Chapter 174 – Are You Really Hoping I Die?
"So your second son…" Tommen Baratheon looked toward Lake. "He's your heir now?"
"Yes, Your Grace."
Hearing the king address his son, Lord Reveray Rykker gave Lake's shoulder a heavy pat, utterly unapologetic in his pride.
"Lake has always been a sensible boy. Unlike his older brother, he doesn't waste time chasing dreams. He works hard. He's serious. For the past several months, he's trained with the master-at-arms every single day without fail. Rain or shine."
The count laughed heartily.
"He's worn the skin off his fingers several times already!"
At those words, Lake's face reddened slightly.
He lowered his head without speaking.
His fingers truly had been rubbed raw over the past few months…
though not from sword practice.
Mostly from activities on the Street of Silk.
Still, the part about "diligent practice" was not entirely false.
Otherwise, the moment he finished his training sessions, he would not have immediately rushed back to the Street of Silk and stayed there for two straight weeks.
A few days earlier, when Prince Oberyn Martell had been ambushed, Lake had actually been peeking from a nearby window.
Of course, Lake knew exactly how much he was worth.
After taking two quick looks, he immediately slammed the shutters shut, locked the door, and returned to enjoying himself.
Meanwhile, Reveray continued enthusiastically boasting to the king.
"Not only that, but Lake also studies governance under a maester! History, law, economics—everything!"
The more he spoke, the more excited he became.
His eyes overflowed with fatherly affection.
"To be honest, Your Grace, if Princess Myrcella Baratheon weren't already betrothed to Prince Trystane Martell of Dorne…"
"I would absolutely have him court the princess herself!"
"He's worthy of her!"
The moment those words left his mouth—
the atmosphere froze.
Cersei Lannister slowly rose from her seat.
Her deep green gown dragged softly across the stone floor as she approached Reveray.
They stopped only a few feet apart.
The smile remained on Reveray's face—
but the hand gripping his son's arm tightened slightly.
"Lord Rykker."
Cersei's voice was calm.
Far too calm.
"You just said…"
"If Myrcella were not betrothed, you would have your son pursue her?"
The instant she spoke, Reveray immediately caught the unmistakable mockery hidden beneath her tone.
To be fair—
Reveray had said many stupid things throughout his life.
Fifteen years ago, after drinking too much wine at a feast, he loudly bragged that his fleet could defeat the royal navy in Blackwater Bay.
Unfortunately, King Robert Baratheon had walked into the hall halfway through the speech and immediately demanded that Stannis Baratheon duel him.
Ten years ago, Reveray had proposed reducing Duskendale's taxes during a Small Council discussion because—
"Duskendale already contributes the least taxes in the Crownlands anyway, so waiving them won't matter."
At the time, the Hand of the King was still Jon Arryn.
The result?
Duskendale's taxes increased by ten percent.
Five years ago, during Duskendale's harvest festival, Reveray loudly proclaimed that his eldest son River was more worthy of a white cloak than any knight in the Crownlands.
Then, in front of the king himself, he requested that River join the Kingsguard.
Well…
Barristan Selmy only needed two swings of his sword to prove to everyone that the heir of Duskendale absolutely did not belong in white armor.
"Your Grace," Reveray said carefully, lowering his voice and posture at the same time, "my earlier words were indeed improper."
"Lake is merely a young man who has never even seen battle. Please understand—I meant no disrespect toward Princess Myrcella or Prince Trystane."
He bowed slightly.
"If my words offended you, I sincerely apologize."
It was the instinct of an old noble who had survived decades at court.
The moment the wind changed—
you lowered the sails.
Unfortunately for him…
today the wind had not changed at all.
Cersei merely stared at him.
Those green eyes contained only coldness and stubborn fury.
"Apologize?" she repeated mockingly. "Lord Rykker… do you think your apology is what I want?"
Reveray lowered his head further.
"Then what does Your Grace want?"
Cersei smiled.
It was a beautiful smile.
Green eyes curved like crescents.
Red lips slightly lifted.
Golden hair gleaming beneath the sunlight like molten gold.
"I want you to prove your words."
Her voice became light and gentle—
as though discussing pastries for afternoon tea.
"You said your son is worthy of Myrcella."
"Then let him prove it."
"Send him to Dorne."
"Let him challenge Trystane Martell to a duel…"
"And win my daughter back with his sword."
"If he succeeds…"
Cersei's smile widened.
"Then I will allow Myrcella to marry this… Lake Rykker."
Her voice rang loud enough for the surrounding nobles to hear clearly.
Instantly, every eye in the VIP section turned toward them.
Reveray fell silent.
Three seconds.
For exactly three seconds, his brain worked faster than it ever had in his entire life.
He could not agree.
Absolutely not.
Sending Lake to Dorne to challenge Prince Trystane was practically equivalent to arranging his funeral.
Not because Trystane himself was terrifying—
though growing up under Oberyn Martell's influence certainly meant the boy could probably fight—
but because Lake…
Lake had only started taking sword training seriously three months ago.
