A friendly word of warning—I have no idea what I'm doing. Some of it might give you the impression that I do, but that's just to fool slackers who skim over author's notes, mwahaha. Just so we've got some basic schematics: ages are book canon-ish, which means that Tyrion is in his late twenties, Jaime and Cersei are mid-thirties, Oberyn is around forty, and Joffrey died a kid. You get the idea. The only characters I've decided to age up are Sansa (16) and Margaery (19). Also, the plot bunny is very, very flimsy with me, so don't be surprised if one of these days I don't come back to update this.

About the general setting of the story: There is a political vacuum in Tywin Lannister's company after Robert's death. How will his troubled children fare amidst the newly come contenders? Introducing Tywin as the typical hard-handed business mogul. Tyrion as the typical troublemaker. Jaime as the typical do-nothing dreamboat. Cersei as the typical fashion icon Cruella. Or are they? (Feat. Sansa Stark as the very unlikely intern who needs to watch and learn.)

Fun fact—there are no documented cases of me biting any of my reviewers (well, without their explicit consent, that is). :) Enjoy.

Disclaimer: This is a work of fan fiction using characters from the ASOIAF world by George R. R. Martin. I own my thoughts and nothing more.

Ravishing Golden Animals

by monocrows

Tyrion

In which there is a guilty drunk dwarf at a funeral, and the first contender is introduced.

"More beer."

It was about the only eloquent thing he'd been able to mumble all morning. The dark empty bottle seemed to stand in agreement with him as it kept grinning back at him—a crooked pumpkin that slightly resembled his face, tinted green like shitty toothpaste, mocking him with his own bloodshot, mismatching eyes. Fill me if you dare…

Shae had said something of the sort last night, and he'd taken her up on the challenge as any short horny idiot would do. You dumb fuck, he thought idly as he headed towards the snack bar for a refill. He hoped that maybe if he only used one bottle and filled it up over and over, his extensive use of the refreshment compartment might go unnoticed by his dear family. You dumb, drunken fuck.

He found uncle Gerion and uncle Kevan standing by the drinks buffet, sharing old Nam stories and effectively blocking out most of the good liquor. Tyrion had to stand on his tiptoes and clear his throat several times in order to get their almost reluctant attention. He greeted them, feeling small. If it was his father he'd have to tug at his leg too, no doubt.

His uncles exchanged sympathetic looks as they made way for him to access the buffet. He almost made a remark about the pork sauce stain glistening between Gerion's many overlapping chins, but held it back, like puke in public. Pity was one of the things drunk Tyrion handled worse than sober Tyrion.

Tyrion hesitated as he approached the bar. No one started drinking this early at a funeral and so he'd been lucky enough to have the bar all to himself so far, which had allowed him to use the aid of a stepping chair. As he felt the eyes of his uncles boring holes through the back of his dim gray mourning shirt, however, he knew his streak of good fortune had abandoned him.

There was an uncomfortable strain in his belt as he tried to propel himself up. All that club food Shae was making him eat wasn't doing him any favors. She'd claim she didn't mind a little belly. Then again, she'd claim it with a dollar bill playing peek-a-boo between her lovely breasts. Widen where you can't heighten, huh...

Tyrion reached over to the red Gallo tap, coaxing out every inch his modest build had to offer. It was too far back. No one ever thought of midgets when they installed stationary alcohol, or ATMs, or stripper poles. The bottle slipped from his malformed fingers and toppled along the sideboard, making hollow rolling noises as it wallowed away from his reach, sluggish, in fact quite pointedly so.

He grabbed the first bottle that stood in the way of his grasping hand—Jack Daniels, thank God—and nodded briefly to his uncles, not daring to look up to see if they'd be uncomfortable or would be holding back guffaws, before he strolled back to his nook near the dumpsters. Miraculously, it hadn't been overtaken by anyone while he'd been away.

He wasn't sure if it was the stench of fresh shit or the smell of a drunk dwarf that repelled the rich people around him, but he wasn't complaining either way. Unlike most of his relatives he found little appeal in spotlights. Most of the time he was quite happy to be left alone, and either way, today he strongly doubted he'd be able to maintain a point-blank conversation with these people if his father handed him a script and a pair of reading glasses.

