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Adrian Lannister - Ten Days Later
The deck was very loud.
Adrian stood near the railing of the ship, his good hand gripping the wood so tight that his knuckles turned white. His left hand hung at his side, still wrapped in bandages that made it look like a fat white caterpillar. It throbbed. It always throbbed. But today, the throbbing didn't matter because there were louder things to think about.
The Royal Fleet was attacking Pyke.
Adrian could see the ships. Hundreds of them. Maybe thousands. He wasn't good at counting big numbers yet. They looked like toys from this far away, little wooden boats floating on a grey-blue blanket. But they weren't toys. Toys didn't have fire on them. Toys didn't sink with black smoke pouring out of their bellies.
The sound was the worst part.
It was like thunder, but thunder that never stopped. Boom. Boom. BOOM. The big war machines on the Royal Fleet's ships threw giant rocks and burning things at the Ironborn ships. When the rocks hit, there was a crack sound, like when you step on a stick in the woods. When the burning things hit, there was a whoosh sound, like the fireplace at Casterly Rock but much, much bigger.
And then there was the screaming.
Adrian had heard screaming before. He had heard it in the cell. He had heard it when he killed the squire. He had heard it when Lord Drumm tried to grab him. He heard it during the attack in Lannisterport. But this was different. This wasn't one person or two people. This was hundreds. Maybe thousands. It sounded like the world was crying.
It made his stomach hurt.
He wanted to cover his ears, but he remembered what his father had told him:
''' "Today," Father said, "we take Pyke. The Royal Fleet will break through the Ironborn blockade. There will be fighting. A great deal of fighting."
Adrian nodded. He wasn't sure what to say.
"You will not be in the fighting," Father continued. "You will remain on this ship."
"Yes, Father," Adrian said quietly.
Father placed his hand on Adrian's shoulder. It was heavy, like the hand of a statue.
"War is not a story from a book, Adrian," Father said. His voice was calm. "War is not knights in shining armor saving maidens. War is blood and screaming and men dying in ways that are not noble or clean."
Adrian's stomach tightened.
"You will see things today," Father said. "You will hear things. Things that will make you want to hide. To cover your ears. To close your eyes."
Father's hand tightened slightly on Adrian's shoulder.
"But you will not hide," Father said. "You will not cover your ears. You will not close your eyes."
Adrian looked up at his father. "Why?" he asked, his voice very small.
Father's expression didn't change. "Because you are my son. And my son does not turn away from reality simply because it is unpleasant. My son faces what is in front of him."
He paused, letting the words sink in.
"The men who took you," Father continued, "the men who chained you, who starved you, who made you kill to survive—they did those things because they are Ironborn. Because that is their nature. And today, they will face the consequences of their choices."
Adrian swallowed. His throat still hurt when he did that.
"You killed four men to escape," Father said. "You did what was necessary. But that was survival. Instinct. Today, you will see what comes after survival. You will see what victory looks like. What justice looks like."
Father leaned down slightly, bringing his face closer to Adrian's level. His green eyes bored into Adrian's.
"A lion does not look away from the kill," Father said quietly. "A lion does not hide when the battle is won. A lion watches. A lion remembers. A lion learns."
Adrian felt like Father was looking all the way through him, down to his bones.
"Do you understand?" Father asked.
"I... I think so," Adrian said. '''
So Adrian stood. And he saw. And he heard.
Jaime wasn't with him.
That was the hardest part. Jaime was supposed to be here. Jaime always made things less scary. But Father had ordered Jaime to fight with the other knights. Jaime was on one of the ships that was close to Pyke, the ships that were actually fighting. Adrian's ship was far away. Safe.
Adrian didn't feel safe.
His guards were Sandor Clegane and a man named Ser Armory Lorch.
Adrian knew Clegane. Clegane was big and burned and mean-looking, but he had tried to protect Adrian from Euron's men. Adrian liked Clegane, even though Clegane rarely smiled.
Armory Lorch was different. He was ugly, but not in the way Clegane was ugly. Clegane looked like someone had hurt him. Armory looked like someone who hurt people and liked it. He had small eyes that reminded Adrian of a rat. His armor was dented. His breath smelled like onions.
Adrian didn't like Armory Lorch.
