PETER DINKLAGE SAVES WESTEROS

Part 1 – THE GOAT HERDER

A fearsome enough looking party of twenty or so rode at him and his 'august' entourage; a better armored man, a knight, with a purple unicorn emblazoned on his shield and a ridiculously impractical unicorn horn jutting out from his mount's skull cap at their head.

He reigned up first and put on a cheery grin; one can never be too careful.

No slaughter, yet, today. The patrol from the encampment about the crossroads also pulled up. Its leader lifted his visor in order to speak. "Lord Tyrion."

"Ser Brax, a pleasure. Did you come with my lord father in search of me?"

"The whole of the Westerlands. We feared you dead … or held hostage."

"Most gracious of you and him. Where might I best reveal that these fears can be … allayed?"

"Lord Lannister quarters at the Inn." Then a shift of the iron clad head, a narrowing of the eyes, and an attempt at an intimidating lowering of the voice. "My lord, these … companions of yours?"

"Lifelong friends of some weeks. I wouldn't dream of ever riding anywhere ever again without them. Now, on to my lord father," he concluded and lightly jabbed spurs to mount.

The patrol quickly split wide to allow the six of them to pass and the Unicorn Knight began shouting commands to open the barricade of sharpened stakes that demarked the limits of the camp.

After the obligatory difficulty in getting his small, tired body out of the saddle and Shagga's even more obligatory threats of manhood chopping and goat feeding should anyone of the stablehands dare steal his too small for his large frame pony; Peter found himself surreally marching up the steps into the place where the War started over him, or rather his body, had begun.

Much had qualified as surreal since waking up most unexpectedly in a sky cell of the Eyrie.

Bronn had shared a passing resemblance to Jerome; if the lights were low and he had his back turned. But, despite the similarity in height and the existence of an immediately detectable "presence," Tywin fucking Lannister looked nothing at all like Charles. He appeared a truly frightening bastard. Continuing the bluff, Peter kept on waddling alone into the common room empty of all but for two. A pair much more difficult to bluff than the Tully sisters.

"Tyrion," his would be Uncle exclaimed; drawing up the cold, pale green eyes of the bastard to stare hard at him.

"Uncle. Lord Father, my deepest thanks for your calling the banners to come in pursuit of me," he said most humbly and unTyrion like as he continued across the room to the table they sat at. "A debt I will gladly pay in full."

"You put Lannister honor at risk. No man does that with impunity to our house. And certainly no mere woman."

"Lady Catelyn was quite insistent, no matter my trying to convince her that it was not I nor any in my house who sent a Valyrian dagger armed assassin to kill her crippled son."

"Preposterous," Uncle Kevan murmured.

"I agree, but the deep wound she took in her hands fending off the vile scum rather closed her mind to reason. Worse, apparently Lord Baelish claimed to her that the dagger was originally his. One that I won off him by betting Jaime to lose in a joust. As if I ever would bet against my brother."

"Baelish," Tywin Lannister pronounced the name in a sinister whisper as those pale green eyes went somewhere deep in thought.

"May I?" Peter asked, indicating a chair at the table.

His lord father grunted what might have been permission and he took it; though, Peter did avoid picking up the goblet of whatever alcohol was in it that he desperately craved. First new impressions are only ever first once.

"My pardon, but in a few moments, the leaders of the clans who escorted me across the Mountains of the Moon will impatiently burst in demanding their payment. Its their uncivilized nature and I do apologize for it. However, before they interrupt, might I beg to hear where things in the Seven Kingdom's stand?"

"As you have been skulking about, your brother has been covering himself in glory; smashing the Pipers and Vances before Golden Tooth," Tywin Lannister began both proudly and condescendingly. "He then routed the lords of the Riverlands beneath the walls of Riverrun, capturing Edmure Tully and many of his banner lords. Though, Lord Blackwood did escape with a rump force behind its walls; but it shall only a matter of time before Jaime's siege cracks them."

'Or not,' Peter smirked to himself. Foreknowledge was a wonderful thing; and he intended to use it fully to enhance his own diminutive position.

