June-July, 299 AC

"The Others take the boy." Tyrion dashed his goblet to the floor, the wine turning the rushes dark.

"A boy no longer, it would seem," Varys tittered nervously.

The eunuch wrung his soft hands as Lord Gyles Rosby coughed into a square of pink silk, his face even greyer than usual. Cersei glared at him, her golden hair slightly mussed. A eunuch, a dying man, and my sweet sister. Tyrion prayed his own wits were enough, for he'd have little help. At least his uncle Kevan would soon be here, as soon as the servant roused him from his bed to join the Small Council's impromptu meeting.

The raven had come before dawn, bearing dark tidings on its dark wings. Six nights past, Robb Stark had fallen upon Stafford Lannister's host at Oxcross and utterly destroyed it.

"How did this happen?" Cersei demanded.

Tyrion plucked the letter from the table, reading over it again now that he was calmer.

"The northmen crept into uncle Stafford's camp and cut his horse lines," Tyrion read. Cersei snorted.

"Uncle Dolt, more like." She wasn't wrong. Their mother Lady Joanna Lannister might have been brilliant, but her brother Stafford was not. Tyrion grimaced as he kept reading.

"It would seem he did not trouble to post sentries. The horses went mad when Stark sent his wolves among them." Varys' informers claimed Stark's direwolf now ran at the head of a great pack of wolves. More likely it was a pack of large hounds, perhaps a few wolf dogs, but men would grasp any excuse to defend such an embarrassment.

"Knights were trampled to death in their pavilions, and the rabble woke in terror and fled. Uncle was slain as he chased after a horse. Ser Rubert Brax is also dead, as are Ser Lymond Vikary, Lord Crakehall, and Lord Jast."

Tyrion rubbed his eyes, exhausted, and Cersei snatched the letter from his hand.

"Stark's taken half a hundred prisoners, and all Ser Stafford's wayns and the horses and donkeys that survived," Cersei read, her face turning Lannister-crimson with fury.

The door creaked and Cersei spun, doubtless prepared to excoriate the fool servant who'd disturbed them. Instead, Ser Kevan Lannister strode in.

Cersei's face changed in the blink of an eye as she welcomed their uncle warmly. Ser Kevan was a thickset man in his fifties with a bald head and a close-trimmed beard. Cersei trusted Lord Tywin's younger brother far more than she trusted her own. The very day Kevan arrived she had begged him to serve as Tommen's Master of Laws, and he accepted, filling the seat left open by Renly.

Tyrion wondered how Kevan would respond if he learned that Lancel was warming Cersei's bed. Not that he ever would- Lancel was too terrified of Tyrion and of Cersei. Lancel lacked his father's doughty strength. He was a lean stripling of sixteen, with thick sandy hair and a mustache as wispy as his spine.

"What news?" Ser Kevan's eyes were sharp as he took his seat beside Lord Gyles. Cersei handed their uncle the letter, pouring herself a cup of wine as he read. At last Ser Kevan set the letter down, his brow furrowed.

"How did Stark reach them?"

"That is the mystery, my lord," Varys replied.

The only pass through the mountains lay beside the Golden Tooth, the castle of House Lefford. Their words were None Shall Pass. Lannister forces still held the stronghold there, but somehow Robb Stark had made their words a mockery. Lord Leo Lefford was with Tywin's host at Harrenhal, leaving the Golden Tooth in the hands of his wife Alysanne. Their only daughter was wed to a Frey, but surely Lady Lefford would not have been so foolish. Tywin would have Lord Lefford drowned if his wife's fondness for her child let them through.

"We can do little enough for the nonce," Kevan said, creasing the letter as he examined it again. "Tywin will handle the Stark boy, if Daven doesn't thrash him first." Stafford's only son, Ser Daven, was a formidable warrior. More importantly, he had the common sense that his deceased father never possessed.

"At least the wolves are far from King's Landing." Kevan glanced at Tyrion, his brow furrowed. "With Stannis and Renly preparing to fight each other over Storm's End like two bitches over a bone, Stark's invasion of the Westerlands keeps him from allying with the victor or marching upon our walls."

