TYRION
It was the bells that woke him, ringing a merry song for hours and hours, days and days, a clangor that surely roused every soul in the Red Keep. Bloody wedding bells. Again.
Tyrion Lannister put a pillow over his ears and squeezed his eyes tight against the darkness, then turned over onto his back when it became clear that this particular tune was neverending, and climbed out onto his unsteady feet, waddling over to rest in a chair, dressed only in a robe.
And all at once, the racket stopped.
"Pod!" he shouted. "PODDD!" After a few moments more, Tyrion remembered that his squire was gone. He had disappeared with Brienne of Tarth on their mission into the Riverlands, presumably to search for the Stark girls.
The Tully words were family, duty, honour, he recalled, and it always fascinated him to see how devoted some men were to the second. Ned Stark was devoted to duty, and he did not last long here. Perhaps it is for the best that Lady Brienne is gone from here, with Jaime soon to follow her.
For a while he stared groggily at nothing in particular, then shambled over to the shutters and peered out of the window into the stinking city below. The castle was waking; below, Tyrion could see men wearing the blue bantam rooster of Swyft, Lord Rowan's golden tree, and the golden horn of Longtable. Even from here, he could make out carrot-headed Ser Horas and Ser Hobber Redwyne, smashing their swords against a dummy over and over, and red-cloaked guardsmen all around the practice square. Above the gatehouse, lion, stag and rose hung almost limply, so futile were the wind's attempts to move them. When he opened the window a fraction, the smells of fresh-baked loaves and bacon grease wafted up to him, along with the familiar odor of smoke and shit. King's Landing, Tyrion thought; oh, to be free.
Beyond the Red Keep, Baelor's bells were still ringing, and Blackwater Bay was busy with half a hundred ships; cogs ferrying clams and oysters in nets from Cracklaw Point, salted fish and meat from up near Gulltown, huge Volantene and Pentoshi traders carrying saffron and cloves from across the Narrow Sea. He had seen them the day before, standing on the ramparts above the harbor wall with the eunuch and Lord Gyles Rosby as the vessels slowly filled up the port. Tyrion had never asked to be master of coin again, but that was what his father had made him, so that was what he must do. The prospect was not something he relished, but his wants had never been of concern to Tywin Lannister.
"My lord," came a small voice from outside. It was Tygett Sarsfield, his new squire, a younger son of Lord Melwyn of Sarsfield. He did not remind Tyrion of his uncle. Whilst Lord Tywin's brother had been stubborn and almost permanently angry, this squire, with his red-cheeked, round face was always strangely cheerful. "My lord," he called again, and Tyrion opened the door a fraction.
"Oh, my lord," he said. "If it please you, your lord father and the king would welcome you in the Queen's Ballroom in two hours, if it please you, to break your fast ahead of the ceremony. If it please you."
It does not, Tyrion thought, but I must go all the same. "Thank you," he said, nodding to the pile of red and gold in the squire's arms. "Those are my garments, I presume?"
"Oh," said the boy. "Yes. Yes, they are. But it is the handmaidens that shall fit them for you, my lord, if it please you."
"They have been especially made for me, have they not?"
Tygett nodded. "They have, my lord."
"Then I see no reason why they should not fit," he said. "Send the handmaidens away, Tyg, and find yourself some entertainment for the day. I may be but a dwarf, but I manage well enough myself with most things. Go and sit with your friends, find whores, whatever…"
"My lord," the boy spluttered. "I'm too young for such things."
"How old are you?"
"Four-and-ten, my lord. My nameday is in four months."
Tyrion might have told the boy that he was old enough, but then he remembered. "Hmm, you are right, Tyg. I must be developing a certain mistrust for women." Shae. Cersei. "A well-grounded mistrust." Tysha.
"But still, you are not too young to find yourself a drink and a warm fire; this wedding shall be awful tedious for a young soul such as yourself. I daresay you shall prefer a good apple cider and a fish venison stew far more than the twenty-one courses that I must endure." He fished about his desk for a moment, returned, and pressed a fistful of copper pennies into the boy's hands.
"M-my lord-
"There's enough there to make up a dragon or two, so spend it wisely, keep it safe, and do not venture too far, or too late. King's Landing is no place for even the bravest men after dark. You are dismissed."
"Th-thank you, my lord," Tyg said. "W-when I drink, I shall remember you."
It was a queer thing to say, but Tyrion appreciated the thought. "And I shall think of you, squire, when I am in my cups," he returned. "I might begin getting drunk now. Hopefully, it will make the day pass a good deal quicker." And should I be arrested for regicide, for gods sake leave this shithole behind, he might have said, but Tyg was already gone.
