Lancel Lannister

The great hall echoed with laughter and the clinking of goblets as Lancel crossed the marble floor, balancing a heavy jug of wine. King Robert was already demanding more, his voice booming like drunken thunder.

"Hurry up, boy!" he shouted, banging his fist on the table.

Lancel hurried on, his heart racing, his hands trembling slightly. As he approached, one of the king's knights—a burly man with a ruddy face—gave him a mocking look.

"Careful, golden lord, don't drop the jug," he said mockingly. "It would be a shame to stain so much gold with wine."

Laughter spread across the table. Lancel maintained his composure, bowing slightly as he served Robert, his face flushing, but his gaze remaining steady.

"Yes, sir," he replied in a controlled voice.

As he stepped away, he could still hear the laughter echoing behind him. For a brief moment, he looked up at the throne, where Cersei was discreetly watching him. A subtle nod of approval from her was enough for Lancel to straighten his shoulders and take a deep breath. He was still young, but in that look he found a purpose: to prove that a Lannister would never be a laughingstock for long.