Uncle Kevan took up the already known tale next. "Your father and I have swept up everything else south of the Trident: Stone Hedge, Harrenhal, Darry. While Ser Gregor has been burning out the lesser lords."

"What of King's Landing? I doubt that my dear goodbrother nor his overly honorable Hand are taking this well, eh?" he prodded. "The levies of the North and Stormlands I am sure have been called. Though you will be happy to know that the Lady Lysa Arryn seems utterly mad with paranoia and has no intention of allying the Vale with neither her brother or sister."

"The Starks have called their banners and even now sit at Moat Caillin," Kevan informed him.

"But they shall make no move against us, as Lord Eddard is our hostage rotting in a black cell beneath the Red Keep," Tywin concluded.

Peter snorted. "And what does Robert have to say about that?" he asked with bemused disbelief. "Don't tell me that Cersei has finally gotten the Stag dancing to a Lannister tune?"

"Robert Baratheon is dead," his lord father said with a small touch of pleasure. "My grandson now reigns in King's Landing."

"By the Seven," he oathed in faux surprise. "How?"

"The drunk oaf got himself gored by a boar," the bald headed gold bastard near gloated. "The Iron Throne is well in hand."

"Perhaps, father," he agreed after a deliberate pause. "However, a boy of twelve does not reign; no matter that the title 'King' now sits in front of Joffrey's name. My sister reigns along with a Small Council not worth a halfpenny. Stannis and Renly are fled, I presume?"

"Yes," Kevan Lannister agreed somewhat uncomfortably. "To Dragonstone and Storm's End."

"Leaving the likes of Baelish to whisper more lies into Cersei and Joffrey's ears."

"The lordling is of little consequence," Tywin Lannister concluded.

"Yet here we sit a long way from Casterly Rock because that 'lordling' set Lady Stark on me for the Gods know what reason. How long before that coin grubber finds reason to trick Joffrey and Cersei into setting Ser Ilyn on Lord Eddard's neck?" Peter scoffed.

"What are you suggesting, Tyrion?" Tywin asked dangerously.

"The Seven Kingdoms needs a strong Hand, father. It needs you. From what I've just heard the war is won already. Ride to King's Landing and take charge; lest others through ignorance or accident lose the peace."

Apparently pleased with Tyrion's response, the so called Old Lion raised a glass of something to his lips. Something in Peter's face must have given away his envy. The powerful hand holding the cup tilted slightly towards him. "Drink," came the quiet command.

Doing his best to hide a tremble, Peter picked up the mug nearest him and took a sip. Ale. A bit thick for his taste but it never the less felt good going down his parched by nerves throat.

"On the morrow, Tyrion, you shall ride to King's Landing to ensure the peace, as you say, remains won."

He set the sweet drink down. "While the idea of Baelish, Varys, and even old Pycelle's heads on spikes is quite intriguing, father; t'would be a fool's errand to send me."

"You are my son. You will go where I chose and when I chose."

He shook his misshapen head. "No one respects a dwarf, least of all Cersei or Joffrey. I am just as despised as a bastard in their eyes." Worse, actually.

"True," the cunt easily granted him.

"Kevan?"

"Yes, Tywin?"

"It must be you."

"Very well."

"Nuncle, with the Starks in disgrace, Joffrey can no longer marry the Lady Sansa. Dare I suggest you reach out to Highgarden for a new match before the Baratheon brothers concoct some scheme to gather the Reach into their rebellion. Renly has always been exceptionally close with Ser Loras. Wouldn't want him as close with Margaery Tyrell too."

As if to set an exclamation mark on the plans set in motion, the door behind Peter crashed open. He spun his head to see a red cloak flying through the air. Followed by Shagga rushing after the fallen man into the room; fulfilling Peter's prediction to Tywin whether he even remembered it or not. And he intended for the fucking Lion to begin taking serious note of his "son's" many predictions to come.

A snapped sword later, the barbarian and his stench were looming over all in the common room as he bellowed, "Little red cape, when next you point steel at Shagga son of Dolf, I will chop off your cock and roast it in the fire!"

"No goats?" Peter asked, well pleased, before picking up the ale again.