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Ser Jaime had been called by sycophants the ‘Lion of Lannister’, and yet stood here, in his father’s study as Lord Tywin snarled and hissed like a beast caught up in thorns, he felt more like mouse about to be savaged in a fit of rage.
“You mean to say, that you, my son, took the Valyrian sword I gifted you, Ned Stark’s sword, a treasure which any warrior in this kingdom would face a horde of Dothraki to prove themselves worthy of, an heirloom fathers would not trade a betrothal of their most adored daughter for, a sword for kings and heroes, and you gave it away?
Jaime might have feared, but he did not repent.
“I did,” he said simply.
“Why?” Tywin growled, helpless and lost. All those years, coveting a valyrian steel sword to pass down to future generations, and this wretched son of his had discarded of it barely ten minutes after it came into his hands. Was all his children destined to be cretins with brains full of dust and dead flies?
Jaime shrugged. How was he to explain to his father matters of honour?
“I found someone who deserved it better,” he said simply.
Lord Tywin sat back, for once in his life quite speechless. Jaime smiled to himself. That was a sight alone worth his father’s wrath.
“Who?” Tywin demanded. “Who, other than my son, born to Casterly Rock, is more worthy of a Valyrian steel sword?”
Jaime smirked. “A maid from the Stormlands,” he said with a laugh. “In more ways than you could ever understand, dear father.”