Tyrion stood atop the highest parapet of Casterly Rock, his mismatched eyes surveying the lands that lay below. The morning air carried the tang of salt from the Sunset Sea, mingling with the scents of smoke and humanity that rose from Lannisport below.
Casterly Rock dominated the landscape like a crouching lion, massive and immovable. The ancient fortress wasn't merely built upon the stone; it was carved from it, a seamless extension of the mountain itself. Under his feet he could feel the living heart of the Rock beneath his feet, and could trace the veins of gold that ran through it like blood through a giant's body.
From this vantage point, Lannisport spread out before him in all its glory, a gleaming jewel nestled against the coastline. The city's high, strong walls encircled buildings of white stone and red tile roofs that caught the morning sun like copper coins. Ships from across the known world crowded its harbor: swan ships from the Summer Isles, trading galleys from the Free Cities, even the occasional vessel from distant Yi Ti with its exotic spices and silks.
The three great roads: the river road, gold road, and ocean road, converged at Lannisport like spokes on a wheel, bringing merchants, travelers, and goods from across the Seven Kingdoms. Despite being smaller than King's Landing or Oldtown, Lannisport possessed a particular elegance that those sprawling capitals lacked. Its streets were laid out in orderly patterns, its buildings constructed with the wealth that flowed from the nearby mines.
Tyrion inhaled deeply, picking out the distinct scents carried on the breeze. The smoke of smithies where Lannisport's famed goldsmiths crafted their masterpieces, the sweet aroma of spiced honey wine brewing in its cellars, the salt of the sea mixing with the earthy smell of horses and humanity.
"Admiring your future domain, little brother?"
Tyrion turned, a grin splitting his face as he spotted Jaime climbing the last few steps to join him on the parapet. His older brother had returned from fostering with Lord Crakehall just yesterday, and Tyrion still couldn't quite believe he was here.
"Not mine," Tyrion corrected, "yours. I'm merely appreciating the view."
Jaime laughed, ruffling Tyrion's hair as he joined him at the edge. "Gods, you've grown. When I left, you were barely taller than my knee."
"And now I reach your waist. Soon I'll be looking you in the eye," Tyrion quipped, though both knew it would never be true.
"I hear you've been busy in my absence," Jaime said, leaning against the stone battlement. "Uncle Gerion tells me you've become quite the swordsman. And a smith? And you attempted to be a miner? Are you planning to master every trade in the Seven Kingdoms before you reach manhood?"
Tyrion shrugged, feigning modesty while inwardly preening at his brother's obvious interest. "I get bored easily."
"So I recall." Jaime's eyes narrowed with mischief. "Remember when you jumped from the cliffs into the sea because you were bored with safer pursuits?"
"I was four and stupid," Tyrion protested, though the memory brought a smile to his lips. "I've found more productive ways to entertain myself now."
"So I've heard. Uncle Tygett claims you posess promise with the blade"
Tyrion snorted. "Uncle Tygett is being kind. He still knocks me into the dust most days."
"Most days? Not all days?" Jaime raised an eyebrow. "I'm impressed, little brother. Perhaps we should cross swords while I'm home."
Tyrion's heart leapt at the suggestion. Training with his uncles was one thing, but sparring with Jaime, already renowned as one of the finest young swordsmen in the westerlands—was an opportunity too precious to refuse.
"I'd like that," he said, trying to keep his voice casual.
A comfortable silence fell between them as they gazed out over Lannisport. Ships moved across the harbor like pieces on a cyvasse board, their sails billowing in the morning breeze.
"Father arrives next week," Jaime said finally, his voice carefully neutral.
Tyrion's stomach tightened. Lord Tywin Lannister, Hand of the King, returning to Casterly Rock for the first time in nearly two years. The thought sent a chill down his spine despite the warm morning sun.
"So I've heard," Tyrion replied, equally neutral. "The household has been in an uproar preparing for his arrival."
