Rise Of The Rejected Son-in-law

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The Lannister family hopes that the Mayor himself would finally put an end to the disgrace of that Ethan.

When the Mayor finally stepped into the hall, the Mayor cleared his throat and said, in a calm, steady tone, “I am here today to award Mr. Etthan Cross the Certificate of Valor for his outstanding bravery and contribution to this city.”

The room erupted in murmurs. One of the Lannisters blinked in disbelief. “Did… did I hear that right? Give him an award?”

“An award?” another scoffed under his breath, panic lacing his words.

The eldest cousin, Edgar Lannister, shot to his feet, his face flushed with outrage. “Mr. Mayor, with all due respect—surely there’s been a mistake! Ethan’s not… he’s not stable! How could he have acted valiantly? Um, um…”

The Mayor furrowed his brow, his gaze turning sharp. “Are you suggesting I have poor insight, Mr. Lannister? Or are you implying that our law enforcement officers are incompetent? That we can’t even recognize bravery when we see it?”

Gideon Faraday, immediately stepped forward, bowing his head. “No, Mayor, that’s not what we meant. We simply—”

Before he could finish, the Lannister patriarch, Reginald Lannister, slammed his palm on the table and barked, “If you can’t speak properly, then shut your mouth! You damn fool—get out of my sight!”

Gideon’s face darkened as he stepped back silently, his pride shattered.

Reginald turned to the Mayor with forced politeness. “Please, Mr. Mayor, have a seat. Let us at least offer you tea.”

The Mayor waved him off curtly. “That won’t be necessary. I’ll present the award and take my leave.” He turned to his men. “Bring it forward.”

Two officers stepped up, presenting a certificate and a crimson banner embroidered with gold lettering. The Mayor smiled faintly, shook Ethan’s hand, and handed him the award.

Swish.

In perfect unison, the Mayor and his officers raised their hands in salute.

Ethan returned the gesture, his expression composed, though inside he already suspected that his aide had arranged this quietly behind the scenes.

The Lannisters looked on in utter disbelief. Their smug confidence had turned to confusion. “What’s going on?” one whispered. “Could this lunatic really have done something heroic?”

The mayor ignored them entirely. “Mr. Ethan, would you like a ride home? It so happens I’m heading in the same direction.”

Violet’s voice broke the silence, her tone shrill. “He can’t go! He hit me! He must pay for what he did!”

The mayor’s expression darkened. “Mr Reginald, I see your family manners have improved since my last visit.”

Reginald blushed crimson, turning furiously toward Violet. “Shut your mouth, girl! Haven’t you embarrassed us enough?”

Then, forcing a strained smile, he addressed the Mayor again. “Please, don’t let her rudeness trouble you. Allow me to escort you personally.”

The mayor snorted, dismissing the offer. Turning back to Ethan, he said simply, “Please.”

Ethan nodded, calm as ever.

The Lannister family could only stand there, dumbfounded, as Ethan and the Mayor left together. Fury burned in their chests, but none dared speak. Their humiliation was complete.

Minutes later, as the echo of footsteps faded, the other guests quietly began to leave.

Violet lay propped on the central hospital of Brentwood Vale hospital bed, bandages at her temple, fury carved into every line of her face. The painkiller had taken the edge off, but not the humiliation. She ground her teeth until her jaw ached. Across from her, in a tailored suit stood Kelvin Lannister — eldest son of her father, sleek and refined.

“You’re the most resourceful man I know, Kelvin,” Violet hissed, voice small with venom. “You must find a way. They can’t get away with this. Sandra and that lunatic must be ruined. Our reputation can’t be allowed to crack.”

Kelvin licked his lips, the movement practised and predatory. “Of course,” he said softly, all civility and no mercy. “Sandra still works at the company. we has plenty of opportunities to make trouble for her.”

A bright, vicious light lit Violet’s eyes. “Fire her,” she said at once, “and let her family suffer for it. Call them now.”

