The Golden Dragon of Westeros

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Four Months Later - Adrian Lannister (4)

Adrian's favorite word was "why."

"Why is the sky blue?" he asked Serra while she combed his pale gold hair in the morning.

"Because the gods made it that way," Serra answered, not looking up from her task.

"Why did they make it blue and not green?"

Serra sighed. "Perhaps they thought blue was prettier."

"Why is prettier better?"

"Adrian," Serra's voice got the tired sound it always did now. "Some things just are."

But that wasn't a good answer. Everything had reasons. Adrian learned that from Tyrion. Tyrion always had reasons for everything.

Adrian was four now. Uncle Gerion had given him four little wooden animals for his nameday, one for each year. The lion was his favorite. He carried it everywhere in his pocket.

Today, Adrian was following Maester Creylen through the halls of Casterly Rock. The Maester was teaching him the names of all the Lords of the Rock, which was boring but important.

"And after Lord Tytos came your father, Lord Tywin," the Maester said.

"And after Father comes me," Adrian added proudly.

The Maester's face did something funny. "Well, there is your half-brother Jaime..."

"Father says Jaime wears a white cloak now. He can't be Lord."

"Very good, Adrian," the Maester nodded. "Your memory serves you well."

Adrian liked when people said he was good at remembering. He remembered everything—like the song Uncle Gerion taught him from the Summer Isles, and all the words in the book about dragons Tyrion read to him three times.

"Can we go to the library now?" Adrian asked. "I want to see Tyrion."

"Your father requested your presence in his solar at midday," the Maester replied. "It's nearly time."

Adrian's stomach felt jumpy. Father didn't often ask for him specifically. Sometimes that was good. Sometimes it wasn't.

When they reached Father's solar, Adrian stood very straight like he'd been taught. The guard announced him, and he walked in with careful steps.

Father sat behind his big desk, writing something with his special gold pen. He didn't look up.

Adrian waited. He'd learned that Father didn't like to be interrupted.

Finally, Father set down his pen. "Adrian. Maester Creylen tells me your speech has improved considerably."

Adrian wasn't sure what "considerably" meant, but it sounded good.

"Yes, Father," he replied.

"Address me properly," Father said, his green-gold eyes watching carefully.

Adrian remembered the new word he'd been practicing. "Yes, my lord Father."

Father almost smiled. Almost. "Better."

Father stood and walked around the desk. He was so tall that Adrian had to tilt his head back to see his face.

"Tomorrow, Lord Serrett will visit Casterly Rock," Father explained. "You will join us for the midday meal."

"Yes, my lord Father," Adrian repeated, proud he got it right again.

Father nodded. "What have you learned this week?"

This was a test. Father often tested him. Adrian took a deep breath and recited what Maester Creylen had taught him.

"House Lannister ruled as Kings of the Rock until Loren the Last knelt to Aegon the Con-Conqueror." Adrian stumbled a bit on the hard word but kept going. "Our words are 'Hear Me Roar' and our sigil is a golden lion on crimson."

"And what does a lion never do?" Father asked.

"A lion never concern itself with the opinions of sheep," Adrian replied promptly, repeating one of Father's favorite sayings.

This time Father did smile, just a little. From his desk, he took a small wooden figure—a lion standing on its hind legs, beautifully carved.

"For your correct answers," Father said, handing it to Adrian.

Adrian took the lion carefully. It was much nicer than his other toys, painted gold with tiny red gems for eyes.

"Thank you, my lord Father."

When Adrian left the solar, he felt warm inside. Father was pleased with him.

In the kitchen, Adrian perched on a tall stool, watching the cooks prepare dinner. He wasn't supposed to be here, but the head cook, Marla, let him stay if he was quiet.

"What's that?" Adrian pointed to a strange spiky fruit.

"A pineapple," Marla said, slicing it open to reveal yellow flesh. "From the Summer Isles. Your uncle brought it."

"Why is it called a pineapple when it's not an apple?"

Marla chuckled. "The shape, I suppose. Would you like to taste it?"

Adrian nodded eagerly. Marla gave him a small piece. It was sweet and tangy and like nothing he'd ever tasted before.

"Extraordinary," Adrian declared, using one of Tyrion's favorite words.

Marla nearly dropped her knife. "What did you say?"

"Extraordinary," Adrian repeated. "It means very unusual and special."

