Summary: Tybolt and Tyrion struggle to connect. Tywin declares war. Plans are laid.

"We Will Not Pacify the Tullys. We Will Not Pacify the Starks. We Will Not Pacify the Arryns."

"I like this not," Talion muttered, passing the water back to Tybolt. The little lord felt the leather bend and melt together between his fingers, ripe from age. The water was clean, however, and somewhat cool as it washed down his throat. "Three thousand tribesmen. Three thousand wildlings," the ranger spat, his lip curling in disgust. "The Black Ears cut off their slain foe's pissing ears as trophies, the Burned Men burn themselves, and that Shagger fellow!"

"Shagga."

"Whatever. How many times has he threatened to geld Lord Tyrion over our journey? We don't even have any goats to feed manhoods to!"

Tybolt snorted and kicked Brightroar into a trot. His grandfather's camp was as proud and strong as their house; a sea of blood and gold sweeping further than he could make out, covering the deep canyon, up and over the green hill in the distance, the roasting yellow sun beating down on them. A bustling fortitude of power, spearmen here, archers practising there, and in more than a few spots he saw swordsmen hacking at each other. As they neared the camp the sounds of steel clashing, boots thudding and men shouting enveloped them. Tybolt glanced to Ser Talion as they climbed down and passed their horses off to a stableboy, nodding to Tyrion trying to calm Shagga son of Dolf from splitting the belly of the boy who came to take his horse. He had snorted, but silently worried. Three thousand wildlings marching before us, beside us, behind us. And that mad fool thought it good to bring them with us. Now, truth be told they would be useful, now that they were on their side, but if Lord Tywin refused to uphold Tyrion's end of the deal... The debt is Tyrion's to pay.

He marched over and pulled the Imp away from his toy soldiers. "You know what will happen if Grandfather leaves the wildlings to you," he warned in a low tone.

Tyrion just grinned up at him. His ugly face split in a dozen places, and his mismatched eyes glittered. "Yes, yes, Shagga will feed my manhood to the goats. All very deadly and serious, but the real question remains." A hand gripped tightly around Tybolt's wrist, pulling him to a stop. When he turned, the grin was gone. "What happened to you?"

Tybolt watched him for a moment, and sighed. The same question, over and over throughout their journey. What happened to you? What happened to you? What happened to you? What happened? He tore his wrist from Tyrion's grasp, turning away from him. A part of him had screamed every time the question fell from the dwarf's lips, tearing at his chest. What do I say to a man I cannot speak to? How do I make him understand? How could a drunk and a whoremonger understand the feeling of cold steel through his body, surrounded by death? The loss of half his sight the gain of something even greater and being left with a cryptic message? How can I give Euron a crown? Why would I? It made no sense.

The hand slid into his own, and squeezed. When he turned those awful features were twisted into something that could almost be called sympathetic. "It is a terrible thing, mutilation." The Imp's voice cracked. "It leaves you feeling never whole, always incomplete." He unconsciously shifted his weight in a waddle, his too-large head cocking to the side. "And the world will never forgive you for it. You can't change that. What you can do is take that hole inside you and make it your own. Take that weakness and make it your strength. For how can the world harm you with your own armour?" Tyrion squeezed his hand again, a silent beg. "I know how that feels."

Tybolt looked down at him, something welling up inside him, and he found himself wanting to say it. To just tell him. Share this pain and move on. But instead he pulled away, turned and hissed at the Imp, "You know nothing." How does he know? How can he possibly know? He was born like that; he never lost anything! And he has the gall to...

Tyrion's face fell, and at one instance looked like a child - confused, betrayed, hurt even. But then the facade of innocence dropped, and that ugly face twisted into something terrible, monstrous. When he spoke his voice was clear and cold. "As you will, my lord. But do try and not let my father see that eyepatch, will you? It will not do for the Lord of Casterly Rock and Warden of the West to be even more... imperfect. You are weak as it is, boy," he snarled, "and no strip of leather will cover that unsightly hole in your face." Tyrion turned, enraged, and waddled off with his head high.

Tybolt winced at the reminder, raising a hand to reach under the patch and feel at the ragged tears in his flesh, and at once was filled with regret. I should not have said that. Stupid fool! You can't even handle gentle advice? Control yourself! He cast himself back to his years in the maester's study.

