Janos Slynt was a butcher’s son, and he laughed like a man chopping meat. “More wine?” Tyrion asked him.  “I should not object,” Lord Janos said, holding out his cup. He was built like a keg, and had a similar capacity. “I should not object at all. That’s a fine red. From the Arbor¹?”  “Dornish.” Tyrion gestured, and his serving man poured. But for the servants, he and Lord Janos were alone in the Small Hall, at a small candlelit table surrounded by darkness. “Quite the find. Dornish wines are not often so rich.”  “Rich,” said the big frog-faced man, taking a healthy gulp². He was not a man for sipping³, Janos Slynt. Tyrion had made note of that at once. “Yes, rich, that’s the very word I was searching for, the very word. You have a gift for words, Lord Tyrion, if I might say so. And you tell a droll⁵ tale. Droll, yes.”  “I’m pleased you think so... but I’m not a lord, as you are. A simple Tyrion will suffice for me, Lord Janos.”  “As you wish.” He took another swallow, dribbling⁶ wine on the front of his black satin doublet. He was wearing a cloth-of-gold half cape⁷ fastened with a miniature spear, its point enameled⁸ in dark red. And he was well and truly drunk.  Tyrion covered his mouth and belched⁹ politely. Unlike Lord Janos he had gone easy on the wine, but he was very full. The first thing he had done after taking up residence in the Tower of the Hand was inquire after the finest cook in the city and take her into his service. This evening they had supped on oxtail soup, summer greens tossed with pecans, grapes, red fennel, and crumbled¹⁰ cheese, hot

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