coldblue: Hopefully this chapter answers most of your questions
Across the Narrow Sea
The interesting thing about King's Landing is that even at sea you can smell it before you see it. It was like that the last time he was there, though the last time he had left it with the smell of the city burning and the dead still rotting in his nostrils. This time he doesn't know how he will leave it and in truth he doesn't want to even go there, doesn't even want to return to Westeros full stop.
Some would say he has to return to Westeros. He was born there, his family is there, it is his home. To them he says, Westeros is not home because I have no home. If he was to call anywhere home it would be Braavos because that is where he has lived for the past five years, it was where he worked and it is where his business still resides.
Though, he thinks, that may change soon. Now that he is returning it is unlikely he will leave. Lord Tywin would chain him down to Westeros if it meant keeping him there. His father has tried five times to bring him back and now that he is returning will not leave so long as the Old Lion can help it. He sniffs the air and now he can see the city.
A ship boy runs by him. Before the boy can get far he shouts him to stop. He does so and turns to face him. In Braavosi he asks the boy how long until they make port. The boy is afraid of him, he knows, as he should be perhaps. Of his name, of who he is, why he on the ship, why he does not want to go back to Westeros and can't stay in Essos anymore. The boy stammers out that they will be in King's Landing before noon and runs away from as fast as his can carry him.
Tybolt Lannister is now fast approaching forty years old. He is a man of strong build, but by no means tall. At least compared to his father and older brother, who he has not seen for the past ten years. Various expressions are available to his face, and only one of them is easily read: an expression of stiffened amusement. His hair is golden, heavy and waves in the breeze, and his eyes are green and small though he can see better than a hawk; in a good conversation they will light up.
In Braavos, it is said that he knows all the Iron Banks counting books off by heart in the Common Tongue, Braavosi and Dothraki, however only two of them he speaks fluently, the third he can only threaten and insult people in. He can resight the Seven Pointed Star and the Ancient Books of Asshai backwards and is always ready to catch out a poorly trained red priest or floundering septon. His speech is deep and rapid in deliverance, his manner smooth and assuring; he is at home in courtroom or battlefield, inn yard or septrey. He can draft a bill of sale, train a soldier, stop a fight in the street, start a riot and write a law. He will quote you the best points from the Dragon Kings, from the first Aegon to the fifth and back again. He works all hours, first out of bed and last to it. He makes money and spends it. He will take a bet on anything.
And right now the bet he is willing to make is how much the wind will pick up. Quite a bit as turns out, the oars of the ship kicking up froth and spouting foam as the sails flutter and swell with new air from the east. In the harbour of King's Landing, his ship is the biggest that is not apart of the royal fleet. Five sails, each hanging from their own mast, and carrying two hundred oars, the Leviathan would look more at home thundering down on Lysian pirates in the stepstones than carrying silk, jewels, cotton and lace for the tailors of King's Landing. Tailors who are always willing to pay twenty dragons for something that's worth five.
As they pull along side one of the dock's many piers, the captain approaches his employer. "Master Tybolt," He says in clunky Braavosi, "We stay long?"
Tybolt looks at the captain. He is a great hulking Tyroshi, a veteran from the naval war with Lys, with skin black as ink. "I will," he tells the captain. "Though you will sell what you can here and make for Dorne. When you're there buy spices and peppers, then make for Gulltown and back to Braavos after that." The captain bows to him, turns on his heels and goes back to making sure that the ship is being properly moored on the dock.
As soon as the gang plank is dropped, Tybolt is away. His things will stay on the ship until he has decided whether or not staying is worth it or not, meanwhile he walks along the dock and looks around to see if his father has any men in the harbour to escort him.
When it comes to decent trading, there are better place to go than King's Landing, better places than Westeros in general. The whole country is filthy: weather, people, morals, money. It doesn't matter when it's all the same dirty colour. King's Landing's harbour is a doghole, a free-for-all in which outsider's purses swell and the native's pockets shrink. Men in wagons and carts barter with fishwives over the price of decent cut of meat, which you know just by looking is over priced and half rotting.