The sunlight was dimmed by the cotton over the windows, casting a shadow over the room. Dusty books lined the shelves, and Tybolt had long since memorised them all; the third shelf from the top the fifth row down was filled with the detailed histories of each of the Kingdoms, from House Yronwood in Dorne to Umber in the North and a particularly large tome dedicated to a as complete as possible a history of each head of House Lannister, from King Loren the Last, who fled the Field of Fire to bend the knee to the invader Aegon the Conqueror, to King Tommen II, who travelled to the Ruins of Valyria with the fabled Lannister sword Brightroar at his back and a veritable army by his side. Tommen was never seen again, and neither were his ships, nor Brightroar. The histories went all the way back to theories on the truth of Lann the Clever from the Age of Heroes, said to have stolen the sun's rays to adorn his golden hair and swindled the Casterlys of their Rock, which would go on to become the seat of Lann's descendants - Tommen the Lost, Loren the Last, Tywin the Shield of Lannisport and, one day, Tybolt, Tywin's grandson. What will they call me?

Tybolt was curled up in the corner, a book open on his legs. 'A Comprehensive History of that Dread War known as the Dance of the Dragons', by Velwyn, Archmaester of History. In it, Velwyn argued that neither Rhaenyra nor Aegon would have made anywhere near a decent monarch, owing to their capriciousness, self-righteousness, capacity for violence and tendency to be manipulated. He laments the mental state of King Aegon III 'the Broken King', and attributes his coldness and inability to find joy in anything to the vicious manner in which his mother was executed and the war itself, in particular the deaths of countless friends and family, but praises his attempts to hold together a 'broken realm, which forged a Broken King'.

Tybolt smiled at a picture, a small-scale painting of the battle between Lucerys and Aemond atop Arrax and the ancient Vhagar, mount of Visenya, above the rushing waters and violent storms of Shipbreaker Bay. The exact moment when Vhagar, five times the size of Arrax, threw the younger dragon and its rider down to the sea, where they would later resurface at Storm's End.

"An interesting book, and a controversial take on the matter." Father tried to sit down, but a malformed leg seized up and he fell. The boy reached over but Father waved him off, laughing through the pain as he sat up. "A fool never learns," he muttered. "And neither do dwarves, apparently. Now, the greatest Dance of all, and a man who enraged lords and ladies across the kingdom. There are only four copies of that book in existence, you know."

"Really?"

Father smiled and pulled him in. "Yes. The original sits in the Citadel of Oldtown, one copy resides within the Red Keep - there used to be three, before Aerys the Mad ordered them all burned for lies and heresy, and one of those three was hidden by a nearby servant boy - one copy made its way across the sea to somewhere in Essos. It could be in Volantis, or Qarth, or even Yi Ti for all I know, and the last copy... is right here in your hands." He took the book and brushed his fingers across the image. "You didn't answer my question." He smiled down at the child. "What do you think?"

Tybolt shifted awkwardly in his Father's arm. "About Rhaenyra and Aegon?"

"Mmm."

He took a breath. "I agree with Velwyn."

Tyrion cocked his head. "Oh?"

Tybolt licked his lips nervously and nodded. "They weren't nice people," he declared, with all the certainty of a boy who had seen all of seven namedays.

His father laughed quietly. "Most kings aren't. Aerys wasn't. Aegon wasn't. Robert isn't."

"But... Robert's king?" Father nodded. "And he's not nice?" Father nodded again. "Then he shouldn't be king."

Tyrion laughed again. "Is that so?" he asked, smirking.

"Yes!" Tybolt scowled. "Only nice people should be kings."

His father smiled and ruffled his hair. Tybolt shook away and straightened it, giggling. "Well, the world would certainly be a better place if kings were nice people." Tybolt nodded frantically. "But they don't get to be nice."

"Why not?"

Father's smile faded slightly. "Because there are lots of bad people in the world. Cruel people. One of a king's duties is to be the right kind of cruel."

Tybolt was confused. "A king should be cruel?"

"Yes." Father smiled. "The kind of cruel that stops his people from being even more so."

"I... think I understand. A king should be nice to nice people, and not-nice to not-nice people."

"Good." Father stroked his cheek. "A lord needs to do the same thing, you know."

Tybolt's eyes widened, then he nodded. "Like a king, only smaller."

"Exactly. Just look at your grandfather." When Tybolt's brow furrowed Tyrion sighed, and smiled. "Back when your grandfather had hair-" Tybolt hid his giggling "-yes, he had hair, once, and back then some bad people wanted to take power away from us and keep it for themselves, and your grandfather crushed that rebellion and stopped them."

"Where are they now?"

Father hesitated here, and spoke slowly, picked his words carefully. "Well, they're... not around anymore."

"Why not?"

Father hesitated again. "I'll tell you when you're older."

"But-"

"But nothing!" Father's voice took on a hard edge. "I will tell you when you're older."

