Raskel practiced more often with his new Pinprick, holstered proudly on his hip for all the world to see. He practiced alone, with his father, early or late; it was an entire week before he put it down for longer than a few minutes. Lyon did not need to remind him to clean or sharpen it. Pinprick was his faithful companion, and he treated it as such.

"He's quite good with it, isn't he?"

Ellaria started at the sound of Lyon's voice. She had been watching Raskel's practice, admiring his concentration, his tenacity, and had not even heard the warrior approach. When she turned to him, she saw a brilliant smile on his face; a smile that lit his features with pride.

"I was concerned at first," he said as he rested his arms on the balustrade, "Thought perhaps he wasn't ready. But look at him. I've never seen him so proud."

"Then you've not seen him look at you," she replied. The whites of Lyon's teeth seemed to shine when he laughed. "He's like a dancer."

"Yeshen swordplay is a delicate artform. It has few equals."

"It's hard to imagine this little boy will grow up to become a warrior."

"There are worse things to be," Lyon reminded her. He looked at his son, weaving his way through an exercise, and felt a swell of delight in his chest. "Perfect form. If he keeps this up, perhaps he'll have that sword sooner than I thought."

Ellaria went over to a small corner table nearby and poured them both some water. The door to her room was ajar and inside she could see her prince asleep, bundled up in emerald sheets and pillows. For a moment she considered stirring him, but decided against it. It was the early morning, and he would be roused by the birdsong soon enough.

Lyon took the glass she offered him with a polite and quiet, "Thank you," and quickly returned his attention to his son.

"Do you have one in mind?"

"I'll have one forged for him," he said. "My father had Mother's Son forged for me when I was just a little older than Raskel."

"You speak so fondly of your father. What was his name?"

Lyon paused. She saw a fleeting pain sweep across his face, and wondered if she had overstepped.

"His name was Dram," he replied.

"Dram? The Yeshen who killed an entire fleet of pirates on the Summer Sea?"

Lyon chuckled, "Among other things."

"Prince Lewyn said that he saved all of Sunspear that day."

"Perhaps. He would have never accepted the praise, but he was an admirable man. There have been many times I've wished I could ask for his guidance since he died."

Ellaria put a sympathetic hand on the broad of his back. "How did he pass?"

"An illness. Funny, isn't it? One of the strongest men in Westeros, and it was his own lungs that killed him." He lowered his head. "I had nineteen years with him. It still wasn't enough to learn all that he knew. I was barely a man when he died."

"He passed on enough to raise a fine son."

Lyon's smile was sad and thoughtful. Then he shook his head as though to clear it and emptied his glass with one long draw.

"Forgive me, my lady – this topic is far too depressing for such a fine day. Is Prince Oberyn here?"

"He's sleeping."

"Ah, then I won't disturb him. Would you let him know I stopped by? I need to speak with him."

"I will," she said. The warrior offered her a small bow and started on his way, before she called out, "Lyon?"

He half-turned towards her with a curious smile.

"Your father would be proud."

Her words struck him more than he thought they would. He nodded, said, "Thank you, my lady," before turning on his heel and disappearing through the door.

Lady Margaery had offered Lyon an otherworldly amount for his allegiance. The Lannister coffers were deep and wide, stretching further than almost all other Houses, and after she had confirmed that she and Tommen were to wed she was eager to ensure his service. Her handmaiden had delivered to his room a list of all that he would receive if he were to pledge himself.

She entered just as Lyon had come out of a bath. He had only his trousers on, and when she caught sight of him she started and turned her face, as though protecting her virtuous eyes from some great sin.

"My lord, forgive me!" she said, "The matter is so urgent…I forgot to knock!"

He dropped the towel he was using to dry his hair on the cabinet, "Peace, my lady. There's no harm done. What is it?"

She hesitated before lowering her hands from her face and turning to him again. Her eyes were cast to the floor as she offered him the scroll she had been charged with.

"From Lady Margaery," she said. Lyon took it from her, and she almost snatched her hands away from his touch. She waited dutifully for dismissal while he unfurled the page, hoping that the blush that burned hot on her cheeks would fade before the other handmaidens saw her.

"This isn't a list," he said, "It's a novel."

"Lady Margaery said no expense will be spared, my lord."

He lowered the scroll and nodded at her, "Thank you."

It was not quite a dismissal, but she took it as one when he turned away from her and wandered further into the room. The handmaiden hurried her way out of the door, almost colliding into Oberyn as she did, and she apologised profusely as she rushed down the hall and out of sight.

The prince was confused until he saw Lyon. His chuckle caught the warrior's attention, and he turned and smiled as Oberyn settled himself down on a chair.

"I think you frightened her," he said.

"It wasn't my intention."

"To a girl like that, you're quite an impressive sight." He lifted his legs to rest his feet on the table, reclining in the room's cool shade. "What do you have there?"

Lyon sat on his bed and held the page in his lap. Oberyn could not see what was written there, but he could tell it was almost a palpable weight in the warrior's hand.

"It's a list of what I would receive should I pledge myself to Tommen," he replied, "Land, weapons, armour – quite specifically, eight bloodhounds – gold, a few titles—"

"The price of a soul."