There was a very loud boom, louder than all the others. Adrian flinched. He couldn't help it. One of the Ironborn ships near the entrance to Pyke's harbor split in half. It split right down the middle, like when you break a stick with your hands. The two halves tipped sideways, and men fell into the water. Little black dots falling into the grey.
Adrian counted them. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten. Eleven. Twelve. Thirteen. Fourteen. Fifteen.
He stopped counting. There were too many.
"Are we winning?" Adrian asked. His voice came out scratchy. It still hurt to talk sometimes.
Clegane grunted. He was standing beside Adrian, one hand resting on the railing, the other on his sword. "Aye. The squids never stood a chance."
"Squids," Ser Armory Lorch snorted from Adrian's other side. He was leaning against the mast, picking at his teeth with a splinter of wood. "That's what they are, boy. Slippery little squids. But you put them on dry land and they flop around like fish." He grinned, showing yellow teeth. "They're dying like fish, too."
Adrian looked at him. He didn't understand why Armory sounded so happy about it.
"Shut the fuck up, Lorch," Clegane growled.
Armory's grin faded. He pushed off the mast and took a step toward Clegane. He was shorter than Clegane, but he puffed out his chest like a rooster. "What did you say to me, dog?"
"I said shut your mouth," Clegane said. He didn't look at Armory. He kept his eyes on the battle. "The boy doesn't need to hear your shit."
"The boy," Armory said slowly, "is here to watch men die. Lord Tywin's orders. So maybe the boy should get used to hearing about it."
Clegane turned his head. His burned face looked even scarier when he was angry. "You want to talk about orders? How about the order to protect him? You remember that one? Or were you too busy thinking about what you'd rather be doing?"
Armory's face went red. "At least I do my job, Clegane. Unlike some people." He jerked his head toward Adrian. "Where were you when the Greyjoys took him, huh? Oh, that's right. You failed."
Adrian's stomach twisted. He remembered the docks. He remembered the fire and the smoke and the hands grabbing him. He remembered hoping Clegane would save him.
But Clegane had come back. Clegane had been there on Old Wyk.
"He came back," Adrian said quietly. He looked up at Clegane. "You came back to protect me."
Clegane glanced down at him. Something softened in his burned face. Just a little. Like ice cracking.
Armory laughed. It was a mean laugh. "Oh, how sweet. The little lord is defending the dog. Does the dog need protecting now?"
Clegane looked at Armory with a terrible smile. "Better than being fooled by a little girl."
Armory stopped laughing.
His face went from red to purple. "What did you say?"
"You heard me," Clegane said flatly. "A little girl. Couldn't have been older than five. And she made you look like a fool."
Adrian didn't understand. What little girl? He wanted to ask, but Armory looked like he was going to explode, and Adrian didn't want to make it worse.
Before Armory could say anything else, there was a roar from the ships near Pyke. A loud, huge roar that sounded like a hundred lions all roaring at once. Adrian looked up and saw a flag rising over the castle.
It was black. It had a yellow stag on it.
House Baratheon.
"They've taken the castle," Clegane said.
Adrian felt the ship lurch beneath his feet. It started moving. Slowly at first, then faster. They were sailing toward Pyke.
"We won," Adrian said. It should have felt good to say. But it didn't. It felt empty, like saying a word he didn't know the meaning of.
"Aye," Clegane said. "We won."
The ship moved through the water, and Adrian watched as they passed through the battle. It wasn't a battle anymore. It was a graveyard.
Ships were sinking everywhere. Some were already half-underwater, their masts sticking up like the bones of dead giants. Some were burning, orange flames eating through the wood. Some were just floating, empty and quiet.
And there were bodies.
So many bodies.
They floated in the water. Some floated on their backs, arms spread wide like they were trying to hug the sky. Some floated on their bellies, bobbing up and down with the waves. Some were tangled together, like they'd been fighting even as they drowned.
Adrian watched as the ship's bow cut through the water, and the bodies moved. Some of them got pushed aside. Some of them went under the ship. He heard a thump-thump-thump sound as the hull passed over them. He tried not to think about what that sound was.
One body floated close to the railing where Adrian stood. It was a man. He was wearing a leather vest with a kraken on it. His face was pale and bloated, and his eyes were open but not seeing. His mouth was open, too, like he was trying to say something.
