Tyrion

The Red Viper wandered between the tables with his spear. No one seemed to notice him. They were far too content to eat Littlefinger's food and drink his wine. Tyrion tried looking at the Lords of Westeros and wonder which table might be safe to eat from. Littlefinger was married to Lysa Arryn… and the Vale voted as a bloc for him. Perhaps that was safe. Tyrion then realized it was ridiculous to assume a man wouldn't poison his wife. In most cases, that was the first person a man would poison.

And behind those Lords who were muttering about how rich and kind and generous and beneficial to the Realm King Littlefinger would be, was the Red Viper with murder in his eyes. He carried that Dornish spear but no one seemed to bother noticing. Dorne was always the far end of the Realm that men preferred to forget about… but Tyrion had a hankering they were about to feel the Viper's sting before the day was over.

The lunch was winding down. Littlefinger sat next to Tyrion by the Small Council table and struck up a conversation, "I was hoping we might have a vote once the Lords of Westeros finishes eating."

"You like your rolls all buttered up before you eat them, don't you?"

"Well seven is a good omen, don't you think Lord Tyrion?"

"Indeed. I'm sure the Faith would be very pleased to see you on the Throne. You're the last man standing who seems pious enough and isn't facing accusations of incest."

"So it would seem. Speaking of incest, in the absence of his parents, young Tommen is your ward, is he not?"

Tyrion didn't want to mention that a parent was still alive. Littlefinger must've known – the whole Realm knows – but there was no use bringing it out in the open, "He is. I plan on taking him back to Casterly Rock after this is all done."

"I was wondering if you might leave the little Prince here."

"Unless Myrcella wins," Tyrion said, "he won't be a Prince much longer. What would you want with my nephew any way?"

"Well you see, I need successors…"

"And you want Tommen to succeed you? You're a married man. Or is your finger too little?"

Littlefinger forced an easy laugh underlined with sarcasm "That's hilarious, can you believe I've never heard that one before? Never, in my life. No, but I was planning on having lots of successors. But in the absence of having those successors at the present moment, I was hoping to have Tommen, and marry him to my daughter."

"You have a daughter?" this came as new to Tyrion.

"A natural one, yes. Her name is Alayne. If the Lord of Casterly Rock is open to it, we can arrange a marriage when Tommen comes of age and all that."

And you want to keep him here to make sure he's more Baelish than Lannister, is that it? I have news for you Littlefinger, he's not just half, but all Lannister, "I'll consider it…"

"What's not to consider? Your nephew may be a King."

"Perhaps, Lord Baelish. You have to win first."

"I don't foresee any difficulty." Littlefinger stood and walked over to his proto-Throne. He sat there in between the shaking Renly and the rather regal Myrcella in her Baratheon colors. Tyrion considered the irony that Tommen might become King after all that business with Joffrey and the incest.

Lady Catelyn arrived, content to luncheon with her son and good-daughter. She had a smile on her face, which Tyrion thought was a rare sight, "Lady Stark. How did you enjoy your lunch?"

"It was excellent, Lord Tyrion. I'm going to be a grandmother," she smiled proudly.

"Roslin is pregnant?"

"She is indeed."

Tyrion considered that for a moment and put a book mark in it to consider it more later, "Please give the Lord and Lady of Winterfell my congratulations when you see them next."

"I will." Tyrion wasn't sure if she was just being polite or if she actually would.

A combination of men with Mockingbird sigils and men wearing the – now erroneous – coat of arms tripled into the direwolf over a pair of stags – cleared sturgeon skeletons, empty bottles of wine, and remnants of potatoes, leeks and parsnips. Men resembling Wyman Manderly were still using the bread to soak up leftovers on their plates.

After everyone was feeling good and stuffed (Tyrion decided to eat, realizing that if a vast majority of the Lords of Westeros were suddenly dead at Littlefinger's dinner, it might persuade 100% of their heirs to vote against him and thus, not good for Littlefinger's game plan) Catelyn Stark stood and told the maester to see if anyone had anything to say.

The maester stood in front of the Kings and turned to the Lords of Westeros, "If any man has an issue or a question for these Kings, speak now."

The chamber echoed with the butt of a spear crashing against the stone floor like a thunder clap. The Red Viper stood between the maester and the Dornish seats and suddenly, all eyes were on Oberyn Martell and his menacing spear.

"I have a question for Petyr Baelish."

The maester was about to say something formal, but Petyr Baelish just answered, "What is it, Prince Viper?"

"Where were you when this city was under siege?"

"I was in the Vale. Marshaling the Lords of the Vale under Lord Robert."

"And before that?"

"Before that I was on a ship to the Vale."

"Were you not the Master of Coin?" The Red Viper declared, "Did you not serve on Prince Joffrey's – the usurper's – Small Council? Or from the moment King Robert died, were you on a very slow ship to the Vale? Arriving only after the War was fought and won?"

"If I recall correctly… I do think I retained my position under the late Joffrey's brief reign."

"So you admit to serving under the Lannister usurper?"

"If Prince Joffrey was a usurper, what does that make you, Prince of Poison? You seek to seat that same King's sister."

Tyrion thought the Red Viper was suddenly caught in a trap. In a war of words, Littlefinger was obviously the man most prepared in this situation. But Tyrion wasn't sure how long that spear would stay in Oberyn's hand. He already knew he would just have to knick Littlefinger with it and he was a dead man.

"I seek to preserve the laws and security of Dorne. What do you seek, Baelish? Your own ambition. Your own power. You seek to satisfy your own purse, your own itch for a crown. But what you don't want to admit, what you sugar coat, is that you are a traitor to the Realm. You polish your words, you hide behind technicalities, but you have betrayed the Realm your claim to serve and on the corpses of those you once called allies, plan to crown yourself."

"Prince Oberyn, if you are accusing me of a crime…"

"I am."

"Then I demand a trial. Don't I have that right? An opportunity to be proven innocent in the sight of gods and men."

"Fine, then let us present the facts."

"Oh no need for facts. Trials can be so lengthy. Truth be told, I prefer the justice of the gods. A Trial by Battles."

The Red Viper's murderous stare turned into an almost erotic pleasure. Tyrion wasn't sure if Oberyn Martell was about to just leap forward and stab Petyr Baelish in the fastest Trial by Battle in history, "It would be my honor, Lord Baelish."

"Well, I can name my champion?"

There was nothing that could take Oberyn down from the high of sticking his spear into someone. He simply asked from behind that deadly smile, "Who?"

Littlefinger stood, "Ser Lyn Corbray."