A Kaleidoscope of Crystals and Lasers

by Prince Toyosatomimi

The red streak tears across the night sky, bringing into the world of Ice and Fire things that should not exist. The religious are getting more fanatic, cults are birthed from thin air, and demons are brought forth into existence. A sea of red, a night full of rainbows, and a castle filled to the brim with darkness.

4. A Windy Day

Mountains of the Moon

"Imp, if I have to lose another tooth at your expense, I'll throw you off the cliff myself."

"Wouldn't you be missing some Lannister gold then, Bronn?"

"...Ghh, there better be some gold dragons for this," the sellsword groans.

How long was he imprisoned in that accursed castle? A week? Two? He's not sure. He could see the blue sky in his cell, but he tries his best to pry his eyes away from it. The beckoning of the blue is far too appealing for him there. But looking up now to the sky, he sees a new object hanging there. Something he never thought of actually witnessing in his life. "Well would you look at that, Bronn. A comet."

"Comet? That bloody red thing in the sky?" Bronn points to the celestial object, its tail stretching over some of the mountain peaks.

"Yes, don't you know what a comet is?"

"Entertain me," the sellsword smiles, showing his gapped toth.

"Well, this is what I heard from Maester Creylen back at Casterly Rock, so take it with a grain of salt. The man is slowly losing his wits. A comet, he says, is something that only occurs every few hundred years or so. But they repeat their cycle over, and over, and over again. Apparently, that's how some of the First Men kept track of their times." Tyrion shifts in his saddle, the horse being too large and cumbersome for him. "The last time something like that happened was during the Mad King's reign, so I had reckoned that I'll be long dead before I saw one."

"But there it is."

"Yup, there it is. You know, they say it brings omens to those who see it. And with our luck, who knows of our future."

"Heh, as long as it has a nice hot bath and good food, I'm ready." Bronn goes ahead of Tyrion, whistling with the trot. It's still a long ways away from the Riverlands. Sure, the high road and the entirety of the Vale is full of beautiful mountains and nature, but that's all there is to it. Rocks, trees, and the occasional shadowcats. Wildlings if they are really unlucky. Even after declaring him innocent, the little Lord of the Eyrie still intends to have him dead. Wanted me to fly, that whelp. The day I'd do that is the day I sprout wings. Maybe then I'll become an actual imp

"Do you believe in omens, Bronn?"

"It's shit. Do you?"

"Not really," Tyrion confesses. "Unlike my superstitious sister, I'd keep my head sharp at such notions. However, if it brings us comfort," he points at the comet, "I reckon that's Lannister red. Surely a sign of good luck and prosperity for us."

"Lannister red?" Bronn scoffs. "I've seen your colours. That looks more like a blood stain to me."

Their walk is settled again by silence. The sun hides behind a few clouds, and their surroundings are quite scarce in trees. Bronn groans, cracking his knuckles and back. "Gods, this trip down is longer than our way up. I hope something interesting will happen."

"I pray it'll keep being uninteresting," Tyrion retorts. "I don't think we can fight our way out of the mountain wildlings like last time."

"Then do something interesting," Bronn complains. "You're a dwarf, right? Can't dwarves do tricks?"

"If you want me to piss on your knee, I can do that."

"Mmm... Nah. These boots are brand new."

"Yeah, you got them from Jyck's dead corpse."

"Hey," Bronn chuckles, "a dead man doesn't need any boots."

"If his ghost has to walk down these roads, he'll need them," Tyrion jests. The only silver lining to their trip down the Vale's most treacherous path is that the Arryns gave them horses. Weak horse, but horses nonetheless. "By the Seven, they really are trying to kill us."

"You tell me, Imp. Speaking of killing," the sellsword turns to Tyrion, adamant to earn his entertainment, "you got many enemies, right? I mean, as a Lannister, you seem pretty hated."

"Hated? No no, we're well loved by everyone! That's why Lady Catelyn brought me here to see her sister."

"Of course you are," Bronn chuckles. "So, got any stories to tell? Might as well find some way to pass the time."