Adrian stared at him. The man stared back.
Then the ship moved forward, and the body was gone, pulled under the dark water.
"Help!"
The voice was weak and hoarse, but it was loud enough to hear. Adrian turned his head and saw another man clinging to a piece of driftwood. He wasn't dead. His face was twisted with pain, and his arm looked wrong, bent at a bad angle. Blood was dripping from his mouth.
"Help!" the man shouted again. He looked right at Adrian's ship. He lifted his good arm and waved it.
Adrian opened his mouth. He was going to say something. He didn't know what. Maybe stop the ship or help him or someone do something.
But before he could make a sound, there was a wet thunk.
An arrow sprouted from the man's eye socket.
The man stopped shouting. He stopped waving. He just slid off the driftwood and disappeared into the water, his good arm still reaching up.
Adrian turned around. His heart was pounding.
There were thirty Lannister soldiers on the deck behind him. They were all standing in a line near the mast. They all had bows. Some had crossbows. They were pointing them at the water.
One of the soldiers, a man with a patchy beard, lowered his bow. He was smiling.
"Got him," the man said.
Another soldier laughed. "Good shot, Edric."
Adrian watched as they aimed again. Thunk. Thunk. Thunk. Arrows flew through the air and hit bodies floating in the water. Some of the bodies were already still. Some of them moved a little before the arrows hit. One of them tried to swim away, but an arrow caught him in the back of the head.
"Give me a bow," Armory Lorch said. His voice sounded excited.
One of the soldiers handed him a short bow. Armory nocked an arrow, drew, and loosed. The arrow hit a floating corpse in the chest.
Armory laughed and loosed another arrow. This one hit a piece of driftwood.
He loosed another. This one hit a body that might have still been alive. Adrian couldn't tell.
Adrian stood very still. He held Red Rain against his leg. The sword was heavy. It made his arm hurt. But he didn't let go. He couldn't let go.
The ship moved closer to Pyke, and the bodies got thicker. It was hard to sail without hitting them. Adrian heard more thumps. More splashes. More laughter from the soldiers.
He tried to think about something else. He tried to think about the library at Ten Towers. He tried to think about the books. He tried to think about Lyanna and Joy's beauty. He tried to think about Tyrion's gentle voice.
But all he could think about was the sound. The thunk of arrows hitting flesh. The splash of bodies going under. The screaming that was quieter now but still there, far away, like ghosts crying in the fog.
Father wanted him to see this.
Father wanted him to hear this.
This was what victory looked like.
Adrian swallowed. His mouth tasted like metal. He wanted to close his eyes, but he didn't. He kept them open. He kept watching.
Because that's what Father wanted. And Father was always right.
The ship reached the shore of Pyke.
It bumped against the dock with a groan of wood on wood. Sailors shouted orders and threw ropes. The gangplank was lowered with a crash.
Adrian thought Clegane and Armory would walk him straight to his father. That's what usually happened. Guards took him to Father, and Father would tell him what to do next.
But they didn't.
Instead, Clegane grabbed his shoulder and steered him down the gangplank. Armory walked ahead of them, his hand on his sword. Four other Lannister soldiers followed behind.
They didn't walk toward the castle. They walked toward the bodies.
There were bodies everywhere.
They covered the ground like a carpet. Some were whole. Some weren't. Adrian saw an arm lying by itself near a broken barrel. He saw a man with his belly cut open, his insides spilling out like ropes. He saw a head sitting on a rock, its eyes still open, staring at nothing.
The smell was the worst. It smelled like the butcher's shop in Lannisport, but bigger. Meat and blood and something else. Something sour and rotten.
Adrian's stomach twisted. He felt sick. But he swallowed it down. He wouldn't throw up. He was a Lannister. Lannisters didn't throw up.
They walked past a group of Lannister soldiers kicking at a dead Ironborn. One of the soldiers laughed and spat on the body.
They walked past a pile of weapons. Swords and axes and spears, all thrown in a heap. Some of them were still bloody.
They walked past a man who wasn't quite dead yet. He was lying on his side, gurgling, his hands pressed against his throat. Blood bubbled between his fingers. His eyes followed Adrian as he walked past.
Adrian looked away.
He heard screaming again. This time, it was closer. It sounded different from the battle screaming. It sounded higher. Sharper.
