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The tournament was about to begin, and everyone important in Westeros had already arrived. The tournament was grand, gathering all the major houses and notable people in the world. Everything seemed very expensive and impressive to Tyrion.
Considering the scale of the tournament, it was strange that House Whent alone could afford to fund it all. So it wasn't surprising that there were rumors—true or not—that other people were financing the tournament behind the scenes, not House Whent.
His brother Jaime was already dressed in his armor and had joined the other competitors for the jousts.
As far as Tyrion knew, there would be about ten days of fights and ten days of feasts.
He was in a special area for the "nobility." From there, he could see the other houses—the Starks, the Tullys, the Martells, and many others.
Meanwhile, the poor had their own section. He, his uncle, and his cousin were gathered there.
To be honest, Tyrion didn't like large crowds at all. He preferred smaller gatherings of four or fifteen people. Seeing hundreds of people together made the little dwarf uncomfortable.
His cousin Lancel seemed excited, while his uncle Kevan seemed as usual—nothing surprising.
Tyrion watched the competitors gather and, while waiting, decided to rest his hands on his chin.
His uncle Kevan glanced over and saw his clearly bored nephew. He opened his mouth to speak a little with him; his own spirits were low, so it was good to have someone to talk to.
"Tyrion, you seem a little down. Not enjoying yourself?" he asked.
Tyrion turned, still with his hands on his chin, and replied:
"I don't like noise much. I prefer the comfort of my room, and a warm roof over my head," the dwarf answered.
His uncle Kevan then asked:
"Then why did you decide to come? If you don't like crowds, you should've stayed in Casterly Rock," he said.
"I… well, I wanted to get out a little. I don't know how to explain it, but I think staying home too much isn't good either," Tyrion replied.
Kevan narrowed his eyes and, with a confused look, said:
"Tyrion, you're strange. Sometimes I don't understand you," his uncle said.
They were having a lively conversation. The initial competitors were gathering, and the tournament was about to begin.
Tyrion also found his uncle Kevan strange, perhaps because he was a dwarf? He didn't really know.
In the original story, Tyrion was supposed to be a drunkard who slept with countless prostitutes and spent his days drinking. This might have made Kevan distance himself from Tyrion, since he was still "normal" and hadn't done anything like that, and, to be honest, didn't intend to. Perhaps that made his uncle show him a little more affection—not much, but more than his father, maybe.
At that moment, Tyrion was no longer talking to his uncle; he had quickly left to do something. His cousin Lancel was nearby.
Tyrion was observing the important people present. Occasionally, Lancel would say something, and Tyrion would just grunt in agreement, not paying much attention:
"Uh-huh, uh-huh."
As he drifted into thought, someone approached from behind and placed their hands on his shoulders.
Tyrion jumped in surprise. He had been lost in thought and hadn't noticed anyone approaching. He slowly turned his head, hoping it wasn't an assassin or something worse.
As he turned, he saw two imposing figures behind him, one of whose aura he recognized even from behind.
The first:
Tall, broad-shouldered, with perfect posture and an air of haughtiness. He never seemed tired, never seemed to relax. To Tyrion, a child and a dwarf, he seemed even bigger—almost like walking armor.
His face was tense, expression serious, pale green eyes cold, seeming to look right through people. To Tyrion, whenever he looked at him, his eyes were constantly judging, cold, disappointed.
His hair was blond and thinning, already showing early signs of hair loss. His clothes were extremely high-class and expensive, embroidered with gold. He wore armor with the Lannister lion clearly visible.
When he arrived, everyone fell silent. Nobody dared disrespect him; he was an authority everyone feared.
Tyrion called this man "father," though in reality he was a reincarnated soul in another body. It was strange for Tyrion to consider him a father in this life; he had never really seen him as a dad.
Yet, whether he liked it or not, he was this man's son. Tyrion already had an adult mind. He didn't remember his past clearly, but he had enough emotional strength not to care about his father's absence or disappointment.
That was what he believed. Even with no real bond with this man, the constant judgment sometimes affected him, even though his soul was "strong."
Of course, Tywin would also come. He arrived a little later, due to political matters he needed to handle, so he sent his brother in his place until he arrived.
When he arrived, he obviously looked first for his eldest son, Jaime. From his men, he learned that another son was there as well.
There was someone else with Tywin, but this one was not as tall, not nearly bald. Tyrion partially covered his face with one hand, showing an expression of physical and mental "pain"—it was hard not to notice her look of disappointment.