In a harsh winter this whole city will starve, Tybolt thinks as he strides through the crowd. He's been in a city under siege and knows what the starving will do for food when they've gone without it for long enough. By the start of next summer, this city will have shrunk in half and the richest will have been toppled in favour of anarchy. This is something Tybolt does regularly now, looking for the worst out of any situation, and it is something he actively tries to stop doing.
After circling the harbour three times he concludes that his father has not sent men to collect him, and then he wonders whether or not he is expected so early. He wonders this until the welcome arrives and almost runs him down. They come in flurry of flashing gold lion helms and flapping cloaks of the darkest crimson. Only one, the leader, does not wear the Lannister colours, his cloak was snow white to match his armour.
The peasant folk dive for cover and part like water on a rock before the retinue of armoured lions. They drive forward in such a force it comes as quite a shock when he is the only one standing in the path they are forced to stop at their own displeasure. From the head of the column the one in the white cloak calls down to him, "Move out of the way!"
He doesn't, instead he smiles. It may have been more than ten years since he has seen or spoken with his brother but will always recognize his voice. "If that's how you're going to greet me, Jaime," he shouts back, "I'll get back on my bloody boat."
Jaime stares at him. He stares at him for a good while. Jaime stares at him for so long he has to dismount his horse and look up close to recognize his big brother. They approach each other warily, never leaving eye contact. Tybolt meets his brother half way but this puts Jaime on edge and a hand goes to his sword. "Is it... is it really you, Tybolt?"
Tybolt frowns at his brother. "That depends... Has Tyrion grown a lot in my absence?"
They share a smile, because now Jaime knows he has his brother back. But then he frowns at the brother he hasn't seen for more than a decade. "I should punch you." Jaime tells him.
"You can try," He shoots back, "But you better knock me out in one. I won't need a second."
Jaime's scowl is reversed. "You always were a brawler." He comments.
On their ride up to the Red Keep, Tybolt finds eager company in his brother. Although the fact Jaime never stops looking at him has the hairs on the back of his neck on end. He is already afraid of losing me. In order to put Jaime at ease he turns to a topic that always set calmed him as a boy. "How is our sister?"
As expected Jaime's eyes light up. "Well, although she has her moments."
"Robert? Or Tyrion?"
"Both. Though mostly Robert." Jaime's cheek gives an envious twitch in the middle of his flashing grin. "They have children." He pauses and realizes, "You are an uncle."
"Am I? To how many?"
"Three. Two boys, Joffrey and Tommen, and a girl, Myrcella."
"They don't expect gifts do they?"
Jaime frowns and gives it along think over. "Joff might, though they might all just be content with getting to know you. Tyrion is not the most 'subtle' of uncles."
He laughs. "I can imagine. Does Tyrion still have the same wicked tongue?"
"Yes, so expect to receive quite the whipping."
"Well you'll have to wait a little. Cersei has arranged for us all to dine together. We can play catch up better then."
"Good. It's been a while since I've had a decent conversation."
They go on silently for a while, however Tybolt then remembers the last person he hasn't asked about. "How are you, Jaime?"
His little brother looks at him and smiles. "I'm happy to have my big brother back." The pause is an awkward one. "And so is father."
He bites his lip. "He hasn't even met me yet. No doubt he'll disapprove of me."
Despite looking away from his brother, Tybolt knows he is being scowled at; it brands itself onto his face. "It wasn't his fault that you were sent away," Jaime says, "and if you resent him so much for it why has it taken you so long to come back to us, when Gerion came back to us after one year."
Tybolt bites his tongue. He will not fight with his brother when it is the first time they have seen each other for passed a decade. Jaime takes his point as made and turns his head away. "When we get back to the Red Keep you'll go straight to father."
