The time after the attack on Thea quietly melted away like the weeds on Casterly Rock's cliffs.
Before early autumn arrived in 280 AC, Leon Lannister's life had been divided into four precise slices.
For ninety days and nights, the Eye of Insight recorded everything.
Leon no longer needed to activate it deliberately. It had become as instinctive as breathing, automatically filing, analyzing, and refining with every observation, every sound he heard, every touch.
He sat on the balcony, organizing the gains of these three months in his mind...
The unread books in Maester Loomis's collection were dwindling, thoroughly "devoured" by the two dwarfs.
Then, on an ordinary afternoon, when Maester Loomis unfurled a scroll bearing House Bolton's heraldry.
When his fingers first touched the strings of a rebec.
When, during training, Kevan's sword suddenly thrust toward an opening in his guard.
When, after instructing Tyrion, he poured the refined fine salt into a clay jar...
The accumulated torrent finally found a breach.
Leon drew a deep breath and rubbed his swollen, aching head.
He rose and went to the mirror to straighten his clothes. Soon, he would have to attend the monthly family meeting.
The "Stoneheart Hall" deep within Casterly Rock was opened once again.
The windowless circular stone chamber held only a massive central table and a scattering of high-backed chairs.
This was the third time the twins had been allowed into this room, which symbolized the heart of the family's power.
They sat at the far end of the long table, their seats raised with cushions, but years of observation and systematic training had left their posture and bearing entirely different from when they first entered.
"Three months."
His voice echoed through the stone chamber. "Thea Marbrand has long since returned to her family to recuperate.
"The bodies of those two assassins have rotted as well. But... the hand reaching toward Casterly Rock has yet to be completely severed."
His gaze swept over everyone before settling on Cersei's face.
Cersei straightened her back. She was paler than before, but the stubbornness in her eyes had been replaced by a cold, suppressed anger.
"Father, the investigation has already proven..."
"Proven that you 'may' be innocent," Tywin interrupted her. "But it has also proven that your stupidity and recklessness were enough to let others use your emotions as a blade against the family."
Cersei pressed her lips into a thin line.
"From today onward," Tywin said, his voice brooking no argument, "your confinement is lifted. But remember, the family's blood is not for outsiders to covet, nor for its own members to squander. Your jealousy and stupidity nearly spilled Lannister blood in our own corridors."
He stopped looking at her and turned toward the end of the long table. "As for you two."
Tywin's gaze fell on Leon and Tyrion. "Your tutors report that you learn quickly. Before Maester Creylen left, he said that your brains, at least, were not merely decorative."
He paused. "Then... let me see whether you can bear the Lannister name."
The autumn wind threaded through the cracks of the stone castle, like footsteps gathering or scattering in panic, and continued through the night.
"Wooo-woo!"
A clear horn rang through Casterly Rock in the morning, announcing the special assessment to come.
The east wing's training ground had never held so many people. After all, few were willing to venture onto its black mine gravel and into the cold sea wind.
When Leon arrived, he immediately sensed the unusual atmosphere.
Temporary stands had already been erected along one side of the training yard.
There were no lavish seats, only a simple, sturdy wooden framework draped in Lannister crimson fabric, but every chair in the stands was occupied.
Lord Tywin sat in the center, dressed in dark red velvet, his face expressionless.
To his left sat Cersei. She had deliberately chosen a magnificent gown embroidered with gold thread, her chin slightly raised and her eyes cold.
To his right was Gerion Lannister, wearing an expression of boredom and mockery.
Kevan Lannister, the organizer of today's assessment of the Westerlands families' competition, stood steadily below the stands with his hands clasped, his expression focused.
Jaime stood one step behind and to Tywin's side. His tall, slender figure in golden plate already showed the beginnings of a white cloak.
In the stands were Ser Roland Crakehall and his wife of House Crakehall, Ser Quenten Banefort of House Banefort, and the head of House Marbrand, a stern-faced, middle-aged knight, Damon Marbrand.
He was Thea's cousin.
At the center of the training ground stood five or six children, seemingly close to Leon's age, around eight to ten years old.
