Westeros
Tyrion and his company rode toward Golden Tooth. It was their fifth day upon the road.
Tyrion could hardly endure it any longer. Weariness gnawed at his small frame. He had insisted on coming, and truly, he had wished for it—but his body was far weaker than he had expected, or than he cared to admit.
To his relief, however, they were not far now.
Along the road they passed countless peasant farms and the manors of lesser lords.
The journey itself was not unpleasant. The road was lined with golden grass and fields of wheat that swayed gently in the wind—a fair sight, far lovelier than anything in the North, Tyrion thought.
When the western mountains began to rise upon the horizon, he knew they were close.
As they advanced, mining villages and gold collection outposts appeared, all under the watchful protection of House Lannister.
After another day's travel, the land grew rougher. Twilight crept across the sky, and the sun was sinking when at last they drew near.
"Tyrion, we've arrived. Try not to fall from your horse," Jaime said, half amused.
"Truly? That is splendid. I could hardly bear another mile," Tyrion sighed in relief.
"I know. You're not the only one. We're all a bit weary," Jaime replied.
"I cannot wait to strip off this cursed armor," grumbled one knight. Another smirked and said,
"Best be cautious taking it off—you never know when we might need it."
"Enough nonsense, you fools. Lord Leo Lefford is a loyal friend of our house," another knight retorted.
"My apologies, my lord," the first said quickly. "I meant no offense."
In the distance, Tyrion beheld Castle Lefford, its banner flying proudly upon the walls—a golden lion upon a blue field, a mirror of the Lannister sigil with its colors reversed.
As Tyrion and Jaime approached, a small host of riders came forth to meet them.
The Lefford men-at-arms wore dark-blue padded tunics trimmed in gold. Over these, they bore boiled leather or chainmail, according to rank. Their helms were of polished steel edged with gold, and short blue cloaks hung from their shoulders, embroidered with the golden lion of their house.
Their shields were painted blue with lions of gold, and they bore short swords or spears. The knights and household guards were clad in full plate, the joints gilded, their helms crowned with lion crests. Their cloaks were of rich blue wool, lined with gold fabric.
The riders halted before them. One, who seemed their leader, called out in a firm voice:
"Who goes there? Identify yourselves!"
Tyrion glanced toward Jaime, his face betraying unease. Jaime met his brother's eyes and urged his horse forward. His tone was calm and commanding—the voice of a man well aware of his name and its weight.
"My name is Jaime Lannister. This is my brother, Tyrion Lannister—and these men ride with us."
The soldiers exchanged wary looks. The name Lannister was known to all, though few had ever stood before one. Suspicion flickered among them.
The captain frowned. "You claim to be Jaime Lannister? You know the penalty for deceit, my lord—impersonating a noble is a grave crime."
"I am well aware," Jaime said smoothly. "But you need not trouble yourself. Lord Leo Lefford will recognize me at once when you bring me before him."
The soldiers looked to one another, uncertain, then nodded. It was wiser to obey. If he truly was a Lannister, offending him could bring ruin. Their fine clothes lent credence to his claim.
"Very well. Ride with us," the captain ordered.
They followed the Lefford men toward the fortress.
As they rode, the captain asked, "What brings you here, ser? You are far from Casterly Rock."
"We are bound for the tournament at Harrenhal," Jaime replied. "We chose this road—it is shorter. We seek only a night's rest before continuing. We will not impose long."
The captain slowed his mount to ride beside Tyrion.
"You must be Tyrion Lannister," he said. "I've heard tales of you."
"Oh? I didn't know my fame had spread so far across Westeros. I hope they were kind tales," Tyrion replied dryly.
"Kind? Not quite," the captain said with a faint smile. "But seeing you up close, I'd say the tales are… exaggerated."
"Well, that's a comfort," Tyrion said.
"And what makes a man like you—pardon me, a Lannister—leave Casterly Rock and ride so far? Surely not for the tournament? They say you've little love for swords. Is there some hidden reason?"
"None that I know of," Tyrion said. "I merely wished for a change of scenery. Warm rooms and endless feasts grow dull after a while."