He can't help but snicker. "Will I?"
"Yes," Jaime orders, spiting venom at him. "You will."
By now, Lord Tywin must be approaching well beyond fifty years old, however he concedes nothing to the years which have been taken from him. Flint faced and keen eyed, he is as lean as a man half is age and as cold as the edge of a blade. Tybolt recalls a time when he and his father were both much younger, and the whole of Lord Tywin's body seemed to be sewn together by his chain of office as Hand of the King. Though the chain was no longer there, none of the power the badge has given him has diminished. If anything it has increased, because even in Braavos they know that Lord Tywin owns the half of the Seven Kingdoms that his good son, Robert Baratheon, can no longer afford to run.
His father fixes him a fiery eye, brilliant green and flicked with gold. "So, Tybolt, you have returned to us."
He bows his head. "My lord."
"How long has it been?"
"Ten years? Eleven? I stopped counting after the Rock vanished from the horizon."
Lord Tywin scowls at him. He paces; the ghost of a rattling chain harries him as he goes. "Well you've been gone long enough surely you must have done something with yourself in Essos."
"I soldiered for a while."
This does not surprise his father, there are few things for an exile to do in Essos but soldier. "With who?" Asks the Lord of the Rock.
"A few small companies at first, but eventually I joined the Second Sons. Spent two years with them."
"Who were you working for?"
"Volantis at first. They were trying extend along the Demon Road to Mantarys." Lord Tywin gives an expectant look. "We won." He finshes. "After that we were at Tyrosh, fighting over the Disputed Lands."
His father gives him a curious look. "Do the Tyroshi still think of ruling everywhere up to the Rhoyne?"
He can't help but snort. "Show me one that doesn't and I'll eat my boot." Lord Tywin is not impressed by the idea; a Braavosi would have taken the bet and a Norvosi would have laughed. "They can't win and they know it," he goes on, "but they have to fight as though they can. The waste means nothing to them - coin, men, horses, ships. Hang the expense, is what they say."
"They sound like fools."
He shrugs. "Fools with plenty of coin. There are worse people to fight for."
Silence.
Lord Tywin does not approve that his son was exiled to become little more than a common sellsword. But then a thought comes to him, a memory. "The Disputed Lands?" Tybolt nods. "With Tyrosh and the Second Sons." He nods again. "Were you at Ayo.. Aryon..." The phrasing of the Myrish backwater alludes Lord Tywin.
"Ayonaka. I was."
His father frowns at him. He does not appreciate that his son fought on the loosing side of a war. "Quite a battle, I heard, but the wrong side."
"You try stopping a line of charging war elephants with a shattered line and fifty short spears."
This new information earns him some reprieve from Lord Tywin's disapproval. "Ayonaka," he says it while threatening to chuckle, "Ayonaka. And how did you scramble out of that mess?"
"I went north, to Braavos. Got into..." He's going to say money, but Westerosi struggle with the idea of trading in money. "Trade. Silk mostly, and jewels. Norvos and Braavos are the best places for it. And helped the Iron Bank with funding some lesser lords."
This surprises his father. "Did you really? The Iron Bank? How well did that go?"
"Very well. Eventually I stopped working with them, made tracks of my own and went on to work with the First Sea Lord of Braavos."
Lord Tywin inclines his head and raises an eyebrow. "Doing what?"
"Trading, financing, making sure he didn't have to borrow money. Whatever was needed of me."
"That is why you couldn't come home?" His father is eager to know.
"In part." The vagueness unsettles him. His father's unforgiving eyes scan him without mercy, trying to pick him a part and unravel his second son to see if he is still worthy of the name Lannister. Tybolt returns the gesture. The golden hair has vanished and is replaced by a head as bald as an egg, but bushy golden side-whiskers still grow out of his father's face. When Lord Tywin's eyes reach his face they meet each other's gaze. The eyes are as he remembers: calculating, intelligent, astute, ruthless, and controlling. He feared these eyes once, but no longer - imposing as he might be Lord Tywin would not withstand him in a fight, though it would undoubtedly be a good one.
