected trouble to come sailing in with the tide.
Maybe it was nothing. Maybe he was just imagining problems because he'd overheard the lords talking about Ironborn ships.
They continued through the market square, past stalls selling honey cakes and roasted nuts and meat pies that smelled so good Adrian's stomach rumbled despite the big breakfast he'd had. Street performers called out for coins, and everywhere people bowed when they recognized him.
"Adrian! There you are!"
The voice made Adrian's stomach do a little flip—not the good kind. He turned to see his three Frey cousins approaching with their own guards trailing behind. Cleos, Lyonel, and Tion all looked pleased with themselves in that way that usually meant trouble for someone else.
"Hello, cousins," Adrian said politely. Rollam and the twins shuffled closer to him, like chickens hiding from hawks.
"We've been looking everywhere for you," Cleos said with a smile that didn't reach his eyes. He was the oldest at nearly eight, with brown hair and the sharp Frey features that reminded Adrian of weasels. "Mother said we should show you around properly."
"That's very kind," Adrian replied. "We were just exploring on our own."
"Oh, but you haven't seen the best parts yet," Lyonel chimed in. He was seven and had the same weaselly look as his older brother. "We know where all the good stuff is."
Tion, the youngest at six and a half, just nodded eagerly. He usually let his older brothers do the talking.
"I suppose we could explore together," Adrian said, though he was never really that close with his Frey cousins, as Uncle Tygette liked to call them, even Tyrion had laughed at it when he had heard it the first time. But they were family, and Father would expect him to be polite.
"Excellent!" Cleos declared. "Follow us!"
The Frey boys led them through the market. Their two guards—regular Lannister soldiers, not anyone special like Sandor—walked behind looking bored and scared of Sandor, especially when the latter gave them a look.
"Here's where they sell things for ladies," Lyonel announced, gesturing to a section full of perfumes, face paints, and silk scarves. "Boring stuff."
Mira and Mora looked interested despite the dismissive tone, but the boys hurried them along.
"And here's where men buy things to clean themselves," Cleos added, pointing to stalls selling soaps and razors and tooth powders. "Also boring."
"But this," Tion said with the first real excitement Adrian had heard from him, "this is the good part!"
They'd reached the weapons market, and Adrian's eyes went wide. Swords of every size gleamed, from tiny eating knives to massive two-handed blades. There were shields painted with different house sigils, spears with sharp iron points, maces with wicked spikes, and crossbows that looked like they could punch through castle walls.
"Look at all of this!" Rollam breathed, his freckled face glowing with excitement. "Can we touch them?"
"Some of them," Cleos said importantly. "We know which merchants allow it."
They moved through the weapon stalls like explorers in a treasure cave. Rollam asked a million questions about sword weights and blade lengths. The twins stayed close to Adrian, looking nervous around all the sharp edges.
"Young lords!" called a merchant with gold teeth and rings on every finger. "Come see the finest blades in all of Lannisport! Each one unique, each one beautiful!"
His stall was bigger than the others, with weapons displayed on rich purple cloth. Adrian wandered over, more curious than interested—he had his own practice swords at home, after all.
But then something caught his eye. A knife, smaller than the swords but beautifully made, with an ornate handle that gleamed silver and gold. There was something familiar about the design...
"Ah, you have excellent taste, young lord!" the merchant said, noticing Adrian's interest. "This is the most beautiful knife I'm selling. Look at the craftsmanship!"
Adrian was pretty sure the man said that about every weapon he sold, but as he picked up the knife, his breath caught. The handle was decorated with a roaring lion's head, and the pommel bore the unmistakable crossed hammers of House Lannister's personal guard.
This wasn't just any knife. This was a Lannister knife. One that should have been carried by one of Father's soldiers.
Adrian kept his face calm, but he caught Sandor's eye and gave him the tiniest nod toward the knife. Sandor moved closer, his grey eyes sharpening.
"Where did you get this knife?" Sandor asked the merchant, his voice casual but with an edge that made the man's smile falter.
"I... well... I acquired it through legitimate trade, of course," the merchant stammered, suddenly nervous. "Bought it from a drunken fool in Astapor who needed coin for passage home."
Adrian studied the man's face. He was sweating now, despite the cool harbor breeze. "A drunken fool, you say?"
"Yes, young lord. Seemed desperate for coin. Practically threw the knife at me for half its worth."
That didn't sound right. A real Lannister guard would never sell his weapon, especially not for "half its worth." Either the knife was stolen, or...
"I'll buy it," Adrian said suddenly.
The merchant's relief was so obvious it was almost funny. "Of course, young lord! Only one silver coin for such a magnificent piece!"
One silver coin? For a knife that was clearly worth ten times that? Now Adrian was certain something was wrong. He counted out the coin anyway, tucking the knife carefully into his belt.