Fortunately enough, the old lion had been preoccupied with a press release all morning so that he'd only managed a few severe glances from afar at his son's barefaced alienation. Tyrion would only grin sheepishly in response and keep on snogging his bottle. He was flying under the radar today and they both knew it.

Not that it made a slight bit of difference, any of it. It wasn't like people were tripping over themselves to come talk to him. A fat corpse in the building and I'm still one of the more repulsive things around here. If he wasn't part—however a small one—of almighty Tywin Lannister's sacred offspring, they'd probably have thrown him out the door like a grubby puss. Not that bad a prospect, actually, now that he was giving it some thought.

"Baby brother!"

The wail rang way too joyful for the nature of the particular occasion, and Tyrion immediately recognized it as property to the single person in the room that mattered in the slightest to him. Tyrion turned around to face his visitor, half-grinning despite himself.

Jaime wore a fitted black suit and a smirk himself, if far more handsomely than his little brother. He greeted Jaime with a suggestive wiggle of his eyebrows. Ecstatic to finally have Cersei all to yourself, brother?

His brother pretended not to notice the glimming mischief in his eyes. "Enjoying yourself, little brother?"

Tyrion lifted up the half-downed bottle and jiggled it like a bell. "The drinks and I have come to the mutual agreement to enjoy each other."

Jaime's grin thinned. "Do try to remain conscious. You know Dad has vetoed any messes today."

Tyrion grimaced tiredly. "Ah yes. How could I forget about father..." He brought the bottle to his mouth and took a long gulp. He doubted there were a great many other families out there that turned funerals into public spectacles quite this effortlessly. He already could hear it in his father's voice, you're failing the funeral, son, and it'd be funny if it wasn't so damn sad. "I'm doing this for him, you know," Tyrion sighed with a tired smack of his lips. "How can I express false sympathy if I still remember it's false sympathy?"

"Robert was Dad's headliner COO," Jaime muttered, in a voice that commited to no further defense of the man.

Tyrion frowned and leaned against the polished marble wall. He was getting more light-headed by the minute. Was he really that drunk? "Since when are you such a valiant defender of the man who used to fuck our dear sister?" He regretted the words as soon as they escaped his lips. Through his spattered windshiled of a vision he still saw the way Jaime's jaw flexed and clenched. Shit. He'd have to count on Jaime to forgive him for this drunken slip, just like any other time. "Where is the glowing widow anyway?" he hurried to avert the subject, peeking around the room in pinchbeck concern.

His brother shrugged. "Last I saw her she was accepting condolences from that shrimp Stannis."

Tyrion almost laughed out loud. Strict, uptight, stone-faced Stannis Baratheon and his sweet, poisonous, prone to making scenes out in public sister forced into a conversation that would have to last longer than the compulsory twenty seconds at the annual family brunch? Might as well throw in some cleaning service for the scratched eyeballs.

"Hope father hasn't invited too many photographers in here today," Tyrion chuckled to himself.

"She's better now," Jaime argued automatically, though it came off half-hearted, at best. "She can control herself."

Tyrion couldn't quite affirm that, but he didn't want to dampen Jaime's mood any further, so he forced himself to smirk. I am the jester, aren't I? It's the least I can do for him. Cersei might fuck him, but Tyrion knew how to talk to him. "Shouldn't you be around her? Between that killer dress and that fresh off the mental clinic perfume she just might make Stannis melt."

They both snickered at that. Tyrion offered Jaime the Jack Daniels and he made to take it, or reached for it anyway. The empty sleeve hung between them like a bad joke. Shit.

"Listen, Jaime…"

"It's alright." His brother's face was cheerless as he struggled to grin. "You win some you lose some, eh?"

Tyrion hated seeing him like that—beat and washed out and worn down, like a skeleton trying to slip on a military uniform. But he mostly hated himself. If Jaime hadn't tried to pull his son out of the way, out from beneath the car wheels… It's what any father would do.