"You look like a foreigner." He is told as an insult.
"I am a foreigner." He replies which causes his father to scowl, which in turn causes him to think that if he is scowled at again he will peel it from his father's face.
Lord Tywin points at something on his chest. "What is that?"
He looks down, and knows what his father sees. His left hand climbs up his chest and grasps the medal, he tugs on it twice and shows it to Lord Tywin who nods. "A gift." The answer is simple, but the story behind it is complex.
"From who?" Lord Tywin is loosing patience for the son he had to banish for testing it so much.
"My wife."
The expression is a stranger to the face of Lord Tywin. Pure unbridled panic, mixed with a lion's rage; Lord Tywin looks as though Tybolt has just dropped his draws and pissed all over his father's boots. "You have a wife?" He is surprisingly calm.
He has to shake his head grimly. "Not anymore."
"Ah." His father is sorry now. Sorry and understanding. "How?"
"A sweating sickness. It comes to Braavos every year and no one is safe - it kills in less than a day."
"How long were you wed?"
He swallows down the burning lump in his throat. "Seven? Eight years? We had children: two daughters. They died in the next plague."
His father sighs. "I know what that feels like, to loose a wife and child. I am sorry."
The growl is instinctive because he has heard the words a thousand times before from a thousand men. It is a thousand times too many for his ears, so now whenever he hears it someone always looses a tooth. But just as the fist is about to fly, he holds for the first time in his life. Perhaps Lord Tywin, his father, can know what such a loss is like. It is something in which he can take comfort.
He and Jaime spend the rest of the day scouring the city for Tyrion without success. Their brother is hiding from him, Jaime says. The dwarf has been promising to pull his bollocks off since he has heard his big brother was coming back to Westeros and Jaime thinks it's best that they leave Tyrion to meet them at dinner, where father will stop the Imp from pulling anyones anything off.
Tybolt declines. He has to apologies to his brother, for leaving him so brutally with a hug for goodbye only. For leaving him alone under the merciless rule of Lord Tywin with no protector. Tyrion, he will say, I am sorry, do what you will with me and my bollocks.
The search turns up nothing. Every brothel and wine cellar is searched but nothing is turned up. No dwarf, no apologies, they head back for the Red Keep for the dinner Cersei has set out for his returned. When they enter they are not the first to have arrived. There are two small people facing each other either side of the table.
One is a boy, which he had almost taken for Tyrion with his fat cheeks and white blond hair. The other is a girl, delicate and beautiful, she reminds Tybolt of Cersei as a little girl. Jaime strides toward them with razor grin flashing. "Tommen," he says, "Myrcella." The children fly toward their uncle at first glance, jumping up and down before him and hugging at his legs.
Jaime picks the girl up who squeals with laughter. The boy tugs on the white cloak of Ser Jaime and demands that he be picked up as well. His sister sticks her tongue out and puffs out her chest. No, she seems to be saying, I am older and you must wait. Yes, Tybolt decides, this is definitely Cersei's girl.
It is the girl who notices the foreigner in the doorway, and is afraid of him immediately. "Ser Uncle," she says to Jaime, "Who's that?"
Jaime turns with his grin cracking like a whip. "That, Myrcella, is your uncle."
She frowns and turns back to Jaime. "That's not Uncle Tyrion!" The girl declares.
Ser Uncle laughs. "No it's not." He agrees with his niece. "This is your uncle Tybolt."
He waves. "Hello." He says, "I am your uncle Tybolt."
The boy is not as shy as his sister. Perhaps he does not know enough to be afraid of him. "Hello, uncle." He says and reaches out a hand like he has been taught to when meeting new people. Tybolt takes the hand and shakes it. Tommen giggles gleefully; it is the first time he has shaken anyones hand.