Last month, Reveray had personally overheard his son asking the master-at-arms:
[When blocking, should I use the crossguard or the blade itself?]
And even if, by some miracle blessed by all Seven Gods, Lake actually managed to defeat the Dornish prince—
he would still be in Dorne.
People died on the road all the time.
Yet he also could not reject the queen regent publicly.
Rejecting her "proposal" meant openly slapping the royal family—and House Lannister—in the face.
The Rykker fleet still sailed through Blackwater Bay.
The Rykker merchants still relied on King's Landing for trade.
He needed an excuse.
A graceful way out.
Something that would preserve dignity without sacrificing his son.
Perhaps the Seven truly were watching over him.
Because salvation arrived very quickly.
"And who exactly is discussing my adorable niece?"
A voice suddenly echoed from behind the crowd.
The tone carried obvious amusement—
and a faint hint of drunkenness.
Everyone turned.
The crowd instinctively parted.
Tyrion Lannister stood at the entrance to the VIP corridor, holding a goblet of wine.
He wore his famous red coat threaded with golden embroidery—
the same outfit he had favored during his time as Master of Coin.
Tailors throughout King's Landing jokingly referred to it as:
"the dwarf's court robes."
The craftsmanship was exquisite.
The fabric luxurious.
But on Tyrion's short body, it still somehow resembled a child sneaking into an adult's wardrobe.
Beside him stood a thin man in extravagant brown leather armor.
His cloak glittered with gold thread and gemstones.
Expensive.
Very expensive.
A longsword hung at his waist, while a permanently amused smirk rested on his face.
The instant Cersei saw Tyrion—
her expression froze.
She stared at him as though looking at a ghost crawling out of a grave.
Pure hatred filled her eyes.
"What are you doing here?"
Her voice was colder than before.
Colder even than when she had confronted Reveray.
As though she wanted to tear the half-sized man apart with her bare teeth.
Tyrion merely tilted his head innocently.
"Oh, my dear sister, seeing you so concerned about my whereabouts truly warms my heart."
He took a sip of wine.
"Though there's no need to worry. Early this morning, I already reported to the Gold Cloaks headquarters."
"Ser Humfrey personally signed my registry papers."
He grinned broadly.
"Official proof that Lord Tyrion Lannister is freely moving about King's Landing today and possesses no intention of fleeing."
As he spoke, he actually pulled a parchment scroll from his coat and displayed it proudly to the nearby nobles like a prized trophy.
Once everyone had enjoyed the spectacle, Tyrion tucked it back away.
"So…"
"I am currently a perfectly lawful free man."
"I may go wherever I wish."
"See whoever I please."
His smile widened further.
"And besides…"
"I do so enjoy a good spectacle."
Cersei glared at him viciously.
The monster who killed their mother.
The monster who murdered Joffrey.
The monster who sent her daughter away to Dorne like a hostage.
And in that moment, the prophecy from her childhood echoed once more inside her mind.
"You will wed the king, and you will be queen…"
"Until there comes another, younger and more beautiful, to cast you down and take all you hold dear."
"Your three children will wear golden crowns and golden shrouds."
"And when your tears have drowned you…"
"the valonqar shall wrap his hands around your pale white throat and choke the life from you."
Yes.
The prophecy had always said—
she would die at the hands of her younger brother.
And Cersei Lannister knew exactly who that damned little monster from the prophecy was.
The demon standing right in front of her—
Tyrion Lannister.
And worse still, he had already fulfilled the prophecy once.
Her first son was dead.
And Tyrion still walked free.
The more she thought about it, the angrier she became. Her fingers dug into her palms so hard that her nails pierced flesh.
The pain was the only thing keeping her outwardly calm.
"You are still a suspect in Joffrey's murder," Cersei said coldly. "Your trial is not over. You have no right to stand here alongside the nobles of the Seven Kingdoms."
Then a mocking smile curled across her lips as she pointed toward the densely packed common seating behind them.
"You belong out there with the smallfolk."
The surrounding nobles immediately broke into hushed whispers.
Everyone understood the implication.
The Queen Regent had publicly expelled her own brother from noble society.
Of course Tyrion understood it too.
Yet unlike before, he showed no anger.
No embarrassment.
No humiliation from being insulted in front of the entire court.
Ever since that damned trial, he had realized many things.
Perhaps…
he had never truly belonged among the Lannisters to begin with.
Still, regarding Myrcella's situation—
though Tyrion thoroughly enjoyed provoking Cersei whenever possible—
he could swear before the Seven Gods that this time, he genuinely had not acted out of malice.
Back then, during the height of the War of the Five Kings, the North had been ravaging the Riverlands while Stannis Baratheon blockaded Blackwater Bay with his fleet.
As acting Hand of the King, Tyrion needed leverage to stabilize Dorne.
And truthfully…
he adored Princess Myrcella Baratheon.