"Thank you for the bargain," he said politely, and the merchant practically bowed him out of the stall.
As they walked away from the weapons market, Adrian's Frey cousins chattering about the swords they'd seen, he moved closer to Sandor.
"What do you think?" he asked quietly.
"The man either stole that knife from a Lannister guard, or a Lannister guard sold it to him," Sandor replied in a low voice. "Either way, someone's in deep shit."
"I understood that much," Adrian said. "I'll show it to Father tonight. He'll know what happened."
"Aye, he will."
Adrian was quiet for a moment, then looked up at Sandor. "What happens if a Lannister soldier sells their weapons? Or their armor, or anything that was given to them by House Lannister?"
Sandor's scarred face twisted into something that might have been a smile, but wasn't pleasant. "Well, if they're lucky, they just get thrown out of service with nothing but the clothes on their back. If they're unlucky..." He shrugged. "Let's just say your father doesn't like thieves. Or deserters. Or men who dishonor his name."
"What if they're really unlucky?" Adrian asked, though part of him wasn't sure he wanted to know.
"Then they get to learn how creative Lord Tywin can be when it comes to making examples of people," Sandor said with dark satisfaction. "I've seen men flayed alive for less."
Adrian swallowed hard. He'd known Father was strict and demanded loyalty, but the coldness in Sandor's voice suggested punishments worse than anything he'd imagined.
"That seems... harsh," he said carefully.
"Harsh keeps people honest," Sandor replied. "Your father didn't become the most feared lord in Westeros by being gentle with thieves and oath-breakers."
"Adrian!" Cleos called back to them. "Are you coming? We want to show you the puppet theater!"
"Coming!" Adrian called back, but his mind was spinning. The knife felt heavy at his belt, like it carried the weight of someone's terrible mistake.
As they rejoined the group, Adrian tried to focus on his cousins' chatter and Rollam's excitement about the puppet show. But he couldn't stop thinking about the nervous merchant, the suspicious knife, and whatever punishment Father would decide for whoever had dishonored the Lannister name.
Being the heir to Casterly Rock, Adrian was learning, meant more than just attending festivals and charming people. It meant being responsible for justice, for maintaining the family's reputation, for making the hard decisions that kept people loyal through fear as much as love.
It was a lot to think about for a six-year-old boy. But as Sandor had told him before, he wasn't just any six-year-old boy.
He was a Lannister.
And Lannisters always paid their debts—good or bad.
The walk back to the pavilion felt longer than it should have. Adrian kept his hand near his belt where the knife rested in its sheath, the weight of it seeming to grow heavier with each step. The sounds of the festival—laughing children, calling merchants, musicians tuning their instruments—felt distant now, like they were happening to someone else.
Sandor walked beside him in that steady, alert way of his, eyes constantly moving to check for threats. But after a few minutes of Adrian's fidgeting and sideways glances at the knife, the big man made an impatient noise.
"What's got you looking like someone stepped on your toy?" Sandor asked gruffly.
Adrian looked up at him, then back at the knife. "I need to talk to Tyrion," he said quietly. "About this knife. About what it means."
Sandor studied him for a moment, then nodded. "Your brother's probably in the smaller pavilion, reading or whoring. He usually finds somewhere quiet during all the political discussions."
They found Tyrion exactly where Sandor predicted—sitting in a comfortable chair in the family's private pavilion, a leather-bound book in his lap and a cup of wine at his elbow. He looked up when they entered, taking in Adrian's troubled expression immediately.
"Well," Tyrion said, setting his book aside, "you have the same face when I told you the dragons are gone. What's troubling you, little brother?"
Adrian pulled the knife from his belt and placed it on the small table beside Tyrion's chair. "I bought this at the weapons market. But it's not just any knife—look at the handle."
Tyrion picked up the weapon, his mismatched eyes sharpening as he examined the Lannister markings. "Interesting. And expensive, I'd imagine?"
"One silver coin," Adrian said. "The merchant said he bought it from a drunken fool in Astapor."
"Ah." Tyrion set the knife down carefully. "And you don't believe that story."
"No," Adrian said, then looked up at Sandor. "Sandor says either it was stolen or one of our soldiers sold it."
"Most likely the latter," Sandor grunted. "Thieves don't usually travel to Essos to fence stolen goods. And that merchant was sweating like a pig in summer."
Adrian sat down heavily in the chair across from Tyrion. "I keep thinking about what Father might do to the soldier who sold this. What if he had a family? What if he sold it because his children were hungry, or his wife was sick? What if he didn't mean to be bad, just... desperate?"
Tyrion was quiet for a long moment, studying Adrian's face with those sharp eyes. Finally, he leaned forward, his expression growing serious.
"Come here, Adrian," Tyrion said softly. "Sit closer."
Adrian moved to the chair beside his uncle, and Tyrion reached over to take his small hands in his own.