"Well said, nephew," Ser Kevan said at last.

Tyrion smiled, resisting the urge to sigh with frustration and relief. The smiths were still forging his chain, the masons were still building his winch towers, Ser Jacelyn was still whipping the goldcloaks into shape, and Ser Cleos was still waiting to return to Riverrun. Let Stark enjoy a few days of victory. Lannisters always paid their debts.

"Ravens have the most inconvenient timing. Much more of this and my bed will forget who I am."

Ser Kevan chuckled. "It is a burden that must be born, Tyrion. Best to hear news sooner than late."

It was very late, truth be told. The cocks would not be crowing for hours yet. Tyrion had heard the changing of the watch as he made his way to the Small Council chamber, leaving poor Pod to go back to sleep.

Tyrion had only just gone to bed when Pod roused him. He had worked late into the night examining the latest reports from Lady Cedra. Untangling Littlefinger's accounts was proceeding with meticulous care and precision.

While the Dornishwoman examined the ledgers, Bronn had carefully chosen a few sellswords to assist in searching all Baelish's known properties. A second iron chest had been found hidden in Littlefinger's chambers, and a third in the cellar of another brothel.

Tyrion was almost grateful that both were bound with the curious Rhoynish locks, as it ensured that his sellswords didn't make off with any of the gold. The chest in Baelish's chambers yielded thirty thousand dragons; the one in the brothel yielded another ten thousand. Cersei had given him the first smile in weeks when he told her, and Kevan had clapped him on the back. The memory improved his mood.

"Perhaps Daven has slain the Young Wolf," Tyrion speculated, covering a yawn. It was unlikely, but a man could dream.

Lord Gyles opened his mouth as though to speak, then coughed instead. From what Tyrion had heard the maester at Rosby was more fond of tinkering with clocks than healing coughs. Then again, Lord Gyles had had the cough for years, even before Melwys became maester of Rosby.

Tyrion drummed his fingers on the table. Gods, could Cersei not dress before summoning us? Tyrion grew weary of waiting. As though summoned by his thoughts, Cersei swept into the room, Varys in her train.

"Renly is dead."

Ser Kevan stood, Varys sat, and Lord Gyles coughed. Tyrion leaned forward, hiding his dismay.

"What happened?"

Tyrion's dismay only grew as Varys related his whispers. Renly was slain, his throat cut in his own pavilion by gods know who. The Florents and most of his lords at Storm's End had gone over to Stannis, damn them. He'd hoped for months of Stannis and Renly battering at each other, wasting their strength on brotherly enmity. I should have known better. Tyrion rarely got what he wanted.

There were only two consolations. First, Storm's End defied Stannis. Gods bless Ser Cortnay Penrose, who refused to surrender the castle without seeing Renly's corpse. Alas for Stannis, the corpse had unaccountably disappeared. Stannis would never leave the castle untaken in his rear, the stubborn fool. Storm's End was one of the strongest fortresses in Westeros, its walls thick and cunningly made, everywhere rounded, curving, smooth, the stones laid with not a single crevice nor angle nor gap by which the wind might enter. Stannis had held the stronghold for nigh on a year during Robert's Rebellion, and that was with little time to prepare for such a siege. Renly had mentioned once that ever since, his castellan kept the granary full to bursting, even in the height of summer. So long as Penrose kept his nerve, the siege could last for years. Far longer than King's Landing can last with the rose road closed.

Second, Loras Tyrell had not been among the lords who went over to Stannis, nor Randyll Tarly and Mathis Rowan. He had taken a fifth of the knights and departed, likely for Bitterbridge, where the greater part of Renly's foot remained with his widow, Margaery Tyrell. The sister might have wed Renly, but it was Loras who had been Renly's bosom companion, and the boy was the apple of his father's eye.

"There is a chance here, it seems to me," Tyrion said slowly, Cersei watching his face as he spoke.

"Win Loras Tyrell to our cause and Lord Mace Tyrell and his bannermen might join us as well. They may have sworn their swords to Stannis for the moment, yet they cannot love the man, or they would have been his from the start."