"He'll want to see what you've learned in his absence."
"No doubt." Tyrion's fingers tapped a nervous rhythm against the stone. "Though I doubt mining and metalwork are the accomplishments he hopes for in a son."
Jaime turned to face him fully. "Listen, Tyrion. Father is... Father. Nothing is ever enough. Not for me, not for Cersei, and certainly not for you. But I've seen what you can do. Uncle Gerion showed me that gold lion pendant you crafted. It was extraordinary."
Pride warmed Tyrion's chest. The pendant had been a particularly challenging piece, combining techniques he'd learned from both Zoraqos and the Lannisport goldsmiths. "Thank you."
"I'm not flattering you. It was genuinely impressive. The point is," Jaime continued, "don't let Father's expectations define what you value about yourself."
The advice was well-meaning but naive.
Jaime, golden and perfect, had never known what it was to be truly rejected by their father. Still, Tyrion nodded, appreciating the sentiment if not its practicality.
"Come on," Jaime said suddenly, pushing away from the battlement. "Let's go down to Lannisport. I want to show you something."
"What about your training with Ser Benedict?" Tyrion asked, surprised. Jaime had mentioned plans to spar with the master-at-arms that morning.
"He can wait," Jaime declared with the casual arrogance that came so naturally to him. "It's not every day I get to spend time with my favorite brother."
"I'm your only brother," Tyrion pointed out, but he was already moving to follow Jaime toward the stairs.
"Details," Jaime laughed, his golden hair catching the sunlight as he descended ahead of Tyrion. "Hurry up, or I'll tell everyone you can't keep pace with me."
"As if anyone would believe otherwise," Tyrion muttered, but quickened his steps nonetheless. His short legs worked double-time to match his brother's longer stride as they made their way down the winding staircase.
The prospect of a day in Lannisport with Jaime, free from lessons, obligations, and the looming shadow of their father's imminent arrival, filled Tyrion with a bubbling excitement that pushed aside his earlier unease. Whatever tomorrow might bring with Lord Tywin's return, today belonged to the brothers Lannister.
They reached the bottom of the stairs and emerged into the bustling courtyard of Casterly Rock. Servants scurried about, knights trained in the yard, and merchants waited patiently for audiences with the castle steward. Several people called greetings to Jaime, who responded with easy charm, his hand never leaving Tyrion's shoulder.
"Should we take horses?" Jaime asked as they approached the main gate.
Tyrion considered the question. The path down to Lannisport was steep but well-maintained, winding its way from the Rock to the city below. On horseback, they could make the journey in less than half an hour. On foot, with Tyrion's shorter legs, it might take twice that.
But horses meant stableboys and guards, formality and supervision. "Let's walk," he suggested. "It's a fine morning."
Jaime's eyebrow quirked in surprise. "Are you sure? It's a long way down for those little legs."
"My little legs are stronger than they look," Tyrion retorted. "Besides do you want supervision?"
Jaime laughed, a bright sound that echoed off the ancient stone walls. "Well, let's go then! A secret adventure for the brothers Lannister."
As they descended the winding path toward Lannisport, Jaime found himself studying his little brother with newfound curiosity. Tyrion walked beside him with a confident stride that seemed almost comical given his small stature, yet there was nothing comical about the intensity in those mismatched eyes. Even at seven, Tyrion carried himself with a gravity and humor that made him seem decades older.
"Gods, he's grown," Jaime thought, noting the surprising definition in Tyrion's arms as he gestured animatedly while describing some book he'd been reading. The loose-fitting tunic couldn't hide the compact, sturdy build beneath – like a tiny boulder given life and consciousness. His golden hair had grown out since Jaime had last seen him, now reaching past his shoulders and tied back in a neat ponytail that bobbed with each determined step.
Most striking was the hammer that hung from Tyrion's belt, the handle reaching nearly to his feet. It looked absurdly large against his diminutive frame, yet Tyrion carried it with such casual ease that Jaime couldn't help but wonder just how strong his little brother had become.