He drank one cup of Dornish wine, and then another. Outside his window, the sun was rising higher still, so he shied away from it. The handmaidens did not come. He bathed himself in lemon-scented water that smelled mostly of horse piss. He climbed out of the copper tub and dressed himself in the garb Tyg had left for him. The doublet was plum and gold chequy, tiny patterned squares from collar to hip. The reflection in the mirror was an ugly dwarf with half a nose, dressed in motley so that he looked more a fool than Butterbumps. Tyrion was fine with being an ugly dwarf with half a nose, but the garments were bloody ridiculous. He saved the situation by donning a velvet tunic that hid it entirely, and set off down the stairs feeling more than a little pleased with himself.
His father's glare when he entered the Ballroom was disapproving, but that was nothing new. Lord Tywin Lannister did not wear his golden chains of office today, but the Hand's golden badge was pinned proudly to his chest.
"Good day, Father," Tyrion said lightheartedly. "I can see that you are suitably dressed for the festivities, looking as any lion lord should. I fear that my squire left Moon Boy's clothing on my dresser. Our fool may have to go naked."
"Spare me your indignities, Tyrion. I do not have time for your petty japes. You had best find someone who does."
"As you command, Father. Mayhaps I shall find myself the company of whores; they do seem to love my little jokes."
"Go, then," Lord Tywin said bluntly. "I have no concern for what you do."
His statement took Tyrion aback, and for the second time that morning, he had to contradict himself. "Ah, dear father. I fear that I must disappoint you – whores are no longer of interest to me."
"That seems unlikely," his father replied. "Even so, if I find you abed with one, the next woman in your bed will be Lady Stokeworth."
"Lollys? But she is-
"Lady Tanda."
"Ah." Tanda Stokeworth was old, past sixty. Tyrion thought that she was more than likely to die on the way to the ceremony. Even so, it was not a prospect he would openly welcome. Tywin Lannister did not usually make idle threats. He moved away from his father after that, to find his seat at the high table – next to Cersei. The Queen Mother wore a high black choker and sash over her red gown. They ignored each other for a long while. Tyrion twiddled his thumbs, whistled the 'Rains of Castamere', and served himself from the breakfast table. He stacked his plate with thick steaks of gammon, applecakes with butter, honey and blueberry jam, Dornish blood sausage and eggs cooked with fiery peppers. He and Cersei made credible attempts not to talk, but when they both reached for the flagon of smokeberry wine at the same time and their hands briefly met she recoiled away suddenly.
"My apologies, dear sister," Tyrion said sweetly, and poured her a cup before filling his own. She had already finished when he put down the flagon.
"This wine is weak. Pour me another," Cersei commanded. "…please."
He did. "Do you think the drinking will make it stop?"
"What do you mean?" she asked.
Tyrion sighed, sipped his own wine. She was right, the wine was weak. "The hurting."
"What do you know of pain?" Her voice was cold, distant, and her eyes did not see him, only the void behind him.
"I know pain, Cersei. I know how it feels to lose the ones you love."
"Not like me."
"No," he admitted. "Not like you."
She snorted. "Of course not. Losing a whore does not compare in the slightest to losing a child. You can't blame circumstances, or the gods. It was malice. It was the price."
He stared at her, frowning. "The price for what?"
"The things we've done," she said. "You and I. We. Us. Nothing comes without a price. But they'll know." Her face became determined, and her eyes burned with madness for an instant, then quietened. "I'll burn them all," she said coldly. "Until there's nothing left but dust and ashes, and then I'll burn them again. They'll know how it feels in the same way. They'll know that a Lannister always pays her debts."
Tyrion poured her another cup. Cersei drank gratefully. "It was never supposed to be this way," she said, speaking more to herself than she was to him.
"I know."
"No, you don't. You'll never know. Tell me, does he look happy?" She nodded across the table, to where Tommen was talking and laughing with Myrcella and her betrothed Prince Trystane, the Red Viper and his paramour, and half-shouting across the garden to Kevan's twin sons, Aunt Genna's grandson Ty, the Plumm boy, and that Peckledon lad. "That was never meant for him," Cersei continued. "That was meant for Joff." Friends were never of any interest to Joffrey, he thought. "The crown, the honours, all of it. And I saw him, held him… and now it has all passed to Tommen instead. What if-what if-if it was the crown that did it? Made Joff do the things he did? What if he becomes like-
"He won't," Tyrion said, with all the reassurance he could give. "Tommen is a good lad, and sweet. Joffrey never… had his kindness, never…"
"I know. Of course I know. But what if he is too… too kind to be a king? Too meek? Weak, even? To the point where they mock him behind his back?"
