Tyrion
Tyrion Lannister huffed in displeasure as King's Landing came into view, after slightly more than three weeks of sleeping in the inns of the Riverlands. He had always hated the capital city of Westeros. The Red Keep and the great Sept of Bealor were awe-inspiring to look on, yes, and the whorehouses on the Street of Silk he was always more than pleased with, but these were a few bright spots on a sheet so black it might well be coated in coal dust. The paved roads of the city were as twisted and stunted as he himself was, the buildings and homes within the walls had been constructed haphazardly and without logic, even more ramshackle huts and warehouses had been slapped together outside the main wall and often leaned against it, and even from this distance he could he could smell the miasma that hovered over all cities, though none were as strong as the capital's. In his opinion anyway.
As he thought this, his companions moved up and stopped alongside him, reacting in different ways to city before them. Yoren, the man of the Night's Watch, didn't seem to show any feelings at all; he had told Tyrion on their journey that he returned to the capital each and every year to collect potential recruits for his order; the prisons of the city and the Red Keep were always filled with criminals, desperate for any chance to survive, even on the Wall in the frozen North, so he always had plenty of recruits, along with all of the urchins that would come to cling to him, hoping for a meal and a place to sleep.
Tyrion's servants, though, shared his barely veiled distaste for the city, though they quickly tried to hide their displeasure. As they were employed by House Lannister, Tyrion's followers were used to more refined aspects of life, and the sudden cringe-inducing smell of human shit and sweat, with the site of a city that looked to be designed by someone who had heard of proper placement of buildings but had not fully understood the concept, hardly counted as "refined".
Bronn, his newly employed sellsword, merely cocked an eyebrown, his face showing confusion and perhaps disappointment, which Tyrion could not blame him for feeling. Turning his gaze to the resident Lannister, Bronn asked, "This is King's Landing, huh?"
"Indeed," he replied, his tone resigned to the painful truth. "This is the seat of power in Westeros, home of Red Keep, and where the king sits on the Iron Throne."
Snorting, Bronn looked over the city once more, and said, "Well, it could be worse, I suppose. There could be no whores." He made a move to spur his horse forward, but then stopped and shot Tyrion a worried glance. "There ARE whores in that shit pile, right?"
"If there were not, I would never come within a hundred leagues of this place," Tyrion answered, his words sounding like a jest, but his tone deadly serious. "Come, let us go the Red Keep; I need to show courtesy to the king and his hand, as well as call on my sister and her three children." And with that, he urged his horse onward.
Well, two children and one oversized rat, he thought darkly. Tommen and Marcella were two of the sweetest, well-behaved children he knew, and was completely confident that they would grow to be a good man and woman respectively. But Joffery? There was hardly a day that went by that Tyrion did not wish to the Seven that his sister's first pregnancy had not miscarried, so that that arrogant, craven, cruel piece of filth did not get his ass on the Iron Throne. He was insufferable enough now that he was the heir apparent; when he became king, Tyrion knew that he would only become worse. Things would already be quite shaky when the succession did take place, if and when Robert left this world; it was the first time the Iron Throne changed hands for a house other than the Targareans, and it would be remiss of him to think that other houses would not try to seize the crown for themselves. The last thing they needed was his nephew making things needlessly worse with his own foolish actions.
Of course, if his sister hadn't miscarried, and had born a son, than it would have been that child that Cersie would have spoiled endlessly, and Joffery would have been relegated to the background with his younger sister and brother, and may have become as well behaved as they. And the kingdom would still be in the exact same situation it was now.
It took them over an hour before they managed to enter the city through one of the many gates, and then they still had to make it through the city itself, an incomprehensible labyrinth of roads, homes, shops, huts, and bridges. The only distinct landmarks that one could use to guide themselves were the Sept and the Keep, and they were far apart. Tyrion knew that it would be easy to become lost and confused in this city. Fortunately, because of his status, the gold cloaks of the city had provided him with an escort to guide him to his destination.
Now that they were amongst the city itself, the stench was near overpowering. It made him want to stop his horse, dismount, lay down on the ground and die simply so that he would not have to smell the foul air any longer.
Perhaps I could go to Robert and ask him to put me in charge of city's cisterns and sewers. I did well enough when my lord father bid me do the same for Casterly Rock, Tyrion thought in jest. However, as they made their way through the city, and spent longer and longer breathing in the miasma, the less and less he thought of his mental statement as a jest; he was beginning to seriously consider making the request, feeling a moral obligation to rid the world of this stink.
