The hallway outside the Great Hall was blessedly cool. The roar of the feast, the shouting of the King, and the clattering of cups faded with every step they took, replaced by the rhythmic clack-clack-clack of Jaime's armored boots on the stone floor.
Adrian walked beside him. He didn't clack. He shuffled. His boots were soft leather, and he was tired. The adrenaline of standing before the King was draining away, leaving him feeling hollowed out, like a pumpkin after the harvest. His left hand throbbed in time with his heartbeat—thump, thump, thump inside the bandages.
He dragged Red Rain behind him. The scabbard scraped against the stone with a low hiss. It was heavy, but he wouldn't let Jaime carry it. It was his.
"You shouldn't have done that," Jaime said.
Jaime didn't sound angry, but he sounded concerned.
Adrian didn't look up. He kept his eyes on the floor, counting the stones. "He insulted you. He called you that name."
"People call me that name every day, Adrian," Jaime said. He stopped walking. He reached out and caught Adrian's shoulder, turning him gently. "They whisper it in the Red Keep. They shout it in taverns. It's just a word."
"It's a bad word," Adrian said stubbornly. He looked up at his brother. Jaime looked tired. "He was laughing at you. Father says we don't let people laugh at House Lannister."
"Father says a lot of things," Jaime sighed, running a hand through his gold hair. "But King Robert is... well, he's the King. You don't correct a King in front of his lords. You certainly don't stare him down. If he had been more drunk, or less amused... he could have hurt you."
"I would have hurt him back," Adrian said.
The words came out flat and simple. Like stating that water was wet.
"I would have put a sword in his belly," Adrian added. "Just like Drumm. Then he wouldn't laugh anymore."
Jaime went very still.
Jaime dropped to one knee. His armor clanked softly against the stone. He was eye-level with Adrian now. He took Adrian's good shoulder in his hand and gave it a small shake, trying to wake him up from a dream.
"Adrian," Jaime said softly. "Listen to me. Killing isn't the answer to everything. You can't just kill people because they're rude. You can't kill people because they laugh."
Adrian frowned. He was confused. "Why not? Father was happy. He told the lords I killed four men. He sounded proud."
"Father is..." Jaime trailed off, looking pained. "Father sees enemies. He sees wars. But you're not Tywin Lannister. You're Adrian. And there are other ways to fix problems."
"What other ways?" Adrian asked. "Talking? Words?"
"Yes," Jaime said firmly. "Words. Diplomacy. sometimes it's better to meet people with words rather than swords. Words can turn an enemy into a friend. Or at least... keep them from trying to kill you."
Adrian thought about this. He thought about the cell in Blacktyde. He thought about Toad and the Bells-Man. He thought about Balon Greyjoy crowning himself with driftwood.
"The Greyjoys didn't listen to words," Adrian pointed out. "Balon called himself King. He burned our ships. He took me. Did you ask him nicely to stop?"
Jaime winced. "No. We didn't."
"We came with ships," Adrian said. "We came with fire. We are going to kill them. That's what Father said. That's what the King said. So why is it wrong for me to do it?"
Jaime opened his mouth, then closed it. He looked helpless. He looked like a man trying to explain the color blue to a blind man.
"Because," Jaime said finally, his voice rough. "Because once you start solving problems with a sword, you forget how to do anything else. And eventually... eventually, there's no one left to talk to. Only bodies."
Jaime looked deep into Adrian's eyes. "I don't want you to be a butcher, Adrian. I want you to be... better. Better than Father. Better than the King. Better than me."
Adrian didn't understand. How could he be better than Jaime? Jaime was a knight. Jaime was the best.
But he saw the worry in Jaime's face. He saw the shadow of fear there. And because Adrian loved Jaime more than he loved Red Rain, he nodded.
"Okay," Adrian lied. "I'll try."
Jaime let out a breath he seemed to have been holding for a long time. He stood up, his knees cracking.
"Good," Jaime said. He forced a smile. "Now. You wanted to see the library? Or are you ready to sleep?"
"Library," Adrian said immediately. "I'm not tired."
That was a lie, too. He was exhausted. But if he slept, the glass floor would come back. The Shadow Man would come back. Books were safe. Books didn't bleed.
