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Adrian Lannister
Adrian's arms hurt. They had hurt yesterday and the day before that and probably would hurt forever. Ser Belon said that meant his muscles were getting stronger, but Adrian thought it just meant his arms were broken and nobody would tell him.
"Again," Ser Belon commanded. He was not as big as Ser Willem, who was away visiting family, but he was stricter. His beard was pointy and his eyes were always squinty like he was trying to see something very small.
Adrian lifted his wooden sword for the hundredth time—or maybe the millionth—and tried to do the pattern Ser Belon had shown him. Up, across, down, step forward, swing. He had been practicing this same pattern for two weeks, and it never got any easier.
His wooden sword felt heavy as a rock today. Maybe someone had replaced it with a stone one while he was sleeping as a joke. That would be something Tyrion might do, but not to be mean. Tyrion's jokes were always funny without being mean.
"Your grip is wrong again," Ser Belon sighed, sounding tired of saying it. "Thumb along the hilt, not wrapped around. How many times must I tell you?"
Adrian fixed his grip. It felt even more awkward this way, like holding a spoon upside down.
"I don't think my hand likes this way," Adrian said.
"Your hand doesn't get an opinion," Ser Belon replied. "Again."
In the corner of the training yard, three older boys were practicing with real metal swords that made beautiful ringing sounds when they hit each other. Adrian wished he could have a real sword. Maybe a real sword would be easier to hold than this stupid wooden one.
"My brother got his first real sword when he was six," one of the older boys said loudly, looking over at Adrian. "But Father says some boys just aren't meant for fighting."
Adrian pretended not to hear, but his face got hot. The boy, Daron, was the son of one of Father's bannermen. He was ten and had yellow hair and a face like a rat. His friends snickered.
"Again," Ser Belon said, either not hearing or not caring about Daron's comment. "And put your weight into the forward step."
Adrian swung the sword, trying to make it look like when Ser Belon did it. But his foot caught on a stone, and he stumbled, the wooden sword swinging wild and hitting the ground.
"Careful, he might hurt the dirt!" Daron called, and his friends laughed louder.
"Ignore them," Ser Belon told Adrian. "Focus on your form."
Adrian's arms trembled as he picked up the sword again. He was tired and his palm had a blister that stung. But Lannisters don't complain, Father always said. Lannisters don't show weakness.
"Maybe he'd be better at needlepoint," another of Daron's friends suggested. "Look at those delicate wrists."
"Bet his brother the Imp would beat him in a fair fight," Daron added.
Something hot and angry bubbled up in Adrian's chest. It started small, like when he had a cough, but it grew bigger and bigger until it felt like his whole body was full of boiling water.
"Shut up," Adrian said, his voice quiet but shaking.
"What was that, little lordling?" Daron cupped his hand around his ear. "Couldn't hear you over the sound of your sword hitting the ground."
"I said SHUT UP!" Adrian screamed, and the scream didn't sound like his voice at all. It was too loud, too angry, too... everything.
The boiling feeling exploded inside him. His face felt so hot it might melt off. Without thinking, he hurled his wooden sword with all his might. It spun through the air like a wheel and struck Daron right in the middle of his forehead with a terrible CRACK!
Daron fell backward, blood immediately streaming from a gash above his eye. His friends yelled in surprise. Ser Belon shouted something. But Adrian could barely hear any of it over the roaring in his ears.
"I HATE YOU!" he screamed at Daron, his voice so loud it hurt his own throat. "I AM NOT WEAK."
He grabbed another training sword from the rack and threw it too, and another, and another. People scattered. Someone was shouting for help. Adrian's vision seemed weird, like everything had a red edge around it.
Then strong hands gripped his shoulders, holding him still. Adrian kicked and thrashed, still in the grip of that terrible boiling feeling. He heard himself making sounds like an angry cat, hissing and spitting.
"ENOUGH."
The voice cut through Adrian's rage like cold water. Father. Suddenly the boiling feeling drained away, leaving Adrian shaking and confused, as if waking from a bad dream.
The training yard was a mess. Training swords lay scattered everywhere. Daron sat on a bench while a servant pressed a cloth to his bleeding head. Everyone was staring at Adrian with wide, frightened eyes.
Father's hands were still on Adrian's shoulders, gripping so tight it hurt.
"Come with me," Father said, his voice quieter now but somehow scarier. "Now."
Adrian's legs felt wobbly as Father marched him across the yard. He heard whispers following them.
"Did you see his face?" "Never seen the little lord lose his temper before." "Such violence..." "Like a wild animal..."
