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The great pavilion had been transformed into something that looked like it belonged in a fairy tale. Silk banners hung from the ceiling in crimson and gold, and hundreds of candles made everything shimmer and dance with warm light. The tables were covered with white cloth and set with silver plates that reflected the flames like tiny suns.
Adrian sat at the high table between Father and Tyrion, trying very hard to remember everything Maester Creylen had taught him about proper feast behavior. Sit straight, don't fidget, chew with your mouth closed, and never reach across the table for anything. It was a lot to remember when there were so many interesting things to look at.
Uncle Tygett sat on Father's other side, looking handsome and charming as always. He kept catching the eye of serving girls and making them blush, which Adrian still didn't understand but found amusing. Aunt Genna was seated nearby with her Frey husband Emmon and their three boys, who all looked uncomfortable in their fancy clothes.
"You look very lordly tonight," Tyrion said quietly to Adrian. "That doublet suits you well."
Adrian looked down at his new clothes—a crimson velvet doublet with golden lions embroidered on the chest, and a small golden chain across his shoulders. "It's itchy," he whispered back.
"The price of looking important," Tyrion replied with a smile. "Wait until you have to wear a crown someday."
"Do I get a crown?" Adrian asked, eyes widening.
"Not that kind of crown," Tyrion chuckled. "I meant metaphorically. The weight of responsibility and all that."
Before Adrian could ask what 'metaphorically' meant, the first course arrived. Servants in Lannister colors brought out platters of roasted peacock with their feathers still attached, fish shaped like dolphins, and pies that looked like castles. It was almost too pretty to eat.
"Lord Adrian," said a voice to his left. He turned to see Lord Westerling approaching with a respectful bow. "I hope you're enjoying the feast."
"It's magnificent, my lord," Adrian replied, remembering to use his polite voice. "I've never seen food arranged so beautifully."
As the feast continued, more lords approached to pay their respects. Lord Serrett complimented Adrian on his knowledge of heraldry. Lord Banefort mentioned how impressed his daughters had been with Adrian's courtesy. Even Lord Kenning, who smelled strongly of wine, managed to say something nice about Adrian's "bright future."
"You're collecting admirers," Tyrion observed between courses. "Father must be pleased."
Adrian glanced at Father, who was speaking quietly with Uncle Tygett about something that made both their faces serious. "I hope so. I'm trying to remember everything you and Maester Creylen taught me."
"You're doing wonderfully," Tyrion assured him. "Just be yourself—that's impressive enough."
After the main course, a minstrel approached the high table carrying a beautiful harp made of polished wood and gold strings. "My lords," he said with a deep bow, "would any at the high table honor us with a song?"
Uncle Tygett immediately shook his head. "My talents lie elsewhere, I'm afraid."
"I have many talents," Tyrion said dryly, "but music isn't one of them."
All eyes turned to Adrian, who felt his cheeks grow warm. "I... I play a little," he said quietly.
"Nonsense," Aunt Genna called from her seat. "Adrian plays beautifully! Show them, dear."
Adrian looked at Father, who gave the slightest nod. With nervous fingers, Adrian took the harp and settled it against his shoulder. The strings felt familiar under his hands, and suddenly he wasn't nervous anymore.
He began to play a gentle melody he'd learned from the traveling minstrel at Casterly Rock—something about golden fields and summer days. As he played, his voice joined in, clear and sweet:
"Golden are the fields of grain, Golden is the summer rain, Golden are the lion's eyes, Watching over western skies..."
The pavilion had grown completely quiet. Even the servants had stopped moving to listen. Adrian's voice filled the space like honey, and his fingers found notes on the harp that seemed to sparkle in the candlelight.
When he finished, the silence lasted for a heartbeat before the entire pavilion erupted in applause. Lords and ladies were clapping and calling out praise, and Adrian felt his face turn red with pleasure and embarrassment.
"Magnificent!" Lord Serrett called out. "The boy has the gift!"
"I've never heard a child sing so sweetly," added Lady Westerling.