The Library of Ten Towers was famous. Tyrion had told him about it once, his eyes shining with envy. Rodrik the Reader, Tyrion had said, sits on the greatest treasure in the Iron Islands, and his idiot bannermen think he's weak because he prefers parchment to plunder.
When Jaime pushed open the heavy oak doors, Adrian understood what Tyrion meant.
It was massive.
The room was octagonal, occupying one entire floor of the great Book Tower. It was two stories high, with a gallery running around the upper level. The walls were lined with shelves—shelves made of dark wood. Thousands of them. Leather-bound tomes, scrolls of yellowed parchment, stacks of loose leaves tied with twine.
For a moment, Adrian felt like has back in Casterly Rock, he almost expected Tyrion to appear and to be happy that he was here.
"Seven hells," Jaime muttered, looking up at the ceiling. "I didn't think Ironborn could read, let alone fill a tower with books."
"Lord Harlaw is different," Adrian said, stepping into the room. He grabbed the hilt of Red Rain with his good hand and lifted it up slightly so it wouldn't drag against the floor. He didn't want to make noise here. This was a church. A church of words.
"Stay close," Jaime said, his hand resting on his sword hilt out of habit. "We don't know who's in here."
They walked slowly through the aisles. The library was a maze of knowledge. There were tables piled high with maps, globes made of hammered copper, and strange navigational instruments that looked like metal spiders.
It was quiet. The shouting from the Great Hall was a world away.
Adrian ran his good hand along the spines of the books as he passed. The History of the Iron Kings.Seamanship and Tides.The Fauna of Sothoryos.
He wanted to open them all. He wanted to sit on the floor and read until his eyes burned. He wanted to forget about Euron Greyjoy and the King and the blood on his hands.
Scritch.
The sound came from deep in the stacks.
Jaime stopped instantly. He moved in front of Adrian, shielding him. His body went tense.
Scritch. Rustle.
It was the sound of a page turning.
"Hello?" Jaime called out. His voice echoed in the high ceiling. "Show yourself."
For a moment, there was silence. Then, a voice floated back from the shadows of the far corner.
"I am showing myself," the voice said. It was a woman's voice. Soft, low, and calm. "You are simply looking in the wrong place."
Jaime moved forward slowly, guiding Adrian with a hand on his back. They rounded a tall shelf filled with old scrolls.
There was a window seat in the corner, a large bay window overlooking the grey, churning sea. The light from the setting sun washed the alcove in pale orange and violet.
A woman was sitting there.
She had a book open on her lap, but she wasn't looking at it. She was looking out the window, watching the waves crash against the rocks below.
She turned her head as they approached.
Adrian stopped.
She was striking. That was the word Uncle Tygett would use. She wasn't pretty like the dolls in Casterly Rock, or like the twins he saw in Lannisterport. She was beautiful in the way a storm was beautiful.
She had long, dark hair that fell in loose waves over her shoulders. Her face was pale, with high cheekbones and a long face that seemed made for serious thoughts. She wore a simple dress of grey wool, unadorned by jewelry or gold.
But it was her eyes that caught Adrian. They were grey.
Adrian realized he was staring. He stepped out from behind Jaime's cloak. He remembered his manners. Tywin Lannister's son was always polite.
"I'm sorry," Adrian said, his raspy voice breaking the silence. "We didn't mean to interrupt your reading, my lady."
The woman looked down at him. Her grey eyes softened. The corners of her mouth twitched in a smile that was small and fragile, like a flower growing in the snow.
"You didn't interrupt," she said. Her voice had a lilt to it, a hardness in the vowels that Adrian recognized. It sounded like Lord Stark. "I was just watching the water."
She closed the book in her lap. It closed with a soft thump.
She looked up at Jaime.
Jaime was staring at her, but there was no fear in his face, only a mild surprise.
The woman stood up. She was tall, slim, and strangely, her arms had muscles in them!
"The tall golden lion," she said softly. "You must be Jaime Lannister."
"Lady Lyanna. I didn't know the North brought their wolves to a siege. I thought Lord Stark left you at Winterfell."
"My brother called the banners. It is my duty to answer, same as any Stark."
Adrian looked between them. He blinked, confused.
"You are fighting?" Adrian asked, his voice rough. "But... you're a lady."
Lyanna looked down at him, her grey eyes dancing with amusement. "Is that a rule, my Lord? That ladies can't fight?"
