Tommen looked up at Herbert. "So your second son… he's your heir now?"
"Yes, Your Grace," Rafford said. He clapped a heavy hand on his son's shoulder, pride obvious in the gesture. "Herbert's always been sensible. Not like his brother, always chasing dreams. He trains every day with his sword master, rain or shine. Blistered his fingers raw more than once."
Herbert's face went a little red. He kept his head down. The truth was he'd worn those blisters on the Street of Silk, not on any training yard, but he wasn't about to correct his father in front of the king. The last two weeks had been very educational in other ways.
Rafford kept going, voice warm. "He's also studying with the maesters—history, law, how to run a holdfast properly. If Princess Myrcella weren't already betrothed to Prince Trystane in Dorne, I'd have sent him after her. He'd be worthy."
The air changed.
Cersei rose from her seat. The deep green skirts whispered across the stone as she walked straight toward Rafford. She stopped a few feet away and stared at him, green eyes cold.
"Lord Lake," she said. "Did you just say that if my daughter weren't promised to Dorne, you would have your son court her?"
Rafford's smile stayed in place, but his grip on Herbert's arm tightened. He knew that tone. He'd heard it from powerful people before, right before things went badly.
"Your Grace the Queen Regent," he said carefully, lowering his voice and bowing deeper. "My words were poorly chosen. My son is young and untested. He has no designs on Princess Myrcella or any insult toward Dorne."
Cersei didn't blink. "An apology? Is that what you think I want, Lord Lake?"
Rafford stayed bent. "What do you want, Your Grace?"
Cersei smiled. It was beautiful and sharp. "I want proof. You said your son is worthy of my daughter. Let him prove it. Send him to Dorne. Let him challenge Prince Trystane Martell in single combat and win my daughter back with his sword."
The words carried. Heads turned all along the VIP tier.
Rafford went very still. His mind raced. He couldn't accept. Herbert had only been seriously training for three months. Sending him to fight Trystane Martell—raised under Oberyn's shadow—was sending him to die. Even if he somehow won, doing it on Dornish soil would be suicide for the family's interests.
He needed an exit that didn't look like cowardice.
Before he could speak, a familiar, mocking voice cut through the tension from behind the crowd.
"Who's talking about my sweet niece?"
The people parted. Tyrion Lannister stood at the entrance to the VIP section, cup of wine in hand, wearing his favorite red-and-gold coat. Bronn stood beside him in expensive brown leather and a cloak heavy with gold thread, looking like he was already enjoying the show.
Cersei's face went rigid. She stared at her brother like he'd crawled out of a grave.
"What are you doing here?"
Tyrion took a sip and smiled. "Oh, dear sister, I'm touched by your concern. But you can relax. I reported to the Gold Cloak headquarters this morning. Ser Humphrey himself signed my papers proving I'm a free man in good standing inside King's Landing. No flight risk."
He pulled a rolled parchment from his coat and showed it around with theatrical pride. Then he tucked it away.
"So I'm a law-abiding citizen again. I can go where I like. And I do love a good spectacle."
Cersei's voice dropped to ice. "You are still a suspect in Joffrey's murder. Your case is not closed. You have no right to stand among the nobility of the Seven Kingdoms."
She swept a hand toward the crowded stands. "You belong down there. With the commoners."
Tyrion didn't flinch. He just kept smiling. "You're probably right. Maybe I was always meant to stand with the smallfolk. Or even beneath them, given what I am."
He paused. "But I'm not leaving. Not today. I came in as Ser Bronn's squire. Isn't that right, Ser Bronn?"
Bronn raised an eyebrow. "My squire?"
"Exactly," Tyrion said cheerfully. "I'm short enough to carry your helm, hand you your lance, muck out your stables. I work for food. No wages required." He glanced at Bronn's cup. "Though if you're willing to share half a cup of that wine, I'd be even more grateful."
Bronn was quiet for three seconds. Then he laughed.
"Done," he said, lifting his cup. "But the great Ser Bronn only allows his squire half a cup of the cheap stuff per day."
Tyrion grinned and tapped his cup against Bronn's. The clear ring of metal cut through the frozen silence.
Cersei's face darkened further. She turned her fury on Bronn.
"Bronn. You remember who helped you marry Lollys Stokeworth?"
"I remember," Bronn said, voice flat.
"I made you a lord. I gave you a castle's daughter and a life where you don't have to bleed for every meal. And now you stand here with the man who murdered my son?"
Bronn took another slow sip. When he spoke, it was calm, almost bored.
"You paid me to stop being Tyrion's champion. I stopped. That deal's done. As for Lollys…" He shrugged. "She's a sweet woman. Doesn't complain. Doesn't even mind the smell of blood. But she's not bright. And she's the second daughter. Her sister Falyse and that husband of hers—Ser Balman—are both still very much alive and healthy. Hunting every autumn, last I heard."
He looked Cersei in the eye. "How many years did you expect me to wait before I inherit anything worth having? Thirty? Forty? I'm not spending the rest of my life as a poor knight waiting for two healthy people to die."
Cersei opened her mouth, but Bronn kept going.
"So no, Your Grace. I don't owe you anything anymore."
The words landed like a slap.
Cersei's chest rose and fell hard. Before she could answer, another voice spoke from somewhere in the crowd—sharp, female, and dripping with venom.
"Do you really hope I'm dead, Ser Bronn of the Blackwater?"