"Hmm... How about this? You tell me a story about your life as a sellsword, and I'll pay you with one of mine." It's a good opportunity to learn more about this companion of his, lest he'll find the sellsword's blade upon his throat. Besides, he too is starting to feel the onset of boredom.

"Ah, you're asking for a mummer's play?"

"Is that a deal?"

"Deal!" Bronn looks excited in telling the story. He really is bored. "So, you know Chiggen? The other sellsword? We used to go way back when, close as brothers we were."

"Is that why you slit his throat?"

"Look, he was being a nuisance alright? Couldn't keep his mouth shut when he needs to. Anyway," he continues, glossing over his companion's death, "when was it? Three, four years ago? Some petty lord hired us to kill off some wildlings in the area. Couldn't risk his men. A craven, but generous with his gold. So, there we were, two sellswords near a wildling's hideout. They were hiding in a cave, looked about to be four to five people. We planned to smoke them out with some burning bark, choke them up so they're easier to surprise and kill. So, we did that, right? Burnt up some wood and threw it in. We waited and waited. And just when we thought that it was empty, guess who came running out."

"Wildling women?"

"A bear."

"A bear!?" Tyrion's surprised at the reveal. "Don't tell me you had to kill that beast?"

"Had to," Bronn shrugs. "If we didn't, then it would've mauled us like it did to those wildlings."

"That's quite a feat, killing the bear," Tyrion admits. "So the bear did your job for you."

"Yep. Easy, got all their armour and everything. This sword," he pats his hip, "got it from some poor sod who had half of his face eaten."

"Huh. That explains why your sword looks so... Ugly."

"Nah, that's from another time. Which I will tell if you pay me with a story of your own." Bronn snaps his fingers at Tyrion, his mood much cheerier than before. "C'mon, I already did the service. now tell me one."

"Alright, alright, I got many choices Let's see..." The wind blowing through the mountains is picking up speed. Buttoning up his wool cloak, Tyrion doesn't know what kind of story will satisfy the sellsword. The man probably had seen many fucked-up stuff than he. Maybe I can just lie to him, make up my own story. Ah, but what will he do if he knows it's a lie? Well, I could just tell him that it's one of a dwarf's many talents. "So, there I was, sitting in my father's solar all alone in Casterly Rock. I was a child then, on my tenth nameday, even smaller on account of me being a dwarf. I was just reading a book given to me by the maester about the history of the Lannisters. I was on the page regarding lions and gold when-"

"...Imp?"

"-suddenly I heard a loud crash. A bang right in front of me! When I looked up from my book, I saw the whole shelf full of books and little trinkets have collapsed. The servants ran up to the solar and they, were, FURIOUS! They started yelling and threatening me, saying that I'll-"

"Imp?"

"-be thrown and locked in the dungeon for good. I cried hard, but then my brother Jaime came up to me and-"

"IMP!"

"What, Bronn?" The sellsword has stopped on the side of the road. "I thought you want to hear stories."

"...What the fuck is that?"

Turning around, Tyrion sees something massive moving in the distance. A grey, twisting pillar of dirt and other things, tearing through the valleys. He can see trees and rocks flying like wooden toys, crashing down in great puffs of dust. The wind around him blows into a gale, threatening to knock him off his horse. And the roar... The distant roar like crashing waves and a dragon's screech. He's transfixed to it. Just like that time in the sky cell, or when he saw those shadows as a kid, or-

"Shit, it's coming closer! Run, Imp, RUN!" Bronn is already ahead of him, clearing over rocks and fallen branches.

"W-Wait! Bronn!" Tyrion shouts, having come to his senses. Whatever this thing is, it's coming closer. And if I stay here! "Bronn, I said wait for me!" The horse he's on is not the best, stumbling on some rocks and pieces of wood. It neighs as dust starts to blow all around them, the roar approaching. Before long, pieces of woods and rocks fall from the sky. One hits the horse, sending Tyrion to the rocky ground. The horse's no good anymore. Struggling to get back up, he shouts: "Bronn, come back and help me!"

He can see the sellsword turn around and make a gesture at him. He doesn't look eager to come back.