Tybolt swallowed and nodded. "Promise?"

"I promise."

What happened to those days?

When Tybolt slipped past the door and into the Inn at the Crossroads he stood straight and marched over to the war council with as much dignity as he could muster. Well, in truth it was Lord Tywin and Ser Kevan sharing a flagon of ale as they discussed plans; they must have only recently settled, else the rest of the lords would be here. When he spotted his grandson Lord Tywin rose to his feet.

"Tybolt."

Tybolt bowed, just deep enough to show appropriate respect. "My lord," he murmured, noticing that Tyrion was quite visibly busying himself with his father's flagon. When he straightened up he looked straight into his grandfather's eyes. Green eyes, bright as emeralds, and flecked with bits of gold which blazed when he was angry, shone lightly when he was amused, and dimmed when he was calm. They were dim now, like the golden whiskers at his cheeks. Those whiskers were the only hair left on his head, having commanded his thick head of hair shaved when it began to thin, and kept his face razored smooth, save his bold whiskers, to add to the lion's image. Ever the very painting of propriety, Lord Tywin was dignified, strong and proud. As a lion should be. Ever since he first met him, Tybolt had wanted to emulate his grandfather in everything; the most respected lord in Westerosi history, beloved by his own, feared by his foes. The annihilation of Houses Reyne and Tarbeck had shown the Seven Kingdoms how Lord Tywin Lannister dealt with traitors.

"Grandson," Lord Tywin said, his voice deep and imperious, commanding attention. Tybolt instinctively focused. "I see the rumors of your ordeal were not unfounded." Tybolt winced inwardly. Knifecoldkilldeathknifecoldkilldeathknifecoldkilldeathknifecoldkillde- "And yet it seems you came out the stronger for it. And the bolder, if that stunt at the Eyrie is any indication." Stunt? Tybolt could not help but feel a little indignation.

He found his voice. "With all due respect, my lord," he began, sounding stronger than he felt. Tywin cocked a brow, as if to dare him. "I infiltrated the Eyrie, made my way through a place I knew nothing about, marched into the throne room, threatened their lord and his mother, grabbed their most hated prisoner and walked right out with only a dozen casualties. None of which, might I add, were my own men! I lost nothing and achieved my goal, just as you taught me-"

"No, it was not 'just as I taught you'." Lord Tywin's voice was low, calm and collected, but those eyes of his were blazing furiously. He seemed to loom over Tybolt, who glanced to Uncle Kevan, watching them intently. Tyrion still did not look at them, focused on his ale. "You knew nothing about the Eyrie, as you said. What you did was recklessly march up to a complete unknown, slaughter your honor guard - yes, those missing soldiers were noticed - walked into a room filled with powerful men and women who despise you, threatened their lord and his mother, stole their most hated prisoner and managed to sneak away before they realised your treachery." Lord Tywin's lip curled. "If the Blackfish had realised what you had done-"

"But he didn't-"

"Silence!" Lord Tywin took a breath. "If the Blackfish had realised that you had murdered your guard then you, Tyrion and everyone else in your party would be dead!" He turned away, and sat back down. "You placed yourself at risk, committed a treachery that will not be easily forgotten and escaped by the skin of your teeth." Lord Tywin's features did not exactly soften, but there was less anger in him than before. "But you did accomplish your goal. Tyrion is alive. Your soldiers are alive. You are alive. And you succeeded." He took the flagon from Tyrion's hand, poured a goblet and held it out. After a second's hesitation Tybolt took it and sat down, helping himself, and almost recoiled in disgust. The ale was brown and yeasty, and so thick you could almost chew it. Finer fare than I had on the road, however.

After a moment's silence the Imp spoke up. "Well, now that my spawn has been thoroughly chastised, might we get back to business?" He did not wait for an answer. "How is the war going?"

"Your brother has been covering himself with glory," Lord Tywin said, no small hint of pride in his voice. "He smashed the Lords Vance and Piper at the Golden Tooth, and met the massed power of the Tullys under the walls of Riverrun. The lords of the Trident have been put to rout. Ser Edmure Tully was taken captive, with many of his knights and bannermen. Lord Blackwood led a few survivors back to Riverrun, where Jaime has them under siege. The rest fled to their own strongholds."

"Your father and I have been marching on each in turn," Ser Kevan said. "With Lord Blackwood gone, Raventree fell at once, and Lady Whent yielded Harrenhal for want of men to defend it. Ser Gregor burnt out the Pipers and the Brackens..."

"Leaving you unopposed?" Tyrion asked.

