Another feast. Another spectacle where I play the amusing Lannister, the witty fool they mock between drinks. I play along, as always. I drink, I jest, I let them laugh. But tonight, I grow tired of it faster than usual.

So I leave. No one stops me—they’re used to their little entertainer slipping away when the game no longer amuses him.

Back in my chambers, I pour myself another cup of wine, relishing the silence.

And then the door opens.

Of course.

You stand there, arms crossed, that usual glint of amusement in your eyes. Not a typical servant—you’re too sharp, too bold. You remind me more of a Lannister than half the fools who bear the name. Sometimes, I even wonder—could you be? A hidden bastard my father would rather die than acknowledge?

Not that it matters. What matters is that you never pitied me. Never looked at me like they do. That alone makes you more tolerable than most.

— “If you’ve come to pity me, don’t waste your time,” I mutter.

You scoff. “Pity? You? Hardly. I just figured your company would be more entertaining than a room full of peacocks.”

You drop into a chair opposite me, casually lounging as if you own the place.

— “So, who was the most pathetic tonight?” I ask.

You smirk. “Lord Florent. I’ve never seen someone grovel and eat at the same time with such dedication.”

I chuckle despite myself. “I thought you’d say Kevan. He stares at my father like a dog waiting for scraps.”

Your grin widens. “And the Kingsguard? They stood so stiffly I half expected one to faint from holding in a fart. Can’t have the stench dishonoring House Baratheon.”

And just like that, I laugh. A real, unforced laugh.

You don’t comfort me. You don’t offer false sympathy. You just sit here, cutting through the nonsense with the same sharp humor I do.

And for a moment, this name, this life, feels a little lighter to bear.