The kitchen maids giggled. Adrian didn't understand why, but he liked making them laugh.

In the library, Tyrion was showing Adrian a book with pictures of the Wall.

"It's seven hundred feet high," Tyrion explained, "and made entirely of ice."

"Why would anyone build a wall of ice?" Adrian asked, tracing the illustration with his finger.

"To keep out the wildlings," Tyrion answered. "And perhaps other things."

"What other things?"

Tyrion's mismatched eyes twinkled. "Others. White Walkers. Creatures of ice and death that come with the long night."

Adrian's eyes widened. "Are they real?"

"What do you think?"

Adrian thought hard. "Maester Creylen says they're just stories. But you said all stories come from somewhere."

"Very good," Tyrion smiled. "Critical thinking is the cornerstone of wisdom."

"Critical thinking is the cornerstone of wisdom," Adrian repeated, liking how the big words felt in his mouth.

Three days later, Adrian was playing with his wooden animals in the hallway outside Father's council chamber. He wasn't supposed to be there either, but the guard liked him and pretended not to see him.

Adrian could hear voices from inside discussing boring grown-up things. Father's voice was the loudest, talking about taxes and gold.

The door suddenly opened, and a servant emerged. Before it closed, Adrian heard Father say, "The proper allocation of resources is the cornerstone of effective taxation."

Adrian went back to playing with his animals, making the lion fight the wolf.

Later that afternoon, Father held a meeting with Lord Serrett, a thin man with a funny-looking mustache. Adrian was brought in to greet the lord, wearing his best clothes.

"My son, Adrian," Father introduced him.

"A handsome lad," Lord Serrett said, not really looking at Adrian. "You must be proud."

"Indeed," Father replied. "Adrian, what did you learn about House Serrett this morning?"

Adrian remembered his lessons. "House Serrett's sigil is a peacock in green, blue, and gold. Your seat is Silverhill."

Lord Serrett looked slightly more interested now. "Well taught, my lord."

"He has an exceptional memory," Father said. "Tell Lord Serrett what you've learned about governance."

Adrian wasn't sure what to say. He hadn't learned about "governance" yet. But he remembered what he'd heard outside the council chamber.

"The proper allocation of resources is the cornerstone of effective taxation," he repeated perfectly.

A surprised silence fell. Lord Serrett's eyes widened, and he looked from Adrian to Father with new respect.

"Remarkable," he said finally. "I've never heard a child his age speak so... precisely."

Father placed a hand on Adrian's shoulder.

"The future of House Lannister will be in capable hands," Father said, and the pride in his voice made Adrian stand taller.

Later, as Adrian was leaving, he heard Lord Serrett say to Father, "The boy is truly exceptional, my lord. A credit to your house."

Father's reply was too quiet to hear, but Adrian knew he had done well.

That night, in his big bed with the lion carvings, Adrian thought about all the new words he'd learned. Words were power—he understood that now. The right words made Father proud, made servants listen, made lords look at him with respect.

Tomorrow, he would ask Tyrion to teach him more big words. And he would ask Uncle Gerion, who was still visiting, to tell him stories about the places beyond the sea with funny names like Qarth and Asshai.

And maybe, if he learned enough words and said them perfectly enough, Father would smile at him again with that almost-smile that made Adrian feel warm all the way to his toes.

Adrian fell asleep with his new wooden lion clutched in one hand, dreaming of words floating around him like brightly colored butterflies, waiting to be caught.

One Year Later - Adrian Lannister (5)

Adrian fidgeted in his chair at the high table. His new boots pinched his toes, and the stiff collar of his crimson doublet scratched his neck. But he didn't complain. Father said Lannisters never complain, especially not at important feasts with important guests.

The Great Hall of Casterly Rock glowed with a hundred candles. The light made the golden plates and cups shine like little suns. Adrian had counted twenty-eight lords and ladies at the long tables. They wore silks in green and gold and blue that looked like butterfly wings when they moved.

"Sit still," Aunt Genna whispered from beside him. She was big and loud usually, but tonight she used her quiet voice. "Remember what your father said."

Adrian nodded. Father had said many things before the feast. Stand straight. Speak clearly. Make House Lannister proud. Adrian wasn't sure how to do the last one, but he was trying his hardest.

