Events in this chapter take place on the same day as those in the previous one

Tyrion found himself making his way up the steps of the Tower of the Hand yet again. He wondered if the only joy his father derived from seeing him was knowing how he must have struggled up the long flight of stairs. He had been tempted to wait until the private family dinner that evening for this discussion, but he knew that the presence of Cersei and Joff would make any serious conversation difficult.

He had received a communication from the Iron Bank of Braavos, stating they were growing increasingly concerned as to how the crown planned to finance its debt. Tyrion could only suppose that Vayrs had been right, as usual, and that Stannis Baratheon had sent a deputation to the Iron Bank, which had been well received. Of course, they have no doubt also heard we have plenty of money to spare for a royal wedding: I am sure they seek to remind us of our priorities.

He reached the top and paused for a moment; he was not greatly fatigued by the climb, but thinking about the wedding always provoked a certain weariness of spirit in him. As he began to move towards the door of his father's study, it swung open, and Cersei strutted out. Tyrion prepared himself for greeting her, but she swept past, her head high, and a triumphant expression on her face. Tyrion was not unaccustomed to being ignored by his sister, although her preferred tactics in their constant battling were generally sarcasm and bile. But on this occasion, he was fairly convinced that Cersei had not noticed he was there. He wondered what was occupying her mind so fully; if it was causing the victorious expression she had worn, he doubted it was anything he would be glad to hear. He reached the ajar study door and pushed it fully open.

"Father, I must talk to you regarding the Iron Bank."

Tywin Lannister was seated at his desk as usual. Less usual was that he was not occupied in any correspondence – genuine or otherwise. Of course, he had not been expecting Tyrion's visit, but the way he sat still struck his son as odd. Tywin's hands were on the desk, palm down, almost as if he sought to use them to steady himself. His expression was almost as inscrutable as always, but his eyes had a faraway look in them Tyrion had never seen before. He was actually gazing at the door, but Tyrion was certain his father was not looking at him. In fact, despite having announced himself with his opening remark, he was unsure his father was aware of his presence at all.

"Father, may I speak with you?"

He said it slightly louder, and, this time, his sire frowned before his eyes seemed to have refocused.

"Tyrion… What is it now?"

"I have word from the Iron Bank of Braavos. They are asking that we divulge how we plan to finance our debt."

Something about the demeanour of both his father and his sister had told him not to mention anything regarding Cersei, however much he wanted to.

Tywin frowned at him.

"I do not have time for this, tell me what you intend to do about it this evening at dinner."

His father's voice lacked some of its usual sharpness, and although he did not speak again, he did not pick up his quill. Tyrion, by now thoroughly unnerved, managed to nod his assent before turning and walking away.

He was making his way through the courtyard, when he was stopped by the sound of his name. He turned and observed Oberyn Martell strolling towards him, a smile on his lips.

"Ah! Lord Tyrion – just the man! Do you know, I have been in this damned city for more than a month now, and I still cannot find a brothel were the whores perform the Mereenese knot correctly. I feel sure you can guide me in the right direction. Why don't we head into the city right now, little friend?"

"As enticing as your offer is, my prince, I fear I have duties to attend to."

"You disappoint me, my lord. You know, even in Dorne, we have heard word of your famous debauchery, but, myself, I have seen no evidence of it whatsoever. Don't tell me whoever gave you that scar took your cock as well?" The Dornishman threw back his head and laughed. Then catching sight of Tyrion's expression, he laid a conciliatory hand on his shoulder. "Come now! I simply jape with you, little friend. Of all the Lannisters, you are the one I like best."

"Given our previous conversation, you will excuse me if I don't take that as a ringing endorsement, my prince."

Oberyn's smile stayed in place, but his eyes darkened momentarily.

"What do you say, we take a cup of wine together, my Lord? I assure you, it will not be poisoned – I will even taste it for you, if you wish."

Tyrion acquiesced; partly, because he could not think of a way to decline without insulting Oberyn; partly, because following the strange events in the Tower of the Hand, he felt he needed a drink rather badly.