"—and that's when I told Maester Creylen that his translation was completely wrong," Tyrion was saying, his hands painting elaborate patterns in the air. "You should have seen his face, Jaime! Like a fish suddenly discovering it wasn't in water anymore."
"I'm sure he appreciated the correction," Jaime replied, grinning.
"Oh, tremendously. Almost as much as Aunt Genna appreciated my suggestion about her new headdress making her look like a ship in full sail."
They both burst into laughter as they passed through the Lion Gate into Lannisport proper. The city enveloped them in its vibrant chaos – merchants hawking wares, sailors singing bawdy songs, the clang of smiths' hammers and the sweet scent of fresh-baked bread mingling with the ever-present salt air.
What Jaime hadn't expected was the reception his brother received.
"Little lord!" called a fruit seller, waving enthusiastically. "Come try these pears from the Reach! Sweet as honey, they are!"
Tyrion waved back with cheerful familiarity. "Later perhaps, Marla! I'm showing my brother the city today!"
A group of children playing with a hoop spotted them and immediately abandoned their game, rushing toward Tyrion with delighted squeals. "Lord Tyrion! Lord Tyrion! Do you have any toys today?"
Jaime stepped back, bemused, as his dwarf brother became the center of attention. With theatrical flourish, Tyrion reached into his pockets and produced tiny stone figurines – exquisitely detailed lions, dragons, wolves, and other beasts that fit perfectly in a child's palm.
"One each," Tyrion announced, distributing the gifts with solemn ceremony. "And remember what I told you about taking care of them?"
"They're magic and will protect us if we keep them safe!" the children chorused, clearly reciting a familiar lesson.
The craftsmanship was remarkable, Jaime realized as he caught a glimpse of a miniature dragon with scales so finely rendered they seemed almost real. These weren't crude toys but masterworks in miniature.
"Did you make those?" Jaime asked when the children had scampered off, clutching their treasures.
Tyrion's expression was innocently mischievous. "Perhaps. A dwarf must have hobbies, you know."
They continued through the streets, and Jaime watched with growing amazement as person after person greeted his brother, not with the mockery or pity he might have expected, but with genuine warmth and respect.
"When did you become the most popular Lannister in Lannisport?" Jaime asked, half-joking but genuinely curious.
"Somewhere between fixing old Willem's wagon wheel when no one else would help and teaching young Tytos to read when the septons gave up on him," Tyrion replied with a casual shrug that didn't quite hide his pride. "It turns out people quite like you when you treat them as people rather than decorations for our glorious Lannister tapestry."
Jaime felt a twinge of something – not quite jealousy, but perhaps regret. He'd spent his years training with sword and lance, preparing to be the golden heir, while Tyrion had been here building connections and loyalty in ways their father would never understand or value.
"Are you hungry?" Tyrion asked, interrupting Jaime's thoughts. "There's a tavern down by the docks that serves fish stew that would make the gods weep."
"Lead on, little brother," Jaime said with a bow. "Clearly you know this city better than I do."
Tyrion grinned, his mismatched eyes twinkling with mischief. "Oh, Jaime," he said, patting his brother's arm consolingly, "I know most things better than you do. It's my burden to bear."
And with that, he set off at a surprisingly brisk pace, leaving Jaime to follow, laughing and shaking his head. Whatever else had changed in the years he'd been away, his brother's sharp tongue certainly hadn't dulled.
The tavern Tyrion led them to was called The Golden Sunset, a surprisingly clean establishment with windows overlooking the harbor. The moment they entered, a cheer went up from several sailors near the back.
"It's the Little Lion!" one called, raising his mug.
"Come to share more tales, have you?" asked another.
"Not today, friends," Tyrion replied with a courtly bow. "I'm showing my brother the finer establishments of our fair city."