Among them, Leon was familiar with only three, who often trained with him:
The blond boy on the far left was Merlon Crakehall. His chin was slightly raised and his back straight as he tried to present his best posture before his parents.
The brown-haired child in the middle was Alyn Banefort. His fingers unconsciously twisted the hem of his clothes, his face pale with nerves as he occasionally glanced toward his father in the stands.
The black-haired boy on the right, Rosso Marbrand, was unusually calm. He merely gave his uncle Damon a slight nod and quietly observed those around him, expressionless.
"Begin." Tywin's voice was not loud, but it carried clearly across the grounds.
Kevan walked to the center of the training ground, bowed to Tywin, and said:
"Today's assessment consists of two parts: individual fundamentals and cooperative combat."
His gaze passed over Leon and Tyrion below the stands. "Partners for the second part will be decided by drawing lots."
From Kevan's gaze, Leon immediately understood that the supposed "drawing of lots" was certain to have been arranged.
This was probably what Tywin wanted to see: not merely their individual abilities, but their performance in specific combinations.
Once Kevan finished explaining, the assessment officially began.
The initial test of individual fundamentals was rather dull: basic sword techniques, footwork, and transitions between attack and defense.
The occasional laughter and idle conversations in the stands showed how much attention the adults were giving these children.
When Leon's turn came, the entire ground fell silent, every gaze converging on him.
Leon took a deep breath. He could not appear too unusual, but he had to demonstrate his "value" under Tywin's exacting scrutiny.
So he chose to execute every form Kevan had taught him. Though not every movement was precise, he could make slight adjustments to the details.
As in his usual training, he shifted his center of gravity a little lower than the standard to accommodate his height, shortened his sword's path while making it more precise, and synchronized his breathing perfectly with his movements.
To others, this was merely a dwarf child doing his best to imitate standard movements.
But to those who truly understood swordsmanship...
Jaime took a step forward, a smile of confirmation appearing on his face.
Approval flashed in Kevan's eyes, and he glanced toward Tywin from time to time.
Even the stern Damon Marbrand in the stands drew a deep breath and narrowed his eyes.
"Hmph, nothing but clumsy imitation. Does he want to crawl on the ground? Though he's the same height without crawling." Cersei spat out the insults with utter disgust.
A voice sounded beside her:
"Lannisters are all brave and clever, provided you stop opening that stupid mouth of yours..."
At a glance from Tywin, she immediately fell silent in fright.
With the fundamentals assessment over, Kevan announced the cooperative combat assessment.
Merlon Crakehall, Alyn Banefort, and Rosso Marbrand would form one team.
Leon Lannister and Tyrion Lannister would form the other.
A clamor of startled exclamations immediately rose from the stands.
Three against two?
And three normally built boys against two dwarfs?
This did not meet even the most basic standard of fairness.
Tyrion went pale at the announcement, but he still steeled himself and stepped forward, picking up a short sword and shield.
Leon noticed his hands trembling slightly, perhaps not from fear, but anger.
Such blatant unfairness made him feel insulted.
"The rules are simple."
Kevan's voice was utterly level. "Three against two, for the time it takes a stick of incense to burn. The match ends when either side is entirely unable to fight or concedes. Deliberately inflicting serious injuries is forbidden, but these iron-clad wooden swords can leave bruises."
He paused, then looked at Tyrion and added, "There is no fairness on the battlefield, only life and death."
Leon's grip on his paired training swords was already thoroughly practiced. His body remained small and thin, but every movement was precise and efficient.
"We'll win. We may be shorter, but they won't be able to touch us..." Leon looked at Tyrion.
Tyrion's progress lay more in "how to use a shield, terrain, and words to disrupt an opponent." His swordsmanship remained crude, but he was cunning enough.
The fight began.
Melon chose a direct assault, his slashes carrying an added measure of caution.
During one training session, Leon's short sword had thrust precisely at his left ribs, making him remember the pain.
Leon did not retreat. Turning sideways, he guided his long sword diagonally, redirecting rather than blocking, while his short sword reached straight for the slight opening beneath Melon's arm as he exerted himself.
