10/05/2026 20:13

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Tyrion watched his father fly past, the crimson-and-gold banner of Lannister rippling over his head as he thundered across the field. Bronn had yanked back the man's head by the hair and driven the point of his dirk in under the ear, and afterward told Catelyn Stark that the other sellsword had died of his wound. His bloodriders cut the bells from their hair, and now Khal Drogo's every step rings louder than before. He had a swatch of oiled leather in one hand.

Unlatching the back door, she peeked out anxiously. And Tyrion would be only too glad to take his chances in a trial. He was the true heir, the eldest, born to rule. He had never seen the eunuch dress in anything but silk and velvet and the richest damasks, and this man smelled of sweat instead of lilacs.