He had only meant to read a chapter or two at most.
Instead, he'd spent the whole of the day before with his nose buried in books, and the better part of the night too, until the candles had long since died and even the ghosts in Maegor's Holdfast seemed to have gone to bed.
Tyrion had turned page after page until the candles guttered and the sky outside his tower chambers pinked with the first lights of dawn. Sleep came late and poorly, and when the melee began, he was fast asleep, snoring into his pillow and dreaming of kings and dragons.
Before the start of the joust, some enterprising fool tried to wake him, on his beloved father's orders. His head buried beneath a feather pillow, he muttered something obscene involving a lance, a pig, and the servant's arse.
He finally woke up after some time and a few more desperate tries from the servant. The kind of waking that came with a tongue like old leather and a skull that rang with every knock of the boot on stone. There had been a brief scuffle with a servant over the brightness of the window shutters, and a threat about flinging the lad from the Tower of the Hand.
The boy scurried off and returned with a cup of Arbor gold—smooth, honeyed, and just strong enough to chase the leeches from behind his eyes. Tyrion took a grateful sip, rolling it on his tongue before swallowing, then nestled deeper into his cushioned seat. The high box afforded a fine view of the tiltyard, shaded by silk banners snapping in the breeze, guarded by gold cloaks, red cloaks and grim-faced knights, and crowded with people who either despised him or laughed behind their hands.
Tyrion didn't care, as he was drunk enough to be comfortable, but not so drunk as to be stupid—a delicate line, and one that Tyrion had walked ever since he became a man. The jousting today had provided more than its share of entertainment—if one liked their knights bloodied and their egos bruised. Their pain had always pleased him.
But what pleased him more than shattered bones was the gift. A book. The one he read for the last two days. It was brought to his chambers by a pair of quiet Manderly men in their white-and-green livery with Merman brooches. They bowed without flourish and offered the thing wrapped in sealskin and tied with a silver cord.
Tyrion unwrapped the sealskin and saw the book, The Saga of Beowulf, it was called—thick, leatherbound, written by someone named Caedmon. It also had a sealed note inside, that read,
To the Esteemed Lord Tyrion of House Lannister,
Pray, do us the honor of accepting this humble token of friendship.
May it find you in good health and high humor,
And may it serve you well, as befits one of your wit and wisdom.
With all due respect and admiration,
Your devoted ally,
Lord Wyman of House Manderly
Humble token, Tyrion had snorted. It was thick enough to bash a man's skull in with its weight. The binding is well-oiled and smelling faintly of sea-salt and cedar. A northern thing through and through. It was not what Tyrion would have expected from the fat Lord of White Harbor. And yet… here it was.
It was all in verse. Not the limping, flowery sort of septon's verse favored by King's Landing minstrels, but real verse—harsh, galloping, bristling with blood and breath. Alliterative, they called it. The first line dancing with the second, not by rhyme but by rhythm and sound. A wolf's whisper of a poem.
"Shield's shatterer strode through storm-fens,
Gold-lord's gift to grim night's gnawing."
Even now the lines moved through his mind like wildfire. He remembered one kenning in particular "whale-road," for the sea. Gods, but that had tickled his mind. Another called a sword, "wound-hoe." There were dozens more like them. "Ring-giver" for a king. "Raven-harvest" for a battlefield. "Sky-candle" for the sun. A language of images, of suggestion. Words that drew blood when spoken aloud.
"The whale-road brought him," Tyrion murmured, half to himself, half to the rim of his goblet. "From the hills of Cracklaw, no less."
Not the real one, of course. The poem's Cracklaw was a mythic place, home to storm-kissed headlands and granite halls carved in shadow. But it amused Tyrion all the same. The real Cracklaw lay just past the town of Duskendale, where the Crownlands dipped their toes into Blackwater Bay.
He had ridden there once, on a fool's errand with Jaime, riding through pines and bogs. It was filled with sinkholes and moss covered strongholds. But in Beowulf, the Cracklaw birthed heroes.
The story began with a funeral—"Scyld Scefing, ring-giver, sky-touched, sunk in whale-bone ship, gold-bound and glory-clad." That was the opening. A king laid to rest on the sea, with swords at his side and silver in his eyes.
Stories that start with death often know where they're going, he thought.
Beowulf had come to the Vale—not Littlefinger's Vale, not the snow-pale Eyrie and its sky cells, but an older, storied Vale of green dells and dark water. A land drawn in ink and ash. He came with gifts, of—oaths, armor, and words like iron. And he came to aid King Hrothgar of the Fingers, whose hall, Heorot, had become a slaughterhouse, haunted by Grendel.
"Grendel," Tyrion said aloud, letting the name curl in his mouth like smoke. A monster that hated joy. That hated the sound of music and feasting. That came by night and dragged men screaming into the dark. He could think of half a dozen men that fit the mold.
Tyrion sat next to Lord Tywin Lannister, Warden of the West, Lord of Casterly Rock, and his father by the dubious grace of the gods. One might mistake him for a particularly unforgiving lion of stone, carved by a stonemason who had never known mirth.
