Tyrion

           Therusheswerescratchyunderthesolesofhisbarefeet."Mycousinchoosesaqueerhourtocomevisiting,"Tyriontoldasleep-befuddledPodrickPayne,who’ddoubtlessexpectedtobewellroastedforwakinghim."SeehimtomysolarandtellhimI’llbedownshortly."

           Itwaswellpastmidnight,hejudgedfromtheblackoutsidethewindow.DoesLancelthinktofindmedrowsyandslowofwitatthishour?hewondered.No,Lancelscarcethinksatall,thisisCersei’sdoing.Hissisterwouldbedisappointed.Evenabed,heworkedwellintothemorningreadingbytheflickeringlightofacandle,scrutinizingthereportsofVarys’swhisperers,andporingoverLittlefinger’sbooksofaccountsuntilthecolumnsblurredandhiseyesached.

           Hesplashedsometepidwateronhisfacefromthebasinbesidehisbedandtookhistimesquattinginthegarderobe,thenightaircoldonhisbareskin.SerLancelwassixteen,andnotknownforhispatience.Lethimwait,andgrowmoreanxiousinthewaiting.Whenhisbowelswereempty,Tyrionslippedonabed-robeandroughedhisthinflaxenhairwithhisfingers,allthemoretolookasifhehadwakenedfromsleep.

           Lancelwaspacingbeforetheashesofthehearth,garbedinslashedredvelvetwithblacksilkundersleeves,ajeweleddaggerandagildedscabbardhangingfromhisswordbelt."Cousin,"Tyriongreetedhim."Yourvisitsaretoofew.

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