They turned a corner, and Adrian saw them.
There was a group of women. Maybe ten of them. Maybe more. They were on the ground. Some were crying. Some were screaming. There were men around them. Lannister men. Baratheon men. Their surcoats were red and gold and black and yellow.
The men were laughing.
Adrian didn't understand what they were doing. One of the men was on top of a woman, and she was trying to push him off, but she couldn't. Another man was holding a woman's arms while a third man did something Adrian couldn't see. A fourth man was pulling at a woman's dress, ripping it.
"What are they doing?" Adrian asked. His voice was very small.
Armory Lorch grinned. He leaned down so his face was close to Adrian's. His breath smelled worse up close. "They're having fun, boy. These are Ironborn women. They like it rough. They're used to it."
Adrian looked at the women's faces. They didn't look like they liked it. They looked scared. They looked like he felt in the cell.
He wanted to help them.
"Stop."
The voice was sharp and cold as winter ice.
Jaime Lannister stepped into view. His white cloak was dirty and torn. His armor was splattered with blood. His face was hard as stone.
He looked at the men. All of them. One by one.
"Stop," Jaime said again. "Now."
One of the Baratheon men laughed. "Oh, come on, Kingslayer. We just won a war. Let us have a bit of—"
"If you touch another woman," Jaime said quietly, "I will cut off all your cocks and make you eat them. One by one. Starting with yours."
The man stopped laughing.
Jaime's hand was on his sword hilt. His green eyes burned.
The men got up. Slowly. They stepped away from the women. Some of them looked angry. Some looked scared. None of them said anything.
The women scrambled away, clutching torn dresses, sobbing.
Jaime turned his head. He looked at Sandor Clegane and Armory Lorch. His face got even harder.
"Your father's orders," Clegane said flatly.
Adrian didn't understand. What orders?
Jaime closed his eyes. He took a deep breath. When he opened his eyes again, he looked tired. So, so tired.
He walked over to Adrian and grabbed his good hand. His grip was gentle, very gentle.
"Come on," Jaime said softly. "Father wants you in the main hall."
Adrian let Jaime lead him away. He looked back once. The women were still on the ground. The men were still standing there, watching. Armory was smirking.
Adrian didn't understand.
He didn't understand any of this.
But he held Jaime's hand, and he held Red Rain, and he walked toward the castle.
The castle of Pyke was ugly. It was grey and black and wet, with towers that looked like they were falling apart. The stones were covered in moss and bird droppings. The air smelled like salt and rot.
As they walked through the courtyard, Adrian saw more bodies. More blood. More men laughing and drinking and celebrating.
This was victory.
This was what winning looked like.
Adrian's left hand throbbed. His ribs ached. His throat hurt.
But he didn't cry. He didn't look away.
He kept walking, his small hand in Jaime's big one, his other hand gripping Red Rain.
And he thought about the glass floor in his dreams. He thought about the cracks spreading. He thought about the Shadow Man's blue eye, watching him, waiting for him to fall.
I won't fall, Adrian thought. I'm strong. I'm iron. I'm a Lannister.
But the cracks kept spreading.
And the Shadow Man kept laughing.
Tywin Lannister - 10 Minutes Earlier
The Main Hall of Pyke was a disgrace.
Tywin Lannister stood with his hands clasped behind his back, surveying the room with the cold assessment of a man evaluating a piece of rotting meat. The walls were damp with sea spray. The floors were slick with grime and now, fresh blood. The tapestries that hung from the walls were faded and moth-eaten, depicting krakens and longships in thread that had long since lost any claim to artistry.
This was what the Ironborn called a seat of power. This fetid, crumbling ruin perched on rocks that should have been left to the seabirds.
It was fitting, Tywin supposed, that such a place should house such a people.
The prisoners knelt in the center of the hall, bound in chains that clinked with every trembling movement. Balon Greyjoy was at their head, his weathered face bruised and bloodied, his crown of driftwood long since torn from his head and cast into the sea. His brothers knelt beside him: Aeron, the priest, bleeding from a gash across his temple; Dolen, thick-necked and stupid-looking even in defeat; Quenton, the youngest, who kept his eyes on the floor as though he could will himself into invisibility.