Kelvin shook his head, amused. “Firing her outright is far too blunt. Far too easy. No — let the vultures peck at each other first. Call Kelvin’s name, let them know their ‘mentally ill’ son-in-law has returned. The family will ruin themselves trying to outdo each other. When they’re spent, we step in and sweep the remains away.”

Violet blinked, then a delighted, cruel grin spread across her face. “Perfect. Let them tear one another to pieces. Well done.”

She tapped the phone on the bedside table and dialled. The line answered quickly; a fawning voice, thick with false concern, rang through. “Mrs. Lannister? It’s late — is everything all right?”

Violet’s voice coiled with aristocratic scorn. “How dare you asked if you were concerned?” she said. “It’s your granddaughter who’s causing trouble — she pushed my child, and she spat in our face. By the way, congratulations are in order. Your mentally ill son-in-law has come crawling back. He can take care of you now. You have no ties to the Lannisters anymore.”

A startled cry came over the phone. The other voice tried to soothe, to explain a misunderstanding. “Madam, please — calm down, tell me exactly what—”

Violet cut him off, sharp as a whip. “An apology won’t do. I demand they kneel. Before ten tomorrow morning, Sandra and her whole family will kneel at the company gate and beg for forgiveness. If not—don’t bother showing up for work again. I’ll make sure they have nowhere to go.”

The voice stammered assent, promising to make it right. Violet hung up, “Pathetic lot,” she spat. “Order them to kneel. Make them humiliate themselves in public. I want them to live with their heads bowed every day for the rest of their lives. That’s the price of defiance.”

She paused, then added, almost tenderly, “And be gentle… find me the best dentist in the city. I’ll have my jaw fixed properly.”

— — —

The mayor’s convoy had left them at the edge of the southern district. The neighbourhood they entered was the opposite of Brentwood’s polished villas: narrow lanes, tumbledown terraces, cracked pavements. The smell of diesel and neglect clung to the air. But it was cheap — the kind of place people with no options learned to survive.

Sandra led Etha along a rutted alleyway, shoulders steady despite everything. Ethan followed, his coat brushing against rusted railings, the heaviness in his chest making each step deliberate. He had expected hardship; he had not expected this.

Fifteen minutes later, they paused outside a public park gone to seed. Sandra fumbled in her bag and retrieved a small key. With a practiced motion she slid it into an iron door tucked behind the block of public toilets and opened it.

The door creaked and a smell like mould and old rain hit them. Inside, a single room no larger than ten square metres lay cramped with people’s lives: a narrow bunk bed, a cardboard box used as a side table, a glass jar of water, a couple of battered toothbrushes. Blankets were folded with care on the lower bunk. Miscellanea were stacked against walls — the sort of clutter that meant someone had to keep what little they owned.

A gust of wind rattled the door. The room reeked; it was damp and tired. Yet Sandra and the child moved through it like it was home, unfazed by the stench. Ethan’s throat tightened. His vision blurred at the edges.

The truth hit sharper than any wound: despite the Lannisters’ manor and properties, Sandra and Anna had no proper home. They had been living here — in a cupboard of a room, behind a public restroom — while the Lannisters toasted and preened in their gilded halls.

A hot taste of blood rose into Ethan’s mouth. He coughed, and a spider’s web of iron pain tightened in his chest as he spat a mouthful of blood onto the floorboards.

“Daddy—” Anna’s small voice trembled. The child, blinking past swollen lips, slid closer and clung to Sandra. “Is he my daddy? He’s my daddy, right?”

Ethan felt something give inside him. Tears he hadn’t allowed himself for years streaked hot and ugly down his face. Men like him didn’t cry for small comforts — they cried because the world had carved deep wounds. He let them fall.

Suddenly a voice cut through the cramped air like a thrown stone. “Lunatic! The audacity! How dare you come back! Haven’t we had enough trouble because of you?”

A figure charged forward from the shadowed yard outside — stocky, red-faced, a plank of wood clenched in his fists. He'd been watching; perhaps he’d been paid to watch. Perhaps he’d been primed with the Lannisters’ venom. He raised the board high and swung it down in a brutal arc.

Bang.