It's not like it had been Tyrion's fault. He hadn't even been speeding. God knew he'd been grateful to just have an adapted car and a license. The brakes. It was the damn brakes. And Cersei, for letting her kid play out on the street next to the house, because God forbid Joff got something denied. Not me, Tyrion told himself for the thousandth time. It's not on me. Not my fucking fault.

Even though the state court had agreed with the sentiment—much to Cersei's hysterical dismay—even though the case file had been closed with what he imagined must be a big red silencing duct tape that said 'ACCIDENT', bright and ugly and written with the spilled blood of his nephew, there were parts of Tyrion that still thought otherwise.

It was done. There was nothing he could do about it. And yet.

Regrets got you nowhere. Joffrey was still dead, Cersei was still hopping from one private clinic to another, and Jaime was still missing a hand. No one cared if Tyrion was fucking sorry.

Amidst all of this, Robert's death had come as a welcome distraction. If the man had ever cradled any sort of fatherly concern for the boy he'd never realized wasn't his own, Tyrion had never spotted it. And if Cersei had passively resented her husband before, Tyrion knew it was around Joffrey's death that she had started plotting his painful demise.

Sadly she'd never been much of a keen plotter, his sister. He still remembered the look on her face at Joffrey's funeral, that strange gleam in her eye he'd mistaken for tears. And he was pretty sure everyone still remembered the knife that had flashed in her grip, and the blood, and the ambulance…

She hadn't been able to get Robert clean in the gut, in the end. She'd stuffed the knife handle-deep though. Typical Cersei.

Robert had somehow been persuaded not to press charges or even file for divorce from his beautiful if a little unstable wife. How father had managed it Tyrion had no idea. Committing Cersei to a treatment facility had been unavoidable though. They'd managed to keep the press out of it, for the most part. Again, Tyrion hadn't the slightest of clues what magic wand their father had been waving about, but he had to give credit where it was due: the old papa sure had spared the family plenty of on-screen embarrassment.

"I better go find her."

His brother's words pulled Tyrion from his thoughts. It felt like waking from a dream, a long, heavy dream. That dream's your life, Tyrion thought. You better learn to live it again. Tyrion nodded when he realized his brother was standing there awkwardly, waiting for a sign that it was okay to go. Jaime was the only one who ever bothered asking him for permission to do anything.

He closed his eyes as his brother got lost in the crowd. Bile rose up in his throat. Picking a spot near the men's rooms had been a strategic decision.

He cursed under his breath, steadying himself with a hand to the wall, feeling a peculiar midday hangover kick in. That's what you get for starting to drink at fucking 9 a.m.

He made his way to the restrooms, which were thankfully vacant, because Lannisters didn't shit, of course. Only after he had double-checked the lock on the cabin did he watch the vomit set sail from his mouth and down the funnel-shaped opening. He observed it with a defiant calmness and took his time flushing, refusing to admit the pettiness of the situation.

Jaime had successfully fished out their sister from among the guests, apparently, because the first thing Tyrion heard when he walked back out was Cersei's discontented voice. He quickly veered, backing away and creeping near the wall, careful to stay in the shadows as he craned his neck to get a view of the scene despite his better judgment. He quickly spotted his siblings by the buffet, discreetly hissing at each other like a pair of angry cats.

Most of the attendees had transferred themselves to the secondary hall to pay their respects to Robert's gaping coffin, leaving the large Peninsula event hall their father had rented vastly unoccupied, and it seemed that his siblings were taking full advantage to sort out whatever issues were typical for a brother and sister that exchanged a little more than hugs at Thanksgiving.

Tyrion sighed at their timing. Tact was a skill the both of them had been forced to learn, though to say either was a natural would be an obvious lie.

Well. He'd caught them doing stranger things at a funeral, he supposed.

Up near the drinks, the argument was still going strong. Jaime had grabbed Cersei by the elbow and was talking to her in a low, weary voice. Their sister talked right over him, tone shriller and more agitated. Tyrion cringed a little as her voice jumped off the walls of the spacious room. He briefly wondered if it was serious, if it was one of those fights that ended with the two of them piled in a closet, or in the backseat of aunt Genna's Chevrolet Malibu, or in their father's Garden State home bedroom, or someplace else they thought Tyrion didn't know about.