"That was why Robert sent him to Winterfell -
"Oh, bugger that," she snapped suddenly. "Robert was a fat drunk, and he bloody well did as he bloody well pleased. At least none of my children shall ever be like him." Her moment of anger passed. "And now… Father says I am still marriageable, Tyrion. He wants to send me back to the Rock, or to marry that cripple Willas Tyrell in Highgarden, and as for you…"
He sipped his wine. "Father will do anything to get a true heir. No matter what."
"He'll take your son, too, should you have one," she said. "He'll snatch him away from his mother as soon as he is born and feed him stories of his greatness to swell his own pride. Your son, should you ever have one, will be Father's heir. As Father wants him. Father wants Tommen to be his king. He tutors him in all his lessons, and takes away any enjoyment he has ever had in his life. He has nightmares at night. I know he does. About Father, and the things he makes him do. Beatings, perhaps."
The nightmares are about Joffrey, more likely, Tyrion thought.
"I won't let him take my boy, Tyrion," she said. "Nor Myrcella. I tried to ask Jaime, but – Father sent him away."
"Perhaps that was for the best," he replied. "If he knew…"
Cersei poured another cup for them both. "I won't let him. I'll burn this house to the ground if he tries anything. But… I can't do it alone." She took a deep breath. "Tyrion… I know – I know you did not… did not..." Another breath, as if she were trying to convince herself more than anything else. "I know you did not put the poison in Joff's cup."
She was hoping he would be sympathetic to her plight. Bugger Cersei. Bugger them all. "About bloody time," he hissed. "And you would have seen my head roll? You would have sat there and laughed? You attempt to win me over with truth now, when you need me? Well, bugger you, Cersei. You can find your own bloody way out of this mess."
She straightened up, seemingly unsure whether to rage or to plead, when the tension was cut suddenly, and they all fell into silence. The king had seated himself at the table again, and the Hand was standing before him, imposing and stern as ever. Gifts, Tyrion thought, oh, joy of joys. When Lord Tywin snapped his fingers, four Lannister guardsmen entered, bearing a heavy rosewood chest, near as tall as Tyrion, and no doubt heavier. Even from his seat, he could see the contents sparkling in the light when the guardsmen opened it and produced a suit of plate encrusted with rubies and amber jewels, a lion and a stag with gemstone eyes standing together on the breastplate. There was a greathelm too, topped with small antlers carved of gilded wood. Tyrion could not help but admire it as he had once admired Jaime's golden armour. "I had the finest armourers in King's Landing make it for you, Your Grace," his father said.
Tommen nodded, and held his hands out to receive the greathelm, looked down and smiled at it with a strange pride. Beside him, Tyrion saw Cersei looking completely dispassionate, and there was no small amount of rage on her features. There are stags on that breastplate, he thought, the truth will destroy us all for sure, and the king most of all. He reached for the wine, but Cersei had hoarded it to herself, so he had to settle for a half-flagon of ale instead, which he drank greedily. His lord father flitted his gaze towards him with flinty eyes.
With a deep breath, Tyrion stood from his seat and waddled over towards his own gift, and immediately wished that he had left Tyg this duty at least, for the books were like a lead weight in his arms, and he could not plonk them down before the king quickly enough. The whole table jumped, and Lord Mace Tyrell gave a small shriek that he masked with a loud cough.
"I had hoped to bring you the Lives of Four Kings, illuminated by the Grand Maester Kaeth himself," Tyrion said with a small chuckle. "Alas, there seems to be a shortage of copies of that particular book in the realm."
The king chuckled loudly, and the court laughed along with him. Not Cersei, though, who sat straight and rigid in her chair, and swallowed her angry words, "The World of Ice and Fire," said Tommen, reading the silver script on the leather-bound cover of the topmost tome. "A history of the Seven Kingdoms from Aegon's Conquest to the War of the Five Kings."
"Aye. I had Maester Yandel of the Citadel send me one of only two copies, and the scripture is dictated and written in his own hand."
"The Dance of Dragons, a True Telling; The Reign of King Viserys, the First of His Name; Dragonkin, A History of House Targaryen."
"The writings of traitors," muttered Mace Tyrell.
"Wise books written by wise men," Ser Kevan Lannister said.
"Enthralling, if I may say so myself." Tyrion said. "The dragonlords were kings for almost three centuries. Many were mad, but some were great. To be a truly great king, you must learn to understand the failures of your predecessors along with their successes."
"Thank you, uncle," Tommen said gratefully. "I shall learn to treasure wisdom as you have taught me."