They reached the chambers Oberyn had been allocated for his stay, and Tyrion could not help but notice they were considerably better appointed than his own. The prince produced a jug and filled two goblets, ostentatiously drinking a small amount from both before setting them on a small table to allow Tyrion to choose either. Tyrion took one in his hand and raised his glass.

"To Dorne."

Oberyn acknowledged the toast with a tilt of his head, lifted his own goblet, and drank deeply.

"I am sure you will be pleased to know your niece shares your fond sentiment regarding my homeland, Lord Tyrion. I can also assure you that our people love her as much as she loves us."

Tyrion smiled at the Viper, anxiety prickling him, as well as guilt regarding the risky situation in which he had placed Myrcella.

"I am glad to hear it, but not surprised. Myrcella is a sweet and innocent girl, and I do not believe anyone could wish her harm ."

"Don't worry so, Lord Tyrion! We don't hurt little girls in Dorne. And you are right: she is sweetness itself. I was surprised when I met her older brother."

"I can assure you, prince Oberyn, it is Myrcella who is the surprise: King Joffrey is far more typical of our family."

"I do not need you to tell me that. So, she gets her nature from the Baratheons?"

Oberyn tilted his head to one side and raised an eyebrow. Tyrion met his gaze.

"Perhaps. Did you ever meet Renly? An extremely personable and charming man."

Oberyn smiled widely:

"Yes, that he was…"

Before Tyrion could think too deeply on this, a Dornish footman entered and murmured into the prince's ear. Oberyn nodded and, when the man had departed, he turned his gaze to Tyrion with a wry expression.

"Well, it seems the great Tywin Lannister has summoned me to a private audience! I must cut short our drinking session, but do not forget: you owe me a visit to a brothel, little friend, and a Lannister always pays his debts." He smirked and waited for Tyrion to rise from his seat, then the two men exited the room together.

Upon leaving Oberyn, Tyrion once again headed towards his chambers and once again found himself waylaid. This time, it was the dulcet tones of Varys which hailed him.

"Lord Tyrion, I trust I find you well. Might I enquire as to whether you have informed the Tyrells about the letter received by Lord Florent?"

"As you are being uncharacteristically direct, Spider, I have no doubt you are fully aware that I have."

"A truly remarkable woman. Imagine what she could achieve with the right man by her side."

Tyrion threw Varys a sour look. What game is the Spider playing?

"Now that you mention it, I have heard that Lady Olenna's late husband rivalled their son in the intelligence stakes."

Vayrs looked at him with raised eyebrows, but Tyrion remained resolutely silent. After a moment, the eunuch bowed his head.

"I will take my leave of you, Lord Tyrion; do not forget what I told you about you being the best hope for the current regime. I can tell you have already imbibed: you should practice moderation at dinner this evening."

"I am dining with my father, sister, and nephew – moderation will drive me to insanity."

But Varys was already sweeping away.

The rest of his day passed uneventfully, and when evening arrived, Tyrion made his way once more to the Tower of the Hand. He was the last to arrive: Cersei and Joff were already seated when he entered. Tommen was not present, but this was not unusual.

Joffrey was in high spirits, and if the flush of his face was anything to go by, he clearly had no intention of practicing moderation. Cersei's face no longer wore the look of open triumph he had observed that morning, but she was undeniably smug and seemed more pleased with herself than Tyrion had seen her since Jaime and Sansa's departure. His father seemed fully recovered from whatever the two had discussed this morning. After the first course was brought in, Joffrey fixed Tyrion with a manic smile.

"Uncle, before you arrived, we were discussing next week's festivities. Today, I finalised arrangements for one particular entertainment, which, I have no doubt, you especially will enjoy. it is a shame Sansa will not be in attendance, for I have no doubt it would have cheered her, too. Perhaps, it would even have given her some consolation for the disappointment that she is not my bride."

Cersei sniggered at this, but Tywin's face was stony.

"Your Grace, I can assure you that your Aunt Sansa can be in no way disappointed with her position as wife to the heir to Casterly Rock."