The tavern keeper, a barrel-chested man with arms like tree trunks, came around the counter and actually bowed to them both. "Lord Jaime, welcome! Any brother of our Little Lion is doubly welcome here."
"Our Little Lion?" Jaime mouthed to Tyrion, who merely winked in response.
They were ushered to the best table by the window and promptly served enormous bowls of steaming fish stew, thick chunks of fresh bread, and, to Jaime's surprise, cups of watered wine.
Jaime glared at Tyrion with an expression of mock scandal. "Aren't you a little young to be consuming wine, little brother? Even watered down?"
Tyrion laughed. "Brother, I was born to consume alcohol. The midwives probably dipped me in wine to clean me after birth." His mismatched eyes twinkled with mischief. "Besides, a small body means it takes less to feel the effects. Economical, really."
Jaime shook his head, both amused and slightly concerned. At seven years old, Tyrion already spoke like a man grown, with wit sharper than Valyrian steel and knowledge broader than a maester's. Sometimes it was easy to forget how young he truly was.
"Your secret is safe with me," Jaime promised, taking a cautious sip. The wine was actually quite good, especially for a dockside tavern.
As they ate, Tyrion entertained him with stories of his exploits around Lannisport, how he'd helped design improvements for the harbor cranes, settled a dispute between rival merchant families, and once won a drinking contest against a Summer Islander (though Jaime strongly suspected this last tale was embellished).
"And no one minds that you're..." Jaime hesitated.
"A dwarf?" Tyrion finished for him, raising an eyebrow. "Oh, they minded at first. But it's remarkable how quickly people forget the shape of your body when you help fill their purses or their bellies." He tapped his temple. "It's what's in here that matters in the end, brother. And perhaps what's in here." He patted his chest where his heart was.
Jaime felt a surge of pride mixed with something like shame. His little brother had carved out a place for himself here, earned respect through his wits and kindness rather than his name or martial prowess.
"Now," Tyrion said, pushing away his empty bowl, "shall I show you the true wonders of Lannisport? There's a secret passage beneath the Street of Looms that leads to the old harbor fortress. The view from the abandoned tower is spectacular, and I've stashed some truly excellent stolen wine there."
"Stolen?" Jaime raised an eyebrow.
"Liberated," Tyrion corrected with dignity. "From Father's personal cellar. He'll never miss it, he has thousands of bottles and the particular taste of a man who thinks enjoying things is a weakness."
Jaime hesitated only a moment before a grin spread across his face. "Lead on, brother. This day just keeps getting more interesting."
Tyrion slapped a gold dragon on the table, far more than their meal had cost, and hopped down from his seat. "To adventure!" he declared, heading for the door with surprising speed.
As they stepped back into the sunlight, Jaime realized this visit home might be far more entertaining than he'
As they navigated the winding streets of Lannisport, Tyrion led Jaime through a series of increasingly narrow alleys. The cobblestones gave way to packed dirt, and the well-maintained facades of merchant shops transformed into the weathered exteriors of fishermen's homes.
"Are you certain this is the way to a spectacular view?" Jaime asked, stepping gingerly over what he hoped was merely a puddle of rainwater.
Tyrion's laugh echoed off the close-set buildings. "The best treasures are always hidden behind the least promising entrances. Much like myself."
They arrived at what appeared to be a dead end – a crumbling stone wall covered in creeping ivy. Tyrion approached confidently, pushing aside the vegetation to reveal a narrow gap between the stones.
"After you, brother," he said with a theatrical bow.
Jaime squeezed through the opening, finding himself in a small courtyard overgrown with weeds. At its center stood a weathered stone tower, its upper windows dark and empty like the eye sockets of a skull.
"The Old Watchtower," Tyrion announced, squeezing through behind him. "Built during the reign of Tommen I Lannister as a lookout for Ironborn raiders. Abandoned for nearly a century now, and completely forgotten by all but the most dedicated historians and..." he grinned mischievously, "...adventurous dwarfs."