"Is their love for us any greater?" asked Cersei. He could almost see the lioness's tail twitching, but was it with interest or with malice?

"Scarcely," said Tyrion. "They loved Renly, clearly, but Renly is slain. Perhaps we can give them good and sufficient reasons to prefer Tommen to Stannis... if we move quickly."

They had to move quickly. The price of bread continued to rise, and Tyrion shuddered to think what sort of meat was being used by the pot shops. Already crowds had appeared outside the gates of the Red Keep begging for food. Cersei had had her redcloaks send them off with a few well placed arrows.

"What sort of reasons do you mean to give the Tyrells?" Ser Kevan's face was thoughtful.

"It seems to me we should take a lesson from the late Lord Renly. We can win an alliance as he did. With a marriage."

"Tommen is far too young to be wed," Cersei objected. "The girl's twice his age."

"So she is, but Mace Tyrell is proud. A golden crown for his daughter and the Iron Throne for his grandson is an offer neither Stannis nor the Starks can match," Kevan said.

With Kevan on his side, the rest was only bargaining. Tyrion could barely keep himself from gloating in Cersei's face. As soon as Ser Kevan departed to make arrangements for his journey to Bitterbridge, Tyrion hopped down from his seat. Cersei eyed him suspiciously.

"Were it not for uncle, I'd never permit this," she said. Tyrion sighed, resisting the urge to shout at her.

"The boy must wed someday," he made himself say calmly, "and Tyrell swords may be the only way to keep him alive that long. Margaery Tyrell is said to be beautiful, clever, and sweet. Tommen could hardly find a more suitable queen if he were to search the Seven Kingdoms for a decade."

Cersei's eyes flashed wildfire green. "Would you supplant me with Renly's leavings? He is my son, Tyrion, and I will not let this Tyrell girl take him from me."

"He's seven," Tyrion said, annoyance creeping into his voice. "There'll be no consummation for years and years, and the marriage could be set aside if need be. Until he comes of age, you are Queen Regent, not her."

Cersei smiled.

"I've got your poisoner, your murderer, and your thief, but finding a good mummer is tricky work," Bronn said, lounging against the door like a panther. "They're a cowardly lot, fond of audiences and applause, not sneaking about risking death. There was one likely fellow, but he balked at the price." Bronn eyed the remains of Tyrion's breakfast that sat on the desk, then helped himself to a sausage.

Tyrion groaned as he rubbed his aching head, too tired to reprimand the impudent sellsword. Two weeks had passed since Ser Kevan left for Bitterbridge. Storm's End might yield at any moment, or hold out for years, and the uncertainty made his belly feel as if it were full of eels.

"My brother is worth more than a hundred mummers." Tyrion frowned at Bronn. "Find that man and offer more gold until he agrees. I want Ser Cleos on his way back to Riverrun tonight. Am I clear?"

Ser Cleos had waited weeks without explanation while Bronn searched the scum of King's Landing. After much persuading, mostly from Ser Kevan before he departed, Cersei had agreed to send the escort of redcloaks with Ser Cleos. No one suspected envoys, and hiding his four amongst the rest would both slip them inside Riverrun and cut off his sister's claws.

It was around noon when Pod announced Ser Jacelyn Bywater. Myrcella was leaving for Dorne tomorrow, and Tyrion wanted no cock ups. He was quite fond of his niece. Myrcella was a sweet child, as beautiful as Cersei and as brave as Jaime. She wasn't as clever as Tyrion, of course, but she had her moments.

The goldcloaks were to protect the royal procession to and from the docks as they bid Myrcella farewell. Ser Jacelyn thought it better to have fewer men, only those who were truly reliable. Tyrion was inclined to agree; Cersei, however, was not. She wanted as many goldcloaks as possible to protect her precious Tommen, and Tyrion saw little risk of harm in letting her have her way.

Once Ser Jacelyn had his orders Tyrion called for Pod.

"See those things on the table?" Tyrion asked Pod, who was staring at the floor as usual.

Pod lifted his eyes and glanced at the table. On it rested the gifts Tyrion had chosen for Myrcella. There were several books, a small ornately carved chest filled with tiles, and a pair of golden jewelry boxes.