He glanced at his father sidelong. Lord Tywin's face was a mask, the corners of his mouth neither upturned in pride nor drawn in displeasure. He had spoken no more than a dozen words since taking his seat, and none of them had been to Tyrion or even to note Jaime's string of victories.
His mouth was a hard line, his eyes harder still. A quiet pride clung to him like the faint scent of iron on a bloodied blade, though Tyrion knew better than to expect words of praise from Tywin Lannister.
And what would he say? Well done, Jaime, I am very proud of you, my son. Look, Tyrion, your brother is every inch the knight you could never be.
No, Lord Tywin saved his words for commands, not commendations.
The crowd below swelled and shifted like a living thing, banners and bright cloaks fluttering in the breeze. Lannister red and gold flamed across a third of the stands; his father had brought half the Westerlands with him, or so it seemed. A hundred knights at least, with squires and men-at-arms enough to make the other houses look like second sons at a feast. They roared for Jaime every time he unhorsed a knight, and roared louder still for blood. Their pride was borrowed, but no less loud for it.
Among the westermen, Ser Addam Marbrand had fared the best, which was to say he lasted longer than most. Till Loras Tyrell in his shining plate and smiling arrogance, sent Addam to the dirt. The knight of Flowers had raised his favor a white rose triumphantly in the air. The crowd cheered. The smallfolk adored Loras, and Tyrion could hardly blame them. They did love a handsome knight.
Sandor Clegane hadn't fared any better. The Hound had been unhorsed by another boy—though that one was less flower, more steel. Arthur Manderly. A boy, they said, Fifteen, yet almost as tall as Jaime. He had the look of a prince out of a maiden's dream—tall, fair, seagreen eyes, and clad in silver-blue steel that shone like starlight.
Tyrion had heard the boy wielded a Valyrian steel blade—Nightfall, they called it. An ominous name, dramatic enough for bards and sullen enough for Stark bannermen.
He knew the story. Everyone with a taste for family quarrels and rare steel did. He'd first heard the tale when he was sixteen, the year the Ironborn torched the fleet at Lannisport. The fires had lit the sky crimson, red sails turned to ash in the bay. Lord Tywin had crushed the rebellion—as he did all things eventually—but it had been the boy who walked away with the prize. A blade and its glory.
It had happened during the aftermath of the Greyjoy Rebellion, if the stories were to be believed. The boy had been six—no, five, claimed some, while others insisted seven—and the assassin, a lean Harlaw youth, barely a man himself, thirteen, perhaps fourteen, but old enough to slip a blade into a king's gut.
The most fanciful accounts had Arthur hurling himself across a banquet table like a knight in a mummer's farce, tackling the would-be killer to the ground, snatching the stiletto mid-swing. One old drunk had sworn the boy bit off the assassin's ear and stabbed him through the eye with a fruit knife. Another claimed Arthur strangled the boy with a chain of sausages.
Tyrion doubted the sausages. Still, something had happened. That much was certain. An attempt on Robert's life during the Greyjoy surrender talks. The culprit was Harlaw-blooded, that was known. And the Manderly boy had been brave, and fast.
What wasn't certain was how the boy ended the threat—whether it was a heroic dive or simply a panicked shout that brought the guards running. Tyrion had never been able to tease the truth from the lies. The court had too many tongues, and most were in love with their own stories.
But the result had been very real.
King Robert, red-faced and brimming with wine and roaring thanks, had granted the boy a boon. "Anything, lad! Gold, titles, a keep of your own!"
The boy had asked for Nightfall—the Valyrian steel blade taken from the Harlaw. Nightfall had been theirs once. No longer. House Harlaw never forgave the boy.
Neither did Lord Tywin. Tywin Lannister had risen from his chair like a slow-breaking storm. "House Lannister lost thirty ships," he'd said, cold as the Rock itself. "If any house has claim to recompense, it is mine."
But Robert was not a man to be argued with once his pride was pricked—or his cup filled. He laughed in Lord Tywin's face, clapped the boy on the shoulder, and said, "The boy saved my life. The sword is his."
And just like that, it was done. The realm could bluster and howl, but Robert had made a king's promise, and Robert Baratheon—at least then—still honored those, even when he woke with a hangover.
Jaime had told Tyrion about the rage in their father's eyes. Valyrian steel, given away like sweetmeats to a child. His lord father had instead tried to demand Red Rain from House Drumm in recompense, not wanting to be outmaneuvered by a six-year-old northerner with the gods favors and a good sense of timing.
Lord Tywin cited the cost of the fleet and some nonsense about honor, refusing to let go of the chance to finally regain a valyrian steel sword for his house. But Ned Stark had opposed it and so did the other lords.
Of course he did, Tyrion thought. Honorable Ned Stark, slayer of joys.
The other Ironborn had rallied behind him too. Balon Greyjoy offered gold instead.
Gold. Always gold. Two hundred thousand dragons, to be precise. Sixty thousand for the Lannister ships, the rest for losses and sacked lands. It had been part of the surrender treaty, inked with much grumbling. Everyone said Balon couldn't pay it in ten years, not after the mess he'd made of his little crown. And yet he paid it within one.