This person didn't like Tyrion, and Tyrion didn't like her either. To be honest, she hated him more. She was a girl. At first glance, many would think she was a sweet and pure flower, full of kindness.
But in reality, she was a bold and cruel snake. Perhaps she was kind to others—her brother Jaime, even excessively so, Tyrion thought—but with him, she was the most venomous snake alive.
She was the same age as her twin brother Jaime (15).
Her appearance was typical of a pure Lannister: long, straight golden hair, green eyes.
She carried herself with the grace of nobility, every movement elegant. She wore a long, richly embroidered gown, covered in beautiful, expensive jewelry and accessories, with fine jewels and a fragrant perfume.
Her perfume was pleasant, but to Tyrion it had an uncomfortable scent.
Cersei was already 15 and fully aware of her words, yet she had no mercy for her little brother. Whenever she had the chance, she made cruel comments about Tyrion for being a dwarf and blamed him for their mother's death. She never hid her hatred from him.
Whenever she could, she humiliated, belittled, provoked, and threw emotional blows that would crush any ordinary boy. She truly believed Tyrion had killed their mother, destroyed the family, and was a disgrace to the Lannisters.
When Tyrion saw these people, he did what he could. He turned and, with an awkward smile, greeted Tywin first. "Damn what Cersei thinks," Tyrion thought.
"Father, it's so good to see you. What brings you here?" he asked, tension in his shoulders, trying to find some topic to discuss.
Tywin moved and sat beside Tyrion, in the space where his uncle Kevan had been.
"Obviously, I came on the king's business. Do you think I would come for any other reason?" his father replied with his usual humility.
"Don't ask stupid questions. Our father is tired from the journey," his sister's voice interjected as she passed by and sat beside their father.
"Where is Jaime?" asked Tywin.
Tyrion responded again, shoulders slightly tense:
"He's already down there with the others," he said.
From the stands, Tywin looked at the area where the competitors were and saw Jaime among them. He couldn't help but feel a little pride for Jaime, the only son he didn't consider a nuisance.
"Jaime looks so handsome in that armor," said Cersei, unable to resist.
Tyrion glanced at his sister unnoticed and thought, "Maybe you'd find him even more handsome if he were naked on top of you."
Cersei still didn't know that Tyrion knew her secret.
"It's no use being handsome if he doesn't win. I hope he doesn't lose too quickly—it would be a shame," said Tywin.
During this time, Tyrion tried to talk with his father, or at least attempted to. His father didn't enjoy speaking to him, and Tyrion didn't insist.
As for his sister, the "cow," as Tyrion liked to call her in his thoughts, he didn't mind her not wanting to converse. In fact, he preferred it—the more distance, the better.
Peace didn't last long; that's what Tyrion had learned. Unfortunately, someone interrupted it. Tywin said:
"I didn't allow you to come. You came here without my permission. Who let you come?"
Tyrion swallowed hard and replied:
"I came with my brother and some of his knights. We didn't encounter any problems along the way…" he answered, lacking confidence.
Tywin responded with passive-aggressive sharpness:
"You came with him. You were probably a nuisance during his journey. Have you thought about how much you bothered him by coming along?"
"I… I didn't think about it, but if I did, I didn't mean to," Tyrion replied.
His father cast his characteristic disappointed look. As for Cersei, he didn't see her face—she was turned sideways—but she probably had a smile.
Tywin ended his brief conversation, or rather his sentence of disappointment. Most of the time, when his father spoke to him, it was to tell him how much of an idiot Tyrion was, how clueless he was, how much of a disappointment.
More of the same for Tyrion.
After that, his father fell silent, seemingly waiting for something.
A few minutes later, the first matches of the tournament began.
There were many; Tyrion didn't recognize most. He knew a few prominent figures, like his brother and Prince Rhaegar.
He recognized Rhaegar because of his armor.
The first battles were jousts. They held lances and, mounted on their horses, charged at each other. Whoever hit first and unseated their opponent won. It was simple, and everyone enjoyed it.
As the tournament progressed, people cheered when someone won and felt sad when their favorite lost.
Everyone watched with interest, and even Tyrion found it entertaining.
Then someone arrived, capturing the attention of all the nobles. Everyone paused and focused on him, creating a temporary silence in the arena—it was none other than the king.
He had long white hair, long nails, and looked old—not that he really was, but due to poor care, he appeared so.
He arrived with an escort and turned his gaze toward where Tyrion was—not at Tyrion, but at his father.
A few seconds later, everyone resumed their conversations and activities, but no one could avert their gaze from the king.
Seeing his state, everyone came to the same conclusion: "Our king is truly mad."
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