The sword of House Lannister's third son

"Arthas... Arthas!"

Beneath the dusky sunset, a gentle sea breeze stirred the boy's long golden hair.

The Imp, Tyrion Lannister, struggled along on his short little legs, using both hands and feet to climb onto Casterly Rock's highest rampart.

"Huff... huff..."

"I really don't know why you like coming to this damned place to practice your swordsmanship."

Climbing somewhere so high was truly an ordeal for the diminutive dwarf.

Only after panting for a long time did the Imp gradually recover enough to complain to the boy, whose back had remained turned to him.

"Tyrion, don't you think the view here is beautiful?"

The tall boy leaned on his sword and gazed at beautiful Lannisport in the distance. The sunset shone on his sharply defined profile, and his handsome looks drew sidelong glances even from the Imp, who knew him so well.

"Yes, yes, of course..."

The Imp shook his head and reached down to pound his aching little legs, looking enviously at the tall figure before him.

"We eat more or less the same things. I really don't know how you've grown so tall at just fourteen."

"You know, Jaime didn't reach his current height until he was eighteen!"

"Hahaha!"

Arthas turned around and, seeing the Imp's disgruntled expression, couldn't help laughing aloud.

"Tyrion, my brother."

He casually planted his greatsword upright in front of the Imp and discovered, to his surprise, that the dwarf was a good bit shorter than the blade.

"Height doesn't matter, so long as you have a noble soul."

He crouched and patted the Imp's shoulder. Hearing those gentle words beside his ear, the Imp once again looked gratefully at this mature, steady boy.

Though Arthas was his younger brother, being with him felt more like having a tall, warmhearted elder brother, just like Jaime.

"Thank you, Arthas..."

"You're welcome, Tyrion."

Quite unused to such sentimental scenes, Arthas waved away the Imp's thanks and stood again, resting the deep-blue greatsword on his shoulder.

"Did you need me for something?"

The greatsword's cold gleam proclaimed its peerless sharpness, yet Arthas seemed unconcerned, letting the edge rub freely against his shoulder-a display of absolute confidence in his control over the weapon.

"Arthas, Father has ordered us to leave tomorrow."

"Leave? For where?"

"King's Landing!"

Undisguised excitement filled the Imp's eyes. Ever since experiencing the pleasures and extravagance of King's Landing, he had never stopped longing for the capital of the Seven Kingdoms.

"I'm not going. King's Landing stinks!"

Arthas refused outright without hesitation.

"But it's Father's order!"

The Imp looked at Arthas with some concern. He knew his younger brother's relationship with their father was not particularly good, but this was Tywin Lannister!

Lord of Casterly Rock, Warden of the West!

In Casterly Rock, and indeed throughout the Westerlands of Westeros, Tywin Lannister was practically the heavens themselves!

"I won't say it again."

Arthas's voice was icy. A chill seemed to emanate from his body, lowering even the surrounding temperature a little.

"All... all right."

The Imp shivered and backed away a few steps.

"But you know Father's temper. You'll have to tell him yourself."

He knew Arthas's strength very well, but their father had also found him an eyesore for a long time. Following his principle of offending neither side, the Imp could only leave this thorny problem to Arthas.

It had to be said that the Imp had a natural talent for rock climbing. With nothing but his short, stubby limbs, he somehow made the return journey several times faster than the ascent.

"Tywin Lannister..."

Arthas sat cross-legged, quietly admiring the trading ships coming and going in Lannisport as he murmured Tywin's name.

"You'd better not do anything stupid that displeases me."

"Good evening, young master Arthas."

On the road to the castle at Casterly Rock, many commoners dressed in hemp cloth greeted House Lannister's gentle third son with heartfelt warmth.

But Arthas, who was not in a particularly good mood, did not respond and simply kept walking.

"You're late, Arthas."

Just as he approached the doors to Tywin's council hall, an enormously tall, burly figure blocked his path.

Arthas looked up. A knight in a full suit of black armor stood before the doors, holding a six-foot greatsword. A pair of cold eyes glared viciously at him through the narrow slit in his greathelm.

"Relax, Clegane."

Facing this man, who was much taller even than himself, Arthas showed not the slightest fear. There was even a trace of disdain in his eyes.

"We're neither at war nor at a tourney. There's no need to dress so formally."

"But if you're planning to go courting in that outfit, pretend I said nothing."

His mocking tone instantly enraged the lord of House Clegane, known as the Mountain. With a roar, he raised the greatsword before him in both hands and brought it furiously down at Arthas.

Arthas also gripped his sword in both hands, actually choosing to meet head-on a blow that could cleave even a horse in two!

Clang!

The clash of the two greatswords made their eardrums ache. The Mountain felt as though his blade had struck a block of refined iron, the impact leaving both his arms numb.

Arthas fared no better. The Mountain's strength was simply immense, and his downward swing had the added force of gravity.

Though he blocked the blow firmly, the shock seemed to have jarred all his internal organs out of place.

Blood rose in his throat with its metallic sweetness. To keep his opponent from seeing that his strength was spent, Arthas forcibly swallowed it back down.

Fortunately, with the aid of Unholy Aura, his internal injuries were slowly healing.

"Your arms are limp. There's no strength in them at all. You're not even as good as that disfigured mongrel of your family's!"

A contemptuous smile curled his lips. As though afraid his opponent might not be angry enough, Arthas taunted him again.

The Mountain's fury intensified. He immediately raised his greatsword again and swept it across, as though to cut Arthas in half at the waist.