"Not wholly," Ser Kevan said. "The Mallisters still hold Seagard and Walder Frey is marshaling his levies at the Twins."

"No matter," Lord Tywin said. "Frey only takes the field when the scent of victory is in the air, and all he smells now is ruin. And Jason Mallister lacks the strength to fight alone. Once Jaime takes Riverrun, they will both be quick enough to bend the knee. Unless the Starks and the Arryns come forth to oppose us, this war is good as won."

Now felt like a good time to intervene. "My lords," Tybolt interrupted, and Lord Tywin raised an eyebrow. Ser Kevan looked attentive and Tyrion seemed to find his cup very interesting. "The purpose of this attack was the return of Tyrion." The Imp winced at his name, and glanced up, scowling. Tybolt paid him no heed. "Tyrion is returned. Surely now is the time to cease hostilities..."

"No," Lord Tywin told him, with a voice as hard as steel. "This war has begun in earnest. Eddard Stark is our prisoner, sleeping in the dungeons beneath the Red Keep. His whelp pup has taken to the field, as only an untempered child is like to. No doubt he likes the sound of warhorns well enough, and the sight of his banners fluttering in the wind, but in the end it is down to butcher's work. I doubt he has the stomach for it."

Tybolt leaned back in his seat, swirling his ale. Robb has gone to war? He thought of that cheerful, joking boy from Winterfell, and considered him covered in blood, a man's corpse at his feet. I can't imagine it. Robb is too... But then, only a manner of weeks ago he had cut a man's throat and dumped him in the ocean, then rode back to King's Landing with a smile on his face and lies dripping from his lips. Myrcella has not yet recovered, and she may never yet. Yet a part of me... wants more. What does that say of me?

Tyrion, however, just asked, "And what is our fearless monarch doing whilst all this 'butcher's work' is being done?" he wondered. "How has my lovely and persuasive sister gotten Robert to agree to the imprisonment of his dear friend Ned?"

"Robert Baratheon is dead," Lord Tywin told him. "Your nephew reigns in King's Landing."

"Joffrey?" Tybolt asked, incredulous. Robert is dead? Lord Stark is a prisoner? Robb is at war? That little shit is king? With Joffrey ruling, things were bound to become much more difficult, for everyone. "So we are at war. The Riverlords are at our heel. The Starks right behind them. We have three Starks in King's Landing and Joffrey on the Throne." He shrugged. "Why not just give them Stark and his daughters and be done with it? We can end this now."

Uncle Kevan shook his head. "Tully, Piper, Vance. They are all out for blood."

"After we slaughtered their smallfolk and butchered their families?" Tybolt snorted. "Little wonder. No, they are being completely unreasonable. How do we pacify them?"

Lord Tywin was shaking his head before Tybolt finished. Small movements, almost jerky, side to side. His jaw was set and his expression cold. "Pacify them?" he asked quietly. "House Lannister does not pacify its enemies, grandson. My father pacified his people, and we ended up with a rebellion. No. We will not pacify the Tullys. We will not pacify the Starks. We will not pacify the Arryns. I will remind them all how Casterly Rock handles traitors." He stood and walked over to the window. "I will crush them all. I will make them bend to my will. That, my grandson, is how one rules. He ensures that he is the most feared of his foes. They must dread the very thought of him, and never consider rebelling against him. That is how we rule."

Tybolt stood and went over to his side. "And then how do we crush them?" he asked, looking up at his grandfather.

Lord Tywin turned to him. "I will smash the forces that march our way. Tyrion shall remain with me." The Imp raised his cup, but seemed impatient. "Once I am done here I will move south to Harrenhal and garrison my forces there. It shall make an effective stronghold for us to shore up our power and truly march to war. In the meantime I want you to return to Castamere, gather your forces. You hold the lands combined between the Reynes and Tarbecks, gather them all. Then I want you to blockade Stark's advance west and rejoin me at Harrenhal. We shall plan our next move there."

Tybolt recognised the dismissal, and bowed. "Grandfather." He emptied his cup back into the flagon. "Uncle Kevan. Tyrion." Kevan smiled, while the dwarf nodded almost imperceptibly, not looking at him. "Be well." A huff. Tybolt quashed his spurt of anger and marched out.

When he reached the horses Ser Talion was sharpening his sword. "My lord?" The soldiers rose to attention.

Tybolt threw himself atop Brightroar and rested a hand atop his blade. "Saddle up, all of you. We're going home."

And now the plot starts to kick up. The war is revving and battle plans are laid.

Next chapter: Tybolt goes home. The Shade takes a toll. Euron makes a request.