The walk to his chambers felt like forever. Adrian's heart was still beating too fast, like it wanted to jump out of his chest and run away. Maybe it should. Maybe it could run all the way to Essos where Father couldn't find it.
When they reached his chambers, Father closed the door and stood looking down at Adrian for a long, terrible silent moment.
"Explain yourself," Father finally said.
Adrian opened his mouth, but no words came out. The boiling feeling was gone, but now there was a scary empty feeling where it had been.
"They... they said bad things," Adrian whispered. "About me. About Tyrion."
"And this justifies behaving like a common street urchin?" Father's voice was colder than the winds of winter. "You injured the son of Lord Durand. You disgraced yourself. You disgraced our family name."
Adrian's eyes filled with tears, but he blinked hard to stop them from falling. "I'm sorry, Father."
"Sorry does not undo what you have done." Father said. "What do you imagine people will say? That Tywin Lannister's son is a wild, uncontrolled creature who attacks at the slightest provocation?"
The word "wild" made Adrian's stomach hurt. He didn't feel wild. He had just been so angry, angrier than he'd ever been before.
"Do you know why our house has survived for thousands of years?" Father asked.
Adrian shook his head, then realized Father wasn't looking at him. "No, Father."
"Control." Father turned back to face him. "We control our lands. We control our gold. And most importantly, we control ourselves. A Lannister does not throw tantrums like a common child. A Lannister does not let the words of lesser men provoke him to violence."
Father walked closer, looming over Adrian. "Your actions reflect on our house. On me. I will not have my son behaving like a savage. Do you understand?"
"Yes, Father," Adrian whispered.
"You will apologize to Ser Belon for disrupting his training session. You will apologize to Lord Durand's son for your attack. And you will spend the next three days confined to your chambers, with no books, no toys, no visitors. Perhaps solitude will help you reflect on the importance of self-control."
Adrian's heart sank. No books meant no Tyrion. No toys meant nothing to do but think about how bad he'd been.
"Yes, Father," he said again, his voice small.
Father studied him for a moment longer. "The next time you feel anger rising, you will master it. You will not let it master you. That is what separates lions from common beasts. Remember that."
With that, Father left, closing the door firmly behind him. Adrian heard the key turn in the lock. He was alone.
He climbed onto his bed and sat cross-legged, trying to understand what had happened. He'd been angry before, of course. Everyone got angry sometimes. But this had been different. Bigger. Scarier. Like something inside him had woken up and taken over.
Outside his door, he heard servants whispering.
"Never seen a child that age with such a temper," one said. "Threw that sword like a grown man. Could have killed the Durand boy if it had hit him differently."
"Reminds me of Lady Cersei when she was a girl," an older voice replied. "Same look in the eyes. I remember once when she was denied a new dress, she shredded every gown in her wardrobe. Had that same fire in her face."
"The little lord is usually so well-behaved though."
"That's what makes it frightening, isn't it? It's the quiet ones you have to watch for."
Their voices faded as they moved away down the corridor.
Adrian hugged his knees to his chest. He didn't want to be frightening. He didn't want to hurt anyone. He just wanted the mean boys to stop laughing at him.
He looked at his hands, still red from gripping the wooden sword. They didn't look like hands that could hurt someone. They looked like his normal hands.
But something inside him didn't feel normal anymore. Something had changed. Or maybe it had always been there, hiding, waiting to wake up.
Adrian didn't know which was scarier.
Three Days Later
Three days was forever when you couldn't leave your room. Adrian had counted every stone in the wall opposite his bed—four hundred and twelve. He had watched spiders build webs in the corner of his ceiling. He had made up stories in his head about knights and dragons, but they weren't as good as Tyrion's stories.
Tyrion hadn't come to visit him. Not even once. That hurt worse than having no toys or books. Adrian thought Tyrion would sneak in somehow, like he always did when Father made rules. Tyrion was good at breaking rules in ways that didn't get him caught. But this time, nobody came except servants with food and to empty his chamber pot.
Maybe Tyrion was angry about the training yard. Maybe he thought Adrian was bad now.
When the key finally turned in the lock on the third day, Adrian jumped up from where he'd been lying on the floor, expecting a servant. Instead, Father walked in.
Adrian straightened up immediately, smoothing his rumpled tunic. He hadn't expected Father himself to come.
"Your punishment is concluded," Father said without greeting. "Have you reflected on your behavior?"
Adrian nodded solemnly. "Yes, Father. I won't lose my temper again."
Father studied him with those green-gold eyes that seemed to see everything. "See that you don't. Come with me."
Adrian followed Father through the corridors of Casterly Rock, struggling to keep up with his long strides. He wondered where Tyrion was and if he was still his friend.