A few hours, and far more upset stomachs, later, his group at last reached the gates, lowered drawbridge, and relatively fresh air of the Red Keep, the colors of house Baratheon, a black crowned stag on a yellow field, flying on every battlement and tower. Personally, Tyrion thought the display a tad excessive, but from what he had heard, it had been exactly the same when the Targareans had ruled, and he would much rather have the rather pleasant looking stags coating the castle than the blood red, fire-spewing, three-headed dragon on pitch black that was the last dynasty's symbol.
After entering the Keep, Tyrion and his companions dismounted, stable grooms coming up and leading their steeds to their stalls. At the same time, several pages led the group into the castle itself, towards the throne room. Along the way, he was informed that Robert was out hunting in the Kingswood, a favorite pastime of his, and that left the King's Hand in charge of the capital. For the nuance, Eddard Stark was the King of Westeros, in fact if not in name.
It took a surprising amount of time to traverse through the keep, and they had arrived in the city while court was being held, so by the time Tyrion and his company reached the throne room, the session was very nearly over. Entering through a side door, as quietly as possible, he overheard the bickering of two modestly wealthy Crownlander landholders bickering over a disputed patch of farmland. The argument was so intense that no one seemed to notice their entrance, and they took their place at the far end of those who had gathered to watch Lord Stark dispense justice. Standing straight, he, his servants, and his other companions watched as the two minor lords fight began to escalate in intensity and volume, until they were shrieking barely coherent insults at each other.
"ENOUGH!"
The voice that silenced the arguing land owners, and kept them silent, startled Tyrion so much he nearly jumped out of his skin. Immediately, he looked to where the shout had originated from, the Iron Throne, and gulped.
He had always thought that his lord father, Tywin Lannister, was the most commanding and intimidating lord in all of Westeros. That belief was now being put to the test as he looked upon Eddard Stark's visage. The northman was astride the Iron Throne in perfect posture, his back and head straight and without touching the many barbs curling out of the back of the throne, his arms and fingers placed at the perfect spots to avoid cutting himself on the blades that made up the arm rests. Then there was the man himself. He was not dressed opulently, but that only made him all the more intimidating; he wore a simple tunic and breaches, well made and colored ice-white, with his house's sigil, the grey direwolf, sewed upon his chest, and an ice-white cloak, trimmed with grey fur, on his shoulders. His beard was trimmed and well-kept, as was his hair, and his face seemed relatively impassive. But looking in the man's eyes, Tyrion saw fire swirling within the king's Hand's grey eyes.
He knew that Cersei had raged at Robert for making Eddard Stark his hand instead of their father; she claimed that Tywin was the only man capable of holding the position, and as much as Tyrion and his sister had fought over the years, he had been inclined to agree with her. Now, he saw that he was much mistaken; the lord Robert had chosen as his hand was more than capable of his task.
Years ago, just after Robert's Rebellion had ended, Jaime had told him about how Eddard Stark had entered this very room and found Jaime sitting on the Iron Throne and made him yield it up. His brother had thought the northmen meant to climb the steps and sit the throne himself, and declare himself king, and had been quite surprised when he hadn't. Tyrion briefly wondered how the Seven Kingdoms would have reacted to having a descendant of the old Kings of Winter ruling from King's Landing.
Finally drawn out of his musings, he noticed that lord Stark had finished with the two land owners; apparently, before the two had begun arguing incessantly, one had presented the Hand with a deed that would grant him control of the disputed territory. While the fighting had escalated, Grand Measter Pycelle had examined the deed, and found it to be a forgery. Upon hearing this news, the Hand called for the arrest of the deceptive landlord, and declared that the contested farm land unquestionably belonged to its original owner. The later thanked Lord Stark as the former was lead away by two goldcloaks, cursing and spitting and proclaiming that all northmen were of dubious parentage.
If Eddard Stark held ire for these words, he did not show it.
"Is there any other business that would be brought to receive the King's Justice?" came Stark's voice again, his grey eyes scanning those assembled in the court. It was clear to Tyrion that he did not expect anyone to come forward; this was, after all, the tail end of the session. It seemed, though, that he would be in for a bit of a shock.