Tyrion bowed and went away, struggling with the heavy volumes. Should he decide to destroy them, it will take him a good long while. From the weight of it, the Reign of King Viserys might have been made of solid metal. Mace Tyrell offered his gift next; a magnificent Highgarden-bred destrier that he had the attendant lead in, graceful and dark. The horse reared, and nearly knocked the Tyrell man to the ground before being cautiously ushered out, much to Ser Osmund Kettleblack's amusement. Lord Tyrell presented saddles and spurs to match, and showered them in other expensive trinkets too; rings, jewels, medallions. Paxter Redwyne showed the king plans for new ships that were being built in the Arbor, with names like King Tommen, Fair Cersei, Great Lion and Lord Tywin, the former promised to be near twice the size of King Robert's Hammer that had being destroyed on the Blackwater.
Mathis Rowan gave his liege a heavy ornate shield of rowan and oak; from Prince Oberyn on behalf of House Martell the king received a Dornish pleasure craft; Ser Garlan Tyrell gave his new good-brother a magnificent pair of black riding boots and a cloak, and from Ser Loras there was a supple hunting bow of golden wood. From his mother, the groom received a ruby-hilted dagger and the ceremonial marriage cloak. Tyrion saw that it was not the ragged old thing that Joff had wrapped his Highgarden bride in, but a new-made mantle, with the golden lion and onyx stag woven expertly onto fields of red and gold.
Lord Tywin waited until they had all finished before stepping back up to his grandson. The scabbard of the longsword was oiled red leather and cherry-wood, studded with golden lion's heads. The hilt was wrought in the shape of gilt antlers, and a large ruby jewel the size of a pigeon's egg was set in the centre. Along its length, the steel was rippled red and black. The king drew it free swiftly, and for a moment stood, marvelling at his prize.
"Thank you, Grandfather," said Tommen quietly.
From behind the king, Jaime said, "Be careful with that, Your Grace."
"Nothing cuts like Valyrian steel, Your Grace," Pycelle added helpfully.
"Aye," said Lord Tyrell. "It is certainly sharp."
Well noticed, my lord, thought Tyrion.
Tommen gazed at it wondrously, letting sunlight travel in ripples along the ruby-tinted blade. "Does it have a name?"
"Widow's Wail," said Lord Tywin. "A bold decision of your royal brother. I suggest that you might choose a different name, though. A name fit for a king?"
Cersei frowned. "My son, perhaps you should keep the sword's name, in memory of your dear brother." She put on a fake, pleasing smile. Tommen turned to Myrcella and their eyes briefly met, then after a long moment, he stood up. "Lawbringer! I name this blade Lawbringer."
"Well chosen, Your Grace," Lord Tywin said, with the barest suggestion of a smile. Moon Boy was cartwheeling over a table in the distance. But all the biggest fools are here, Tyrion thought as the festivities continued.
When it was time for the wedding he set off early for the royal sept. The Tyrells had wanted to hold the ceremony in the Great Sept of Baelor once more, but Tyrion and his father had quickly decided that the Tyrells could bloody well pay for it themselves if they wanted that kind of celebration.
The strangest thing was that Lady Olenna had agreed. And so it was Tyrell gold that had paid for the High Septon's twinkling crystal crown, and Tyrell gold that was responsible the ludicrous seven-sided chandelier that lit the sept up as though it had been invaded by a thousand fireflies. The bride was all in ivory silk and Myrish lace, and a circlet of crystal roses served as her crown, and around her neck she wore a necklace of diamonds, and at the centre a single blood-red jewel. She came to the sept in a maiden's cloak of Tyrell green, with real golden roses woven into the cloth at the hem. Beside her, Mace Tyrell walked tall and proud, like a peacock. Tyrion stood beside Myrcella in her pretty gown of crimson and rose-coloured silk, and the Dornish princes, who both looked majestic in red and gold. At the altar between the gilt statues of the Father and the Mother, the king stood waiting, in a doublet of pure gold with a red sash thrown over his shoulder. Tyrion could have slept through the seven blessings, or recited the words from memory. For a moment he wondered what had become of Sansa Stark, but then his thoughts turned to another, and that was too painful to bear.
"We have a new queen," said Myrcella, when it was finally over. "Though I daresay it would have saved us a lot of trouble if the statue of the Mother had simply fallen and crushed all of the Tyrells flat."
"I must confess that I never thought of that, beloved niece."
"I fear that my princess has an overactive imagination," said Prince Trystane. "And I love her all the more for it."
I had an overactive imagination, once, Tyrion thought. Always, rather. I dreamed of being tall, and handsome, and a famed tourney knight. And I dreamed of a maid as fair as summer, with sunlight in her hair, and a house by the sea, to lie with a crofter's daughter and to be happy. I dreamed of Tysha, niece, he wanted to say, and look where that has left me…