He stopped at contact, but it was enough to startle Melon into a cold sweat, and he retreated awkwardly.
Almost simultaneously, Alyn attacked from the right.
Without even looking, Leon drew his right leg half a step back and rotated slightly, his short sword tracing a brief arc to strike Alyn squarely on the wrist.
Clang! The training sword hit the ground.
Barely three breaths into the match, Alyn was out.
Stifled gasps rose from the stands, and Earl Banefort's face darkened.
A trace of approval flashed in Rosso's eyes. Rather than rush to attack, he moved slowly, forming a pincer with Melon.
Tyrion held his shield half a step behind Leon's flank, watching the sword in Rosso's hand warily.
"Tch, I swear I'll get a steel axe someday!" His breathing was much steadier than during training.
"You'll get your wish, but remember to protect your face..." Leon glanced at Tyrion.
"My face? What does that mean...?"
"Figure it out!"
At that moment, Melon attacked again, changing from broad, sweeping strokes to probing thrusts.
Rosso closed in from the other side at the same time, his sword point tracking Leon's movements.
Leon's Eye of Insight operated under a light load, breaking their movements into streams of data:
Melon's weight leaned left; his next move would most likely be a right step followed by a diagonal slash.
Rosso's gaze rested on his right knee. He wanted to try to curb his speed.
Leon suddenly moved, taking a long stride forward to meet Melon.
Melon froze for a moment, then instinctively stepped right as predicted and swung diagonally...
But the instant he stepped, Leon drove his left foot against the ground. His short body shot like an arrow into the blind spot of Melon's swing, and his short sword's pommel struck hard against the joint of Melon's right elbow.
"Ah!" Melon's arm went numb, and his training sword slipped from his hand.
But the price was that Leon had exposed his back to Rosso.
Rosso's sword was already there, fast, precise, and ruthless, thrusting straight toward Leon's heart from behind.
Clang!
A dull crash of metal.
Tyrion's shield blocked in time, but the somewhat greater force sent him staggering backward, nearly knocking the shield from his grip.
Rosso's sword point scored a deep groove across the shield's surface.
"Thanks," Leon said without turning.
"Whoa, you owe me one." Panting, Tyrion steadied his raised shield again.
Now it was two against one.
The entire ground fell quiet.
Rosso slowly assumed his stance. His swordsmanship was the most solid of the five, without any flourishes; every strike was simple and effective.
Over the past three months, he had sparred with Leon more than anyone else, and they were familiar with each other's methods.
"Tyrion, I'll handle this myself." Leon held one sword forward and the other behind, his center of gravity extremely low.
The training during this period had given this dwarf's body stability and explosive power far beyond what its appearance suggested.
"Oh, little brother, I love you so much..." Tyrion gave up trying, tossed down his shield, and sat on it.
At that moment, both moved at once.
Sword shadows crossed.
They dispensed with probing and went straight into high-speed exchanges of attack and defense.
Rosso's long sword struck like a viper's tongue, every thrust targeting somewhere Leon had to defend.
Leon's paired swords were like two hounds working in perfect accord, one defending and one attacking, turning his disadvantage in height into more agile movement and trickier angles.
Clang! Clang! Clang!
The impacts fell as thick as rain, their footsteps kicking fine dust from the gravel.
In the stands, even Tywin leaned slightly forward.
Damon Marbrand said quietly to Earl Crakehall beside him, "Your son's defeat was well deserved."
Earl Crakehall snorted without speaking.
On the field, Rosso suddenly changed tactics.
He forced Leon's short sword back with a strike while kicking hard at the ground with his left foot, sending a spray of gravel toward Leon's face.
Clatter!
Leon turned his head to evade it, but his vision was disrupted for half an instant.
In that half-instant, Rosso's long sword followed like a shadow, thrusting straight at Leon's throat.
Leon no longer had time to evade completely, but he had never intended to dodge.
He advanced into the sword point, precisely pressing the long sword in his left hand against the spine of Rosso's blade, sliding rapidly along the direction of the thrust and twisting like a snake coiling around a branch.
