(Casterly Rock: 10/2/298 AC) Tyrion II

"Tyrion," a low, familiar, voice uttered in the darkness.

"Ugh," he groaned, reaching to his side, grasping for a whore that was not there. 'Oh! Right, I am not in the Riverlands anymore, pity.' "What is it?" He growled, somewhat annoyed at his sleep being disturbed at such an early hour. "I've only just returned last night, can't it wai…" the demand was cut short by the sumptuous red satin curtains being drawn, flooding the room with bright, white light.

The familiar voice spoke again, the brilliant lighting now adding clarity to the speaker's stern features. His father's face twitched, and Tyrion fumbled for a response.

"Father, I…" he began.

"Make yourself presentable and meet me in my solar," his father commanded, in a tone not encouraging resistance. For a moment the Lord of Casterly Rock was a statue, examining Tyrion's prone form, frowning as he often did when it came to his youngest son, before glancing to his side table, "and bring your book." His father suddenly turned on his heels and exited the room.

He rose from his bed, and stretched, his bones and joints protesting with a series of pops and snaps. He sat at the edge of his bed, rubbing his eyes, before yawning. 'First recalled from the Riverlands, now woken at an early hour,' he turned his head to the open window, gauging the light, and trying to pinpoint the time of day. "Well, perhaps not that early an hour," he chuckled to himself, realizing it was nearing midday. With one final stretch, he got up off his bed and walked across the soft carpet to the small washbasin near his door. He tested the water with his finger and found, to his surprise, that it was fairly warm. 'Father must have had the water poured while he had been asleep,' he thought, clasping his hands together to splash the water upon his face several times. The fourth splash washed away the last remnants of his exhaustion.

"Much better," he said to himself.

He looked through his clothing and found a richly crafted tunic in Lannister crimson, with a golden lion embroidered on the left shoulder. His black leggings and boots were plain but comfortable. Golden clasps served as fasteners for his boots. The reflection staring at his from across the room looked 'presentable' as he neared the mirror. He gave himself one last look before returning to the table near his bed to retrieve his book. 'The History of the Fire Nation,' the title read, 'what an odd request of father to make.' Tyrion thought for a moment, before making his way to his father's solar, on the opposite end of Casterly Rock.


The trip had been uneventful, with only the occasional servant cleaning, or otherwise being occupied by similar menial tasks. The large golden doors to his father's solar were shut, and four Lannister red cloaks stood guard, watching his approach.

One of the guards knocked, "Your son for you, my Lord," the guard stated, announcing Tyrion's presence.

"Let him enter," his father boomed. The guard on the right reached for the handle shaped like a roaring lion and pulled the door open, revealing the forms of his father, and his uncle Kevan, the latter of which remained seated reading from one of the many articles of parchment strewn about the table.

His father's solar looked as intimidating as ever, while it was smaller than the Great Hall of the Rock, it seemed to radiate and reinforce his father's unyielding presence. Two roaring golden lions stood on each side of the fireplace, where his father stood in contemplation, his arm stretched out, and hand pressed against the mantle. Several tapestries lined the walls, separated by crimson Lannister banners. Facing the fireplace was a large tapestry, commissioned by his father from the artists on Dragonstone, depicting an iron ship sailing over tumultuous waters with a roaring lion figurehead.

'I wonder if father has finally managed to persuade the Lady Azula into building him an Iron ship for his own?'

He heard feet shift in the direction of the fireplace. "Sit," his father commanded. Banishing the idle thought from his mind, he moved to sit near his uncle whose focus remained firmly on the scroll before him. Interspersed between the parchments and scrolls lay several books, all of which appeared to be ledgers of finance written by the Master of Coin, Petyr Baelish. He found a place for his book and set it down.

"Can't say I find your taste in reading to be enthralling, uncle," he joked, lifting up a random scroll and scanning its contents. "A request for ten thousand stags? For what? A privy?"

He looked to his father and saw a grave look in his eyes. "Now is not the time for jokes," he stated with finality. "Look at the hand, can you say with certainty that they are all written by the same man?"

The question felt odd, but he studied the scroll again, before setting it aside and taking another one at random. Comparing it with the first, he saw nothing indicative of a change in style. His father remained still, silently commanding him to take up another, and another. "All of these look the same, father. What am I trying to discover?" Kevan handed him the roll of parchment he had been reading when he had entered his father's solar.