Cersei spoke:

"One would hope that she would recognise it is a far better position than a traitorous Stark deserves. But then, she has always been a foolish girl, with a head that was turned very easily."

Tywin glared at his daughter but remained silent. Joffrey looked gleeful and seemed about to launch into a speech, but his grandfather signalled for the removal of plates and conversation was paused.

Tyrion had finished his first goblet of wine and signalled to the cupbearer to refill it. As the meat course was served, he took a sip; it tasted somewhat sour. Under normal circumstances, Tyrion would not have given this a second thought – Tywin did not need to impress upon any at the table the wealth and power of house Lannister, therefore, he was unlikely to serve his best wine. However, Varys' earlier words about moderation came back to him. He set the cup down, his mind working rapidly. Was this simply a flight of fancy on his part? Gods knew, he was under strain: the whole day had been unnerving, and if he was right, then what? Perhaps, all the wine was poisoned, but, perhaps, it was just his cup. He glanced at his sister again and thought of her air of triumph – was she attempting to end his life yet again? He recalled the rest of his conversation with the Spider – did some or all of his family think there was anything untoward between him and Margaery? The thought that he may have put her in danger filled him with dread. The meat finished and removed, Tywin raised his glass and glanced around the table.

"I propose a toast: to the wedding of King Joffrey."

Tyrion forced down as much of the wine as he could bear; he was now convinced that it did not taste right, although he could not have put his finger on what was wrong.

"Father, I think this wine may have soured."

Tywin stared at him coldly. Joffrey sneered.

"Grandfather, pay the Imp no mind. No doubt, he wishes to dissuade us from drinking, so there is more for him."

Joffrey then rose unsteadily to his feet.

"I propose another toast. To my long and prosperous reign. Anyone who does not drink will be guilty of treason."

"Joffrey, my love – " Cersei, who had been silent since Tyrion had made his observation, had placed a hand on her son's arm, but he shook it off. Tywin raised his glass in his grandson's direction and repeated the toast. Joffrey smiled and drank deeply. He sat down, but Tyrion noticed a change in his nephew's pallor almost immediately. Tyrion himself felt clammy and nauseated. After some minutes, Joffrey rose from his seat again, more unsteadily than before, and, almost bent double, began to stumble towards the door. He did not make it to the threshold, and collapsed to the ground, heaving loudly.

"Joffrey!" Cersei rose to go to his side – she was clearly far from well herself; Tywin clutched his own stomach and, appearing to suppress a cough, turned to the cupbearer and demanded a maester be sent to the king's chambers.

Tyrion felt as if the room was spinning, his stomach was lurching, even without the spectacle of Joffrey writhing of the floor. He watched as two kingsguards carried his nephew away, a third supporting Cersei as she followed behind. Tywin appeared to suppress a cough yet again.

"Tyrion, you should return to your chambers."

Tyrion wondered how exactly he was to do that, however, as he stumbled towards the door, to his surprise, Podrick was waiting outside. Tyrion felt too ill even to care about the fact that his squire picked him up and carried him to his chambers. He murmured urgently:

"Find Bronn quickly, send him for Mytus."

After what had occurred at the Battle of Blackwater, Tyrion had thought it prudent to ensure he had access to a Maester not in the pocket of his family. Pod brought Tyrion back to his apartments then departed quickly. A little time later, Bronn returned with the man. Mytus had clearly discussed events with Tyrion's squire: he produced a vial and asked that its contents be mixed with water for Tyrion to drink.

"This will purge you, my Lord. It will be unpleasant, but necessary. I can tell you it was fortunate your man was able to locate me so quickly. Lannister guards are moving around the keep: I think it likely we will be confined closely before too long."

So, foul play is suspected – no doubt I will be seen as a suspect, for all that I am a victim. Just then he heard the toll of bells. It could mean only one thing. Joffrey is dead.

Any thoughts on whodunnit? The culprit or culprits will be revealed in due course...

Thanks to everyone who has followed, favourited or reviewed : )