Through arduous practice and the Eye of Insight's optimization, Leon had mastered the essence of the "force-redirecting sword lock" technique.
Rosso felt the force in his sword vanish like a clay ox sinking into the sea. At the same time, a strange twisting force reached him, nearly wrenching it from his grasp.
He decisively abandoned his sword and retreated.
The entire ground was deathly silent.
Rosso looked down at the sword point in Leon's hand, which had just deliberately withdrawn an inch, then at the training sword he had abandoned on the ground after it was "locked."
He was silent for three seconds, then slowly raised both hands. "I lost." His voice was clear and decisive.
No explanations, no excuses.
In the stands, Damon Marbrand burst into undisguised praise.
Tywin slowly rose to his feet. He descended from the stands and looked first at Rosso. "Why did you suddenly yield?"
"Because Leon saw through every move I made, my lord."
Rosso's voice was calm. "He was calculating from the very beginning. Kicking up loose stones to obscure his vision was my last resort. Not only did he anticipate it, he already had a way to counter it. I'd never seen that sword-locking technique before, and I couldn't stop it."
He paused, then added, "And those spots where the stones jutted up beneath his feet... if I hadn't yielded and had kept fighting, I might have stepped into them.
"He controlled and squeezed the space I had to move in, and he was anticipating all along, faster than I could."
Tywin turned to Leon.
Leon lowered his sword, his breathing somewhat rapid. He now had faintly defined muscles. Though his dwarf's body remained short, it was no longer frail.
Tywin glanced at him, then turned to address everyone, his voice echoing across the training ground:
"The three-month observation period is over. From this day forward, Leon Lannister and Tyrion Lannister will formally join the family's senior ranks and be granted decision-making authority."
In the stands, Cersei's nails dug into her palms.
"Meanwhile," Tywin continued, "word has come from King's Landing. His Grace King Aerys has taken an interest in the 'twins' of the Westerlands. He has personally sent an invitation to meet this pair of 'miracles of beauty and ugliness.'"
His gaze swept over Leon and Tyrion. "You will be going to King's Landing."
As the crowd dispersed, discussion surged like a tide. A personal invitation from the king...
It meant so many things.
Honor? Danger? Or some more complicated signal?
Rosso approached Leon and Tyrion. "Starting tomorrow, I'll be in your care."
His gaze was candid. "Uncle Damon said House Marbrand remembers loyalty. I'll do everything I can to be a good 'whetstone' for you."
"Welcome to the 'cursed club.'" Tyrion raised his eyebrows.
He leaned closer to Leon and grinned. "Don't forget, you still owe me for saving your life with my shield."
"Then when we get to King's Landing, let's try one of the famous taverns. Oh, I forgot we're only seven," Leon said.
"No, it has to get into my belly. I want Arbor gold!"
"Of course, if you can stomach it."
"Hahahaha..."
The three left the training ground side by side. The setting sun stretched their shadows long, intertwining them.
Back in the main keep's study, Lord Tywin stood at the window, watching the three children's retreating backs.
Behind him, Kevan said quietly, "The king's invitation... what exactly does Aerys want?"
"He wants to make certain." Tywin's voice was cold. "To make certain of just what Joanna's sons inherited. To make certain whether Leon's pale violet eyes are what he imagines them to be."
"The risk is great."
"But the opportunity is just as great." Tywin turned and walked toward the desk. "They have proved their worth these past few months. Now it's time to put them on a larger board and see how far they can go."
He picked up the letter on the desk, sent from King's Landing and sealed in wax with the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen.
"The game has moved to a higher level, Kevan," Tywin said, a cold light flashing in his eyes. "And the pieces have already learned the most basic moves.
"Now it's time to return to King's Landing and see what the rules have become while I, the Hand of the King, have been away on leave."
Far to the east, in the Red Keep at King's Landing, the Mad King Aerys Targaryen sat upon the Iron Throne, his fingers unconsciously tracing a twisted, blade-like iron spike on its armrest.
He murmured to himself, flames of madness dancing in his eyes:
"Purple... flames... Joanna..."
He suddenly began to giggle. The sound echoed through the empty throne room, making the skin crawl.