"To Lord Tywin Lannister, Warden of the West and Lord of Casterly Rock,

I send you this letter, in the hands of a trusted envoy. He knows not the contents of this letter, only that it reach your halls in a timely manner. Word has reached my ears of a plot by the Lord and Lady of Dragonstone to have your daughter, Queen Cersei Baratheon, first of her name, removed as Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, and her children; the Crown Prince Joffrey, Prince Tommen, and the Princess Myrcella denounced as bastards being born of incest between the Queen and her brother Ser Jaime Lannister…"

Tyrion felt himself grow still, as the shock came over his face. He looked towards his father, "This is madness. What proof do they have?" was all he could say.

"Hmmhm, a disgusting accusation," his father replied. "Keep reading."

"…Furthermore, the Lady Azula has been quietly building alliances in what I would assume to be in preparation for this betrayal. I have, on several occasions, intercepted a handful of her messages to Dorne and the North, and the scant few that have reached my eyes hinted at more than simple alliances. Several of my tax collectors in the south have spied a caravan rumored to be led by the Prince of Dorne, Oberyn Martell. I believe he is to be attending the feast held in Ser Steffon's honor, but in actuality maybe attending to discuss a marriage alliance between his niece, Princess Arianne Martell, and Lord Stannis' son, Ser Steffon Baratheon.

I am aware of my lower station compared to your own, my Lord, and should not overstep in requests made, but it would be prudent to dispatch additional Lannister guardsmen to protect the Queen and hers. I will do what I can to assist her, but already, what little power my position yet holds, is a far cry from what would be necessary to defend your family in the capital.

I look forward to your response.

Lord Petyr Baelish, Master of Coin to King Robert Baratheon"

He calmly set the paper down and observed the faces of his uncle and father, as they awaited his response. "This is a serious allegation," he patted the letter he had just read. Thoughts of how his father had wanted him to study the hand on Baelish's previous missives flooded his mind, and the question his father had asked, replayed itself in his memory. He looked towards the sheet of parchment he had set down and studied the hand, and the hand of the others he had read before it. "If you want me to say the style of hand is similar, it is. There are just as many differences between that letter and the others, as there are between the others."

"That was my assessment, as well," his uncle stated.

"However," he continued, "the differences in hand appear more consistently within that letter than they do in the others. Far too consistent to dismiss as merely a tired hand, but judging from its contents," he cast another look at the letter, "the differences could possibly be attributed to a fearful hand?"

"A forgery, then?" The Lord of Casterly Rock replied.

"If it is, it is an exceptional one. But either way," he trailed off, the different scenarios playing in his mind.

"We need to respond," his uncle finished the words for him.

"Yes, uncle, but how to do it? Even if it's a forgery, there is no way of knowing if the words it contained were true or false. Accepting them at face value is just as foolhardy as dismissing them out of hand. Perhaps, sending in troops is exactly what this individual wishes to happen?" he stated.

"What purpose would that serve? Save only as a way for Dragonstone and Casterly Rock to come to blows?" Kevan replied, looking down towards the scattered letters.

"That may be exactly the point. However, any type of written or in person reply to Lord Baelish himself is also dangerous. Especially given the questionable nature and authorship of the letter's contents. To say the Master of Coin, who started off as a mere customs officer at Gulltown, is lacking in ambition would be disingenuous. And confronting Stannis on this would be just as ill-advised as confronting the King or the Queen for that matter."

"But surely the King would see reason?" Kevan stated, "This plot only serves to set Stannis as next in line to the throne! And Cersei…"

"Would act far too quickly on it, and if it was meant to goad us into conflict with Dragonstone, then the letter would have served its purpose. As for the King, it is no secret that the King holds his goodsister and nephew in high regard. Such a connection would be difficult to overcome with mere treasonous accusations. Regardless of authenticity," his mind grew heavy as the words left his mouth.

His father stepped away from the fireplace and came around to sit at the head of the table. It creaked slightly as his father rested his forearms on its edges. "What was your impression of the Lady Azula on your journey to Winterfell?" His father's eyes rested upon the book he had brought before snapping back to him.

"Her words were always measured, and her face never revealed anything. She spoke rarely, choosing to remain in the company of her Flameguard. On several occasions, the King would invite her to partake of whatever food he had set, and she would join him. Conversing of her son, or the rebellion, or whatever wars had occurred from the world she had come. Only once did she truly engage me in conversation, during the middle of our journey, when I asked about her people and their history," he nodded towards the book. "It had been a gift from her personal library."

