The feast had not started.
Lyonel had other work first.
He changed in his rooms.
Short kit.
Cuffs bound.
Breeches stuffed into the boots.
The ugly thing in the glass looked sharper—Charm 5 doing a little of what it claimed.
The crooked mouth no longer read like a stroke.
He went out.
Three corridors.
Two flights down.
The yard sat on the west face of Casterly Rock, open, coarse sand, a rail of timber around it.
Too early for knights.
Empty except for two servants dragging straw men at the far end.
He came up on his toes at the rack and hooked a wooden sword.
Heavy.
It nearly left his hand.
He pulled air and got it up.
The first Tyrion’s arms were kindling.
A dozen seconds and they shook.
The burn ran from shoulder to wrist.
This meat.
A drunk with a broom would have held a cleaner line.
He was still fighting the sword when boots came through the sand behind him.
“What are you doing?”
Jaime’s voice had a lazy lift in it.
A cat watching its own stupid dog chase a tail.
Lyonel looked back.
Training linen.
Sleeves rolled to the elbow.
Forearms cut in clean lines.
Belt loose.
Gold hair wrecked by the wind and still a face a man wanted to hit for existing.
“Sword.”
He got the wood up again.
Worse tremor.
Jaime came and stood.
Three seconds.
Said nothing.
Then he laughed.
“You hold that like a mop.”
“…”
“Loose in the wrist.” Jaime’s hand came down.
Long fingers on the back of Lyonel’s.
“A sword is not something you strangle.
It lives.
Fingers tight.
A gap in the web.
The cut comes from the hip.
Not from waving your arm.”
Heat on the small hand.
Jaime’s palm was a tent over it.
“Like this?”
He shifted his grip.
“Half an inch more in the hip.”
Jaime’s other hand found his shoulder and drew him back.
Lyonel’s frame corrected some ten or fifteen degrees.
Weight dropped.
Knees soft.
The stance took.
The pane flickered at the right of his sight.
[System]
Instruction detected — sword work.
Host learning bonus: efficiency +200% for one hour.
He took it.
He ran Jaime’s points again.
Cut.
Thrust.
Parry.
Guard.
Weight low.
Hip first.
Hands after.
Jaime folded his arms and watched.
The smile held for a few minutes, then thinned.
“You’ve done this.”
“No.”
“That last guard—” Jaime stepped to his flank and marked the shape.
“You didn’t sway.
Center held.
You could have reversed off it.
A green man does not make that.”
Lyonel shrugged.
“Maybe I’m built funny.”
Jaime looked at the mismatched eyes for two seconds and let it go.
He took a wooden sword off the rack matched to the weight of his own steel and hefted it.
“Come on.”
“I’ll show you how to hit a man.”
Jaime taught ugly.
No flourishes.
Work.
He let Lyonel come and he took it and he used the start of the cut to send it back.
The wood stopped on Lyonel’s wrist every time.
The measure was exact.
It hurt.
It did not break him.
“Too fast.” Lyonel shook the numb hand and showed his teeth.
“The field will not wait for you.”
Jaime gave him three steps.
The wooden point hung toward the sand.
He stood like a man on a walk.
The blue eyes did not.
Lyonel went again.
He did not chop like a fool this time.
He dropped and stepped and used the short body, driving at Jaime’s knees, a fast, dirty line.
Crack.
Jaime’s toe lifted, wood coming up from under, knocking the attack off.
The backhand followed.
The flat stopped at Lyonel’s throat.
“That one was decent.” Jaime took the sword away, smiling.
“Short has a cost.
Sit that low and a man can pin you.
Learn change.
One: faster.
Two: slower.
Three: the angle.”
Lyonel dropped to a squat and dragged air.
Sweat everywhere.
Arms full of lead.
Head clean.
Half an hour and the body had kept seven or eight base movements—grip, foot, the rest.
More than the first Tyrion had taken in fifteen years.
The pane blinked.
[System]
Instruction ended.
Overall: Pass.
Host granted one skill-trait draw.
His eyes went up.
There it was.
He hit draw while he was still blowing.
Blue and green braided across the pane.
[System]
Green trait acquired: Basic Sword Frame
Seven fundamental cuts.
Form accuracy +80%.
In live work, prediction of an opponent’s line: 15%.
Passive.
Green.
Not high.
Not low.
In this hour it was food.
The half-cooked work in his head suddenly ran on a string.
Where a cut starts.
The line of a thrust.
The bounce off a guard.
All of it clicked to a mark.
He stood and tried one.
Twice the speed of half an hour gone.
The point put a thin sound in the air.
Jaime’s brow moved.
“…You’ve got a gift.”
“What gift.”
“For taking a beating.” Jaime tossed the wood back on the rack and came and put a hand on his head.
“Standing up after it.
That matters more than sword work.”
Lyonel rolled the green-and-black eyes.
“Brother.
Is that praise or a kick?”
“Praise.” Jaime showed his teeth.
“I only praise you.”
Wind cut the yard and rolled grit across the sand.
Lyonel put his sword back.
He turned.
Sun behind Jaime.
The tall gold man stood in the middle of it like something stepped out of a painting.
“Brother.
I need to tell you something.”
“Mm.”
“I raised the name at breakfast.
I haven’t taken it to Tywin.
I’ll say it tonight.
At the feast.
In front of them.”
Jaime stopped.
“You’re sure.
Tyrion has been on you fifteen years.
The West.
The Seven Kingdoms.
That’s the name they have.”
“That name was given.” Lyonel looked up.
“Lyonel is the one I pick.”
Jaime was quiet three seconds.
Then he put a fist out.
Lyonel came up on his toes and bumped it with the short fat one.
“Fine,” Jaime said.
“I’ll be there.
Anyone talks, I’ll look at them until they stop.”
“Does that work?”
“Kingsguard stare.
Every girl in King’s Landing is afraid of it.”
“That’s shyness.”
“Same thing.”
They looked at each other and both laughed.
The sand seemed to shake with it.
Lyonel started for the rail.
Two steps.
He stopped.
He looked at his hand.
Short.
Thick.
Skin raw where the wood had taken it.
The fist closed harder than yesterday.
On the pane, Basic Sword Frame sat lower left in green.
Two empty slots waited on tomorrow’s refresh.
The feast still ahead.
Bannermen.
Tywin.
The West.
He licked his mouth and walked toward the hall.
Tonight.
He would throw Tyrion in the sea.