Father leaned over to Adrian. "Well done," he said quietly, and those two words made Adrian happier than all the other praise combined.
As the applause died down and Adrian returned the harp to the minstrel, he noticed Lord Farman approaching the high table with Lord Kenning beside him. Both men looked worried about something.
"Lord Tywin," Lord Farman said, his voice carefully controlled, "might we have a word? There's a matter of some... concern."
Father's eyes sharpened. "Speak."
"We've had reports," Lord Kenning said, glancing around nervously, "of Ironborn longships spotted off Fair Isle. More than usual for this time of year."
"How many ships?" Father asked.
"Difficult to say, my lord," Lord Farman replied. "The sightings have been... scattered. But our fishermen are nervous. They speak of black sails on the horizon."
Adrian felt his stomach tighten. He remembered the conversation he'd overheard earlier, and the worried looks on various lords' faces throughout the day.
"The Ironborn are raiders and pirates," Father said dismissively, but Adrian noticed his jaw was tight. "They occasionally test our waters. It's nothing that concerns this gathering."
"Of course, my lord," Lord Kenning said quickly. "We simply thought you should know."
"And now I do," Father replied with finality. "Enjoy the feast, my lords."
As the two lords backed away, Adrian caught Father's eye. "Are the Ironborn dangerous?" he asked quietly.
"They can be," Father replied. "But they haven't dared attack the Westerlands in years. They know the price of challenging House Lannister."
Tyrion, who had been listening, leaned closer. "Still, it's wise to be cautious. The Ironborn respect strength, but they're not known for their good judgment."
Before Adrian could ask more questions, Uncle Tygett stood and raised his cup. "My lords and ladies," he called out, his voice carrying across the pavilion, "I propose a toast to our gracious King Robert, may his reign be long and prosperous!"
"To King Robert!" the crowd responded, raising their cups.
"And to House Lannister," Uncle Tygett continued, "the strength of the Westerlands and the pride of the Seven Kingdoms!"
"To House Lannister!" they roared.
As the feast continued into the night, Adrian found himself watching everything with new eyes. He noticed how Lord Farman kept glancing toward the pavilion entrance, as if expecting bad news. He saw how Lord Kenning drank more wine than the others, probably to calm his nerves. He observed Uncle Tygett charming the ladies while keeping one eye on Father's reactions.
Most importantly, he noticed how Father's attention kept drifting toward the harbor, even though he was conversing normally with the other lords.
"You're learning to read the room," Tyrion observed, following Adrian's gaze. "That's a valuable skill for a lord."
"Everyone seems worried about something," Adrian said quietly. "Even though they're trying to hide it."
"Very perceptive," Tyrion replied. "The trick is knowing when to act on those observations and when to simply file them away for later."
As the evening wound down and the last toasts were made, Adrian felt exhausted but satisfied. He'd represented House Lannister well, made a good impression on the assembled lords, and learned important lessons about reading people and situations.
But as they prepared to leave the pavilion, Adrian couldn't shake the feeling that something was building in the darkness beyond the festival lights. The worried conversations, the reports of Ironborn ships, Father's tension beneath his calm exterior—it all pointed to trouble brewing on the horizon.
He touched the mysterious knife at his belt, thinking about the conversation with Father that awaited him tomorrow. Between the weapon merchant and the Ironborn sightings, Adrian suspected his peaceful festival was about to become much more complicated.
As Sandor escorted him back to his sleeping quarters, Adrian looked out toward the harbor one last time. The ships bobbed peacefully in the moonlight, their masts creating a forest of shadows on the water.
But somewhere out there in the darkness, Adrian was certain, danger was sailing toward them on the tide.
.
.
Adrian was dreaming about dragons when the screaming started.
At first, the sounds mixed with his dream—dragons roaring, people running from fire and smoke. But then something loud crashed nearby, close enough to shake his bed, and Adrian's eyes snapped open in the dark pavilion.
The screaming wasn't in his dream. It was real, and it was everywhere.
"What—" Adrian started to say, but then his door burst open so hard it nearly came off its hinges.