"And what did you learn about her people?" his father questioned, trying to form a picture of how to gauge the Lady of Dragonstone, from the examples set forth by her countrymen.

"A proud society. Full of tradition, and engaged in a war spanning the entirety of her world. If such a thing could be imagined," he answered.

"My gods, how did they achieve such a feat!? It has to be an exaggeration! Who were they fighting?!" The shock was readily evident on his uncle's face.

"Thousands upon thousands of iron ships, iron 'tanks' similar to the one the Lady of Dragonstone used on Lord Mace during the rebellion, and millions of men and women, were all brought to bear upon the enemies of the Lady Azula's people. And the ships were not just the size of the cruisers, no. Most rivaled the size of 'the Ozai.' The name of which was taken in honor of the Lady Azula's father, Fire Lord Ozai. A man who had very nearly conquered his world, and kept his growing empire firmly under his control."

A look of horror overcame his uncle's face, while his father remained impassive, listening intently. "And their enemies?" Kevan questioned.

"Barbaric nomads, a slaver kingdom, and dogmatic sorcerer tribesmen. The first lot to suffer the initial volley were a nomadic horde of bald tattooed savages. The way they are described is somewhat similar to the Dothraki, and their methods of war left many of their neighbors in disarray until the Lady Azula's great grandfather, Fire Lord Sozin, exterminated them to the last man, woman, and child," he stole a glance at his father, knowing the feat having sounded familiar.

"As I had done to the Reynes and Tarbecks," his father replied, acknowledging the act for what it was.

'A statement of power,' Tyrion thought. "Only resulting in far more dead than those of the Reynes and Tarbecks combined."

"What of the others?" the unease crept into his uncle's voice.

"The last records the Lady Azula held of her home and the reports from the front had told of a failed invasion of a northern tribe of water sorcerers. A fleet of nearly two hundred iron ships strong had been swallowed up by the seas when a water demon rose from the depths to take them. As for the Kingdom of slavers, Fire Lord Ozai had been formulating a plan to pierce their walls. From what she had said, the Lady Azula, herself, only held partial knowledge of her father's thoughts on the matter."

"From what little you gathered from her," his father began, steepling his fingers in thought. "Would she seem the type to attempt the madness indicated in the letter?"

He thought long, and hard, on the question, knowing the weight of his answer. "Yes, I believe she would be. However, her and her son's close links with the King would have certainly assured that Robert would have cast Cersei out and drawn us into war. She is waiting for something, and our response with force may well be it."

"Being Lady to the Lord of Dragonstone must chafe at her, after being a heartbeat away from inheriting an entire world. Her destiny had been laid out before her, and now…" Kevan stated, straightening his back, resolved to see things through to the end, wherever they may go.

"If the allegations are true, then she will quickly find out that even the greatest destinies can be cut short," his father growled, the look in his eyes brooked no doubt.

"What would you have us do?" He asked.

"First, we will deal with your sister's insistence that Myrcella remain in King's Landing. You and one hundred Lannister guard will see to it. The guard is not large enough to raise alarm, a respectable amount of guards for members of our house. Find out what is happening, and convince Cersei to release Myrcella. A marriage alliance will need to be made now, to ensure Tyrell cooperation should things go south. I do not want the entirety of the royal family present within the capital, not until these rumors are settled, one way or another," his father cast a begrudging look towards him.

'He is upset that such an important task can only be entrusted to him,' Tyrion thought, feeling simultaneously incapable and excited at the prospect of playing the game.

"Kevan, I want you to quietly raise a small force of two thousand men. Send messages to the other lords to be at the ready, but no official call to arms until Tyrion sends his report, or King's Landing goes up in flames," the Warden of the West commanded in a firm proud voice, befitting his station.

His uncle rose from his, bowing his head, "It would be my honor, brother."

"And Kevan?"

Ser Kevan Lannister looked up, "Yes, my lord?"

"The fountain in Lannisport, the bronze statues?" his father stated, speaking of the small twin statues depicting the Lady Azula and her dead friend Ty Lee. "If the woman moves against us, have them melted down, and used for weapons. Now go."

His uncle nodded once more before leaving the solar.

"What are you still doing here?" he flinched at his father's voice. "You leave tomorrow. Go, and leave the book. I will learn whatever else is hidden in these pages."