Tyrion sipped his wine as he closed the distance, watching the tall boy and the scowling sworn sword beside him. Gods, but Jaime could sour milk at fifty paces when he wished it. And Harrick—yes, that was the man's name— looked as if someone had just pissed in his wine cup and made him drink it.
"I would take offense to you calling my lady mother a whore," Tyrion said lightly, letting the words roll off his tongue as if they were a jest. They were not, but in this family, tone was armor.
The boy—Artys Arryn, King Robert's new squire and all of eight-and-some—turned to face him. Up close, the lad was too composed for his years. Broad in the shoulder, steady in the eye. Looking every inch a high lord in waiting .
Ser Harrick dipped his head, stiff as a spear haft. "No offense meant, my lord."
"Of course not," Tyrion replied, smiling as though he believed it. He did not. Smallfolk and knights alike thought the Lannisters too proud to bleed from insult, but Tyrion knew better. He'd bled enough for all of them.
The boy studied him—not with pity, which Tyrion appreciated, but with that polite curiosity the well-bred are taught to wear. He gave a small bow. "My lord."
"Masterful shooting today," Tyrion said, raising his cup in salute. "Half the yard is muttering about it. You cost three Lannister cousins a great deal of coin, which has endeared you to me more than you know."
A glimmer of amusement touched the boy's mouth. "I'll try to ruin more of their wagers before the tourney ends."
"Oh, do," Tyrion said. "It will keep them humble, and the realm could use more of that."
He turned his gaze briefly toward the lists, where men were still celebrating Ser Jorah Mormont's victory in the joust. Robert was roaring something about melee brackets and barrels of ale, while Cersei looked as though she'd swallowed her own teeth. Jaime stood beside the king again, golden and contemptuous, as ever.
"Careful around my brother," Tyrion added, his eyes flicking back to Artys. "He doesn't dislike you—Jaime dislikes most people. You simply had the misfortune of standing near him when his pride felt cramped by another man's skill."
Artys nodded once. "Ser Jaime spoke his mind. I spoke mine. That's done."
Gods, but the boy was composed. No bluster. No simpering. If he survived court, he might even grow dangerous.
Tyrion took another swallow of wine, then lowered his voice. "And between us, young falcon—your father is already calculating what to do with the renown you have won him . Tywin too, though he'd sooner eat his own tongue than say it."
The lad didn't flinch, as most children would when Tywin Lannister's name was spoken.
"Should I be flattered or afraid, my lord?" Artys asked.
"Both," Tyrion said. "That's how sensible men survive my family."
A roar went up near the king's tent—Robert calling for more wine or more song, or both. Tyrion tipped his cup toward the sound. "Best not keep His Grace waiting. Squires and fools are the only folk he remembers fondly."
Artys inclined his head. "I shall take my leave my lord and i had heard you are quite the learned man i hope to trouble you for some insights before i leave lannisport."
"of course that would be no trouble at all ," Tyrion said, stepping aside with a crooked grin. He watched the boy go, Ser Harrick trailing behind him like a wary hound.
Eight years old, he mused, rolling the last of the wine around his tongue. And already half the court is watching him. Best hope the other half don't start fearing him too soon.
Because in King's Landing—and everywhere the lions cast their shadows—that was how promising boys ended up as corpses.