They went to Father's solar, a room Adrian had only been in a few times before. It was big and important-looking, with a huge desk and tall windows that looked out at the sea. The walls had shelves full of scrolls and books, and there were maps laid out on tables. It smelled like leather and ink and Father's special sandalwood soap.
"Sit," Father instructed, pointing to a chair across from his desk.
Adrian climbed onto it, his feet dangling above the floor. The chair was made for grown-ups, and it made him feel small.
Father didn't sit behind his desk as usual. Instead, he moved to a wooden chest in the corner of the room, unlocked it with a key from around his neck, and removed something wrapped in red velvet.
"Do you know what this is?" Father asked, returning and carefully unwrapping the object.
It was a sword hilt, shining with a strange light that made it look almost alive. The metal wasn't gold or silver but something in between, and it had a big ruby in the middle that glowed like it had fire inside.
"A sword?" Adrian guessed, leaning forward to see better.
"The hilt of a sword," Father corrected. "The sword itself is lost. This is all that remains of Brightroar, the ancestral Valyrian steel sword of House Lannister."
Adrian wanted to touch it but didn't dare. "It's pretty."
"It is not 'pretty,'" Father said with a hint of irritation. "It is priceless. Valyrian steel is the finest in the world, forged with spells before the Doom of Valyria. This hilt is all that remains of our house's greatest treasure."
Adrian nodded quickly. "What happened to the rest of it?"
"King Tommen II took it with him when he sailed to Valyria. Neither he nor Brightroar ever returned." Father turned the hilt in his hands, the ruby catching the light. "It was foolishness. A king should never risk his house's treasures on vain adventures."
"Could we find another one?" Adrian asked.
The question seemed to please Father. "That shows good thinking. But Valyrian steel cannot be made anymore. The knowledge died with Valyria. The few remaining swords in the world are beyond price."
Father rewrapped the hilt carefully and set it on his desk. "Do you know why I've shown you this?"
Adrian thought hard. Father's questions always had right answers and wrong answers. "Because... it's important to House Lannister?"
"Partly," Father said. "I've shown you this because you must understand what has been lost and what must be regained. House Lannister once had a Valyrian steel sword. We lost it through foolishness. I intend for us to have one again."
Adrian wasn't sure what to say to that, so he just nodded.
Father moved to sit behind his desk now. "Your tantrum in the training yard showed me that it's time to begin teaching you directly about what it means to be a Lannister, to be a future Lord of Casterly Rock."
"I said I was sorry," Adrian said quickly, worried Father was still angry.
"This isn't about punishment. This is about education." Father's voice was stern but not angry. "Tell me, if you were lord and one of your bannermen refused to pay his taxes, what would you do?"
Adrian frowned, trying to think what the right answer might be. "I'd ask him why?"
Father's expression didn't change. "And if he said he simply didn't wish to pay?"
"I'd..." Adrian hesitated. "I'd tell him he has to because that's the law?"
"And if he still refused?"
Adrian bit his lip. "I'd make him?"
"How?"
This felt like a trick question. Adrian remembered what Tyrion had told him once about Father and the Reynes of Castamere. "I'd send soldiers to his castle?"
Father nodded slightly. "Yes. Power must be enforced. But there are steps before reaching for the sword. First, you might invite his heir to Casterly Rock as a 'guest.' Second, you might arrange marriages between his family and more loyal houses. Third, you might restrict his trading rights."
Adrian tried to remember all these things. They seemed complicated.
"The point," Father continued, "is that a wise lord has many tools besides violence. But make no mistake—violence is always the final tool, and you must be willing to use it."
Father opened a drawer and took out a small scroll. "Do you know what this is?"
Adrian shook his head.
"This is the song 'The Rains of Castamere.' It tells the story of how I dealt with House Reyne when they rebelled against us." Father unrolled the scroll. "I want you to read it."
Adrian took the scroll carefully. The writing was fancy, but he could read most of it:
And who are you, the proud lord said, That I must bow so low? Only a cat of a different coat, That's all the truth I know.
In a coat of gold or a coat of red, A lion still has claws, And mine are long and sharp, my lord, As long and sharp as yours.
And so he spoke, and so he spoke, That lord of Castamere, But now the rains weep o'er his hall, With no one there to hear.
Yes, now the rains weep o'er his hall, And not a soul to hear.
Adrian looked up when he finished. "I don't understand the end. Why does rain weep?"
"The 'rains' in the song are a play on words," Father explained. "The Reynes of Castamere refused to pay their debts to our house. They thought their castle was impregnable. I diverted a nearby river and flooded their underground stronghold, drowning them all."
Adrian's eyes widened. The story made his tummy feel funny. "All of them?"