The captain considered this and gave a curt nod. It was the sort of complaint he expected from nobles—those who tired of luxury while peasants dreamed of it.
"I see. Perhaps you speak true," he said.
Before long, the great gates of Golden Tooth rose before them, flanked by towers bristling with guards.
Tyrion felt a flicker of unease, though Jaime remained composed.
"Open the gates!" the captain cried.
The iron doors groaned and swung wide.
Within, the captain led them through the fortress toward Lord Leo Lefford, an old friend of Tywin's.
Golden Tooth proved as magnificent inside as without—its halls gleamed with polished stone and goldwork.
Lord Leo was in his council chamber, deep in discussion with his retainers, when the doors opened and the newcomers entered.
Jaime and Tyrion stepped inside, leaving their knights to wait beyond.
"Who comes before me?" Lord Lefford asked.
He was an older man, his hair a pale golden hue, his beard neatly kept the same color—a reflection of old Lannister blood. His eyes were blue, keen and cold, and his face was square and strong, marked by quiet authority.
"It's I, Jaime Lannister," Jaime said.
Lefford's gaze shifted to the small man beside him.
"And that must be Tyrion, your brother. It's the first time I've set eyes on him."
"Yes, my lord. I hope my presence does not disappoint," Tyrion said lightly.
"Not at all," Lefford replied. "The sons of Tywin are ever welcome within these walls. Tell me, what service can I render you?"
"My lord, we are bound for the tournament at Harrenhal," Jaime explained. "We seek only a night or two of rest."
"Of course," said Lefford at once. "But you should hasten your journey—the tournament begins in some fifty days, and it is a long road still."
"We know. We shan't linger. You have my father's gratitude," Jaime said with a courteous bow.
"Very well. I am occupied at present, but my maid will see you to your chambers. If you require anything, speak to her. You must be hungry—I'll have food sent at once."
"Our thanks," Jaime replied.
The maid who stood nearby led them to their rooms and saw to their belongings.
Later, Jaime ordered food for all, and once settled, they gathered in the soldiers' hall—a wide chamber of stone with long wooden tables.
"This is a fine stronghold," one knight remarked. "One day I'll have one of my own."
"Work hard enough and you might rent the pigsty," another quipped, and laughter rippled through the hall.
"When will that damned maid bring our meal?" one knight grumbled. "Jaime, didn't you say food was coming? We're starving!"
"I don't know. I'm starving too, but there's little I can do," Jaime replied.
They were all famished, caring little if the food might even be poisoned—hunger would win regardless.
At last, servants appeared, bearing steaming pots of food and setting them down with wooden spoons.
"Finally! Took you long enough. Next time, don't tarry so," snapped a surly knight.
Tyrion frowned. The maids were thin and weary, yet had brought them warm food—and were repaid with scorn.
He turned to them and said, "Forgive my companion. He's an idiot—rude and foolish, but not cruel. As an apology, share our meal. Take a plate and eat with us."
One of the maids, a frail girl with short hair, murmured softly, "My lord, we cannot… we would rather not."
Tyrion's heart sank. In his eyes, no one should fear to eat.
The knights watched him change in that instant—from gentle to commanding, a lion's voice in a child's body.
"I said sit and eat," Tyrion ordered firmly. "Do as your lord commands. Fear nothing. If anyone dares punish you, they'll answer to me."
The maids exchanged glances, still trembling. Fear held them fast.
Tyrion sighed and rose. "Very well. Wait here—I shall return."
He left the hall.
"Where do you think he's gone?" a knight asked.
"He said he'd return. I'm curious," Jaime replied.
In the kitchens, Tyrion seized three plates and called out for all to hear:
"I, Tyrion Lannister, am giving food to those three maids. If anyone seeks to punish them—punish me instead!"
The head cook froze. The name Lannister carried weight enough. None dared object.
Tyrion returned, set the plates upon the table, and gestured for the maids to sit.
The knights stared, eyes wide. For a moment, respect glimmered among them—most were not highborn men.
Jaime smiled faintly, proud though not wholly approving.
The maids at last took their seats and began to eat.
"Thank you," whispered the short-haired girl.
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