Among the Lannisters, all knew that Lord Tywin loved Ser Jaime best.
Jaime's own brilliance had raised him above the rest of the family.
Tyrion, by contrast, had always been met with cold disdain. Regardless of Tywin's treatment, Tyrion's dwarf's form made him easy to dismiss, difficult to like, easier still to scorn.
And yet, with Jaime's protection, the rest of House Lannister maintained at least a show of respect toward Tyrion.
Lancel Lannister was no exception.
But today, Lancel had seen something new with his own eyes: Tyrion striking Prince Joffrey—twice—for his sake.
Respect became awe.
Now when Lancel looked at his cousin, his eyes shone with gratitude and admiration.
Tyrion, catching the boy's intense gaze, shivered the same way he had under Gawen's watchful stare.
He quickly looked away and slapped his thigh. "Come, let's leave this place and find the young baron. They've been roasting beef since morning—smoked and seasoned, best enjoyed with summerwine."
But Lancel could not banish the memory of heads tumbling and the stench of blood. His stomach churned at the thought of meat. How can they stomach food so easily? he wondered. Their hearts must be made of iron.
Casting a cautious glance in the direction Joffrey had fled, he sighed with relief at the silence and hurried after Tyrion."Cousin Tyrion, shouldn't we tell Jaime about this?"
Tyrion spread his hands. "Jaime and Cersei are whispering together. I'd rather not give my dear sister an excuse to swallow me whole."
He chuckled, then added: "Calm yourself, Lancel. I promise nothing will come of this. Better you focus on tonight's feast."
Lancel admitted to himself Tyrion was right—his panic had gotten the better of him.
As they walked, Tyrion continued: "Don't dwell only on the blood you saw at the execution ground. Think instead on why Gawen did it. You might learn something of value."
Learn… Baron Crabb's cruelty?
Lancel's thoughts darkened. He realized battle was nothing like the glory of books. Numbers on parchment were one thing; hundreds of severed heads another.
Perhaps Father saw it long ago—that I was never fit for war. That is why he kept me from the army.
But Tyrion was patient. "You see only the gore. But at its heart, it was governance, nothing more.
Gawen is one of the rare lords I know who truly values the smallfolk. Perhaps it is a gift. Even at his age, he grasps the essence of power."
"Oh… does he?"
"Tonight, don't spend your time only drinking. Speak with him. Learn what you can of rule. Those lessons will serve you well on the road ahead."
Lancel nodded at last. "I understand, Cousin Tyrion."
But Tyrion, glancing sidelong, felt a pang of worry for his family's future.
Jaime was ruled too often by his heart. Among the Lannisters, it seemed only Tywin, Kevan, and Tyrion himself truly thought with their heads.
Three minds may be enough, Tyrion consoled himself. Especially when they sit atop so much gold.
King's Landing, a narrow alley in the Queen's Quarter.
Mondon Waters raised his warhammer high. With a charge and a savage swing, bones cracked like kindling.
Beside him, Anguy adjusted his new blue cloak, drew his bow, and loosed. An arrow hissed through the air, piercing a man's throat clean through.
Mondon's hammer came down again, bursting a skull. Blood sprayed across the stones.
The two fought as if in contest—Mondon crushing one foe for every man Anguy shot down.
With a thud, Mondon's shield deflected a thrusting sword. The attacker's hands went numb from the blow, and in the instant before he could recover, the warhammer caved in his head.
Soon only two enemies remained.
Mondon lowered his stance, then charged—shield-bash, hammer-strike—and both men fell into pools of blood.
Panting, he sat heavily on a block of stone, lowering the visor of his helm. "Anguy, I killed one more than you. Heh."
Anguy had already guessed Mondon's intent and had lowered his bow in resignation. He walked carefully, skirting the bloodstains, his new brown boots unmarked.
Mondon blinked at him in confusion. "Your clothes and boots will be stained sooner or later."
Anguy only bent to inspect them again. "Don't mind me. It's my first time in such fine garb. And these boots—Seven bless me, every step feels like silk beneath my feet. I never dreamed to wear what I thought only nobles could. And this… this is our soldier's livery."
In truth, the Crabb soldiers' blue tunics were simple things, their dye and cloth far beneath a noble's quality. But to Anguy, a commoner and former sellsword, it was splendid beyond measure.
For Gawen, appearance was part of strength. Uniforms mattered—beauty was a weapon in its own right.
Mondon chuckled. "We all thought the same at first. You'll get used to it. Not long ago we wore only gray—these blues are new."
Anguy scratched his head sheepishly. "It might take me a while."
Seeing his interest, Mondon added: "If we kill a few more today, you might earn your own cloak, stitched with House Crabb's sigil. As bodyguard to the lord, it could come sooner than you think."
Anguy's eyes lit. "I've never seen it. Do you already have one?"
Mondon nodded proudly.
"Then why have I never seen you wear it?"
With a grin, Mondon confessed: "I fear tearing it. Unless commanded, I don't dare put it on."
Anguy nodded, satisfied. "Then what are we waiting for? Let's move. You said there aren't many intruders."
"Mm. Leyton said a hundred at most. Not enough to go around."
"Exactly—spoils my fun. That cloak… can I see yours when we return?"
"Blue, with a golden marsh marigold, large as life. If you like, you can even borrow it."
Anguy laughed. "Then I'll owe you a drink. Though I'm broke for now—once I get paid."
"Kill a few more and you can trade heads for wine—or coin, if you prefer."
"Wine, always wine! Let's run, Mondon!"
.
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