Uncle Tygett sat across the table, talking loudly about hunting and fighting. Adrian liked Uncle Tygett because he was teaching him how to use a wooden sword, but he didn't like how Uncle Tygett sometimes laughed at Tyrion. Nobody should laugh at Tyrion. Tyrion was the smartest person in the whole castle.

Uncle Tygett laughed, his face red from wine. He was talking loudly to another lord, laughing in the way grown-ups did when they said things children weren't supposed to hear.

"You should have seen her," Uncle Tygett boasted, not noticing that Adrian was listening. "The tavern wench from Lannisport with the biggest pair of—"

"Tygett!" Aunt Genna cut in sharply. "There are children present."

Uncle Tygett glanced at Adrian and waved dismissively. "He doesn't understand. Do you, boy?"

Adrian wasn't sure what Uncle Tygett was talking about. Something about a woman with big something. Maybe she had big hands? Or big feet?

"Were her eyes big, Uncle Tygett?" Adrian asked innocently. "I met a lady with very big blue eyes once."

The men around Uncle Tygett roared with laughter. One slapped the table so hard wine spilled from his cup.

"Not quite her eyes, nephew," Uncle Tygett smirked.

Aunt Genna's face turned almost as red as her dress. "Tygett Lannister, that is enough! You will watch your tongue or I'll have you seated with the stable boys."

Uncle Tygett rolled his eyes but nodded. "As you wish, sister." He winked at Adrian. "I'll tell you when you're older, lad."

Adrian frowned, confused. Grown-ups were always saying that.

"Where's Tyrion?" Adrian asked Aunt Genna.

"In the library, I expect," she replied. "Your brother doesn't care for these affairs."

Adrian wished Tyrion was here. Feasts were boring without him. Uncle Gerion was gone too, back to his travels across the sea. He'd promised to bring Adrian a Dothraki horse-hair bracelet next time.

Father sat at the center of the high table, talking to a fat lord with a flower on his clothes. They were discussing boring things like trade and ships. Adrian tried to listen because Father said a lord must always listen, but his mind kept wandering.

Then Father stood up, and everyone got quiet.

"Lords and ladies of the Reach," Father said in his important voice. "To honor our guests, I have arranged for special entertainment this evening. From Highgarden comes the renowned singer, Alyn of the Greenblood."

A tall man with dark curly hair stepped into the center of the hall. He wore green and gold clothing that shimmered when he moved. In his hands was the most beautiful instrument Adrian had ever seen—a wooden harp with silver strings that caught the candlelight.

"I am honored to perform for the great Lord Tywin and his esteemed guests," the singer said with a bow.

Adrian sat up straighter, suddenly not bored anymore. The singer had a nice voice, smooth like honey.

The singer began to play, his long fingers dancing across the strings. Adrian felt something strange happen. The music seemed to flow into his ears and then all through his body, making his skin tingle. It was like the feeling when he rode his pony fast, or when he stood on the highest tower of Casterly Rock and looked out at the sea—exciting and scary all at once.

First, the singer played a happy song about knights and tourneys. People clapped along and laughed. Then he played something slower about a sad princess in a tower. Some of the ladies dabbed their eyes with handkerchiefs.

But it was the third song that made Adrian forget to breathe. The singer called it "The Doom of Valyria." The music started low and quiet, almost whispering, then grew like a storm until it filled the whole hall.

Adrian didn't move. He didn't even blink. The music painted pictures in his head—cities of white stone, dragons flying through purple skies, and then fire and darkness and the sea rushing in to swallow everything. It was the most beautiful, most terrible thing he had ever heard.

When the song ended, the hall was silent for a heartbeat before erupting in applause. Adrian didn't clap. He couldn't. His hands were frozen in his lap, and his eyes burned with tears he didn't understand.

"Adrian?" Aunt Genna touched his arm. "Are you well?"

Adrian nodded, not trusting his voice.

The singer looked around the hall, smiling at the applause. Then his eyes found Adrian, and his smile changed, becoming curious. He walked closer to the high table, still playing softly.

"The young lord seems moved by the music," the singer said, bowing to Father.

Father looked at Adrian with a strange expression. "My son has an interest in history," he said carefully.

"And music, it seems," the singer replied. He came closer and knelt on one knee before Adrian, still playing gentle notes. "Would my young lord like to hear a special song?"

Adrian nodded eagerly, finding his voice. "Yes, please."

The singer smiled. "This is a very old song from before the Conquest. They say Aegon the Dragon himself enjoyed it."

