Chapter 35: Beauty Is Also a Form of Power

Red Keep

Everyone in House Lannister knew that Lord Tywin's greatest affection was reserved for Ser Jaime.

Jaime's own brilliance only cemented his unassailable standing within the family.

By contrast, Tywin had always shown Tyrion nothing but cold disregard. His stature and appearance, dwarfed and unconventional, made it easy for others to dismiss him—if not outright scorn him.

And yet, thanks to Jaime's open affection and protection, the rest of House Lannister at least maintained a facade of respect toward Tyrion.

Lancel Lannister had been no exception.

Until today.

Today, he had seen with his own eyes Tyrion slap Prince Joffrey across the face—twice—on his behalf.

His polite respect turned to reverence. The fear in his heart gave way to awe.

Lancel's eyes sparkled with admiration and gratitude as he looked at his cousin. So intense was his gaze that it made Tyrion shudder slightly—reminding him of the strange looks he'd received from Baron Green.

Tyrion, ever uncomfortable with sincere praise, quickly turned away and patted Lancel's thigh. "Come, let's not linger. The young baron has been roasting smoked beef since dawn—and nothing pairs better with it than a summer red."

But the image of rolling heads still haunted Lancel. The sight of bloodied ground and lifeless eyes refused to leave his mind.

Can I even stomach meat after what I saw? he wondered, swallowing hard.

Cautiously, he glanced down the corridor where Joffrey had vanished, found it empty, and exhaled in relief. Then he followed after Tyrion.

"Cousin Tyrion, shouldn't we inform Jaime?" Lancel asked, still visibly shaken.

Tyrion waved him off. "Jaime and Cersei are in counsel. I have no desire to disturb them. My sister would love nothing more than an excuse to skin me alive."

Then he offered a wry smile. "Calm yourself. I promise this will blow over. Better to set your mind on tonight's feast."

Lancel nodded slowly. Tyrion's words made sense. His panic had muddled his thoughts.

As they walked, Tyrion spoke again. "Don't let the horror of the execution blind you to its meaning. Ask yourself why Green did it. You might find there's something to learn."

Learn from the baron's cruelty? Lancel felt a chill. War, he realized, was far uglier than the tales in books. Numbers on a page meant nothing compared to the stench of blood.

Perhaps Father saw that I was never meant for the battlefield, he thought. That's why he kept me away from the army.

Tyrion's voice was steady, almost fatherly. "You're still fixated on the blood—but understand, Lancel, that blood is a tool. Governance, especially in wartime, is built on fear as much as loyalty."

"Green is one of the few nobles I know who truly values the lives of smallfolk. Perhaps it's a gift—he seems to grasp the essence of power far beyond his years."

"Oh… is that so?"

"Tonight, don't just drink and laugh. Speak with him. Learn what you can. These are lessons that may one day serve you well."

"I will," Lancel said, his voice firmer now.

Tyrion's thoughts wandered darkly. Jaime is ruled by his heart. If the future of House Lannister rests on our minds, that leaves only Father, Uncle Kevan, and myself.

Three minds should be enough... especially when one house holds all the gold.

King's Landing, Queen's District – A Narrow Alley

Monton Vyswater charged forward with a war hammer raised high. One swing—and bone cracked beneath his strike.

Angai, ever fastidious, adjusted the folds of his blue soldier's robe before drawing his bow. With smooth precision, he loosed an arrow that pierced the throat of a brute in the distance.

Monton smashed another man's skull with a savage grunt, red mist spraying across the stones.

They had fallen into a silent rhythm—Monton would crush, and Angai would shoot.

Monton's shield rang out with a thunderous clang as it caught a longsword mid-thrust. The attacker recoiled, stunned, just in time to meet the hammer's wrath.

From a dozen enemies, only two remained.

With a brief breath, Monton charged again—shield first, then hammer—and left two lifeless corpses in his wake.

Panting, he dropped onto a chunk of broken stone, raising his visor with a grin. "Angai, I got one more than you. Heh."

Angai had already guessed Monton's plan mid-charge and was quietly stowing his bow.

Frowning slightly, he stepped carefully over the spreading blood. His new brown leather boots remained immaculate.

Monton blinked, watching the delicate steps with confusion. "They'll get dirty eventually," he said with a dopey smile.

Angai stopped beside him, inspecting his boots once more. "Don't worry about me, Monton. It's just... I've never worn anything this fine."

"These soft leather soles—do you know how comfortable they are? Seven save me, I love them."

"You wouldn't understand. In my world, only nobles dressed like this. And now it's my soldier's uniform."

Though Klebb's blue tunics were crude compared to noble garb, their dyed colors and fit were more than Angai had ever known. A humble misunderstanding—but a beautiful one.

Beauty is a kind of power. That's what Baron Green believed. He demanded his soldiers appear disciplined, sharp, and unified.

For a common-born man, once a wandering sellsword, these clothes were the first taste of pride Angai had ever worn.

Monton laughed. "We all went through that. You'll get used to it. Not long ago, we were all in gray."

Angai scratched his head. "Might take me a bit longer."

Seeing his interest, Monton added, "If we kill a few more and move quickly, you might earn a cloak early—the kind with the Klebb sigil stitched in."

Angai's eyes lit up. "Really? Why haven't I seen one? Do you have one?"

Monton nodded proudly.

Angai frowned. "Then why haven't I seen you wear it?"

Monton chuckled sheepishly. "I'm afraid of ruining it. Unless I'm ordered to, I don't dare put it on."

Angai nodded solemnly. "Then what are we waiting for? Didn't you say there aren't many left?"

"Yeah. Leyton said only a hundred snuck in. Not even enough for us to split."

"Exactly. That ruins my rhythm. Hey—what's the cloak like? Can I see yours when we get back?"

Monton slung his hammer over his shoulder. "Blue, with a golden swamp marigold. The bloom's huge. If you like it, you can borrow mine."

Angai beamed. "Then I'll buy you a drink—after I get paid."

"Kill a few more and you can trade heads for ale—or coin, if you're boring."

"Coin? Please. Ale, obviously! Come on, Monton, let's run!"

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