"Geh, fuck!" Tyrion tries to push past some of the rocks, but the adrenaline and panic is causing him to lose his grip and tumble. He quickly gets back up again, but his hand is bleeding. Shit- "Bronn! The gold Bronn, how about the gold!?" His voice is nearly drowned out by the rushing wind. It's closer now. "You need me alive for the fucking GOLD! GOLDEN DRAGONS!" His voice is getting hoarse.

He can see the man turn around, turn back, and turn again before sprinting to where Tyrion lie. "Damn you Lannisters and your damn gold!" he shouts, grabbing Tyrion by the arm and lifting him up onto the horse.

"And yet you've-"

"Shut IT! Or'll I'll make you really fly!"

The horse quickly gallops down the mountain path. But they're fighting against the wind and the treacherous landscape. Even this far away, the thing threatens to pull them back and tear them to pieces. Before long, the tower of grey descends upon the high road, wreaking havoc upon everything before it. They disembark from the horse and quickly seek shelter behind a large rock as the deafening roar envelops everything around them. Bracing themselves, Tyrion prays. To the Seven, to the Old Gods, and to any others he has read about; he needs them right now. He trembles at its power, fear coursing through his body.

But his curiosity is even stronger. Against his desire to stay safe, Tyrion peeks around the corner to look at it. The thing is massive, stretching high into the clouds and easily wider than the Red Keep's courtyard. Trees are pulled out of the ground and take to the sky while stones dash along the ground. It threatens to pull him but he keeps his ground, holding on to the rock outcropping with his bleeding hands. But keeping his head up and focusing on the thing, he sees something strange. Birds. Crows and ravens flit about at the massive pillar, unaffected by the gale. They flock in strange patterns, dashing all around the area. "Do you see that, Bronn!?"

"Get back here you Imp!" Bronn pulls him back behind cover. "I want my fucking gold!"

And so they wait it out until the roar fades and the wind dies down. By the time they leave the cover, the pillar is already far in the distance, leaving a trail of destruction. The high road is now littered with branches and trees and rocks of all sizes. They see one just behind the rock they're hiding, having been thrown onto the ground with great force and leaving a crater.

"...Tyrion, what the fuck was that?"

"I... I don't know, Bronn. But what I do know is that I need a new pair of breeches."

"Same."

They quickly find their terrified horse between some shrubberies. After calming it down with some berries, they trot down the mountain on the side of the high road. The place is too treacherous now to traverse. As the sun sets, they set up camp near a cold stream. It's easy for them to find branches to make a shelter; that pillar of wind torn all of them off. Heating up their wine and feasting on the last part of their rations, the two sit back and relax. Their worries and troubles slowly melt. Perhaps due to the life and death situation they had just experienced, Tyrion feels comfortable in Bronn's presence. Comfortable enough to tell him stories about his father. And more harrowing ones regarding his first time.

"Wow. Oh wow." Bronn looks at him in pity, sipping on the warm spiced wine. "Your father... How could you just lie there and take it?"

"He's my father, Bronn. Warden of the West, the Lannister Lion," he answers, nibbling on a piece of dried meat and bread.

"Yes, but at the end of it he's still just a man."

"What, you expect me to kill him?"

"Yes."

Tyrion nearly chokes. "Gods, that was a bad joke."

"Not a joke," the sellsword says casually. "If he was my own father, I'll send an arrow right between his eyes. Maybe a crossbow bolt for a man of your stature."

Tyrion wants to reprimand him for suggesting to become a kinslayer, but doesn't have the heart to. The words that came out of the man's mouth is very much fitting for the hardened sellsword. He's only loyal to gold, not houses nor families. Loyal until another person pays upfront. Even to his own father... Gods, what am I even thinking. I need to be drunk for this conversation. He fills a cup with the warmed spiced wine and offers a toast beneath the red comet. "To our survival!"

"To our survival!"

Mountains of the Moon

By sunrise, the two are already on their way down the high road. If they want to leave the Vale, then they must begin their trek as early as possible. The air is crisp and cold, frost forming on the leaves of trees. He brushes away the ones forming on his hand, blowing on them to keep himself warm.