He began to play a melody unlike any Adrian had heard before. It had no words, just notes that seemed to dance and swirl like water in a stream. Adrian's fingers twitched in his lap, wanting to touch the strings, to make that magic themselves.

Without thinking, Adrian began to hum along, finding the notes as if he'd known them forever. The singer's eyebrows rose in surprise, but he didn't stop playing. Instead, he slowed down, playing each phrase clearly.

Adrian hummed the melody perfectly.

The hall had gone quiet again. Adrian didn't notice. He was lost in the music, his eyes half-closed, swaying slightly in his chair.

The singer played a new phrase, more complex. After hearing it once, Adrian hummed it back without a mistake.

"By the Seven," someone whispered. Adrian didn't see who.

The singer finished with a flourish and stood, bowing deeply to Adrian. "My young lord has the gift of music in his blood."

Adrian blinked, coming back to himself. Everyone was staring at him. Father's face was unreadable, but his eyes never left Adrian.

An old lady in silver and blue leaned toward Father. "Such gifts are rare, Lord Tywin, even among great houses. The boy is blessed by the gods."

Father nodded curtly. "House Lannister has many talents."

From the corner of his eye, Adrian saw Aunt Genna watching him with a strange look on her face. Her forehead was wrinkled like when she was trying to remember something important.

"Who does he remind me of?" Adrian heard her mutter to herself. "Those eyes, yes, but the way he lost himself in the music..."

The feast continued with more songs and food and wine. Adrian ate his honey-glazed pigeon pie without really tasting it. All he could think about was the music and how it had made him feel like he was flying.

Later, as the guests began to leave, the singer approached the high table again. He carried something wrapped in green silk.

"With your permission, Lord Tywin," the singer said, "I would like to present a gift to your son."

Father hesitated, then nodded once.

The singer handed the silk bundle to Adrian. "For a natural musician."

Adrian unwrapped it carefully. Inside was a small finger harp, like a tiny version of the singer's instrument but with fewer strings and made of pale wood.

"It's called a psaltery," the singer explained. "For small hands to learn music's secrets."

"Thank you," Adrian breathed, touching the strings gently. They made a soft, sweet sound that seemed to vibrate inside his chest.

"The boy is too young for such things," Uncle Tygett scoffed. "He should focus on swordplay and riding, not plucking strings like a girl."

"There is strength in many forms, Lord Tygett," the singer replied smoothly. "Prince Rhaegar himself was said to play the harp beautifully."

Father's face darkened slightly. "Adrian will learn all the skills befitting a Lannister," he said in a tone that ended the discussion. But he did not take away the gift.

That night, alone in his chamber, Adrian sat cross-legged on his bed with the small harp in his lap. He tried to remember the melody from the feast, his small fingers fumbling on the unfamiliar strings.

At first, the sounds were awkward and jarring. But then, as if guided by something inside him, his fingers found the right strings. The melody came haltingly at first, then more surely—the ancient song the singer had played.

Outside his door, a servant passing with clean linens paused, listening to the eerily beautiful music coming from the young lord's room. It didn't sound like a child playing; it sounded like someone older.

The servant hurried away, making the sign of the seven against her chest.

In his room, Adrian played on, lost in the music that somehow felt like coming home.

Tywin Lannister - Night

The fire in Tywin Lannister's solar hissed and crackled as he poured two glasses of Arbor gold. The hour was late, but Tywin had never required much sleep. Sleep was a luxury afforded to those with fewer responsibilities, and the Lord of Casterly Rock's responsibilities were endless.

"The singer made quite an impression today," Kevan said, accepting the offered glass. His brother looked tired—these days, he always looked tired. But he remained dependable, as always.

"He did," Tywin replied, taking his seat behind the massive oak desk. "As did Adrian."

Tywin did not need to elaborate. They had both witnessed the boy's unusual affinity for music. The memory of it stirred something uncomfortable in his chest—a reminder of the truth he buried deeper with each passing day.

"The Florents were impressed," Kevan noted. "Lady Florent spoke of nothing else at dinner."

"As well she should." Tywin took a measured sip of wine. "The boy exceeded expectations."

And he had. Tywin had arranged many such displays of Adrian's talents over the past year, carefully positioning the boy as a prodigy, a credit to House Lannister. Each time, Adrian performed flawlessly, whether reciting histories, demonstrating courtesy, or today, revealing yet another unexpected talent.