"Yes," Father said, his face showing no emotion. "When people hear that song now, they remember what happens to those who defy House Lannister."
Adrian suddenly understood. "So you don't have to fight very often, because people are scared of the song?"
Something almost like a smile flickered across Father's face. "Precisely. Fear is often more effective than force. A reputation for power is power itself."
"Like the way you look at people," Adrian said without thinking. "When you look at servants that way, they get scared even though you don't say anything."
Father studied him with new interest. "You notice such things. Good. Observation is a valuable skill."
Adrian felt a warm glow in his chest at the praise. Father hardly ever said anyone was good at anything.
"Your brother Tyrion has a quick mind," Father said, surprising Adrian by mentioning Tyrion. "But he wastes it on jokes and drink. You must be different. You must use your intelligence to strengthen our house."
"Is Tyrion angry at me?" Adrian asked, unable to help himself. "He didn't visit me."
"I forbade him from seeing you during your punishment," Father replied. "Isolation is only effective if it is complete."
Relief flooded through Adrian. Tyrion didn't hate him after all.
Father rose and walked to the window, looking out at the sea. "The future of our house will rest on your shoulders one day. Jaime has chosen the Kingsguard. Cersei is queen but cannot inherit. And Tyrion..."
Father didn't finish the sentence, but he didn't need to. Adrian knew Father didn't think Tyrion should inherit anything.
"You remind me of someone I knew once," Father said, still looking out the window. "He had your gift for music. Your..." Father seemed to catch himself, his jaw tightening. "But he was weak when it mattered most. You will not be weak."
Adrian wondered who Father was talking about but knew better than to ask. Instead, he said, "I'll be strong, Father. I'll make you proud."
Father turned back to face him. "See that you do. You may go now. Your lessons with Maester Creylen resume tomorrow, and your training in the yard the day after."
Adrian slid down from the chair, feeling both excited and nervous about returning to the training yard after what had happened.
At the door, he paused. "Father?"
"Yes?"
"Thank you for teaching me about being a lion."
Father gave a single nod. "You are dismissed."
As Adrian walked back to his chambers, he thought about the hilt of Brightroar with its strange shining metal and fiery ruby. He thought about the Reynes drowning in their own castle. And he thought about Father's eyes when he mentioned the man who was weak when it mattered.
Adrian decided he would never be weak. He would be the strongest lion that ever lived, and Father would never have to flood anyone's castle ever again, because people would hear the songs about Adrian Lannister and be too scared to fight him in the first place.
Maybe he could have a Valyrian steel sword of his own someday. Not Brightroar, but a new one. He'd call it... Lionflame.
He liked that name. It sounded both scary and special at the same time, just like a Lannister should be.
Three Weeks Later
Adrian's new doublet itched at the neck. It was crimson velvet with gold thread lions dancing around the collar and cuffs. Father said it was made special for tonight's feast. Adrian was supposed to sit at the high table and be perfect for all of Father's important bannermen.
"Remember," Maester Creylen said as he adjusted Adrian's collar one last time, "Lord Clegane, Lord Brax, Lord Lefford, Lord Marbrand, and Lord Swyft will all be present tonight with their heirs. You must address each properly."
Adrian nodded. He had memorized all their names, sigils, lands, and which ones Father trusted and which ones he just pretended to trust. Tyrion had told him the second part, whispering it like a secret game they played. "Father truly only trusts Uncle Kevan," Tyrion had said. "The rest are all pieces on the cyvasse board."
The great hall of Casterly Rock looked different tonight. The tables were arranged in a new pattern, with the high table on a platform so everyone could see Father. The walls were hung with crimson and gold banners, and hundreds of candles made everything glow warm and bright.
Servants scurried everywhere, carrying trays of food that smelled so good Adrian's tummy rumbled even though he wasn't supposed to be hungry yet. A whole pig with an apple in its mouth. Pigeon pies with gravy bubbling through the crust. Bowls of buttery mashed turnips sprinkled with cinnamon from far away Essos.
"Stand up straight," Father murmured as they entered the hall together. "Remember who you are."
"A Lannister of Casterly Rock," Adrian replied automatically, pulling his shoulders back like Father taught him.
The lords all stood when Father entered. They were mostly old men with beards, except for their sons who stood next to them looking bored. But there was one man who made Adrian's eyes go wide. He was the biggest person Adrian had ever seen—taller than the door and wider than two normal men. His face looked like it was made out of rough stone.
"Who's that?" Adrian whispered, forgetting he wasn't supposed to ask questions right now.
"Ser Gregor Clegane," Father replied quietly. "The Mountain That Rides. One of our most loyal sworn swords."