She was kind. Innocent. Gentle.
Nothing like her mother.
At the time, he had hated sending her away.
But later, he realized something.
If Myrcella had remained in King's Landing and the city had fallen to Stannis, she would almost certainly have become a hostage—
or worse.
Perhaps she would have shared the same tragic fate as Princess Elia Martell.
But in Dorne…
married to a Martell prince…
no matter how events unfolded, at least she would live.
And in the end, Tyrion had been right.
Letters frequently arrived from Dorne afterward.
Myrcella wrote that she was happy there.
She studied.
She rode horses.
She even learned the Dornish tongue.
Prince Trystane Martell treasured her like a jewel, while Prince Doran Martell personally praised her intelligence in letters sent to the Small Council.
"You're right, sister."
After a brief silence, Tyrion suddenly grinned.
"I really do belong with the commoners."
"No… perhaps being a dwarf makes me even lower than them."
"But unfortunately, I must refuse your suggestion to leave."
His smile widened.
"Because today, I entered as Ser Bronn's squire."
"Didn't I?"
As he spoke, Tyrion jabbed the lean knight beside him with his elbow.
Originally, he had intended to poke the man in the waist—
but given Tyrion's height…
his elbow landed somewhere around the knight's thigh instead.
Apparently even Bronn had been caught off guard by this nonsense.
He raised an eyebrow.
"My squire?"
"Yes," Tyrion answered solemnly. "I'm short enough to carry your helmet, hand you your lance, and clean horse dung."
"And I don't even demand wages. Just meals."
He paused dramatically.
"Though if you're willing to share half a cup of wine, I would be deeply grateful."
The sarcasm in his voice thickened with every word.
Bronn stared at him for three seconds.
Then he burst out laughing.
There was a strange kind of unspoken understanding in that laughter.
"Deal," Bronn declared loudly, raising his wine cup high. "But the great Ser Bronn only permits his squires half a cup of cheap ale per day!"
"You stingy bastard," Tyrion laughed right back.
The two clinked cups together.
Clang.
The crisp metallic sound rang sharply through the tense silence.
Cersei's expression darkened completely.
Being openly mocked in front of everyone—
yet unable to retaliate—
filled her with overwhelming humiliation.
"Bronn."
She turned her fury toward the sellsword knight instead.
Bronn lazily turned to face her.
"Your Grace."
He dipped his head slightly in greeting.
The gesture was so casual it bordered on disrespect.
Cersei's anger intensified instantly.
"Do you remember," she demanded coldly, "who helped you marry Lollys Stokeworth?"
"I do."
Bronn's expression never changed.
"You."
Cersei stepped forward aggressively.
"I turned you from a common sellsword into a noble."
"I gave you the title of Stokeworth's son-in-law. I gave you a life where you no longer had to survive by the sword."
Then she pointed furiously at Tyrion.
"And now you dare stand before me alongside the murderer of my son?!"
Bronn listened quietly until she finished.
Only then did he slowly reply.
"Your Grace… I think you've forgotten something."
"When you ordered me not to serve as Lord Tyrion's champion during his trial…"
"I obeyed."
He spread his hands.
"That was a business arrangement. You paid. I did the job."
"Or rather…"
"I didn't do the job."
"Transaction completed."
His tone remained calm throughout, as though discussing a completely ordinary trade deal.
"As for Lollys…"
Bronn's mouth curled into a mocking smile.
"She's a good woman."
"She obeys me. Never complains. Doesn't even mind the smell of blood on my clothes."
"But she's stupid, Your Grace."
"You hand her a doll, and she'll happily play with it all day."
"I once asked her what three plus two equals."
"She counted on her fingers for half a minute before grinning at me like an idiot."
At that point, Bronn's voice suddenly turned colder.
"And she's the second daughter."
"Her older sister Falyse still lives."
"So does her husband, Ser Balman."
"They're both perfectly healthy. Every autumn they go hunting together."
"I heard Ser Balman even killed a boar last year."
Bronn tilted his head slightly.
"So tell me, Your Grace…"
"How many years exactly am I supposed to wait before inheriting Castle Stokeworth?"
Cersei said nothing.
She simply stared at him, fury burning behind her green eyes.
But Bronn continued anyway, his tone light and careless, like a gambler chatting over dice.
"Thirty years?"
"Forty?"
"Maybe they'll live to a hundred."
"By then I'll be ninety myself."
He snorted.
"What, am I supposed to inherit a castle while hobbling around with a cane?"
Then he casually took another sip of wine.
"So no, Your Grace."
"The price you paid really wasn't that impressive."
"From this day forward…"
"I owe you nothing."
The words fell heavily into the air.
Silence followed once more.
Cersei's chest rose and fell violently with restrained rage.
She opened her mouth, preparing to lash out again—
but before she could speak—
a sharp, mocking voice suddenly rang out from behind Bronn.
"Are you really looking forward to my death that much, Ser Bronn of the Blackwater?"
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