Only now, with a rested mind and calm heart, that he realises how awkward his position on the horse is. With his small size, Bronn suggests him to sit up front, which is what's usually done to a small child. Bronn's arms are to his sides, holding the horse's reins and keeping him in place. Not only that, but the saddle is not designed with a dwarf in mind. It doesn't take long for him to feel pins-and-needles across his thigh. The stirrup digging into his groin makes it all the more unbearable.

"Gods, how much longer is this high road?"

"I think we're getting closer now, Imp. The trees looks like a forest here."

After a while, the road gradually becomes less steep, allowing them to move faster down the mountain. They gallop at a good pace, to the chagrin of Tyrion's thighs, when they spot a group of men down the road. Bronn halts his horse, but not far enough for them to be hidden. "Shit, bunch of wildlings."

The group approaching them are dressed in rusted armour and a lot of animal fur. Some bear's, some wolf's, and even one of a shadowcat's. They carry weapons with them, broken ones like axes and hammers. This is bad. I doubt we can get past them easily, especially with me in the seat. One of the burlier men steps forward, wielding a great war axe and a mighty beard. He seems to be their leader.

"Imp," Bronn whispers, "you know a way around here?"

"I think I do." To Bronn's surprise, Tyrion jumps down from the horse to the laughter of the wildlings. He straightens his clothes and dons his best look. "Can I help you gentlemen?"

"What are you doing here, halfman?" speaks the hairy one, his voice deep and gruff. Crows land on tree branches above him. "This here is land for the Free Men."

"Oh, I'm very sorry for intruding your lands. You see, my friend and I," Bronn waves and smiles at them, "are simply looking for a quick way down the mountain towards the Riverlands. Ah, but you Free Men have clans here, right? Tell me, what clan do you gentlemen belong to? I don't want to be rude by calling you by a wrong title." If Tyrion remembers his books correctly, then there should be lots of clans in the Vale. If he can at least make peace with the ones here, he'll get an easy passage through the mountains. Perhaps make allies as well. My words are important here.

"We're the Stormcrows."

Stormcrows... The sellsword group? He looks back at Bronn who shrugs. He doesn't recognise them. "Ah, Stormcrows! Forgive me, it's the first time I've heard of your people. Tell me, how goes life as Free Men? You all look more than capable of defending yourselves from other less-than-savoury groups." Tyrion understands that praises are still effective to even the most uncivilised of men. Perhaps more so, for they are inexperienced in courtly politics.

The mountain men look at each other before answering. "There ain't no more clans, boyman. Only Stormcrow."

"...I'm sorry, perhaps my ears are off from yesterday. What did you mean by no more clans?"

"There are no more clans, boyman. Shagga used to be a Stone Crow, but..." The hairy man looks up at the birds above, who watches them with their beady eyes. He shivers before continuing. "The Great Lady Stormcrow. She took Shagga and all clans under her wings. And those that don't... No more."

That's... Troubling. It's the first time I've heard of mountain wildlings being under a single leader. For those who pride themselves as free... Times truly are changing. "Ah, then give Lady Stormcrow my friendly regards. The Lannisters are always welcome to new faces," he lies through his teeth.

"Lannister? You two lionmen?"

"Well, only me. My friend here is just a traveller."

"A word of warning, boyman." Shagga steps forwards, thrusting his axe into the ground. Tyrion flinches back. "You stay out of the mountains. For your own good."

Tyrion gulps. "Yes, we were just leaving."

Shagga turns back to the others and speak to them in a different tongue. The Old Tongue, Tyrion recognises, but he's unable to translate what they're saying. After a short discussion full of grunts and sighs, Shagga returns to Tyrion. "You get on that horse and go through that valley there." He points to nearby valley, filled with crags and a small stream. "Stay clear of trees. There be shadowcats."

"How about other mountain men?"

"By order of Lady Stormcrow, all are free to leave the mountains. Only entry is forbidden."

"But can you truly assure me of that? I've only met you Shagga, so I'm still unsure if others are as cordial as the ones here."

Shagga looks up at the perching crows. One swoops down and lands on Tyrion's head, its claws digging uncomfortably into his hair. "No one will harm you if you have crow. Lady Stormcrow's blessings."

"...Thank you, Shagga. I will take care of it."