After that, Myrcella was quick to warm up to him. He's always had a knack with small children ever since he was a boy. While Myrcella may look like Cersei when she was a girl, she is far sweeter and smarter than Cersei was at that age. Tommen is just Tommen - He seems to be neither Jaime nor Cersei nor Tyrion, which causes him to wonder whether or not he was like this as a boy.
Just as they were beginning to settle down, Cersei enters commanding all eyes to her at once. The children, who had been so warm and happy before, stand up as cold and straight as statues. Cersei is a strikingly beautiful woman with classic Lannister looks: blonde hair, brilliant green eyes, fair skin, and a slender, graceful figure. Though there are dull cracks in her armour. The fine features had blurred from what he remembered of them and her bright eyes had gotten duller with the years of bad marriage.
She looks at him from the doorway. "And where have you been?"
He shrugs at her. "Oh... here and there."
"You look like a foreigner."
At that he smirks. "I'll tell you what I told father: I am a foreigner."
"So, brother dear, what have you been doing with yourself?"
He could imagine himself saying, "This and that." He did say it.
Cersei takes offense to this. "You have not mended your manners then. You may have forgotten in exile, but I am the Queen. You owe me your respect."
"And whatever happened to respecting your elders, little sister?" She has not changed much then. Respect, she imagines, can be pulled from the same arse as the title she has. Book reading is still an affectation to her, and no doubt she wishes there was less of it in the world. As boys her brothers were always reading, which is perhaps they have done so poor in life. She does not see why any high born should have to write; there are clerks for that.
A scathing onslaught is on the edge of her tongue, but it is a look from Jaime that silences her quickly. Instead she motions behind her and produces another child, another boy. He was tall and slender with bright green eyes, like Jaime and fiercely pouty lips. For a lad his age he is handsome but in his eyes there was something - an evil sneer.
"Joffrey," Cersei says, "This is you uncle, Tybolt."
The boy looks up at him as though his very existence were some great offense to him. "Mother said you were dead." States the boy, in robes of red satin and gold velvet.
Tybot can't help but grin at this nephew. "I was but each time they put me in a hell I got spat back out." A lesser child would have been frightened, but not this one. He thinks that he has a new favourite uncle.
It was then Tyrion arrives, with stubby legs, a jutting forehead, mismatched eyes of green and black, and a mixture of pale blond and black hair. He smiles at Tyrion and says, "Valonqar, you have grown."
The dwarf growls at him. "You!"
His smile reverses and he goes to one knee. "I'm sorry," he says to the dwarf's face. Tyrion looks him in his eyes and then his big brother sees it. More than a life times worth of suffering crammed into two small and unkind eyes. But Tyrion can not find himself able to hate this brother who abandoned it.
"Apology accepted," the Imp says simply, and nothing more is said until Lord Tywin arrives and the food is served.
The talk is all about him. They all demand stories from Essos, but there is little he can tell them in presences of children so young. He tells them what he can about fighting along the Rhoyne. Joffrey demands to hear of some daring act his favourite uncle has done before he grows bored, to which he asks if any of them have held a snake for a bet. They all quieten to hear the story.
All of the banks of the river Rhoyne are infested with snakes, he tells them, and I had to hold one till they, his comrades, counted to ten. They counted, rather slowly, in their slower languages. At four the snake was startled and angry. It flicked his head and bit into his wrist hard. Between five and six his grip only tightened, while blood trickled down his arm. "By the Blood of R'hllor, drop it!" One of them cried, as some prayed, some swore and he just kept on counting. By eight the snake looked sick and when they'd all agreed on ten, and not before, he eased the coiled body back into the river.
He collected his winnings and sat by the river to die, but he never did. All that happened was that his left punch is still a little slower than the right.
"Was it poisonous then?" Tyrion asks after he's done.
He gave his brother a grin. "That, Valonqar, was the bet."