"You want to know what I think?" Tyrion asked. "I think you're afraid because you have a good heart. That's not a flaw—the world needs people with good hearts. But you're not just anyone, little brother. You're a child of Casterly Rock, which means someday you'll be making decisions that affect thousands of lives whenever that day comes that you rule a castle."
Adrian's stomach did a little flip. "That sounds scary."
"It should," Tyrion said gently. "Because those decisions won't always be easy. They won't always let you sleep well at night. But you'll have to make them anyway, because that's what lords do."
"Like what kind of decisions?" Adrian asked, though he wasn't sure he wanted to know.
Tyrion glanced at Sandor, who had positioned himself near the tent entrance, then back at Adrian. "Like deciding whether to raise taxes during a hard winter, knowing some families will starve but your soldiers need to be paid. Like choosing which villages to protect when bandits attack, knowing you can't save them all. Like sending men to die in battles you know are necessary but terrible."
Adrian felt his throat get tight. "I don't want to make those kinds of decisions."
"I know," Tyrion said, his voice full of understanding. "But wanting doesn't matter when you're born to power. You're a Lannister, Adrian. More than that, you're Tywin Lannister's son. The responsibilities will come whether you want them or not."
"But I'm just a boy," Adrian said in a small voice.
"You are," Tyrion agreed. "But you won't stay a boy forever. Someday you'll be a man, and when that happens, people will expect you to act like a lord, not a child."
"This soldier," Adrian said, looking at the knife, "whoever he is—what if he really was desperate?"
Sandor stepped forward then, his voice grave. "Boy, every soldier in your father's service knows the rules. They know the consequences. When a man puts on Lannister colors, he swears oaths."
"What kind of oaths?" Adrian asked.
"To serve faithfully," Sandor replied. "To protect the family's honor. To never betray his trust. When a soldier sells his weapon—especially one marked with your family's sigil—he's breaking all of those oaths."
Tyrion nodded grimly. "The Hound's right. It's not just about one knife, Adrian. It's about what that knife represents."
"I don't understand," Adrian said.
"Think of it this way," Tyrion explained patiently. "What happens if soldiers think they can get away with selling their weapons? How long before they start thinking they can sell other things?"
"Like what?" Adrian asked.
"Information about troop movements," Sandor said darkly. "Details about castle defenses. Knowledge of when and where your father travels."
"How long before they decide to open gates for enemies?" Tyrion added. "How long before they decide your life isn't worth their loyalty if someone offers them enough gold?"
The thought made Adrian shiver. "Not long?"
"Not long at all," Sandor confirmed. "Lord Tywin understands this. It's why his men are the most disciplined in the Seven Kingdoms. It's why other lords respect House Lannister's military strength."
Adrian looked down at his hands, thinking. It was a lot to understand, but it was starting to make sense in a horrible way.
"So the punishment isn't just about one knife," he said slowly.
"Now you're learning," Tyrion said with approval. "It's about making sure every other soldier thinks twice before making the same choice."
"And if Father is... gentle... about it?"
"Then every soldier will think, 'Well, Ser Whatever only lost his position for selling his knife. Maybe I can sell mine too and just find work elsewhere,'" Sandor said grimly. "And then your father's army becomes just another group of hired swords who'll switch sides for better pay."
Adrian nodded slowly. It still felt awful, but he was beginning to understand why Father was so strict about loyalty. It wasn't just about being mean—it was about keeping everyone safe.
"Thank you," Adrian said quietly to both of them. "For explaining it. For helping me understand."
Tyrion reached over and ruffled Adrian's hair. "That's what family is for, little brother. To help you learn the hard truths when you're ready for them."
"You should take that to Lord Tywin now," Sandor said, nodding toward the knife. "He'll want to hear about this before the day gets much older."
Adrian picked up the knife, tucking it back into his belt. "Will you come with me?"
"To Father's pavilion, yes," Tyrion said. "But this conversation—this needs to be between you and him. You found the knife, you made the decision to investigate. This is your responsibility now."
As they walked toward Father's pavilion, Adrian couldn't shake the feeling that this was another step in growing up—another lesson in what it really meant to be a Lannister heir.
And probably not the last.
Soon, they reached where his father was, his door guarded by two soldiers. Adrian straightened himself and looked the soldiers in the eyes. "I need to speak with my father," Adrian said with the most commanding voice he could make.
"Lord Tywin," the guard called. "Your son requests an audience."
"Send him in," came Father's voice from inside.
Adrian took a deep breath, touching the knife at his belt one more time.
"Good Luck."
Adrian pushed through the silk curtains into Father's temporary chambers. The pavilion was larger inside than it looked from outside, with carpets on the ground and furniture that somehow managed to look as impressive as what they had at Casterly Rock. Father sat behind a folding desk, writing letters.
