Lord Tywin Lannister was seated beneath the window, writing by the glow of an oil lamp. He raised his eyes at the sound of the latch.
"Tyrion." Calmly, he laid his quill aside.
"I'm pleased you remember me, my lord." Tyrion [...] leaned his weight on the stick, and waddled closer. Something is wrong, he knew at once.
-ASOS, Tyrion I
Tyrion seated himself opposite his father. Lord Tywin studied him with cold, green eyes, his face motionless. "Shouldn't you be in bed?"
"I'm almost healed," Tyrion responded. "And I am sick of my chamber. Would you believe it, while I was dying, someone moved me to a dark little cell in Maegor's?*"
"You're dissatisfied with that arrangement." There was disapproval in his father's voice.
Ah, yes, how dare I, Tyrion thought. Spiteful little creature that I am. How dare I question your choices, father? "You could say so, my lord," he responded.
"You will be pleased to hear then that I have arranged for you to move back to the Tower of the Hand," Lord Tywin said, steepling his fingers under his chin.
That took Tyrion by surprise. He eyed his father suspiciously, trying to read the expression on his face. Was it anger? Pleasure? "You'll be off to meet the Young Wolf in the field again, I assume?" He asked cautiously. Something isn't right at all, but what?
"There are better ways to fight Robb Stark than in the field. No, I will remain in King's Landing and put an end to the mummer's farce this court has become."
"I hope you don't expect me to share a bed with you then, father," Tyrion said. "Last time I checked there was only one bedchamber in the Tower of the Hand."
"No need. There's a small storeroom next to my own chamber that I had fitted with a bed for you. Granted, there won't be room for much else, but it will allow me to keep a close eye on you. You're not to leave my sight while I'm in the capital."
Tyrion's jaw dropped. For once, he found himself at a loss for words. "You... you've got to be jesting, my lord," he finally stammered.
"Do I look like a man who likes to jest to you?" His father's eyes were fixed on him, piercing him with his merciless gaze.
"No," Tyrion was forced to admit. "What is the meaning of this, father? Surely the Hand of the King has more pressing matters to attend than to watch his dwarf son drink and whore."
Lord Tywin's mouth grew taut. "There will be no more of that," he said, rising from his chair. "All my life I've been forced to watch you behave like some spoiled child, spending my coin while making a mock of House Lannister with your antics. I forbade you to take that whore to court, yet not only did you disobey me, you turned the Red Keep into a whorehouse and a tavern, if your sister can be believed. Everything is a jest to you. Pray tell me, did you ride into battle in motley instead of armor? That certainly would explain why you were so badly cut."
Tyrion could feel his face burn with anger. I saved this city, he thought. If it hadn't been for me, we would all be dead.
He set out to respond, but Lord Tywin cut him off. "Your size may give you the semblance of a child, so perhaps that it why everyone expects you to act like one, but it is past time you learned to make responsible choices and behave like an adult. I will see to that, if it is the last thing that I do."
Has he taken leave of his wits? Tyrion mused. "You've never been much of a father to me, it is true," he said. "And I feel touched that you seem to have realized your errors and wish to make up for them. But this is folly, my lord." He took a deep breath. "I'll leave you to your business now. I'll be back on the morrow to see if you have regained your senses." He got up and started waddling towards the door. His heart was pounding, overcome by an odd mix of fear and excitement over what he had just said.
"If you leave this room, the guards will drag you back in here, kicking and screaming if they must. Those are the instructions I have given them." Tyrion turned around slowly. For a brief moment, Lord Tywin looked unnervingly pleased with himself, his gold-flecked eyes sparkling with triumph.
Don't smile, father, Tyrion thought. It makes you look terrifying. He sighed. "So what am I to do while you write your letters?" He asked, pointing at the quill and parchment sitting on his father's desk. "Shall I do somersaults or walk on my hands for your entertainment? Perhaps sing you a song?"
"You will do no such thing," his father said coolly. "You will wash yourself up and see yourself off to bed. It is long past your bedtime."
[Note: The sentence marked with an *astérisque is a direct quote from ASOS.]