Sandor filled the doorway, still in his armor but with his sword already drawn. His burned face looked even more frightening in the flickering light from outside, and there was something in his grey eyes that made Adrian's stomach drop like a stone.
"Get up," Sandor barked. "Now. We're under attack."
"Attack?" Adrian scrambled out of bed, his bare feet hitting the cold ground. "Who's attacking us?"
"Ironborn," Sandor said, already moving to Adrian's clothes chest. He started throwing things at Adrian—smallclothes, a tunic, boots. "Get dressed. Fast."
Adrian's hands shook as he tried to pull on his clothes. The screaming outside was getting louder, and now he could hear the clash of metal on metal, like the sound of sword practice but angrier and more desperate.
"Where's Father?" Adrian asked, struggling with his tunic. "Where's Tyrion? Are they safe?"
"Your father's organizing the defense," Sandor said, checking the straps on his armor. "Your uncle's with him. Now hurry up."
Adrian finally got his tunic on and was trying to pull on his boots when curiosity made him look toward the window. What he saw made his breath catch in his throat.
The harbor was on fire.
Not just one ship, but dozens of them. Lannister ships with their red sails were burning like giant torches, sending columns of orange flame and black smoke into the night sky. The water reflected the fires, making the whole harbor look like a lake of liquid flame.
"Seven hells," Adrian whispered.
"Worse than that," Sandor muttered, then grabbed Adrian's arm. "Come on. We need to get you out of here."
They rushed out of Adrian's sleeping chamber into the main pavilion, where everything was chaos. Servants were running back and forth with confused looks on their faces. Guards were shouting orders Adrian couldn't understand. In the center of it all stood Father, still in his nightclothes but with his sword belt already buckled on.
"Father!" Adrian called out, trying to run toward him, but Sandor's big hand caught his shoulder.
Father turned at the sound of Adrian's voice, and for just a moment, his stern expression softened. "Adrian. Good, you're awake."
"What's happening?" Adrian asked, though he could guess. "Are we winning?"
"The Ironborn launched a surprise attack on the harbor," Father said, his voice calm despite the chaos around them. "They've destroyed much of our fleet, but we'll drive them back."
"Can I help?" Adrian asked eagerly. "I know how to use a sword now, and—"
"No." Father's voice was final. "Clegane, take Adrian inland. Get him as far from the harbor as possible. Take twenty men."
"Father, please," Adrian started to protest. "I want to stay with you and Tyrion and—"
"This is not a discussion," Father cut him off. "You are the heir to Casterly Rock. Your safety is more important than anything else. Go with Clegane. Now."
Adrian wanted to argue more, but something in Father's eyes stopped him. This wasn't the time for questions or complaints. Father needed to focus on the battle, not worry about him.
"Yes, Father," Adrian said quietly.
Father knelt down briefly and put his hands on Adrian's shoulders. "Be brave, but be smart. Listen to Clegane. I'll find you when this is over."
"Promise?" Adrian asked in a small voice.
"I promise," Father said, then stood and turned back to his captains. "Kevan, take five hundred men to the harbor. Tygett, secure the pavilions and get the other guests to safety. Move!"
Sandor was already gathering their escort—twenty Lannister guards in red cloaks, all looking grim and determined. They formed up around Adrian like a protective wall of steel and crimson.
As they prepared to leave, Adrian caught sight of Uncle Tygett across the pavilion, buckling on his sword belt. "Uncle Tygett!" Adrian called out.
His uncle looked over and gave him a reassuring smile, though Adrian could see worry in his eyes. "Stay safe, nephew! I'll see you soon!"
But where was Tyrion? Adrian looked around frantically but couldn't see his brother anywhere in the chaos of armed men and running servants.
"Where's Tyrion?" Adrian asked Sandor urgently. "I don't see him!"
"Your brother can take care of himself," Sandor said, though his voice was gentler than usual. "Worry about staying alive, boy."
They moved out of the pavilion into the night, and Adrian gasped at what he saw. The festival grounds that had been so beautiful and peaceful just hours ago now looked like a nightmare. Tents were on fire, people were running in every direction screaming, and in the distance, the sound of fighting grew louder and more desperate.