The Mountain. Adrian had heard servants whisper that name. They said he could cut a horse's head off with one swing of his sword. Looking at his massive hands, Adrian believed it.
Father led him to the high table, and everyone sat only after Father did. Adrian was placed at Father's right hand, with Lord Lefford on Father's left. The first course was served—a clear soup with tiny balls of dough floating in it.
"So this is your son," Lord Lefford said, peering at Adrian with watery blue eyes. "He has the Lannister look."
"My son and heir," Father responded evenly. "Adrian, greet Lord Lefford properly."
Adrian set down his spoon and inclined his head just the right amount—not too deep, because Lannisters didn't bow too low to anyone. "Lord Lefford, it's an honor to meet you. House Lefford holds the Golden Tooth, guards the pass into the Westerlands, and your sigil is a golden mountain on blue. Your house words are 'None Shall Pass.'"
Lord Lefford's bushy eyebrows shot up in surprise. "Well, I'm impressed, my lord. The boy knows his houses."
"Adrian studies diligently," Father said, a hint of pride in his voice that made Adrian sit up even straighter.
All through the first two courses, lords came up to the high table to pay respects to Father and meet Adrian. Each time, Adrian recited what he knew about their house, answered their questions politely, and remembered to say "my lord" and "my lady" at the end of each sentence.
Lord Brax asked him to name all the Kings of the Rock before Loren the Last. Adrian named twelve before Lord Brax stopped him, chuckling and saying, "Enough, enough! The boy puts my own son to shame."
Later, when the feasting was done and the lords had retired to their chambers for the night, Father walked Adrian back to his rooms. The corridors of Casterly Rock were quiet except for the distant crash of waves against the cliffs below.
"You did well tonight," Father said.
"Thank you, Father," Adrian replied, happiness bubbling up inside him.
They walked in silence for a while, their footsteps echoing on the stone floor. Adrian had been thinking about something all evening, watching the lords with their sons, and Lord Brax with his lady wife. The question had been growing in his mind like a seed that wouldn't stop, no matter how much he tried to think of other things.
"Father," he said finally, his voice small in the big corridor, "where is my mother?"
Father's steps faltered for just a heartbeat, so quick Adrian almost didn't notice. His face remained the same, but something in his eyes changed.
"She is not part of your life," Father replied coldly.
"But where is she?" Adrian persisted. "Is she dead like Aunt Joanna?"
Father stopped walking and looked down at Adrian with a face like stone. "Your mother was a woman from Lys. She returned to her homeland after you were born."
Adrian frowned. Lys was across the sea. Tyrion had shown him on a map once. "Why didn't she take me with her?"
"She had no interest in motherhood," Father said, his voice flat. "She was well compensated for her services."
Adrian didn't really understand what that meant, but it sounded like Father had paid her gold to go away. That made his chest feel tight and sad.
"Does she ever ask about me?" Adrian asked, unable to stop himself.
Something flickered across Father's face—anger, maybe, or something else. "No. Nor should you ask about her. She is not worthy of your consideration."
"But—"
"Enough." Father's voice was suddenly sharp as a sword. "There are subjects a Lannister does not discuss. This is one of them. Do you understand?"
Adrian nodded, his throat feeling thick. "Yes, Father."
"Good. Now go to your chambers. You will need rest before tomorrow's council."
Father continued down the corridor without looking back. Adrian stood watching him go, a strange emptiness opening up inside his chest where the question about his mother had been.
When he reached his chambers, Adrian dismissed his servants and stood alone before the tall mirror in the corner. He stared at his reflection, trying to see what parts of him might have come from this mystery woman from Lys.
His hair wasn't Lannister gold like Father's or Tyrion's or Uncle Kevan's. It was lighter, more pale, with an almost silvery shine in certain light. His eyes were Lannister green-gold, though. And his chin and nose looked like Father's, he thought, though smaller because he was still a boy.
"Mother," he whispered to the mirror, testing how the word felt in his mouth. It felt strange, like trying to talk to a ghost.
Was she pretty? Did she sing songs? Did she ever think about the baby she left behind at Casterly Rock?
Adrian touched the mirror, his small fingers leaving smudges on the polished surface. Somewhere across the Narrow Sea was a woman who had held him when he was a baby. A woman who didn't want to be his mother.
"I'm a Lannister," he told his reflection firmly, the way Father would expect him to. "I don't need a mother."
But as he climbed into his big bed and pulled the covers up to his chin, Adrian wondered if that was really true. And he wondered why Father got that strange, angry look when he asked about his mother, like it was a dangerous question.
Some questions, Adrian was learning, were better left unasked. That, too, was the Lannister way.
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