Behind them knelt a dozen other men, supporters from lesser houses. Goodbrothers, Blacktydes. Men who had bent the knee to Balon's madness and now would pay the price.
And then there were the children.
Theon Greyjoy, ten years old, his face streaked with tears and snot. He kept glancing at his father, seeking comfort that would not come. Asha Greyjoy, nine, was harder, strangely, she was not crying like her brother.
Two people were not here. Victarion Greyjoy had abandoned Pyke two nights ago, sailing away on the Iron Victory under cover of darkness. A pragmatist, or a coward. It mattered little. Stannis Baratheon's fleet would hunt him down within the month.
And Euron. Euron Greyjoy, who had started all of this when he took Adrian from Lannisport. Euron, who had vanished into the eastern seas like smoke, leaving his family to burn.
Tywin almost admired the cunning of it. Almost.
The hall was full of men. King Robert Baratheon sat in what passed for a lord's chair, his massive frame making the seat look like a child's toy. He was flushed with victory and wine, his black beard flecked with foam. Lord Jon Arryn stood to his right. Lord Eddard Stark stood to his left.
Tywin stood apart from them all, near the wall, watching. Waiting.
Robert slammed his cup down on the arm of the chair, sloshing wine across the stone. "Kill them!" he roared, gesturing at the prisoners with a meaty hand. "Kill them all! Every grown man who bent the knee to this traitor fuck. Let their blood wash these rocks clean!"
"Your Grace," Jon Arryn said carefully. "We must consider the consequences. If we execute every Greyjoy, every supporter, we risk turning them into martyrs. The Iron Islands will fester with resentment. Another rebellion will rise within a generation."
"Let it rise!" Robert bellowed. "And I'll crush it again! These squid-fucking pirates need to learn their place!"
Ned Stark spoke quietly, but his voice carried in the hall. "Robert. The Greyjoy brothers followed their lord. That is the Ironborn way. And the children... they are innocent of their father's crimes. We cannot slaughter children for the sins of their fathers."
"Can't we?" Robert said, but there was less certainty in his voice now. He looked at Balon with disgust. "What would you have me do, Ned? Pat them on the head and send them home? They burned my ships. They raided my coasts. They killed my men."
"Take hostages," Ned said. "The boy, Theon. I can raise him at Winterfell as my ward. He will learn honor, loyalty. He will be a bridge between the Iron Islands and the mainland."
"A bridge," Robert snorted. "Or a knife waiting to slip between your ribs."
Tywin said nothing. He stood in the shadows near the damp wall, his face impassive, his hands still clasped behind his back. He watched them argue back and forth, watched Robert bluster and Arryn counsel and Stark appeal to mercy.
Fools, all of them.
Robert saw this as a matter of vengeance and glory. Arryn saw it as a political calculation. Stark saw it as a moral question.
None of them saw it clearly.
This was about leverage. This was about control. This was about ensuring that the Iron Islands would never again raise a hand against the crown, against the Westerlands, against House Lannister.
And it was about Adrian.
Tywin thought about his blood. Six years old. Small for his age. A boy who should have been in Casterly Rock learning his numbers and his letters, playing with wooden swords in the training yard.
Instead, he was a boy who had killed four men. A boy who had been chained in a dark cell and starved. A boy who woke screaming in the night, reaching for a Valyrian steel sword that was too heavy for his hands.
Tywin had seen the look in Adrian's eyes these past weeks. The flatness. The cold look. The way he stared at Red Rain as though it were the only real thing in the world.
Good.
The fire had melted him down. Now he was cooling. Now he was taking his shape.
But the shape was not yet set.
Tywin had told Jaime to watch for the moment when Adrian would make a choice. When he would decide what kind of man he would become. Aenys the Indecisive, who wept and wavered and let his kingdom tear itself apart? Or Jaehaerys the Conciliator, who was hard when he needed to be, who understood that mercy and cruelty were both tools to be wielded with precision?
This was that moment.
"Your Grace," Tywin said.
The hall fell silent. All eyes turned to him.
Tywin stepped forward from the shadows, his boots clicking on the wet stone. He moved slowly. He stopped three paces from Robert's chair and clasped his hands in front of him.
"Lord Arryn and Lord Stark make fair points," Tywin said. "But I must remind you all of something. It was House Lannister that suffered most from this rebellion."
