The feast had not started.
Lyonel had other work first.
He went back to his room and changed into a clean practice shirt, cuffs bound, trousers stuffed into his boots.
The ugly thing in the mirror looked sharper than it had any right to.
Charm +5 from the purple entry was doing honest labor.
The crooked mouth no longer looked like a man mid-stroke.
He left, took three corridors, and went down two flights.
The yard sat on the west face of the Rock.
Open air.
Coarse sand.
A ring of timber rails.
Too early for knights.
Two servants were straightening straw targets in the distance and pretending he did not exist.
He stopped at the rack, went up on his toes, and pulled down a wooden sword.
It was too heavy.
He almost dropped it.
He breathed in and lifted.
The original arms were kindling.
Ten seconds and they shook.
The ache ran from shoulder to wrist in a straight, stupid line.
What a body.
A village grandfather with a stick would have looked more dangerous.
He was still fighting the weight when boots whispered over sand behind him.
“What are you doing?” Jaime’s voice had that lazy lift in it, the sound a cat makes watching a dog chase its own tail.
Lyonel turned.
Jaime wore a linen drill shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbow, forearms cut clean as good work.
The belt sat loose.
Wind had ruined the gold hair.
He was still handsome enough to punch.
“Swordwork.” He raised the practice blade again.
The shake got worse.
Jaime walked over and watched for three seconds.
Then he laughed.
“You hold that like a mop.” “…” “Loosen the wrist.” Jaime’s fingers found the back of Lyonel’s hand.
Long.
Warm.
“A sword is not something you strangle.
Keep the fingers tight and leave space in the web.
When you cut, the waist turns first.
The arms follow.” The heat of that hand covered Lyonel’s whole fist like a tent.
“Like this?” He shifted his grip.
“Half an inch more in the hip.” Jaime’s other hand caught his shoulder and eased him back.
The spine came up.
Weight dropped.
Knees bent.
The whole stance stopped arguing with the ground.
The panel flickered at the edge of his sight.
[Instruction detected: sword guidance.
Learning rate +200% for one hour.] Lyonel took it.
He ran the points Jaime had given him.
Cut.
Thrust.
Parry.
Guard.
Low center every time.
Hip first.
Hands after.
Jaime folded his arms and watched.
The smile lasted a few minutes.
Then it thinned.
“Have you done this before?” “No.” “That last parry—” Jaime stepped in and showed the line with two fingers.
“You didn’t drift.
Weight stayed put.
You could have reversed off the block.
Beginners don’t do that.” Lyonel shrugged.
“Remarkable bones.” Jaime looked at the mismatched eyes for two seconds and let it go.
He turned to the rack, chose a wooden sword near the weight of live steel, and tested it once.
“Come on.” “I’ll teach you how to hurt someone.” Jaime did not teach pretty.
He taught the kind of work that kept a man breathing.
Lyonel attacked.
Jaime caught it.
The instant the blow was spent he gave it back, borrowed force, and stopped the wood on Lyonel’s wrist.
Pain.
No break.
Every time.
“Too slow.” Lyonel bared his teeth and shook the numb hand.
“The man across from you will not wait.” Jaime took three steps back.
The practice blade hung easy, point toward the sand, as if he were out for a stroll.
The blue eyes were not strolling.
Lyonel went again.
This time he did not chop like a fool.
He dropped his height and drove in under Jaime’s guard, using the body Tywin hated as a door.
The wood cut hard at the knees.
Fast.
Ugly.
Crack.
Jaime flicked from the ground up, knocked the line away, and turned the blade in one motion.
The flat came to rest across Lyonel’s throat.
“That one had teeth.” Jaime took the sword off him and smiled.
“Short has a cost.
Sit too low and a taller man pins you.
Learn to change.
First the speed.
Then the pause.
Then the line.” Lyonel sat in the sand and dragged air.
Sweat had soaked through.
His arms felt poured full of lead.
His head was clean.
Half an hour.
Seven or eight basic cuts living in the muscle.
Grip, footwork, the ugly little economy of not falling over.
More than the original boy had stolen in fifteen years.
The panel opened again.
[Instruction ended.
Rating: Adequate.
Host awarded one skill-entry draw.] His eyes lit.
He hit draw while he was still breathing hard.
Blue and green braided across the glass.
[Congratulations.
Green entry acquired: Basic Sword Framework] Effect: Seven fundamental cuts locked.
Form accuracy +80%.
In live work, prediction of an opponent’s line +15%.
Passive.
Green.
Not glory.
Not nothing.
At this hour it was a rope thrown down a well.
The half-learned motions snapped into place.
Where a cut started.
Where a thrust wanted to go.
The bounce off a parry.
All of it lined up a second time, cleaner.
He stood and cut once.
Twice as fast as the first hour.
The point made a small sound in the air.
Jaime’s brow went up.
“…You’ve got a gift.” “Which.” “The gift for taking a beating.” Jaime tossed the sword back onto the rack, walked over, and put a hand on his head.
“Getting up after it matters more than any pretty form.” Lyonel rolled the green eye and the black one together.
“Is that praise or an insult?” “Praise.” Jaime grinned.
“I only know the one.” Wind pushed across the yard and rolled the sand.
Lyonel set his sword on the rack and looked at his brother.
Sun stood behind the man.
Gold hair.
Easy stance.
Something that had stepped out of a painting and decided the rest of them could live with it.
“Brother.
I need to say this.” “Mm.” “I mentioned the name at breakfast.
I haven’t put it in front of Tywin yet.
Tonight, at the feast.
In front of them.” Jaime went still for a breath.
“You’ve thought it through?
Tyrion has been your name fifteen years.
The West uses it.
The Seven Kingdoms use it.” “Someone else put that name on me.” Lyonel looked up and did not blink.
“Lyonel is mine.” Jaime was quiet three seconds.
Then he put out a fist.
Lyonel rose on his toes and bumped it with a short, thick hand that still looked like a bun.
“All right,” Jaime said.
“Tonight I stand next to you.
Anyone with a mouth can find out whether I still have eyes.” “Does a Kingsguard glare kill a man?” “The girls in King’s Landing seem to think so.” “That’s not fear.” “Close enough.” They looked at each other and broke at the same time.
The laugh ran out across the sand.
Lyonel left the yard and stopped two steps later.
He looked at his hands.
Short.
Thick.
Fingertips scraped raw by wood.
When he closed them, they were harder than yesterday.
In the corner of the panel, Basic Sword Framework sat burning a patient green.
Two empty slots waited on tomorrow’s clock.
Tonight there was still a feast.
Bannermen.
Tywin.
The West watching.
Lyonel licked his lips and started toward the Great Hall.
Tonight.
He was going to throw the name Tyrion into the sea.