"It's not a rule," Adrian said, thinking about it. "But... I've never seen a lady with a sword. Septa Marilla says ladies are for singing and sewing."
Lyanna laughed. It was a nice laugh, clearer than the King's. "Septa Marilla sounds like she's never been North of the Neck. You should visit Bear Island sometime. The women of House Mormont are trained to fight before they learn to dance. They defend their homes with axes while their men are away fishing. A sword is just a tool, little one. It doesn't care whose hand holds it."
Adrian looked at his own bandaged hand. It doesn't care, he thought. That's true. Red Rain didn't care that I was small.
"I see," Adrian said politely. He pointed to the book in her hand. "What are you reading, my lady?"
"Oh, this?" Lyanna tapped the leather cover. "Old stories. Tales from the Age of Heroes. I find them comforting when the world gets too loud."
"I like stories," Adrian said. "Tyrion reads them to me. Which hero is your favorite? Symeon Star-Eyes? Or Serwyn of the Mirror Shield?"
Lyanna tilted her head. "I've always been fond of Brandon the Builder. He built things that lasted. Walls to keep the cold out. Castles that stood for thousands of years. It's harder to build than to break." She looked at him curiously. "What about you? Who is the favorite of a lion cub?"
"Lann the Clever," Adrian said immediately.
Lyanna giggled. It was a girlish sound that made her look ten years younger. "Lann? The trickster?"
"He was smart," Adrian insisted. "He didn't have a big army. He didn't have a dragon. He just had his brain. He swindled Casterly Rock from the Casterlys using nothing but his wits. Tyrion says that's the best way to win."
"Lord Tyrion sounds like a wise man," Lyanna said, her smile lingering. "And Lann was certainly clever. Though I suspect the Casterlys didn't find it very funny."
"They were probably angry," Adrian admitted. "But they lost."
Lyanna nodded. "They did. Sometimes, the smartest person in the room is the most dangerous one."
She looked out the window again, watching the last sliver of the sun disappear into the sea. She sighed, a small puff of breath in the cooling air.
"It is getting late," she said.
She placed the book down on the window seat.
"You should visit the North someday, Lord Adrian Lannister," Lyanna said, looking down at him. "It is cold, and the wind bites harder than any sword, but we have sights that would make even a lion pause. The Wall... the Wolfswood... the hot springs of Winterfell."
"Maybe," Adrian said. "If Father lets me."
"Perhaps he will," Lyanna said. She looked at Jaime one last time. "Keep him safe, Ser Jaime. He asks good questions."
"I intend to, my lady," Jaime said.
Lyanna swept past them, her grey dress rustling like dry leaves. She walked with a long, confident stride, disappearing into the shadows of the library stacks.
When she was gone, the room felt emptier.
Adrian walked over to the window seat. The leather-bound book was still there where she had left it. He was curious. He wanted to know what a lady who fought in wars liked to read about.
He climbed up onto the seat and looked at the open page.
It wasn't a story about Brandon the Builder.
The text was old, the ink faded, but the illustration was clear. It showed a man sitting under a weirwood tree, his eyes rolled back in his head. Around him were animals—wolves, bears, eagles, even a shadowcat. Hundreds of them.
Adrian read the title at the top of the page.
The Legend of Gael the Sleeper.
His finger traced the words below.
...a warg of such power that he was said to slip his skin not into one beast, but a hundred. He saw through a thousand eyes and heard with a thousand ears, and when he slept, the whole North dreamt with him...
Adrian stared at the picture. A man who could be a wolf. A man who could be a bird.
He thought about his dream. He thought about being a lion made of glass.
"Hmm, she was reading about Wargs. Do you think she is one?" Adrian asked excitedly, and Jaime shook his head.
"They are just legends, Adrian, like the white walkers."
Adrian frowned, feeling a little disappointed. "Shame, we could have killed Baelon Greyjoy from here, maybe warg into a fish and have the fish attack him."
"How would the fish would climb up to his chambers?" Jaime asked, and Adrian wasn't looking at him, but he knew he was smiling.
"We can teach it to walk," Adrian said with an innocent smile. "Or we could just warg into a crab. They already have legs. And armor. They're practically knights of the sea."
Jaime chuckled, shaking his head. "Ser Crab of the Kingsguard. I like it."