He strained his ears, trying to catch trail of the conversation. He couldn't make out all of it as far as back in the corridor as he was, but he strongly believed the words 'Stannis', 'accuse', 'murder' and 'fuck' came into mention more than once. He shook his head.

Our dear sister—deep in shit yet again. Who would've guessed.

She'd sure done a quick enough work of getting herself back in there. Cersei swimming in business currents again was a recent development. A troublesome one, too. She seemed more composed, but Tyrion had quickly seen it for the show it was, a make-believe she was putting on for their father, and maybe the children. Always a good girl in front of Daddy, eh, Cers?

He'd made sure to keep his distance. It wasn't that he feared for his life, not exactly, although she'd made enough threats for the message to sink in. It was more that whenever she looked at him he would see the Cersei that had cursed him to hell in that courtroom, make-up slipping past its rightful borders on her face, red business dress torn up like blood, and the image of another woman would swim up in his head, a woman who'd died giving life to him, and all of a sudden he wouldn't be able to look at her anymore.

They hadn't had a proper conversation in over two years, not since that damn Tuesday afternoon in the courtroom. And even then the exchange could hardly be called a conversation: her screaming for him to just die die die while the security guards dragged her out by the elbows, followed by a group of paramedics clutching tranquilizers in their white gloved hands. Tyrion shuddered. The whole thing had played out like a scene straight from a trashy drama remake, overacted and glossy and cheap. Only her words had stayed with him, coming to haunt him like chants in some of his more vivid nightmares. 'Murderer' and 'freak' and 'monster', and 'my son, you killed my son' in that fucking shattered voice, damn her, damn it all.

You really are one dumb fuck.

All of a sudden it was too much. Memory of the accident, the booze, the sight of his siblings standing so close—so very intimate, so very hostile, and it was like his feet were moving on their own accord, carrying him towards them, stinking of puke and beer and expensive suit. His mouth was dry, not knowing what he wanted from them or what he'd say. Anything was better than the silence.

One dumb, masochistic fuck you are.

As soon as they noticed him approach, they both stiffened. Cersei immediately disentangled from Jaime's grasp, as if preparing for impact. Tyrion refused to back down. He kept his pace steady, all the while feeling like a cub that was about to walk in on the grown-up lions. I'm a lion too, I'll be damned, I am one too, just a bit smaller. And more drunk. Probably.

He reached their spot and halted his step in front of them. Looking up, he hated the bulge in his throat as he opened his mouth. He looked at Jaime first, whose eyes kept skipping between him and Cersei, as if he could locate the jolts of electricity that jumped in the air. And then he turned to Cersei. He couldn't remember the last time he'd looked at her, truly looked at her. It felt like ages. He swore he spotted wrinkles on her glammed up face that had not been there before. The fluorescent light made her foundation gleam an eerie, cadaverous shade of chalk as she stared at him with a mixture of resentment, shock and something else that wrenched his gut all over again.

He opened his mouth and then closed it, like a fish out of water. It was like someone had been fucking with his vocal cords, knotting them together in the tightest neck tie he'd ever worn. Then he realized there was nothing to say. No words would make Cersei be offended by his presence any less, or make up for what had transpired between the three of them, or wash out the black anathema he seemed to carry on his forehead. It hit him like a pile of bricks to the chest, unexpected and grim and just a bit funny. Well fucking done, Tyrion. Well played.

He reached over to the buffet, groping blindly for a bottle to grasp. He could hear the clank of Cersei's heels as she stomped away, muttering something to Jaime, or to herself. Jaime tsked and murmured something along the lines of 'he didn't mean to, Cers', but when had Cersei listened to either of them? Tyrion kept searching. Just when he thought his relatives had soaked all the booze available, he heard a clinking sound and sighed with relief. He pulled the bottle by the throat, pretending it was Cersei instead. It was cold enough to be her, too.

It felt too light to the touch. His fears were confirmed when he finally hauled it down from the high table. Fuck. His empty beer bottle from earlier mocked him with his own toothpasty reflection yet again.

Just as he was about to head back up to resume the most self-conscious search for a drink in his life, he heard Jaime clear his throat behind him.