Inside, a spiral staircase wound upward, its steps worn smooth by centuries of use. Tyrion pulled a small lantern from his belt and lit it with practiced ease.
"Watch your step," he warned. "The second landing has a nasty gap that's swallowed many a careless foot."
As they climbed, Jaime marveled at how effortlessly his brother managed the steep stairs despite his short legs. Where once Tyrion had needed to be carried up such inclines, now he bounded up with remarkable agility, his sturdy body propelling him forward with each push.
At the top, Tyrion pushed open a trapdoor, and they emerged onto the tower's roof. The setting sun bathed Lannisport in golden light, the bay beyond glittering like scattered jewels. Casterly Rock loomed in the distance, its massive silhouette dominating the landscape.
"Gods," Jaime breathed, "it's magnificent."
"Worth the journey through questionable puddles?" Tyrion asked, already rummaging behind a loose stone in the parapet.
With a triumphant "Aha!" he produced a dusty bottle of deep red wine. The label, though faded, clearly displayed the sigil of House Redwyne – one of the finest vintages in the Seven Kingdoms.
"That's from Father's cellar?" Jaime asked, impressed despite himself.
"One of his prized Arbor reds," Tyrion confirmed, working the cork loose with practiced fingers. "Aged thirty years and meant for some grand occasion that will never be grand enough for him to actually open it." The cork came free with a satisfying pop. "I consider rescuing it an act of mercy."
They settled on the edge of the parapet, legs dangling over the precipice, passing the bottle between them as the sun continued its descent toward the horizon. Jaime took measured sips, savoring the rich flavor. Tyrion, however, drank with astonishing enthusiasm, taking long pulls that should have floored someone three times his size.
"Seven hells, Tyrion," Jaime laughed as his brother drained nearly a quarter of the bottle in one go. "Where does it all go?
Tyrion wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, his cheeks flushed a rosy pink. "A mystery for the ages, brother. Perhaps I'm hollow inside, like those chocolate festival treats with wine centers."
As the level in the bottle dropped steadily lower, Tyrion's face grew increasingly flushed, but rather than slurring or stumbling over words as most men would, his wit seemed to sharpen, his tongue becoming quicker, his observations more incisive and hilarious.
"You know," Tyrion said, gesturing toward a distant ship with the bottle, "that captain there is smuggling Lyseni silk without paying proper duties. See how low she sits in the water? And yet when he reported to the harbormaster this morning, I overheard him claiming a cargo of wool and grain."
"How could you possibly know that?" Jaime asked, squinting at the distant vessel.
"Because," Tyrion replied, his mismatched eyes dancing with mischief, "I'm the one who arranged for his previous shipment to disappear from Lord Farman's customs house." He tapped his nose conspiratorially. "For a percentage, of course."
Jaime roared with laughter. "You're incorrigible!"
"I prefer 'enterprising.'" Tyrion took another impossibly long drink. "Speaking of incorrigible, how fares our sweet sister at court?"
The sudden shift in topic caught Jaime off guard. He stared out at the darkening horizon, watching as the first stars began to appear. "She's... Cersei. Beautiful and ambitious as ever."
"And still obsessed with Rhaegar?" Tyrion asked, his tone carefully casual despite the wine.
"She mentions him in every letter," Jaime admitted, a hint of something – jealousy, perhaps – tightening his voice. "Father has promised her she'll be queen someday despite Rhaegar being marred to Elia Martell."
Tyrion was silent for a long moment, studying his brother's profile against the sunset. When he spoke again, his voice had lost its playful edge, taking on an uncharacteristic seriousness that made Jaime turn to look at him.
"Brother, be careful with Cersei."
"What do you mean?" Jaime asked, tension creeping into his shoulders.
Tyrion sighed, his rosy face suddenly solemn. "I know you love her. It's written across your face whenever you speak her name. But she's got you wrapped around her finger like thread on a spindle. Think of the House first, Jaime. Don't make foolish decisions for her sake."