Tyrion had commissioned two sets of jewelry for his niece. One was a jeweled hairnet with leaves of emerald, vines of gold, and a matching necklace. In them Myrcella would look as soft and innocent as the spring. The other was a golden chain of roaring lions with ruby eyes, with a ring and bracelet to match. It was not a subtle design, but Tyrion wanted to be sure the message came through clearly.

"Yes, m'lord," Pod stuttered.

"Good. Kindly take them to Princess Myrcella's chambers. Her maids will need to pack them in with her things."

Tyrion would have preferred to give them to Myrcella himself, but he was busy, and Cersei seemed to grow more testy when he tried to spend time with his niece and nephew. She grew testy whenever he saw her, truth be told, and she had never been fond of him to begin with.

"The princess?" Pod gulped. Ser Aron claimed the boy was dauntless during exercises in the yard, but Tyrion had his doubts. True, Pod's hands seemed to accrue a new blister every time he returned from practice, and he never uttered a complaint, but the lad was terrified of everyone, especially ladies. If the gods were good Pod would never have to see battle.

"I doubt she'll be in her chambers," Tyrion assured him. "Ser Aron says you're quite intrepid during training. I'm sure you'll be able to handle a few maids." Pod departed, his arms heavily laden and his lips trembling. Oh, to be young and have no deeper fears than the giggling of girls. Tyrion almost envied him.

"Stop crying," Cersei scolded, handing Tommen a handkerchief of crimson silk. Tommen snuffled into the cloth, his other hand still waving to Myrcella. His sister stood on the deck of the Seaswift, waving back with dignity.

Tommen had wept since they took their leave on the deck of the ship. The little king had hugged his sister so tight that she squeaked. Tyrion's hug had been gentler, but no less warm. Myrcella had glowed with delight as she thanked him for the gifts, especially the history of Dorne amongst the books.

At last Tommen managed to compose himself, and Cersei signaled for everyone to mount up. Almost all the nobility in the city had come to see Myrcella off. Tommen needs a new crown, Tyrion thought as Bronn helped him into his saddle. Where Cersei's crown rested lightly on her curls, the gold and jewels shining in the sun, Joffrey's crown weighed heavily on Tommen, and the boy struggled to hold his neck straight.

Ser Jacelyn led the way, his riders carrying lances. Behind them rode the standard bearers, then Tommen rode in front of the procession as befitted a king. Ser Mandon Moore and Ser Addam Marbrand rode on either side of the little king, their eyes scanning the crowd for any signs of trouble. Next came Cersei and Tyrion himself, accompanied by Lancel and protected by Bronn, a scowling Sandor Clegane, and a twitching Boros Blount. At the tail end were the High Septon, Ser Preston Greenfield, Lord Gyles, Ser Balon Swann, the rest of Tommen's tiny court, and more guards.

Tyrion could hardly blame Ser Boros for his nerves, unseemly as they were. The commons lined the streets in the thousands, and the crowd stared with hungry, hollow eyes from behind the goldcloaks' spears, pressed so close that many were half leaning on the guards. These folk are half-starved and here we ride with a plump boy king and a High Septon so fat he must needs ride a litter. At least the crowd wasn't actively hostile.

Yet as they rode up Aegon's hill Tyrion half wished for more signs of life. The sullen stares were growing ominous. Only a few half-heartedly cheered for King Tommen. Cersei was laughing like a maiden in spring, her smile as beautiful as a summer day, but they were no cheers for her. They liked Robert, and they always cheered for Ser Barristan the Bold. This Kingsguard has no legends like him.

Tommen rode well, but his shoulders slumped just a hint. His sweet nephew had wanted to throw coppers to the crowd, but Cersei had forbade it. Such gestures might win affection when bellies were full, but in this sea of malnourished faces such kindness would bring naught but the storm.

"Your grace!" A voice cried from the crowd. Startled, Tommen reigned up as a woman in a tattered shift forced her way between two goldcloaks. Her arms were thin as spears, the skin hanging from her bones. She did not walk so much as stagger on her bare feet, her eyes huge and staring.