"Um, Tyr…"

He turned around, ready to deliver his apologies and disappear from the face of earth. He found himself facing a small wooden chair instead. Tyrion eyed the thing, feeling stupid and grateful at the same time. Jaime had a way of making him feel that way, for some reason. "Thank you, brother," he managed, and his voice cracked slightly. He tried to mask it with a cough, which wasn't all that difficult to do, considering what an avid smoker he'd used to be in his teens.

Jaime nodded, though his eyes drifted towards the hall entrance, heavy with unspoken words that weren't meant for Tyrion.

"You should go to her. It's alright."

Jaime hesitated. "Are you sure?"

It wasn't. It wasn't alright at all, but what was he supposed to say?

No, I want you to pick me over her for once. She doesn't deserve you to love her so unconditionally. She hardly deserves you to love her at all. But Jaime loved her nonetheless, like some cruel joke the universe sent raining down on the entire family of golden fools, a punishment, perhaps, for owning the world, and no matter how tightly he fisted the inside of his pockets, Tyrion knew that he would always be left behind for the sake of her.

Tyrion didn't know which hurt more—the fact that his brother seemed unable to fall out of love with her, or that he never did learn to properly hate her.

"What sort of a brother would I be if I kept my dear sibling from patching things up with the sister we share?" he joked with a smile that perhaps had more bitterness to it than his usual self-irony. "Though I'm afraid it's hardly a fair share. All her good parts have gone to you."

Jaime smiled weakly and dipped his head, acknowledging the act of selflessness, and then he was gone. Tyrion watched sadly as his brother traced their sister's invisible steps with a haste that was almost cartoonish. Well damn, Jaime.

The sound of hushed voices told him that the room was slowly flooding back with people. Tyrion protruded his neck, trying to get a better vintage point of the drinks, see if there was anything worthwhile up there to justify him making a caricature out of himself with that chair.

"Not much good stuff left, I'm afraid." Oberyn Martell's deep Spanish accent rang playfully in his ear. As usual, the man was standing too fucking close. His silent breath allowed him to sneak in on people like a viper in the sands, and the slight vibe of homoeroticism that oozed from his thick aftershave did not help one fucking bit.

"Martell," greeted Tyrion with a smile that felt fake even to his own teeth, "nice to see you."

"Sometimes, maybe. But apparently not today," the extravagant fashion guru purred with an all too clever look. "Don't you have a joke for me? I must say I've grown quite fond of your midget humor."

Tyrion looked around pointedly. "We are at a funeral. Would be sort of cheap, when it's clear whom life's already pulled the ultimate joke on."

Oberyn laughed sultrily. The man laughed like an expensive slut. Was dressed like one, too: cream white double breasted trench coat, reflective aviator sunglasses, pointed burgundy boots that looked like something Cersei would kill for, and... were those stockings Tyrion saw peering up the man's thighs? All his personal design, if the intricate J'ADORNE logo was anything to go by. Only Oberyn Martell's scandalous image could carry the blow of such looks. Hell, the bastard had made the trend go viral.

Oberyn leaned on the cleared bar table, ruffling Tyrion's hair artistically. If he smelled the bile, he did well on concealing it. "You like my new line?"

"Certainly. Too bad it probably doesn't come in my size."

A slender finger lifted up Tyrion's chin. "We must schedule a fitting. I'm sure we can work something out to squeeze you in."

Tyrion cringed at the sheer deliberateness in the man's every word. He peeled the limb off his face as politely as he could, and coughed. Oberyn grinned. "I'm sad to see you so sour, Imp. To be honest, I was hoping to catch you in a good mood."

Tyrion knew impending business when he heard it. "What can I do for you?"

Oberyn tilted his head, seemingly engrossed with whatever imaginary dirt was under his fingernails. "Oh it's just a small matter, really. We're all very sad about Baratheon's untimely demise, by the way."

Tyrion shrugged. "Could have been even more untimely if my sister's good work with the knife hadn't been undone by those surgeons."

Oberyn chuckled again, but this time it was more of a slick way to cut in. "Your sister, yes... Very beautiful, resourceful woman. Had the pleasure to speak with her this morning during her late husband's wake. She would've made a fine addition to my models collection back in her day."