That was the curious part. Tyrion had learned the truth later, from Uncle Kevan, over wine and a fire in the Rock. The gold had come from the Merlin Bank. Or as they were calling it then, the Bank of White Harbor. Founded by Lord Wyman Manderly himself, conveniently, not long after the smoke had cleared and the Greyjoys crawled back to their stones.
No one ever said as much, but the whispers had teeth. That the bank funded Balon's indemnity just to keep a Valyrian sword out of Lannister hands. That it was Tyrell gold, or maybe Arryn silver, funnelled through fish-lords and quiet ledgers. Cersei had sworn it was a Tyrell plot, while Lord Tywin believed the Arryns had some part in it. Tyrion wasn't so sure.
Nightfall. A piece of old Valyria — light as smoke, dark as grief — now clutched in the hands of the boy who had once saved a king and now made himself an enemy of Lannisters. Again.
Tyrion had slept through most of the melee, No great loss, he thought at the time. Melees were all dust and chaos and bruised ribs. He preferred his battles on a board with carved lions and stags, or better still, in books where the blood washed off easily.
But the tales had come swiftly after, as they always did. Arthur Manderly, had beaten his brother Jaime. Not outlasted. Not scraped by. Beaten. After besting Yohn Royce and Thoros of Myr, if the stories could be believed. And gods knew, in the retellings, the boy would soon be said to have felled giants with a glance.
Robert Baratheon had reportedly roared with laughter when Jaime hit the dirt — a deep, booming guffaw, shaking his belly like thunder. Cersei had not laughed. Nor had Lord Tywin. Tyrion could well imagine the look on his lord father's face: carved marble, cold and cracked just slightly at the jaw. And Cersei? Her mouth likely drawn as tight as a miser's purse. She could never suffer slights to herself or her golden brother.
Tyrion may have missed the melee—but he saw the jousts. Oh yes, he saw those.
Jaime rode like a rabid lion loosed from its chain, all golden hair and easy grace, unhorsing men of name and note: gruff Yohn Royce in his ridiculous runestone armor first, then Jason Mallister, and finally Balon Swann, who made a finer showing than most before eating dirt. The Lannister banners rippled proudly above, and the cheers from the Westerlands' men-at-arms were thunderous. His sister beamed like a maiden at a nameday feast.
Tyrion sipped his wine and tried not to gag.
Arthur Manderly cut a fine figure in silver-blue steel. He rode a pale destrier that gleamed like snow under sun, plume and cloak both catching the wind like banners in full sail. He looked like some storybook prince come to life, the sort of boy septas might swoon over in their spare hours—if they had any. Finer even than Ser Loras in his rose-strewn silks, and Loras had been carved by the gods themselves, or so his admirers claimed.
Women clutched their brooches when he passed, as if they feared their breasts might leap free of their bodices and their modesty might tumble loose with a second glance. Young girls whispered behind gloved hands, giggling like sparrows in a summer garden. Even Cersei—cold, coiled, ever-watchful—eyed him once beneath her lashes. Perhaps for his lance-work, Tyrion suspected.
Yet Tyrion had to admit—the boy rode brilliantly.
He'd unhorsed Sandor Clegane without breaking sweat, and danced with Ser Barristan Selmy as if they'd rehearsed it. Tyrion could still hear the splinters, could still see the awe on the faces around him when the old knight yielded.
Then came Loras. Proud and perfect, tried to compete with laws instead of lances. Tyrion had watched it all unfold with wine in hand and a smile on his face. The boy's face remained still but he could see the seething hatred in the boy's eyes. He hides it well, Tyrion thought. That's a dangerous trick for a boy to learn so young.
And then Ser Barristan, gods bless his crumbling knees, had made a knight of the boy before the eyes of half the realm. Just like that, the boy became Ser Arthur.
Loras had no choice now. Laws were laws, and once knighted, Arthur was as eligible as any other.
On the third tilt, the flower flew. Ungilded, unseated, and unmistakably furious, Ser Loras hit the earth in a tumble of petals and pride. The crowd gasped again, louder this time. Some cheered. A few laughed.
Tyrion saw the flicker of Renly's thoughts cross his pretty face—concern first, then confusion, and finally, a flicker of relief when Loras rose, more bruised in pride than in bone. The Knight of Flowers brushed off his silks and his shame with the same stiff, practiced grace, but Tyrion knew the sting of humiliation when he saw it.
Tyrion smiled into his wine. He had enjoyed that bout very much. If only because every face there had shown him something they hadn't meant to.
Fear. Fury. Envy. Fascination.
The boy had won the melee and now, here the boy was again, in the final tilt of the joust… facing Jaime. Again. He might win this too. At fifteen.
A Manderly with a Valyrian sword — and worse, a story. Gods, how Westeros loved a story. Names faded like wine on the tongue, but stories? Those festered, fermented, and ripened into legend. A boy who saved a king, humbled knights, and rode better than lions — that would certainly cling to the memory of the people.
A boy with a fancy sword and too much attention, he mused, lips twisting into a smirk. That never ends well.