Lyon paused and looked at him. Then he let out a little, dry huff of laughter and set the page aside.

"Yes," he said.

"Ellaria mentioned you came to see me," the prince said. His jaw had tightened at the mention of the Lannisters and seemed to ease when he changed the subject.

"I did. I had a message slipped through my door this morning, an appeal to see Tyrion in the dungeon. I wanted your opinion on whether or not it was some sort of trap."

The warrior stood and went to the cabinet, where he retrieved both a note and his shirt. Oberyn's face wrinkled in disappointment when he handed him the note and started to dress himself.

He read it while Lyon tightened the cords of his shirt and inspected the length of his hair in the mirror. It seemed authentic. Short, concise – Come to the cells tonight, T. It made no mention of intent, nor did it seek for him to betray some sort of secret hatred for the Lannister family.

"It doesn't strike me as a forgery," he said. The warrior made a small noise of assent.

"Then I'll see what he wants."

"He's accused of killing that sadist of a king," Oberyn pointed out, "To meet him would surely concern the Lannisters."

"Perhaps. But while we're stuck here, I might as well explore the capital's politics. Imp or not, Tyrion is an intelligent man, and he might offer me some insight into the machinations of this place."

"This place is a shit-heap."

"I agree."

Tyrion's cell was small and filthy, with a stench that reminded him of a burning pig farm he had passed once as a child. The man himself was no better; shed of his coin, his titles, his status, he was sombre and quiet as Lyon entered, a shadow of a Lannister. There was a smudge of dirt on his cheek that he simply did not have the energy to wipe off.

The warrior came to rest himself against one of the support beams, clutching his hands in front of him as he looked at the dwarf. He did not venture to speak first. The flap of pigeons could be heard outside and the windows let thin rays of dying sun filter through, but the cell still appeared dark and oppressive to his eye.

"Lyon," Tyrion finally said, "I'd offer you a drink but I'm afraid I'm fresh out."

The warrior nodded at him, "I read your note. What do you want?"

Tyrion ambled aimlessly about his cell as if searching for something to hold, some object to ground himself to reality. He seemed a lost man. Lyon felt some small pity for him.

"This isn't the best situation I've found myself in, I admit," he said. "My trial's tomorrow and my execution the day after that."

"If you're innocent, why would you be killed?"

"Because it doesn't matter who's innocent in King's Landing. Cersei's wanted me dead for a long time, and no amount of evidence to the contrary will make her believe I'm not responsible."

"Then why did a dead man call me to a meeting?"

The dwarf paused. He looked at him, contemplating his next words, and then stood on his toes to see if the guards were paying attention. They were, but loosely. If he dropped his voice, perhaps they would forget to listen.

"I've heard some rumours," he said.

"Here?"

"The guards don't care to hide information from a corpse," he replied. "It's said that Lady Margaery plans to make you an offer. Has she?"

Lyon's brow furrowed.

"She has," he replied, and his voice dropped in pitch to match Tyrion's. "A handsome sum, in fact."

"And do you plan to take it?"

"What concern is it to you?"

"Because, trial or not, I might be one of the only Lannisters with some damn sense of honour left," he said, "and, considering what I've done up until this point, that's saying something."

Lyon sighed and folded his arms across his chest. He said no more, and Tyrion took his silence as an opportunity to explain.

"If you take this deal, you won't just be serving Tommen. My father and sister will use you as a blunt instrument, sending you across the world to slaughter people who prove inconvenient to them. If you refuse them, they'll either try to kill you or take something you love. Someone you love."

"They couldn't kill me." He said.

"And your son?"

Tyrion saw the flicker of doubt cross his face and watched him roll his shoulders.

"Exactly," he said. "Lady Margaery might try to protect him, but she'll use you just the same. Except she'll turn you on political enemies – people who deserve to die but are a real pain in the arse to kill. And even then, she couldn't save your boy from Cersei. If you take this offer, you will give my family a Yeshen assassin. That's not something I ever want to see at their disposal."

Lyon removed himself from the support beam and turned from Tyrion, his head bent down as he tried to process his warning. He felt a headache coming on.

"This is a lot to take on faith," he pointed out.

"I'm in prison. Right now, I'm the only honest Lannister in this building."

"If I'm to accept what you've told me and decline the offer out-of-hand, then wouldn't I be in the same amount of danger?"

"Perhaps. I wouldn't drink wine you haven't opened yourself for a while. But, if you pledged yourself to someone else, perhaps then—"

"And who would I pledge myself to, Tyrion? You? The Grand Maester? The fucking horses?" he span around to meet his gaze. "I came here to find a worthy cause. Now I'm being bid on like a high-price whore."

"That's King's Landing for you, Lyon. We're all whoring ourselves out for something."

Lyon sighed. His shoulders deflated and he forced himself to stand straight, slipping his thumbs into the hem of his trousers as he looked at the dwarf before him. He had no reason to trust him, and yet he did.

"Very well, then." He said. "I'll see what else awaits me in this viper's nest. For your sake, Tyrion, I hope for a miracle. It would be a shame to lose the only honest Lannister in King's Landing."