After Tywin Lannister finished introducing his daughter, his gaze naturally shifted to the son who had been standing beside her all along, like her mirror image. These blonde, green-eyed twins were always inseparable, the most dazzling and tightest alliance in Casterly Rock.
"This is my eldest son and heir, Jaime Lannister." Tywin's voice carried a trace of imperceptible regard, different from when introducing Cersei.
Jaime Lannister stepped forward, his nearly perfect face overflowing with sun-like confidence and curiosity, a sharp contrast to Cersei's coldness. He looked at Euron undisguisedly, lips curling into a rather charming smile: "Ser Arthur mentioned you to me," his voice brisk, "He said you also use dual swords, and your swordsmanship is quite good. After the banquet, we must find a chance to spar."
Euron bowed slightly, tone humble and appropriate: "It is the 'Sword of the Morning' who overpraised me. As you know, he is always happy to encourage juniors." He cleverly defused the potential contest into guidance from a senior.
However, Jaime then blinked and blurted out an inappropriate comment: "Hey, your eyes are really special. Like my brother's, they are two different colors." These words were spoken lightly, but instantly made Cersei's face even colder beside him, and caused a ripple of awkwardness in the air.
Duke Tywin keenly captured the change in his daughter's mood. His sharp gaze swept over Cersei's face, understanding she had no interest in this second son of the Iron Islands. Thus, he completely ignored the youngest son hiding in some unknown corner, as if he didn't exist in the family tree, and ended this introduction.
Watching Tywin Lannister turn and leave with his dazzling children, merging into the noisy guests, Quellon Greyjoy keenly sensed the lingering coldness in the air. He walked to his son's side, voice pressed extremely low, carrying the Ironborn's unique straightforwardness: "Looks like this is a no-go. That girl didn't take a fancy to you." His tone held no regret, more like stating an observed fact.
Euron didn't appear disappointed. He pondered for a moment, then asked tentatively: "Then... what do you think of Ashara Dayne?"
"House Dayne?" Quellon's thick eyebrows raised slightly. "Dorne, House Dayne of Starfall? That sister of 'Sword of the Morning' Arthur Dayne?" He confirmed, tone carrying the implication of weighing pros and cons.
Seeing Euron nod affirmatively, Quellon fell into brief thought. Marrying into Dorne's most prestigious knightly family—the advantages and disadvantages needed quick assessment. "Starfall... The reputation of the 'Sword of the Morning' is indeed a heavy dowry." He finally said deeply, not rejecting immediately. "No rush on this matter, but... it can be considered." He gave an answer leaving ample room.
Finished speaking, Quellon turned to walk toward other lords, continuing his socializing and observation.
Just as Quellon turned away, Euron's gaze slowly swept the edge of the noisy hall. In a shadow-shrouded corner, he saw a lonely, small figure—Tyrion Lannister, standing alone holding a cup disproportionate to his size, looking at the lively center with complex eyes, like a forgotten grey silhouette.
And Euron made a choice almost no noble present would make—he didn't chase those glamorous figures but walked straight towards that corner deliberately ignored by everyone, towards Tyrion Lannister sitting alone in the shadows.
He stopped in front of the little dwarf. Their eyes met. Euron revealed no pity or curiosity, just pointed to his own strange eyes—one black, one blue—and bloomed a frank, malice-free smile:
"Look, we are the same. Both heterochromatic."
The noise of the banquet hall was like a warm tide beating against the resplendent walls, yet leaving cold shadows in certain corners.
Tyrion Lannister curled alone in such a shadow-shrouded alcove, a nearly untouched cup of golden wine at his feet. He watched the spinning crowd on the dance floor, watched his brother Jaime's dazzling figure, eyes mixing admiration, self-mockery, and a trace of imperceptible bitterness.
Euron Greyjoy approached silently like a ghost, following Tyrion's gaze, easily capturing that golden, highly-focused center of attention—Cersei Lannister.
Tyrion sensed his gaze. Without turning back, he just shrugged, masking real emotions with a cynical tone: "That's a pity then. My sister who hates me very much will definitely look down on you for this reason."
Euron let out a low laugh, like gravel rubbing together. "Heh," his eyes flashed with playful light, "If I said I don't like arrogant, narrow-minded women who are impossible to control, would you believe me?" His evaluation was precise and cruel, pointing straight at Cersei's core.