"I do, my Lord Hand," Yoren's voice proclaimed, stepping forward to make his presence known.
Turning his head to the Sworn Brother, Lord Stark raised his eyebrows in surprise, and beckoned Yoren to come forward. The Sworn Brother left Tyrion's side, and stepped out before the Iron Throne, bowing once he was directly in front of bladed monstrosity. "Yoren," the Hand greeted. "It is a great pleasure to see you again. I trust that my eldest son, Robb, provided for you on your travels from the Wall?"
"He did indeed, my Lord Hand," Yoren answered. "My companions and I could not have asked for a better host."
Oh, we most certainly could have, Tyrion very nearly shouted, recent memories of a boy only no older than fifteen, if that, with a naked sword laid across his knees, and a look on his face that told Tyrion he was about to cut his head off, or sic his pet direwolf on him, which by now towered over the Lannister dwarf, coming immediately to mind. The average hornet nest would feel more welcoming, I imagine.
Aside from his own internal ramblings, nothing of great note occurred throughout the rest of Yoren's session with the King's Hand. The two acquaintances spoke some on Yoren's trip south from the wall, including the apparent recovery of his second son, Bran; Eddard would have already received a raven on the matter, some weeks past, but it brought obvious relief the Hand to hear of Bran's improved health from someone who had seen him firsthand. After these personal discussions ended, Yoren requested permission from Lord Stark to scour the dungeons of the Red Keep for those willing to take the black, as well as any free men willing to do so. Given Winterfell's strong ties with the Wall, it came as no surprise to anyone that his request was granted.
With this session complete, the court was dismissed, and all the nobles and petitioners began filing out of the throne room, followed by the members of the small council, and then most of the guards. The few that remained included the handful of guards wearing the garb of Northmen, making them part of the Hand's personal guardsmen, the Hand himself, Tyiron and his companions minus Yoren.
It was only once all those who intended to leave had done so that Eddard Stark deigned to acknowledge the presence of the Lord Lannister, turning his head slightly to the left, looking down from the immense chair of blades.
"The court session has come to a close, Lord Tyrion Lannister," he said, his voice commanding and intimidating, and somehow managed to echo powerfully throughout the chamber, despite being barely more than a whisper. "I am afraid that if you have a matter to bring to the king's justice, it shall have to wait until the nest court session is called."
For a brief moment, Tyrion felt like he was a small child again, just done some foolish deed that would earn him a scolding from his lord father. Mentally, he shook himself like a dog, trying to cast off the feeling.
"I have nothing to bring forward, my Lord Hand," he said, giving what he hoped was a confident grin. "I am just here to pay homage to our King, and to call upon my sweet sister and her royal children." Cocking his head to the side, he continued glibly, "It would seem, however, that the King is not present. Has he abdicated the throne to you? Or is his Grace out cuckolding my sister; I have heard he considers it customary to do so seven times a day."
Beside him, Bronn barked a laugh, but Eddard Stark apparently took no amusement whatsoever. Standing from the undoubtedly hideously uncomfortable throne, he began to walk down the stairs leading to the seat. Like the throne itself, the steps were forged from the blades of Aegon the Conqueror's fallen foes, something that meant certain death if even a single misstep was taken. Fortunately, the King's Hand seemed perfectly capable of descending to the stone floor without even a glance at his traitorous footing.
"His Grace is in the Kingswood, leading a hunting expedition," he explained as he reached the floor of the throne room, still not meeting Tyrion's gaze. "As his Hand, I sit on the Iron Throne and dispense justice in His Grace's absence."
Tyrion's eyes narrowed, suddenly noticing a quirk in the Stark's behavior. He had been present at Winterfell when the King travelled north to make Eddard Stark his Hand, and had seen how the two interacted. They both referred to each other by name, in public no less, and both held warm tones when doing so. Now, the Hand did not even speak his oldest friend's name, and his voice was stiff, unwelcoming, and cold. Had something happened with the two old friends to drive ire between them? He decided to find out.
"You do not sound very pleased with our ruler at the moment, Lord Stark," he said, doing his best to sound jovial, which by now was second nature to him. "What did he attempt to do? Spike your water with Arbor gold? Plan an invasion of the Free Cities or the Summer Islands? Try to slip a few whores into your bed," he finished with a smirk.