"Yes, she's a joy to us all, even though she appears to be something of your contestant in the fashion circles these days."

"Hardly. I design clothes, she sells them on the covers of her magazines." Oberyn took off his glasses and winked conspiratorially. "I'm afraid our passions don't quite overlap."

Tyrion was starting to get tense. It's not like him to bullshit around a point. "You said you needed something?"

Oberyn paused, as if carefully selecting his words. "It is no secret that there has been an... opening, of sorts, in your father's business company, now that his chief COO has passed away and his last remaining son is years away from qualifying to fill in his father's shoes."

Tommen was a sweet child, not very bright, true, but he was well-mannered, and his fondness of cats and candy was quite endearing. If Tyrion had any say in things, which he most certainly didn't, he'd keep the boy away from all the ugliness, let him grow into a decent man with a clean slate. Of course Cersei had other plans, or so Jaime told him.

Tyrion took his time answering. Oberyn's request did not catch him off-guard. It was common knowledge that there was bad blood between him and Tywin Lannister, ever since that dog Clegane—former ruffian, now head of security at Lannister Inc—had tried to force himself on his beloved sister. So naturally he would be looking for more collateral means of contacting the owner of the company. The timing was what mildly surprised him. It had been clear as day that there would be a slaughterhouse over the newly freed spot in the comfortable shade of Tywin Lannister's mighty wing, but Tyrion had expected the vultures to wait at least until after the burial before they started tripping over one another in a rush for the head start.

He clicked his tongue. Expecting decency from these people was like waiting for a shark to say that no thank you, it didn't feel like eating those poor Mexican tourists today. Tyrion decided he had no desire to be a transmitter between his father and his potential employees. Whoever Martell had to pitch for the job, he'd have to suck up for it to Tywin Lannister, fair and square. "If you have someone you'd like to put forth for the position, I'm afraid you will have to take it to my father. I might be the head of sales, but you will find I have very little say in anything outside my field. Except the drinks department. I'm a god in the flesh there."

Oberyn's lips pulled in a greasy smirk. "You misunderstand me. I am not here to suggest an associate for the job. I'm here to take it myself."

That was something of a curveball. He'd expected Oberyn to try and sneak in one of his protégés—God knew there was one for each of his outfits—but the flamboyant Adonis of the designer world himself? That was hardly a turn of events he had foreseen. Tyrion squinted, mistrust flashing in his mismatched eyes. "Not sure if you've had time to spare a glance at the vacancy notice, but my father has specifically asked for people with experience."

Oberyn smirked, stretching his carefully trimmed padlock beard. "I assure you I am a very seasoned man, in more than one purview. In fact I have all the experience your father could want. Just take J'adorne, for instance. It's an enterprise at least as big as Lannister Inc, and I've kept it afloat for over twenty years without turning two-thirds of my employees into CO walking sticks. And I have been wise enough to allocate my time as not to let my visits to dubious establishments slip into neglect. In a way, I think I've managed to outdo the great Tywin Lannister… at least where my bedroom's concerned."

Under any other circumstances, Tyrion would have dignified the comment with a chuckle. Now he just pursed his lips, fighting to control the feeling that he was getting dragged into something that would hold him by the balls for a long time. "Working under my father is a big commitment in the long run, you realize? I don't imagine you'd be willing to set your own company aside to do my father's bidding at Lannister Inc."

"Oh I have no problem multi-tasking." Oberyn flashed another wolfish grin. "A fact you could confirm at any given house of pleasures."

Did everything about this man have to get compressed to eccentric clothes and fucking? "My deepest apologies, but as I mentioned, you will have to consult my father on the matter. He's been very clear that I am to be stripped of my noble rank should I try to meddle in any part of the business the way I usually do."

Oberyn nudged him larkily. "Come on, little man, I thought out of all your relatives you were the least full of shit."

Tyrion stood his ground. "No one likes a poor dwarf, Martell. Not sure anyone likes a rich dwarf either, but it certainly increases my chances. In any event, you should go talk to my father. Afraid there's no way around it."