For a moment, Jaime's expression hardened, a flash of anger darkening his features. Then, just as quickly, it dissolved into laughter. He reached out and playfully ruffled Tyrion's golden curls.
"You know, you'd be so much better at being the heir than me," he said, deflecting the uncomfortable truth of his brother's warning. "I'm much more suited to being a dashing swordsman, cutting down enemies and rescuing maidens." He took another swig from the bottle. "And don't worry about Cersei. I can handle her."
Tyrion's sideways glance spoke volumes about what he thought of that claim, but he held his tongue, recognizing the stubborn set of his brother's jaw. Some battles weren't worth fighting, especially when the opponent was too blind to see the battlefield.
Instead, he reclaimed the bottle and raised it in toast. "To the Young Lion, terror of tourneys and breaker of hearts!"
The moment of tension passed as they returned to lighter topics, sharing stories and laughter as the stars emerged in full force above them. The bottle emptied, then another that Tyrion miraculously produced from yet another hiding spot.
By the time they decided to return to Casterly Rock, both brothers were thoroughly intoxicated. They staggered down the spiral staircase, clutching each other for support and dissolving into fits of giggles when Jaime missed a step and slid down several others on his backside.
The journey back to the Rock was a meandering adventure punctuated by impromptu singing (Tyrion), attempted cartwheels (Jaime), and a brief but passionate debate with a confused night watchman who couldn't quite believe the two disheveled young men were actually Lannisters.
They arrived at the Lion Gate well after midnight, tripping over their own feet. The guards recognized them immediately but exchanged worried glances as the brothers approached, swaying like saplings in a strong wind.
"Good evening, fine defenders of our ancestral home!" Tyrion proclaimed grandly, attempting a bow that nearly sent him tumbling forward. "We return victorious from our... our expedition!"
"Indeed!" Jaime added, hiccupping. "Most successful reconnaissance mission. Very important... intelligence gathered."
The guards exchanged another glance, this one laden with amusement. The taller one cleared his throat. "My lords, perhaps you should know that Lady Genna has been... waiting for you."
"Waiting?" Tyrion's alcohol-soaked brain struggled to process this information. "Whatever for? The night is young! The stars are bright! The—"
"The entire household has been searching for you since sunset," the guard interrupted, wincing. "Lady Genna sent riders to Lannisport hours ago."
Before either brother could respond, a voice like thunder rolled across the courtyard.
"THERE THEY ARE!"
Aunt Genna descended upon them like a storm, her tiny frame propelled by fury, her face a dangerous shade of crimson that clashed spectacularly with her golden hair. Behind her trailed Uncle Kevan, his lips pressed into a thin line of disappointment, and Uncle Gerion, who was visibly struggling to maintain a serious expression.
"You IRRESPONSIBLE, THOUGHTLESS, COMPLETELY RECKLESS PAIR OF FOOLS!" Genna's voice echoed off the ancient stone walls, causing several nearby ravens to take startled flight. "VANISHING WITHOUT A WORD! NO GUARDS! NO NOTICE! HAVE YOU LOST WHAT LITTLE SENSE THE GODS GAVE YOU?"
Tyrion attempted to stand straighter, which only highlighted how thoroughly drunk he was as he swayed like a ship in high seas. "Aunt Genna! What a delightful surprise to find you still awake at this hour!"
"Oh, I'm awake," she snarled, advancing on them like a lioness cornering prey. "I've been awake wondering if my nephews had been KIDNAPPED or MURDERED or fallen off a CLIFF!"
Jaime raised a finger to object. "Actually, we were on top of a cliff, not falling off one—"
"SILENCE!" Genna roared, causing Jaime to snap his mouth shut with an audible click of teeth.
Kevan stepped forward, his calm demeanor somehow more cutting than Genna's rage. "Do you have any idea what your father would say if he knew his heir and his youngest son had wandered off unprotected, only to return drunk as tavern rats in the middle of the night?"