Seeing that his opponent had indeed lost his reason, Arthas immediately dropped low, avoiding the deadly strike. With nimble movements, he rolled behind the Mountain and kicked him squarely in the back of the knee.

The towering Mountain was instantly kicked down onto one knee. Off balance, he braced both hands against the ground, his tremendous weight pressing the greatsword in his hands into the dirt.

With such a fine opportunity before him, how could Arthas let it pass? He raised his coldly gleaming, deep-blue greatsword in both hands, poised to behead the Mountain!

"Stop, Ael!"

Just as the greatsword was about to fall onto the Mountain's head, an authoritative middle-aged man's voice shouted from behind Arthas.

Arthas, who had never intended to truly behead him, gave a look that said, Just as I thought. He stopped his greatsword just in time, only about ten centimeters from the Mountain's neck.

Having narrowly escaped death, the Mountain hurriedly staggered to his feet. Unwilling to admit that Arthas had defeated him, he was already blinded by rage.

He tore off his helmet and threw it to the ground, raising his fist to smash it into Arthas.

"Ser Gregor!"

The authoritative voice rang out again. The Mountain cast a reluctant glance behind Arthas and paused for several seconds before he had no choice but to lower his fist.

Seeing the victorious look in Arthas's eyes, the Mountain roared in fury. Abandoning even his greatsword and helmet, he strode straight away.

"Good evening, my dear father."

Arthas turned to the middle-aged man, whose short golden hair, already touched with white, was meticulously combed, and greeted him with feigned warmth.

"Good evening, Ael."

Unlike Arthas's warmth, Tywin wore the same stern expression at all times, no matter whom he faced.

After that greeting, Tywin said nothing more. He turned and walked slowly into the hall behind him, with Arthas following, greatsword in hand.

"Arthas, would you leave your sword in the servants' keeping for the moment?"

Just as they were about to enter the hall, a middle-aged man who bore a considerable resemblance to Tywin spoke up, regarding the greatsword in Arthas's hand warily.

"Of course, Uncle Kevan."

Arthas calmly tossed the greatsword to an attendant nearby and gave Kevan a brilliant smile.

"As Father's deputy, I must say you've always been very reliable."

Kevan ignored Arthas's praise and merely sat in his place, silently waiting for Tywin to give his orders.

"Sit."

Tywin sat upright at the head of the council hall, candlelight gleaming on the golden lion emblem on his chest.

"No need. Just say what you have to say."

Arthas showed him no deference. Smiling, he stood straight-backed in the center of the hall, as though he were the castle's master.

"Tyrion told me you were unwilling to go to King's Landing with him."

Long accustomed to his youngest son's attitude, Tywin paid it little mind, merely giving him a rather dissatisfied look.

"My dear father."

"King's Landing is far too dull. Once you leave the Red Keep, the air smells of nothing but piss and shit."

Arthas maintained his elegant smile. Anyone unaware of the circumstances who saw his expression would surely have thought father and son were on excellent terms.

Merely recalling the smell of King's Landing made Arthas frown slightly.

"Only Tyrion, that fellow who thinks with his cock all day, would keep longing for the brothels of King's Landing. I truly don't know how Cersei and Jaime have lived in that wretched place for so many years."

"This is not a request."

As though he could smell the stench of King's Landing, Tywin's perpetually impassive face also creased into a frown, and he addressed Arthas sternly.

"It is an order!"

"You're fourteen now. For the family, for the glory of House Lannister, you should be doing your part."

"Hahahaha!"

Arthas reacted as though he had heard the greatest joke in the world.

"What are you laughing at?"

Seeing Arthas laughing almost to the point of tears, Kevan could not help speaking before Tywin said anything.

Arthas did not answer. He merely walked slowly to Tywin's side, picked up the candlestick on the table, and held it before his own chest, illuminating a golden lion identical to the one on Tywin's chest.

"Does the glory of House Lannister mean ordering your men to swing a sword at your own son?"

The soul-piercing question echoed through the empty hall. Tywin's expression did not change; it merely seemed to grow a little darker.

"Insolence!"

Kevan slammed the table and pointed his right hand at Arthas.

"Your father only had the Mountain test your strength!"

"At this Hand's Tourney..."

"Kevan!"

Tywin interrupted the furious Kevan and raised his head to look at Arthas, who was toying with the candlestick.

"Jon Arryn, the Hand of the King, is dead!"

His flat tone remained utterly uninflected. Such explosive news sounded from his lips like a trivial matter.

"Robert is preparing to go to Winterfell to ask Eddard Stark to succeed him. Once he returns, given Robert's indulgent nature, he is certain to hold a tourney."

"I hope you can take first place in the tourney and attract the attention of all the great houses of the Seven Kingdoms."

"And marry into one of the lordly houses of the Seven Kingdoms, preferably House Stark."

As Tywin spoke, under Kevan's astonished gaze, he actually rose slowly and gave Arthas a slight bow.

"Ael, my finest son, if you are unhappy, I can apologize to you for my past actions."

"The family's interests come first. I hope you can set aside the grievances between us as father and son."

As the saying went, one did not strike a smiling face. Arthas had not expected Tywin to humble himself so far.

"What a bother. All I wanted was to stay at Casterly Rock and practice my swordsmanship."

Arthas turned and strode toward the doors, leaving Tywin and Kevan with only the sight of his carefree retreating figure.

Accepting Frostmourne from the guard, Arthas admired the deep-blue light shimmering along its blade.

"My dear father, I'll agree this time."

"But I must remind you of one thing: whatever you do, don't go too far."

"Otherwise, dying at your own son's hands wouldn't look very good."