That at least got Eddard to look him full in the face, which was something he quickly wished he had not done; if looks could kill a man, Tyrion Lannister would have been reduced to ash by the Hand's stare.
"His Grace and I have had a disagreement on a matter of significance to the realm," he said, voice quite and formal. "It is a disagreement we have yet to resolve. However, it is a matter of great sensitivity, so I am afraid I am unable to speak of it to anyone outside of the small council."
Warning bells began sounding in Tyrion's mind. He is not simply displeased with Robert, he thought. He is furious with him. The King has ordered something done that Eddard Stark refuses to agree with or support. The last time that happened was when Robert refused to punish Jaime and my father for their actions at the end of their rebellion that put Robert on the throne. What could the King have done to anger his friend as much now as he had then?
Whatever the answer was, Tyrion decided it was best if he had as little to do with it as possible, lest it blow up in his own face.
"Very well then," he said, raising his hands in surrender to the Hand's rebuttal. "Still, I think it only right that I remain in the capital long enough to greet his Grace upon his return. I trust that I can expect lodging in the Keep?"
"I will see that arrangements are made." With that, Lord Stark turned and began walking out of the throne room, his guardsmen falling into line behind him. Unsure of what to do next, Tyrion stood by and watched until the Hand of the King and his entourage had left, before leaving through the opposite door, looking for his sister and her children.
He did not need to look for long, though it took a reasonable amount of time to get there. The Red Keep's solar was quite high up in the castle, and his stunted legs were not well suited to climbing the seemingly endless stairways up to his extended family. Finally, after ascending the numerous stairs, with more than his fair share of rests to try and restore feeling to his legs, Tyrion finally managed to reach his destination, which no small part of him was not all that eager to actually arrive at. Fortunately, his initial greeting was far more pleasant than he had anticipated, as he was quickly swamped by hugs and squeals of "Uncle Tyrion!" from his niece and youngest nephew.
"Look at you two," he crowed, now all smiles, thoughts of Kings and Hands and hidden plots forgotten as he looked on the two innocent children in front of him. Looking to Myrcella, he said, "My dear niece, you grow more beautiful by the day." That got a smile and a blush from the girl, and he moved on to his other young relative. "And Tommen! It has only been a handful of moons, and yet you already seem taller. You are going to be bigger than the Hound." Pausing for a moment, he leaned forward and whispered, "But much better looking." This got a nervous chuckle out of Tommen.
Then, just as Tyrion was beginning to think that this visit would not be so terrible as he had imagined, the Crown Prince himself came into view. The perpetual smirk that adorned his face transformed into a disdainful sneer as he approached his uncle.
"Imp," his eldest nephew spat.
"Greetings, Joffrey," he replied, sounding a good deal more polite but mentally adding a series of insults of which 'dung heap' was probably the most polite. Seeing Cersei rising from her own seat, with an expression of even greater disgust then her eldest son's, if that was possible, he continued, "and you as well, sweet sister. If only my goodbrother was here; then the entire happy royal family would be together."
Judging by the look Cersei was giving him, she was attempting to make him spontaneously combust for that jest.
"It isn't fair!" Joffrey suddenly shouted, his fat lips twisting into a massive pout. "Why can't I go hunting with father?"
"Joffrey, we have been over this many times," the queen said. "You are not old enough to hunt boar."
"I am so old enough! I could kill a boar if I wanted to!"
"Indeed you could, nephew", Tyrion said. I imagine it would quite easy for you as well. All you needed to do is walk up to one, and tell it that you will be king on the Iron Throne. The beast will laugh so hard and for so long that its heart will give out.
Mother and son continued sniping at each other for several minutes, while Tyrion, Myrcella, and Tommen did their best to pretend to be somewhere else. Finally, Cersei put her foot down and ordered Joffrey to go to his lessons with Grand Measter Pycelle, along with his brother and sister. Finally, Tyrion and Cersei were left alone, which, knowing his sister's feelings for him, made him fell extremely ill at ease.
"I hope for your sake that you are not seriously suggesting that my son should go out to the Kingswood with the drunken oath who sired him and risk his life running after oversized hogs," she hissed, venom flowing liberally on her words.
"Of course not, dear sister," Tyrion replied glibly. "I would never run the risk of inflicting so rotten a meal as your son on innocent boars; they might be sick."
SLAP!