Robert frowned. "Tywin—"
"They attacked Lannisport," Tywin continued, speaking over the king without raising his voice. "They burned our ships. They killed our people. And they kidnapped my son."
There was a murmur in the hall. Some of the lords shifted uncomfortably.
Aeron Greyjoy, who had been silent until now, lifted his head. Blood ran down his face from the gash on his temple, but his eyes were sharp. "What heir?" he asked hoarsely. "What son?"
Tywin turned his gaze to Aeron.
"Euron Greyjoy," Tywin said quietly, "kidnapped my son Adrian during the attack on Lannisport. He held him prisoner on Blacktyde for three weeks. Chained. Starved. Beaten."
The murmur grew louder.
Balon Greyjoy's head snapped up. His face twisted with rage. "What?" he roared. "That lying bastard! That treacherous—" He lunged forward against his chains, spittle flying from his lips. "He told me nothing! Nothing! He said he took ships and gold, not—"
"Silence," Tywin said, and Balon fell silent.
Aeron was staring at Tywin with wide eyes. His mouth opened and closed like a fish. "We didn't know," he said, his voice cracking. "My lord, we didn't know. Euron acts on his own. He always has. Balon didn't order this. I swear it on the Drowned God. We would never—"
"I believe you," Tywin said.
Hope flickered in Aeron's eyes.
"But it will not change the outcome."
The hope died.
Tywin turned back to Robert. The king was watching him now with wary eyes, the flush of wine and victory fading from his face.
"Your Grace," Tywin said, "this rebellion cost House Lannister dearly. Our ships. Our people. I ask you now: should House Lannister not have a say in the fate of House Greyjoy?"
Robert shifted in his seat. His jaw worked. Tywin could see the thoughts moving behind his blue eyes, slow and clumsy as oxen. Robert didn't like being outmaneuvered. But Robert also owed Tywin. The Lannisters had funded this war. Lannister gold had paid for the ships, the men, the supplies. And Robert's own Hand, Jon Arryn, was already whispering in his ear about debts and alliances.
"Aye," Robert said finally, though his voice was grudging. "Aye, Tywin. House Lannister has earned that right."
Tywin inclined his head. "Thank you, Your Grace."
He turned toward the entrance to the hall. "Jaime," he called.
Jaime stepped forward from where he had been standing near the door, his white cloak mud-spattered, his face carefully blank. But Tywin saw it. The flicker in his son's eyes. The realization.
Jaime knew what Tywin was doing.
"Fetch Adrian," Tywin said. "Bring him here."
Jaime's face went pale. For a moment, he didn't move. His mouth opened as though he wanted to speak, wanted to argue, wanted to refuse.
"Yes, Father," Jaime said quietly, and turned to go.
"Wait," Robert said, his brow furrowed in confusion. "Why do you need the boy? What's the little lion got to do with this?"
Tywin looked at Robert.
"Adrian was the one who suffered because of these people," Tywin said. "He was taken. He was tortured. He was forced to kill to survive. It is only right that he be the one to decide their fate."
"The boy is six years old!" Jon Arryn pointed out. He stepped forward, his hands raised in protest. "Your Grace, you cannot allow this. A child cannot be expected to—"
"The boy is mine," Tywin said with a cold voice. He turned his gaze to Arryn, but the old man did not show fear. "And he is not House Arryn's concern. This is a matter of justice. Justice for House Lannister. If you take issue with how I administer that justice, Lord Arryn, you are welcome to raise the matter with His Grace after the fact."
Lord Stark seemed like he wanted to say something against this, but it seems he had more brains than he looked. After all, it was not his duty to tell Lord Lannister how to raise their blood.
Tywin turned back to Robert. "Your Grace. This is my son. My heir. My decision."
Robert looked deeply uncomfortable. He rubbed his beard, glanced at Arryn, glanced at Ned. But in the end, he nodded.
"Fine," Robert muttered. "Bring the boy."
Tywin allowed himself the smallest flicker of satisfaction.
He turned back to face the prisoners while they waited. Balon was staring at him with hatred burning in his eyes. Aeron was pale and shaking. The children, Theon and Asha, clung to each other.
Tywin felt nothing for them.
They were tools now. Instruments in a lesson that Adrian needed to learn.