"Please, your grace," the woman sobbed. She held her hands out like a beggar seeking alms. Bless the boy, Tommen smiled despite the fear in his eyes. He fumbled at his belt, trying to get coins from his purse. When that didn't work, Tommen pulled the entire purse off his belt and tossed it to the woman. A ragged cheer went up as those nearby saw what Tommen had done, and the woman lurched toward Tommen, tears running down her cheeks as she smiled.

Then it all went wrong.

Tommen's pony shied away and one hoof landed on the woman's foot. The woman shrieked in pain, and Cersei shrieked in fear.

"Protect the King! Cut her down!"

Ser Addam Marbrand leaned over and grabbed the pony's reins, trying to calm the frightened beast as Tommen clung on for dear life. The woman's foot was a horror of blood and flesh and bone, and her terrible wail pierced through the crowd- until Ser Mandon sliced her head off with one vicious stroke.

For a moment, the street was deadly silent.

But only for a moment.

"Murderers!" A man shouted.

"Fuck the Lannister queen!" Another cried.

"Brotherfucker!"

"Kingslayer's whore!"

"Fuck the lions!"

Ser Addam pulled Tommen onto his own horse, placing the boy in front of him as the crowd surged. The riderless pony bolted into the crowd, cries ringing out as the smallfolk struggled to avoid being trampled beneath his hooves. Amongst the cries Tyrion heard voices screaming "Stannis" and "King Robb, the King in the North!"

"Bread!" One woman shrieked, and in an instant the entire crowd was shouting with her, countless voices chanting "bread, bread, bread!"

Stones and rotten cabbages and worse flew through the air, and the goldcloaks gave way before the tide of human flesh. Gaunt hands reached towards the procession, every mouth gaping wide and red as the crowd gave voice to their rage.

Ser Jacelyn formed his riders into a wedge and charged, the smallfolk scattering before their lances. Ser Addam galloped behind them, Tommen clutched tight under his shield. Tyrion followed on their heels, Bronn on one side, Cersei on the other. A man grabbed for Cersei's skirts and the Hound bellowed as he cut the man's arm off. Ser Mandon and Ser Boros flanked the royal party, slashing at the crowd with their swords.

And suddenly the madness was behind and they were clattering across the cobbled square that fronted on the castle barbican. A line of spearmen held the gates. The spears parted to let the king's party pass under the portcullis. Pale red walls loomed up about them, reassuringly high and aswarm with crossbowmen.

Tommen was sobbing, snot dripping down his chin. He appeared to be unharmed, but there was blood splattered on his face, and blood everywhere around him, on swords and cloaks and horses. As soon as Ser Addam placed the boy on the ground, he retched. Maester Frenken scurried forward at Cersei's call, and Ser Boros and Ser Addam escorted the little king off to his chambers.

Cersei dismounted, Ser Mandon and the Hound still ahorse by her side as she raged. Tyrion pushed his way across the yard to where she stood, her skirts covered in muck, her crown askew and dung in her hair.

"-go back out and bring me their heads, how dare they-"

Tyrion shoved Cersei to the ground, her crown ringing as fell from her head and clattered against the cobblestones.

"You witless vicious bitch!" Tyrion slapped her as hard as he could, her head snapping back. "What were you thinking? That woman was as dangerous as Moonboy! Do you want your second son to live longer than the first?" He kicked her in the ribs and she wheezed for air. The sound was so sweet he pulled his foot back to kick her again, but Ser Mandon Moore pulled him off and the Hound held him tight until he stopped struggling.

Cersei stared at Tyrion, one hand on her cheek, her eyes burning with hate. She had it coming, and more besides. Tyrion wrenched free of the Hound's grip. "Who are we missing?" he shouted at the dumbstruck onlookers.

Lady Tanda babbled about her daughter Lollys, the High Septon had been left behind in the throng, no one knew where Ser Preston was… Tyrion's heart pounded in his chest as he shouted orders, the stench of smoke rising in the distance. All of this is Cersei's fault, but she'll blame me nonetheless.

And Cersei did not forgive.