"Fortunately," Gerion interjected, his eyes dancing with barely suppressed laughter, "my dear brother isn't here yet, is he? So perhaps we could all lower our voices before we wake half the westerlands?"
Genna whirled on him. "Don't you dare make light of this, Gerion! They could have been killed! Or worse!"
"What's worse than being killed?" Tyrion wondered aloud, genuinely curious despite his inebriated state.
"Being CAPTURED!" Genna seized his ear between thumb and forefinger, eliciting a yelp of pain. "Imagine the ransom demands! Imagine the SHAME! Imagine what your FATHER would DO TO ALL OF US!"
Jaime, seeing his brother's predicament, attempted to intervene. "Aunt Genna, it was my idea, not Tyrion's. I insisted we go without guards. I'm the one who—"
"Oh, I have no doubt this was your brilliant scheme," Genna snapped, releasing Tyrion's ear only to seize Jaime's. "You've always been the ringleader of mischief, haven't you? And you!" She twisted Tyrion's ear again with her free hand. "You know better! You're supposed to be the CLEVER one! And you're seven years old for Seven's sake. You should be drinking nothing but milk and water!"
The sight of the formidable Lady Genna dragging both brothers by their ears across the courtyard – one golden-haired youth nearly a head taller than her and one golden-haired dwarf barely reaching her waist – was too much for Gerion. He burst into helpless laughter, bending double and clutching his sides.
"Something amusing, brother?" Kevan asked dryly.
"Everything!" Gerion gasped between guffaws. "Gods be good, look at them! The mighty Lannisters of Casterly Rock! The Young Lion and the Imp, captured by their aunt! Oh, I wish I had a painter here to immortalize this moment!"
Even some of the guards were struggling to maintain their composure now, coughing suspiciously into their fists or suddenly finding the night sky fascinating.
"Inside! Now!" Genna commanded, marching her captives toward the main keep, her grip on their ears unrelenting despite their stumbling attempts to match her pace.
Behind them, Gerion was practically howling with laughter. "Wait until I tell Tygett! He'll regret missing this until his dying day!"
In the great hall, Genna finally released her nephews, who both immediately clutched their abused ears, wincing dramatically.
"That was entirely unnecessary," Tyrion complained, rubbing his reddened earlobe. "We made it back safely, didn't we?"
"By sheer dumb luck!" Genna thundered. "What if you'd been recognized as Lannisters? Do you think every cutthroat and kidnapper in Lannisport wouldn't leap at the chance to seize Tywin Lannister's sons?"
Tyrion and Jaime exchanged a guilty glance, the alcohol in their systems making the exchange far more obvious than either intended. Genna's eyes narrowed dangerously.
"What?" she demanded. "What was that look?"
"Nothing," they answered in unison, which only deepened her suspicion.
"You were recognized, weren't you?" Her voice had dropped to a dangerous whisper. "Tell me you weren't parading around Lannisport announcing yourselves as Lannisters."
Jaime, in a spectacular display of poor judgment likely fueled by Arbor red, decided honesty was the best policy. "Well, not exactly announcing ourselves. But Tyrion seems to be quite well-known there. They call him the Little Lion."
Tyrion closed his eyes in resignation as Genna's face cycled through several fascinating shades of red.
Kevan pinched the bridge of his nose. "This gets worse by the minute."
Gerion, who had finally managed to control his laughter, lost it again at this revelation. He collapsed into a nearby chair, tears streaming down his face. "The Little Lion of Lannisport! It's perfect! Oh, Tyrion, you magnificent little devil!"
"It's not funny, Gerion!" Genna snapped, though Tyrion noticed her fury seemed to be ebbing slightly. "What if someone decided to use him to get to Tywin?"
"Who would dare?" Gerion countered, wiping his eyes. "Besides, from what I've heard, our little nephew has quite the following down there. They'd probably riot if anyone tried to harm him."