The sky was lit up orange and red from all the burning ships, and the smell of smoke was so thick Adrian had to cover his nose with his sleeve. It smelled like burned wood and rope and something else he didn't want to think about.
"This way," Sandor said, leading their group away from the harbor and toward the hills behind Lannisport. "Stay close to me, boy. Don't wander off for any reason."
As they hurried through the chaos, Adrian couldn't stop thinking about everyone they'd left behind. Was Father safe? Was Tyrion helping with the defense, or was he somewhere safe? What about Aunt Genna and her boys? Were Lord Westerling and Rollam all right? What about the Banefort twins?
The questions swirled in his head like a storm, but he tried to push them away. Father had told him to be brave and smart. Worrying about things he couldn't control wasn't smart.
They reached the edge of the festival grounds and started climbing into the hills beyond the city. Adrian looked back once and saw the harbor still blazing like the fires of the seven hells. So many ships burning. So much destruction.
"How many ships did we lose?" Adrian asked Sandor as they climbed.
"Too many," Sandor replied grimly. "But ships can be rebuilt. People can't."
They walked for what felt like hours but was probably only half of one, climbing higher into the hills. Adrian's legs were getting tired, and his boots were starting to rub blisters on his feet, but he didn't complain. The sounds of fighting were getting fainter behind them, which was probably good.
"Are we safe now?" Adrian asked.
"Safer," Sandor said. "But we keep moving until—"
He never finished the sentence.
The attack came from three sides at once, like wolves jumping out of the darkness. One moment they were walking up a peaceful hill path, and the next, Ironborn raiders were everywhere, screaming their battle cries and swinging axes and swords.
"Protect the boy!" Sandor roared, his sword already in his hand. "Form a circle!"
The Lannister guards tried to follow his order, but there were too many attackers coming from too many directions. The night exploded into chaos—the clash of steel on steel, men shouting and screaming, the wet sound of blades finding flesh.
Adrian found himself in the center of a storm of violence unlike anything he'd ever imagined. In training, sword fighting had been clean and controlled, with rules and proper form. This was nothing like that. This was wild and desperate and terrifying.
A Lannister guard fell right next to Adrian, blood pouring from a gash in his throat. Adrian stared in horror as the man's eyes went blank and empty. He'd never seen anyone die before. It was so much worse than in the stories.
"Adrian!" Sandor's voice cut through the chaos. "Stay behind me!"
Adrian scrambled toward Sandor, who was fighting two Ironborn at once. But then Adrian saw another raider coming up behind Sandor, raising his axe for a killing blow.
Without thinking, Adrian drew the Lannister knife he'd bought from the merchant.
Adrian darted forward and drove the blade into the man's leg as hard as he could, and he felt hot liquid touching his hand.
The raider screamed and stumbled, dropping his axe. Sandor spun around and saw his chance, bringing his sword across the man's stomach.
What happened next would stay in Adrian's nightmares forever.
The raider's belly opened up like a burst sack, and his insides spilled out in a wet, steaming rush. Loops of intestine and other things Adrian couldn't name tumbled to the ground while the man looked down at himself in shock and horror.
Adrian had never smelled anything like it—the copper scent of blood mixed with something sour and awful that made his stomach lurch. The man fell to his knees, trying to hold his guts in with his hands, making sounds that weren't quite words.
Adrian dropped his knife and bent over, throwing up everything he'd eaten at the feast. His whole body shook as he retched, and tears streamed down his face.
"Good boy," Sandor said roughly, stepping over the dying raider. "You saved my life."
But Adrian couldn't respond. He was still vomiting, still shaking, still trying to understand how the world had gone from safe and normal to this nightmare in just a few hours.
The fighting around them was dying down. Most of the Ironborn attackers were dead, but so were many of their own guards. Adrian could count at least ten red cloaks that would never rise again.
"We need to keep moving," one of the surviving guards said to Sandor. "There might be more of them."
"Aye," Sandor agreed. "Boy, can you walk?"