Adrian needed to understand that power was not something you apologized for. Power was not something you hesitated to wield. Power was a sword, and swords were meant to cut.
The boy had killed to survive. That was instinct. That was desperation.
Now he needed to learn to kill by choice. To make the hard decision. To look at an enemy and say: You are a threat to my house, and so you will die.
That was what separated a lion from a lamb.
The doors to the hall opened, and Tywin turned his head.
Jaime entered first, his white cloak dragging through the filth on the floor. His face was pale, drawn tight with something that looked like grief. Behind him came Adrian, small and thin, his left hand still wrapped in bandages, his right hand gripping the hilt of Red Rain. The sword scraped against the stone with a low, grinding sound that echoed through the hall.
Behind them: Sandor Clegane, Armory Lorch, and four Lannister guards.
Tywin watched his blood cross the hall. His green eyes swept the room, taking in the prisoners, the lords, the king.
"Father," Adrian said when he reached Tywin. His voice was rough, damaged from the strangulation marks that still ringed his throat. "I am very happy for our victory."
Tywin inclined his head in acknowledgment. He placed his hand on Adrian's shoulder, feeling the sharp bones beneath the fabric. The boy had lost weight during his captivity. He would need to remedy that once they returned to Casterly Rock.
But first, this.
"Adrian," Tywin said, his voice carrying through the hall. He turned his son toward the line of prisoners. "The men before you are of House Greyjoy. Their bannermen. Their supporters."
Adrian's eyes tracked across the prisoners. Balon, bruised and bleeding. Aeron, trembling. The lesser lords. The two children.
"These are the people," Tywin continued, his hand still resting on Adrian's shoulder, "who sent their ships to Lannisport. Who burned our fleet. Who killed our people."
He paused. Let the words settle.
"Do you remember the Benefort twins?" Tywin asked quietly. "Mira and Mora?"
Adrian's eyes widened slightly.
"They died in the attack," Tywin said. "Crushed when a burning mast fell on the dock where they were playing."
The color drained from his face. His small hand gripped Red Rain's hilt harder.
"And Rollan Westerling," Tywin continued. "You played with him in Lannisterport. Do you remember?"
"Yes," Adrian whispered.
"His father died at Lannisport," Tywin said. "Cut down by a Greyjoy axe. Rollan has no father now because of these people."
Tywin watched his son's face. His eyes went red with tears, green eyes swimming in red, he seemed ready to cry, but then, he blinked, and the tears disappeared, he breathed heavily, and his green eyes turned cold like winter.
"It is up to you," Tywin said, "to decide their fate."
The hall went silent.
Adrian stepped forward. His small boots made soft sounds on the wet stone. He walked slowly down the line of prisoners, looking at each one in turn.
Tywin remained where he was, hands clasped behind his back, watching. This was Adrian's moment. Adrian's choice. He would not interfere.
Adrian stopped in front of Balon Greyjoy. The self-proclaimed king looked up at him, his weathered face twisted with hatred and something else. Fear. Fear of a six-year-old child.
"Please," Aeron Greyjoy said from his place in the line. His voice cracked. "Please, my lord. We didn't know about Euron. We would never have—"
"Silence," Tywin said softly.
Aeron fell silent.
Adrian moved on. He looked at each prisoner. His face was pale, expressionless. Like carved marble. Like a miniature version of Tywin himself.
Pride swelled in Tywin's chest. His blood. His legacy.
Adrian stopped walking. He stood in the center of the hall, facing the prisoners. He was so small, Tywin thought. A child surrounded by giants, yet his shadow reached the very end of the hall, reaching high in the ceiling.
"I want all of them dead," Adrian said.
His voice was clear.
"Except the girl," Adrian added.
Tywin's eyes flicked to Asha Greyjoy. The nine-year-old girl who knelt beside her brother, her face pale but set. She did not cry. She did not beg. She simply stared at Adrian with grey eyes that burned with hatred.
Tywin felt a flicker of something. Not sympathy. Never that. But recognition. The girl had fire in her. She would be trouble if she lived.
But it didn't matter. Adrian had made his choice. One life spared out of sentiment or calculation, Tywin didn't care which. What mattered was that he had condemned the rest without hesitation.
