And whose blame is that, Master Janos?

Cersei lashed out. “Your gold cloaks are charged with keeping arrange. As to you, Tyrion, you'll better serve us on the field of battle.” He chuckled. “No, I’m done with areas of fight, thank you. I sit a chair better than a horse, and I’d sooner hold a wine cup than a battle-axe. All that around the thunder of the drums, daylight blazing on armor, magnificent destriers grunting and skipping? Well, the drums gave me migraines, the sunlight blazing on my armor cooked me up like a collect day goose, and those wonderful destriers shit all over. Not that I am complaining. Compared to the hospitality I delighted in within the Vale of Arryn, drums, horseshit, and fly nibbles are my favorite things.” Littlefinger snickered. “Well said, Lannister. A man after my possess heart.” Tyrion grinned at him, recalling a certain knife with a dragonbone hilt and a Valyrian steel edge. We must have a conversation approximately that, and before long. He wondered in the event that Ruler Petyr would discover that s