Adrian wiped his mouth with his sleeve and nodded weakly. His legs felt like water, but he could walk.
They started moving again, but slower now, with fewer guards and everyone watching the shadows nervously. Adrian stayed as close to Sandor as he could, trying not to think about what he'd just seen and done.
That's when he heard the voice behind him.
"Well, well. What have we here?"
The voice was soft and smooth and somehow more frightening than all the battle cries and screaming. Adrian turned around and saw a man stepping out of the shadows between two large rocks.
He looked like an Ironborn—rough clothes, weathered skin, long dark hair. But there was something different about him, something that made Adrian's skin crawl. His eyes were too pale, almost colorless, and when he smiled, his teeth looked blue in the moonlight.
"Euron Greyjoy," Sandor snarled, raising his sword. "Should have known you'd be leading this attack."
"Sandor Clegane," the man replied pleasantly. "Still a dog, I see. But what's this?" His strange eyes fixed on Adrian, and his smile widened. "The little lion cub himself. The crow was not lying."
"Stay back," Sandor warned, moving to shield Adrian. "The boy's under my protection."
"Oh, I'm sure he is," Euron said, still smiling that horrible smile. "But protection is such a fragile thing, don't you think?"
More Ironborn stepped out of the shadows around them. Too many to fight. Way too many.
The surviving Lannister guards raised their weapons, but Adrian could see in their faces that they knew this was hopeless. They were outnumbered at least three to one, and they were already tired from the first fight.
"Let the boy go," Sandor said, his voice deadly quiet. "Take me instead. I'm worth more than a stupid boy who can barely walk."
"Oh, but that's where you're wrong," Euron replied. "You see, I have very specific plans for young Adrian here. Plans that require him alive and... mostly intact."
Adrian felt panic rising in his chest. He wanted to run, but there was nowhere to go. He wanted to fight, but he was just a six-year-old boy with no weapon—he'd dropped his knife when he got sick.
The battle started again, but this time it was different. This time, Sandor and the remaining guards weren't fighting to win—they were fighting to buy time, to maybe let Adrian escape somehow.
But there was no escape.
Adrian watched in horror as one by one, the guards fell. These weren't nameless soldiers anymore—he'd talked to some of them during the journey to Lannisport. That was Ser Martyn, who'd shown him how to properly hold a lance. That was Gareth, who'd told funny stories about his children back home.
Now they were dying to protect him, and there was nothing he could do to help them.
Sandor was still fighting, but even he couldn't hold off so many enemies forever. Blood ran down his sword arm from a cut, and Adrian could see he was getting tired.
"Enough," Euron said suddenly, his voice carrying an odd authority. "Take the boy. Kill the rest."
"No!" Adrian screamed as Ironborn warriors moved toward him. "Sandor!"
But Sandor was fighting for his own life now, surrounded by enemies with nowhere to retreat.
Adrian tried to run, but strong hands grabbed him from behind. He kicked and struggled and bit, but whoever was holding him was much too strong.
"Let me go!" he shouted. "Father will kill you all! He'll hunt you down and—"
Something soft and wet was pressed over his mouth and nose. It smelled sweet and strange, like flowers. Adrian tried not to breathe it in, but his lungs needed air.
The world started to get fuzzy.
"Shhh," said Euron's voice, very close to his ear. "Shhh, little lion. Mommy is coming for you."
Mommy? What did that mean? Adrian tried to think, tried to understand, but the strange sweet smell was making everything blurry and distant.
He could still hear Sandor fighting somewhere nearby, still hear the clash of steel and the shouts of dying men. But it all seemed to be happening very far away, like sounds from another world.
"Sleep now," Euron whispered. "You have such an interesting journey ahead of you."
Adrian tried to fight the darkness that was closing in around him, tried to stay awake so he could help Sandor, so he could find Father and Tyrion and everyone else he cared about.
But the darkness was stronger.
The last thing he remembered was Euron's pale eyes watching him with something that might have been amusement, and those strange words echoing in his fading consciousness: "Mommy is coming for you."
Then everything went black.
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