Tyrion seized this lifeline. "It's true, Aunt. I've made many... strategic friendships. It's good for House Lannister to have the smallfolk's loyalty."
"Don't you try to spin this as some political maneuver," Genna warned, wagging a finger at him. "You were drinking stolen wine in abandoned towers and gods know what else!"
"The wine was excellent," Jaime offered helpfully, earning himself a glare that could have curdled milk.
Kevan, ever the pragmatist, stepped in. "What's done is done. The important thing is they're back safely. Let's get them to bed before they cause any more trouble. We can discuss appropriate consequences in the morning."
"Consequences?" Jaime repeated, looking genuinely surprised at the concept.
"Oh yes," Genna said, her voice dangerously sweet. "Consequences. Starting with you explaining to Ser Benedict why you missed your training this afternoon and why you'll be spending the next week mucking out the stables alongside the other squires."
"But it's my first day back!" Jaime protested.
"You certainly acted like an idiot," Kevan observed coolly.
Tyrion, sensing the tide turning against them, decided it was time for a tactical retreat. He attempted to edge toward the stairs, but Genna's sharp eyes caught the movement.
"Not so fast, Tyrion."
"And I suppose I'll be mucking out stables too?" Tyrion asked, swaying slightly as he looked up at his aunt.
"Oh no," Genna replied with a smile that sent chills down Tyrion's spine. "I have something far more appropriate for you. Maester Creylen has been looking for someone to reorganize the oldest section of the library. Dusty tomes, cramped spaces, endless cataloging." Her smile widened. "You'll start tomorrow at dawn."
Tyrion's face fell.
"Now, off to bed with both of you," Genna commanded, clapping her hands as if shooing chickens. "And if either of you disappears again without proper escort, I'll have you both locked in your chambers until your father returns."
As the brothers shuffled toward the staircase, Gerion called after them, "Worth it though, wasn't it?"
Genna swatted him, but Tyrion caught the wink his uncle sent their way. Yes, it had been worth it.
At the top of the stairs, away from the scrutiny of their aunt and uncles, Tyrion and Jaime exchanged conspiratorial grins, their earlier scolding already fading in importance against the memory of their shared adventure.
"I'll spar with you tomorrow," Jaime whispered, his voice carrying the particular confidence of someone still pleasantly drunk. "I want to see just how good the Little Lion of Casterly Rock really is with a blade."
Tyrion burped loudly, then covered his mouth with exaggerated propriety. "Of course," he replied, his mismatched eyes dancing with mischief. "Though I should warn you, I fight dirty."
The brothers stifled their laughter as they continued down the corridor. Behind them, Genna's voice still echoed from below, berating poor Gerion for his encouragement of their recklessness.
"She'll have forgotten her anger by breakfast," Jaime predicted, stumbling slightly as they rounded a corner. "Aunt Genna never could stay angry at us for long."
"Speak for yourself," Tyrion countered, remembering several occasions when his aunt's disappointment had lingered for weeks. "She holds me to a higher standard. Something about compensating for my stature with exceptional behavior."
Jaime snorted. "Well, you've failed spectacularly at that tonight."
They reached the junction where their paths would separate – Jaime to the heir's chambers in the eastern wing, Tyrion to his rooms in the northern tower. For a moment, both hesitated, reluctant to end their reunion.
"I meant it about tomorrow," Jaime said, suddenly serious despite his inebriation. "I want to see what Uncle Tygett has taught you."
Tyrion nodded, equally solemn. "I'll be there. Though perhaps later in the afternoon? I suspect morning will bring both of us considerable regret for tonight's indulgences."
As if to emphasize his point, his stomach gurgled ominously. The rich fish stew, combined with the exceptional vintage of Arbor red, was beginning to wage war on his insides.
Jaime laughed and ruffled his brother's hair. "Until tomorrow then, little brother."
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