"You've done well with him," Kevan said carefully. "Though I wonder if perhaps he's becoming too... refined. Tygett mentioned the boy struggles with swordplay."

Tywin's jaw tightened. "Tygett expects too much from a five-year-old. Adrian will learn the sword in time. It's his mind that sets him apart."

"True," Kevan agreed. "Though a Lannister needs both sword and mind."

"And he shall have both." Tywin stood, moving to the window that overlooked the Sunset Sea. The moon cast a silver path across the dark waters. "I've arranged for Ser Belon Marr to train the boy."

"An impressive choice. And his other studies?"

"I've secured additional tutors—High Valyrian, mathematics, and history beyond what Creylen can provide. He'll be fluent in three languages. By ten, he'll understand the politics of all Seven Kingdoms in detail." Tywin turned back to face his brother. "When the time comes for him to rule the Rock, he will be prepared as no Lannister has been before."

Kevan studied him over the rim of his wine glass. "You've thought far ahead."

"A lion must always think ahead."

"And what of Tyrion?"

The question hung in the air, heavy and unwelcome. Tywin's mouth thinned to a hard line.

"What of him?"

"He is still your son, Tywin. Your firstborn son, with Jaime in the Kingsguard."

"He is what he is," Tywin replied coldly. "The gods saw fit to make him a dwarf. I cannot unmake that."

"No," Kevan agreed. "But favoring Adrian so openly—"

"I favor competence," Tywin cut in. "Nothing more."

A knock at the door interrupted them. At Tywin's command, a servant entered.

"My lord, young Lord Adrian is here to say goodnight, as requested."

Tywin nodded. "Send him in."

Adrian entered the solar with the careful dignity he'd been taught. He wore his nightclothes—Lannister crimson, of course—and his pale gold hair was neatly combed. In his hands, he clutched the small harp from the singer.

"Lord Father," he said, bowing properly. "Uncle Kevan."

"Adrian," Tywin acknowledged. "I trust you're prepared for bed."

"Yes, Lord Father." The boy approached the desk. "Thank you for the feast today. The singer was magnificent."

"You found his performance to your liking?" Tywin asked, studying the boy's face—those Lannister eyes set in features that increasingly reminded him of someone else.

"Very much so," Adrian replied, his vocabulary precise as always. "He taught me three notes on the psaltery before he left. Would you like to hear them?"

Tywin was about to refuse—music was well enough for feasts, but not something to be pursued too avidly—when he caught Kevan watching him closely. Let his brother see that he was not overly strict with the boy.

"Briefly," Tywin allowed.

Adrian's face lit up. He positioned his small fingers on the strings and plucked a simple sequence of notes. The sound was surprisingly pleasant for a beginner.

"The singer says I have a natural talent," Adrian explained, looking up at Tywin hopefully.

"So it seems." Tywin did not smile, but he inclined his head slightly. "You may practice in your leisure hours, after your other studies are complete."

"Thank you, Lord Father!" The enthusiasm in Adrian's voice was genuine. Cersei had sounded like that once, long ago, before disappointment hardened her.

"It's time for your rest now," Tywin said. "You begin lessons with Maester Creylen at dawn."

Adrian nodded solemnly. "Yes, Lord Father. Goodnight, Lord Father. Goodnight, Uncle Kevan."

"Goodnight, Adrian," Kevan replied warmly. "You did House Lannister proud today."

The boy beamed at the praise and bowed again before departing, the servant closing the door behind him.

Silence settled between the brothers. Kevan broke it first.

"He's a remarkable child, brother. You've shaped him well."

"He is remarkable in his own right," Tywin replied. "I merely provide direction."

Kevan swirled his wine thoughtfully. "Tygett was in King's Landing two months ago."

Tywin returned to his seat, his expression carefully neutral. "And how fares the capital?"

"Well enough. Tygett spent time with both Jaime and Cersei."

"And?"

Kevan hesitated. "Jaime is... managing. They call him Kingslayer behind his back, but he stands tall. His place in the Kingsguard is secure, however dishonorable the circumstances."

Tywin's mouth tightened. His golden son, reduced to a mocked kingslayer. Another failure he could not erase.

"And Cersei?" he prompted when Kevan did not continue.