"I will, eventually. I don't expect you to hand me a contract. All I ask is that you throw in your five cents when the position comes in talks at one of your excruciating meetings. You know, the ones where the three hundred COs dump all the paperwork on the two actual workers, roll down the blinds and pretend to talk business while getting drunk."

Tyrion would argue, but that was how most meetings went, for him anyway. He considered Oberyn's request for a moment. The man was buzz and controversy, through and through. It would be difficult to present him as an adequate choice for an ice-cream man, let alone someone deserving a spot on a multi-billion company's board of directors. The prospect of someone like Oberyn sitting the conference table along the likes of his father and Varys and that jackass Baelish was as ridiculous as it was tempting.

"And in exchange for my good word of recommendation, what would I hope to acquire?"

Oberyn's lips parted in what could only be described as a display of his perfect white teeth. "Why yes, I keep forgetting it's all about gain with you Lannisters. I'm afraid that particular family trait has not gone lost even on you, dwarf. Let's see then... One more valuable friend sitting on that long cold table can never be redundant, eh? But I suppose that alone wouldn't suffice." Oberyn gave a sigh. "How about me not telling your Daddy about the little sex kitten that's been crashing at your place these past couple of months?"

Shae. Tyrion stiffened. "Nice try, Martell, but I've no idea what you're talking about."

Oberyn fixed his coal eyes on him. A precarious mockery lit up his face as his tongue darted out like a snake's. "Don't make a fool of me, Lannister. I think you do. She's in your house right now, yes? Probably lying around on your settee or your couch or wherever it is you usually do her, in just her pink panties, waiting for her walking purse to come home." Oberyn looked around casually. "Your sister's dead husband has attracted quite the gossipy crowd here today, you know. One word from me and news would travel to your father quicker than the fucking Internet."

Tyrion exhaled sharply, flaring his nostrils, refusing to avert his gaze. The man didn't have any solid evidence to prove Shae's existence, or else he would have brought it up already. But even if Oberyn was going off on rumors he'd picked at one whorehouse or another, Tyrion was well aware that he'd been like a big red flashing dot on his father's radar ever since the incident with Tysha. He'd send Clegane to Tyrion's apartment before Tyrion could lift his damned cellphone to warn Shae, tell her to scram and not call him for a couple of weeks. Not that she'd listen. She'd brush it off, like she did whenever he talked in 'the naggy voice'.

He wanted to punch something. Was forced to settle for latching on to the gin tonic Martell passed him instead. He downed the whole thing in a single gulp and leaned back. A powerful fatigue fretted his bones. "How'd you know?" Not that it mattered. To think I was almost willing to do it for him anyway.

Oberyn shrugged like he was the most care-free man in the world. "She has her girlfriends."

"And?"

"Ellaria and I have had most of her girlfriends."

Tyrion groaned, feeling forty. I told her to stay away from the sluts. Perhaps he should have heeded the advice himself, back when the paparazzi had sniffed out his condo with Tysha and he had been turned into the laughingstock of the weekly tabloids.

"You must know I don't look down on you, Tyrion, neither do I care who you fuck. As long as you get me in, I don't plan on revealing your secret to anyone."

"A blackmailer with a code. Must be my lucky day."

Tyrion brooded against the counter. The man's motifs for wanting a way into Lannister Inc were a mystery, but Shae's safety was paramount, as usual. He'd do it. He had no idea how, but he'd do it. And he'd get back at Martell, the damn shark. He'd need to thread carefully though. Martell was a dangerous man to openly cross, and while he might not have the same connections and weight in the governmental affairs as Tywin Lannister, he still commanded over money and publicity to rival his father's. He just had to be patient. A patient dwarf had all the potential to become a happily avenged dwarf, somewhere down the road.

Cersei always called him a mole when they were teenagers and he kept finding—and delicately pointing out over family dinners—embarrassing bits of information about her and her cheerleader friends. Let's see just how much dirt this mole can dig up before it drinks itself into an early grave.

"You do realize the position all but belongs to my nephew," Tyrion warned. "You'd just be sitting there like a dummy to keep his seat warm, and that's as good as you can hope the board to treat you."

"It's touching that you care," Oberyn chuckled. "But trust me when I tell you: I plan to make quite the impression."