The boy had chosen vengeance. Had chosen strength.
Had chosen to be a Lannister.
"No!" Theon Greyjoy screamed. The boy lunged against his chains, his face streaming with tears and snot. "No, please! Please! Father! Father, please!"
Balon Greyjoy said nothing. He stared at his son with empty eyes.
The Lannister guards moved forward without hesitation. Swords rang as they were drawn from scabbards.
"Mercy!" Aeron cried, his voice rising to a shriek. "Mercy! We didn't know! We are innocent of Euron's crime! Mercy!"
There was no mercy.
The first sword fell on Dolen Greyjoy's neck. He was the thickest, the stupidest, and the executioner's blade stuck halfway through. Dolen made a gurgling sound and fell forward, blood pumping from the wound. The executioner had to wrench the blade free and strike again.
Tywin watched Adrian's face.
The boy did not look away.
Quenton Greyjoy was next. He died cleanly, his head rolling across the floor to stop near Robert Baratheon's feet.
Theon was still screaming. "Please! Please! I'm sorry! I'm sorry! Don't kill me! Don't—"
A Lannister guard grabbed the boy by his hair and forced him to his knees. The sword rose.
"Adrian!" Jaime's voice cut through the hall. He took a step forward, his face stricken. "Adrian, you don't have to—"
"Jaime," Tywin said quietly. Just his name. Nothing more.
Jaime stopped. His hand was on his sword hilt, white-knuckled, trembling.
But he stopped.
The sword fell. Theon Greyjoy's scream cut off mid-breath. His head hit the stone with a wet thump.
Asha Greyjoy made a sound. Not a scream. Something worse. A high, keening wail that sounded like an animal caught in a trap. She lunged forward, her chains catching her, and collapsed on the floor near her brother's head.
Tywin's eyes remained on Adrian.
The boy was standing perfectly still. His face was white as fresh snow. His eyes were fixed on the bodies, but there was something distant in his gaze. Something absent.
He was here, but he was also somewhere else. Somewhere far away.
Balon Greyjoy was dying now. He had stayed silent through the execution of his brothers, through the execution of his son. But now, as the sword came for him, he finally spoke.
"Curse you," he spat at Adrian, blood bubbling from his lips. "Curse you, little monster. Curse your house. Curse your—"
The sword took his head.
The lesser lords followed. One by one, their heads joined the growing pile on the floor. Blood pooled across the stone, spreading in slow rivulets toward the edges of the hall.
Armory Lorch was smiling. Sandor Clegane's face was stone.
Ned Stark had turned away. His hand covered his mouth, and his shoulders were rigid. Jon Arryn was pale as death, his thin hands gripping the back of Robert's chair. Robert himself watched with the grim satisfaction of a man who believed this was justice, not butchery.
Only Tywin and Adrian watched it all.
Father and son.
When it was done, when the last head had rolled and the last body had fallen, the hall was silent except for Asha Greyjoy's sobbing.
She crawled across the blood-slicked floor on her hands and knees, her chains dragging behind her. She reached Theon's head and gathered it to her chest, rocking back and forth, keening.
Tywin looked down at Adrian.
The boy was still staring at the bodies. His face was bloodless. His breathing was shallow and quick. His right hand was white-knuckled on Red Rain's hilt.
But he had not cried. He had not looked away. He had not asked to be taken from the hall.
He had witnessed the consequences of his choice.
That was enough.
Tywin placed his hand on Adrian's shoulder again.
"You did well," Tywin said quietly, for Adrian's ears only.
Adrian looked up at him. Those green eyes, so like Tywin's own, so like his mother's, stared at him, and Tywin knew that look.
Happiness? Fear? Hatred?
"Take him to his chambers," Tywin said to Jaime. "Let him rest."
Jaime moved forward immediately, his face still pale, and placed a gentle hand on Adrian's back. "Come on," Jaime said softly. "It's over."
Adrian let himself be guided toward the door. His steps were mechanical, his eyes unfocused. Red Rain dragged behind him, leaving a thin line in the blood on the floor.
Tywin watched him go.
Behind him, Asha Greyjoy continued to sob over her brother's corpse. Robert Baratheon was calling for more wine. Ned Stark had left the hall entirely. Jon Arryn was speaking in low, urgent tones to one of his knights.
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