Kevan looked uncomfortable. "Not well, according to Tygett. He said she looks more like a ghost than a human sometimes. Even the birth of Prince Joffrey three years ago didn't bring her much joy."

This was not surprising. Tywin had seen the emptiness in Cersei's eyes at her wedding to Robert Baratheon. The price of her crown had been high—higher than she knew.

"She will endure," Tywin said flatly. "She is a Lannister."

Kevan hesitated before adding, "She has sent many letters requesting permission to visit Casterly Rock these past five years. Perhaps some time away from court would do her good. She might benefit from reconnecting with her home... and getting to know her young half-brother."

Tywin's expression remained impassive, but his fingers tightened almost imperceptibly around his wine glass. "The queen's place is in King's Landing, at her husband's side."

"Even queens need respite, brother."

"King Robert is not known for his understanding nature," Tywin replied coldly. "Nor his willingness to be separated from what he considers his."

What remained unspoken was clearer than what was said: Tywin would not risk Cersei seeing Adrian. The boy was his project now, his legacy—not hers.

"Yes," Kevan agreed, not sounding convinced. After a pause, he added, "Tygett mentioned the Targaryen girl as well."

Tywin's head snapped up. "Rhaenys? What of her?"

"Nothing substantial. Tygett had no opportunity to see her himself. Merely repeated rumors that Jon Arryn treats her like a daughter at times."

"Does he." Tywin's voice was dangerously quiet. It was not a question.

The fate of Rhaenys Targaryen had been a point of contention at the end of the rebellion. Robert had wanted the girl dead—all Targaryens dead—but Jon Arryn had persuaded him otherwise. The eight-year-old princess remained in King's Landing, a ward of the crown, her claim to the throne nullified by Robert's ascension. A compromise that satisfied no one.

"Jon Arryn always was soft-hearted," Tywin said dismissively. "His attachment to the girl means nothing."

"Perhaps," Kevan conceded. "Though it does present a potential complication for the future."

Tywin knew what his brother meant. Any surviving Targaryen could become a rallying point for those discontented with Robert's rule. Though a girl had never sat the Iron Throne, Rhaenys was still Rhaegar's daughter, still carried the blood of the dragon.

As did Adrian, though only Tywin and Cersei knew the full truth of that.

"I've considered all potential complications," Tywin assured his brother. "And planned accordingly."

Kevan nodded, finishing his wine. "I never doubted it." He rose to leave. "Still, Tywin, I would counsel caution regarding Adrian."

"Regarding what, specifically?" Tywin's tone cooled.

"Your investment in him. Your other children notice, even from afar. Tyrion certainly does. I worry about the consequences of such obvious favoritism."

"I favor results," Tywin replied. "Nothing more."

Kevan sighed. "As you say, brother. Goodnight."

After Kevan departed, Tywin remained at his desk, reviewing the day's correspondence without truly seeing it. His mind kept returning to Adrian—the boy's performance at the feast, his natural grace, his quick mind.

From a drawer, Tywin withdrew a small carved wooden lion—similar to the one he'd given Adrian last year, but older, the gold paint chipped with age. Joanna had given it to him on their wedding day, a playful gift for the serious young lion she had agreed to marry.

"My legacy," Tywin murmured to the empty room.

Not Jaime, bound to the Kingsguard and forever stained by his actions. Not Cersei, a queen in title but apparently failing in spirit. Certainly not Tyrion, the misshapen mockery who had taken Joanna from him.

No, it would be Adrian—the perfect mixture of Lannister cunning and Targaryen fire, raised as a lion but carrying the blood of dragons. The boy who would restore House Lannister to glory beyond even what Tywin had achieved.

He replaced the wooden lion and moved to the window, staring out at the dark waters of the Sunset Sea. The truth of Adrian's parentage was a secret he would take to his grave. The boy himself would never know. There was no need. He was being shaped into a true Lannister, regardless of his Targaryen blood.

And yet, watching Adrian with that harp, hearing the strange, haunting notes he had produced so naturally... For a moment, Tywin had seen a ghost of Rhaegar Targaryen in the boy's face.

Tywin Lannister did not believe in ghosts. But he believed in blood, in legacy, in the inexorable power of inheritance. That was why he had claimed Adrian as his own, why he molded the boy so carefully. Whatever dragon's blood flowed in his veins would serve the lion's purposes.

It had to. Tywin had wagered too much on this particular game to lose.

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