"Arthas… Arthas!"
Under a dim, amber sunset, a gentle sea breeze stirred the long golden hair of a youth standing atop the walls of Casterly Rock.
Tyrion Lannister—known to the world as the Imp—panted heavily as he scrambled up the final stretch of stone. Using both hands and feet, he hauled himself onto the highest battlement, his short legs trembling with exhaustion.
"Huff… puff…"
After catching his breath, Tyrion straightened and glared at the tall figure standing with his back turned.
"I really don't understand why you insist on practicing swordsmanship in this gods-forsaken place," he complained. "Climbing this high is torture for someone with normal legs—let alone mine."
The youth did not turn immediately. He leaned casually on a massive greatsword planted point-first into the stone, his gaze fixed on the distant harbor of Lannisport. Merchant ships drifted in and out like ants upon blue silk, their sails glowing beneath the dying light of the sun.
"Tyrion," the youth said at last, his voice calm and warm, "don't you think the view is beautiful?"
"Beautiful, my arse," Tyrion muttered, rubbing his aching calves. Still, he followed the other's gaze despite himself. "Yes, yes, it's very pretty. The sea, the ships, the gold—everything a Lannister is supposed to love."
He shook his head and looked up at his brother's tall, broad back with unconcealed envy.
"We eat the same food," Tyrion grumbled. "Yet you're already this tall at fourteen. Jaime didn't reach his full height until he was eighteen, you know."
Arthas turned around and laughed, the sound clear and unrestrained.
"Tyrion, my brother."
He pulled the greatsword from the stone and planted it upright in front of Tyrion. To Tyrion's annoyance, he was barely taller than the blade itself.
"Height doesn't matter," Arthas said lightly as he crouched and rested a hand on Tyrion's shoulder. "What matters is possessing a noble soul."
Tyrion blinked, momentarily taken aback. For all that Arthas was his younger brother, moments like this made him feel as though he were standing beside a warm, dependable elder—much like Jaime had once been.
"…Thank you, Arthas," Tyrion said softly.
"You're welcome."
Clearly uncomfortable with prolonged sentimentality, Arthas straightened and swung the greatsword onto his shoulder. The blade shimmered with a deep blue sheen, its edge keen enough to reflect the fading sun.
"So," Arthas asked, "what brings you all the way up here?"
"It's Father," Tyrion replied, his mood shifting instantly. "We're to depart tomorrow."
"Depart?" Arthas raised an eyebrow. "To where?"
"To King's Landing!" Tyrion's eyes sparkled with excitement. Ever since his first taste of the capital's excesses, he had dreamed of returning.
"I'm not going," Arthas said flatly. "King's Landing stinks."
"But—it's Father's command!"
Tyrion hesitated, concern flickering across his face. He knew well enough that Arthas's relationship with Tywin Lannister was… strained. Yet Tywin was still the Lord of Casterly Rock, Warden of the West—the law itself within these walls.
"I won't say it twice," Arthas replied, his voice turning cold.
A subtle chill seemed to spread around him, as though the air itself had cooled.
"…Fine," Tyrion said quickly, shuddering as he stepped back. "But you'll have to tell him yourself. You know Father's temper."
That, Tyrion decided, was a problem best left to someone taller and far more dangerous.
With surprising agility, he began climbing back down, moving far faster than he had on the way up.
"Tywin Lannister…"
Left alone, Arthas sat cross-legged upon the stone, watching the ships below.
"I hope you don't do anything stupid," he murmured. "Anything that makes me uncomfortable."
---
"Good evening, Master Arthas."
Commoners in rough hempen clothes bowed as Arthas passed through the outer corridors of Casterly Rock. Ordinarily, he would have returned their greetings with a smile. Tonight, he merely walked on, his expression distant.
"You're late, Arthas."
A massive figure blocked his path before the council chamber doors. Clad in full black plate armor and gripping a six-foot greatsword, the knight loomed like a tower of iron. Cold eyes glared through the narrow slits of his helm.
Arthas looked up calmly.
"Relax, Clegane," he said. "It's not wartime, nor a tourney. You needn't dress so formally."
He tilted his head, a faint smirk forming.
"Unless you're planning to court a lady in that armor. In which case, forget I said anything."
The Mountain roared in fury and raised his greatsword overhead, bringing it down with crushing force.
Arthas met the strike head-on.
Bang!
Steel rang against steel, the impact echoing through the corridor. The Mountain's arms went numb as though he had struck solid iron. Arthas staggered slightly, pain rippling through his body, blood rising in his throat.
He swallowed it down.
The Evil Aura within him stirred, knitting torn flesh and calming his battered organs.
"You're slow," Arthas sneered. "Weak. Not even as good as that scarred mongrel your family keeps."
The taunt shattered what little restraint The Mountain had left. He swung again—wild, murderous.
Arthas ducked, rolled, and struck. A single kick to the back of the knee sent the giant crashing down.
Seizing the moment, Arthas raised his blade for the killing blow.
"Stop, Al!"
The command froze him mid-swing.
Arthas halted the blade mere inches from The Mountain's neck and stepped back, unsurprised.
Tywin Lannister stood behind him, expression carved from stone.
---
The council chamber was silent as father and son faced one another.
"You will go to King's Landing," Tywin said at last.
Arthas smiled.
"Very well," he replied. "But remember this, Father—push me too far, and the lion may yet be devoured by his own sword."
The deep blue blade at his side gleamed softly, as though in agreement.