Adrian stood quietly, hands clasped behind his back, waiting. Father had taught him never to interrupt when he was working—important business always came before family conversations.
Finally, Father set down his quill and looked up. His green eyes studied Adrian's face with that sharp attention that always made Adrian feel like Father could read his thoughts.
"How was your day?" Father asked. "I trust you represented our house well among the other children?"
"Yes, Father," Adrian replied. "I met Rollam Westerling and the Banefort twins. They seem nice, and their parents were pleased with how I spoke to them."
"Good. What else?"
Adrian told him about the festival grounds, the performers, and the merchants. He mentioned exploring with his Frey cousins. How they went to check on perfumes and other items to clean the body for both men and women, finally, he got to the ugly part.
"Father," he said carefully, "there's something. Something I think you should see."
He pulled the knife from his belt, still in its sheath, and placed it on Father's desk. Father's eyes sharpened immediately, focusing on the weapon like a lion.
"Where did you acquire this?" Father asked, picking up the knife and drawing it partway from its sheath to examine the blade and handle.
Adrian explained about the weapons market, the nervous merchant, the story about buying it from a drunken fool in Astapor. As he spoke, Father's face remained perfectly calm, but Adrian could see something cold and dangerous growing behind his eyes.
"Do you remember what this merchant looked like?" Father asked when Adrian finished.
"Yes, Father. Gold teeth, rings on all his fingers, brown hair with grey streaks. His stall had purple cloth and was bigger than the others."
Father nodded approvingly. "Good observation. And do you believe his story? About the drunken fool?"
Adrian thought carefully before answering. "I believe someone was indeed a fool, Father. But not a drunk one. I think... I think maybe one of our soldiers sold it to him. But I don't understand why anyone would do that."
Father was quiet for a long moment, turning the knife over in his hands, examining every detail of its construction and decoration.
"You did well to bring this to me," he said finally. "Tomorrow morning, you and I will visit this merchant together. You will point him out, and we will have a conversation about where he really acquired this blade."
"Yes, Father," Adrian said, though his stomach fluttered with nervousness about what that conversation might involve.
"Is there anything else?" Father asked.
Adrian shook his head. "No, Father."
"Then you may go. Prepare for the feast, Adrian. I want you to look your best."
As Adrian bowed and turned to leave, he couldn't shake the feeling that tomorrow was going to be a very educational day.
And probably not in a good way.
Once Adrian left, Tywin leaned against his chair and called for the guards. One of them entered and asked what he could do for him.
"Send for Gregor Clegane."
The Silence
The Silence cut through the dark waters like a blade, its black sails barely visible against the starless sky. From the ship's bow, Euron Greyjoy watched the distant glow of Lannisport's harbor, a golden smear on the horizon that promised riches and ruin.
"How many ships do you count, brother?" Victarion's gruff voice carried over the sound of waves against the hull.
Euron's pale lips curved into something that might have been a smile. "Enough to make our victory sweet. Too few to make it challenging." He gestured toward the harbor lights with one pale hand. "The lions have grown fat and lazy in their golden den."
Behind them, the crew of the Silence worked in eerie quiet—their tongues had been torn out long ago at Euron's command. But on the other longships of their fleet, voices carried across the water as the ironborn spoke of the plunder to come.
"Think of the gold in those merchant hulls," one reaver called out from a nearby vessel.
"Aye, and the women!" another laughed. "Lannisport wenches will warm our beds tonight!"
"I want me a lordling's daughter," a third voice added. "Soft hands and silk dresses—they squeal so prettily."
Victarion spat over the rail. "Fools think only with their cocks. This is about more than rape and pillage."
"Is it?" Euron asked, his voice soft as silk and twice as dangerous. "Tell me, dear brother, what could be more valuable than gold? More precious than a highborn maiden's tears?"
Victarion frowned, not following his brother's meaning.
"The boy," Euron continued, his pale eyes gleaming in the moonlight. "Adrian Lannister. Tywin's precious bastard heir. The future of Casterly Rock, sailing right into our waiting arms."
"The child will be well protected," Victarion said pragmatically. "Surrounded by guards, kept safe in the heart of their forces. We'd have to cut through half of Tywin's army to reach him."
Euron's smile widened. "Oh, my simple brother. Why cut through an army when you can make the prize come to you?" He turned away from the harbor, his voice dropping to a whisper. "Children are so curious, aren't they? So eager to prove themselves brave. And when the battle turns chaotic, when ships burn and men scream... well, accidents happen. Heroes try to help. Lions sometimes stray from their pride."
Victarion studied his brother's face in the dim light, seeing something there that made his scarred hands clench into fists. "What are you planning, Euron?"
"Something that will make the songs remember us long after the Seven Kingdoms have crumbled to dust," Euron replied, his voice like honey poured over broken glass. "The Iron Islands will rise again, brother. And it will begin with one small lion cub, lost in the dark."
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