Tyrion finally turned his head, face wearing the dwarf's characteristic defensive mockery: "You dislike my sister's personality, but you surely like her looks, and her figure. I still have that much self-awareness."
"Haha, that's true." Euron admitted frankly, gaze sweeping over that bright color in the hall again. "Men in Westeros who don't like your sister's looks and figure are probably rarer than living dragons." His praise carried no warmth, more like assessing a precious trophy.
Tyrion took a large gulp of wine, tone becoming stiff, as if driving something away: "You don't need to pity me. Days like today aren't suitable for chatting with a dwarf like me. Go find those glamorous people."
Euron didn't leave. He leaned against the cold stone wall, posture leisurely, as if this were the center of the banquet.
"Pity you?" Euron repeated, tone carrying genuine surprise, then turning into a cold equality. "I am a second son. Though not a dwarf or a bastard, in such occasions, a second son isn't much more popular than a dwarf. A second son without inheritance rights seems to have much fewer rights to choose."
He looked down at Tyrion, eyes devoid of ordinary pity or disgust, only a near-cruel bluntness: "I don't pity you. What's pitiful about a dwarf? Besides being shorter than normal people, is there any other difference?" His gaze deliberately moved down, sweeping over Tyrion's crotch with crude teasing, "Did it shrink down there too?"
This incredibly vulgar joke pierced Tyrion's defensive shell instead. Like a cat whose tail was stepped on, he straightened his small body abruptly, face flushing with angry blood: "Bullshit! I am a man among men! A super stud!" He growled, voice somewhat high-pitched from excitement.
Euron laughed loudly, seemingly very satisfied with this reaction. "That's good then." He stopped laughing, eyes becoming sharp. "So, you shouldn't hide in this corner like a sinner awaiting judgment."
"Dwarves aren't welcome; dwarves are monsters," Tyrion's voice lowered, carrying a trace of imperceptible trembling. "My father... doesn't want me out there losing his face." These words hid ice thorns accumulated over years.
"But," Euron's voice was decisive, interrupting his self-pity, "You are a dwarf, will be a dwarf all your life; this is an unchangeable fact. You are the third son of Lannister; all Westeros knows it. No matter where you hide, in however dark a corner, this fact won't change."
"Worrying about unchangeable facts is for fools!" He extended a finger, almost poking Tyrion's forehead: "So, you should walk out openly, hold your head high, and tell them openly—even if I'm shorter than others, I am still Lannister seed. Tell those muscle-brained idiots: So what if I'm a dwarf? I'm shorter than you, but I can crush you with my mouth and IQ until you kneel and lick my boot soles! A dwarf in body can be a giant in knowledge and wisdom!"
"To make others accept you, first, you must accept yourself! Admit your shortcomings, recognize your advantages, then you can see the road you must walk! If you always exist in shadows, you will forever be just an unacknowledged shadow dwarf!"
Tyrion was completely stunned. He had heard countless pity, ridicule, and disgust, but never had anyone spoken such... near-inspiring words to him in such a cold and unbiased tone.
There was no false comfort in these words, only naked admission of reality and a philosophy of counterattack. His small fingers gripped the wine cup tightly, eyes flashing with complex light, falling into deep thought.
Just then, brisk footsteps interrupted the heavy atmosphere in this corner.
Jaime Lannister split the shadows like a ray of golden sunlight. With a brilliant smile on his face, he grabbed Euron's shoulder, movement natural and full of strength. "Hey! Greyjoy! Hiding here chatting what profound philosophy with my brother?" He laughed heartily, then pulled Euron up without explanation, "Go! The courtyard outside is bright. They all say your swordsmanship inherits the Water Dancer's true teachings. Spar with me! Let me see if your blade is fast or my sword is sharp!"
Half-pushed, half-pulled away by Jaime, Euron looked back at Tyrion. That strange light in his eyes flashed past, as if saying: "See, I told you. Your brother is exactly that kind of muscle-brained idiot!"
Tyrion smiled, remaining alone in the shadows, watching the retreating backs of the two. The hall's noise wrapped him again, but this time, something in his heart seemed quietly different. He slowly put down the wine cup, spine seeming a little bit straighter.