With that, the mountain wildlings part ways, heading up the mountain. The birds follow their ascent. Tyrion notices that they are all carrying bags over their shoulders, as if moving camps. "So... What are we going to feed the bird?" asks Bronn.

"I still have some meat," Tyrion answers. "Besides, I'm sure you can feed on insects, right bird? You don't look like a Citadel raven."

"CAW! CAW!"

"Agh," Tyrion coves his ears. "Please, do not crow while on my head. Damn bird."

The two travel down the road and into the valley Shagga pointed out. The bird follows them, flying from tree to tree, sometimes leading the way ahead. It's nicer here, with flowers blooming on the sides of the path. Before long, they come across another group of wildlings, this time looking far less polite than Shagga's group. But upon seeing the crow land on Tyrion's head, they dare not to approach and give them a wide breadth. The same happens to two more unsavoury groups of wildlings, backing away upon seeing the crow. With a last group, one man defies the crow and charges at their horse with an axe. When Bronn pulls out his sword, the other wildlings restrain the attacking one and decapitates him. The head is given to Tyrion as a sign of apology, it's tongue lolling out of its mouth.

"...This is strange," Tyrion says, throwing away the head after a sufficient distance from the group.

"Huh, maybe there is some truth to what they say. A dwarf brings good luck."

"By robbing it from me. Don't you remember that I was the one to be kidnapped? And what of this Lady Stormcrow they speak of? I doubt she's Lysa Arryn; she doesn't really inspire men to join her, and I don't think they fear her as well."

"Maybe a warg," Bronn adds. "Fought one before, had a large wolf. You know what they are?"

"I know what a warg is, Bronn." He looks up at the flying crow. Is that thing a warg then? Is Lady Stormcrow watching me through the eyes of an animal? Maybe that's how she inspires fear in these strong wildlings for there is always someone watching them. The thought of it gives him shivers.

By sundown, the two is at the mouth of the valley. Just beyond is the more familiar plains of the Riverlands, a few castles dotted here and there. They set up camp beneath the red comet, eating the last portions of their rations. He gives some of the meat to the bird, which jumps happily at the offer. "You should name it," Bronn says. "Gives us good luck, most likely."

"Hmm... How about... Jaime?"

"Your brother?" Bronn chuckles. "You miss him that much?"

"I do. Even if he can be quite stupid sometimes, he's good at heart. Besides, nothing more fitting than the best knight of the Realm for the one that keeps us all safe." Tyrion yawns, tired and aching from the ride. He retreats beneath his blanket, hiding from the coming night chill. "Let's sleep now, we have to get up early."

"Alright then. Goodnight, Tyrion."

"'Night Bronn," he rolls his face away from the camp fire.

"Goodnight, Kingslayer."

"CAW!"

Riverlands

By late afternoon, the two have entered the comfortable grounds of the Riverlands. Well, comfortable might be the wrong word. This is the Tulies' land, after all, and they kidnapped me for a crime I'm innocent of. Perhaps, familiar is the word.

They avoid the main roads and inns, fearing that Tyrion might get kidnapped by another group loyal to the Tullies. Travelling through the wooded areas, they catch a few birds and rabbits, courtesy to the help of Jaime the crow. "You're smarter than you look, Jaime," says Tyrion, holding two dead rabbits by the ears. "Maybe my brother can learn a thing or two from you."

"Caw?" The bird tilts its head before flying off.

They rest for another day in the woods, avoiding any Rivermen eyes. This time, they eat heartily the birds and rabbits they caught. It has been so long since they've eaten actual fresh meat that by the time they're full, they already licked the bones clean. Jaime, not having been left a scrap, pecks at Tyrion's hand in annoyance.

"Geh, fine. Here, have some marrow." Tyrion grabs a leg bone and snaps it into two. The bird pecks at it before flying into the trees.

"So, Tyrion," Bronn says, picking his teeth with a rib bone, "what's the plan? We can't just linger in the Riverlands all the time. And I need my gold."

"In due time, Bronn. First, we'll head south towards King's Landing where my brother awaits. I'm sure I still have some coffers in the chests somewhere. Then, we'll head west to Casterly Rock. By then, your pockets will be so full of dragons that you'll need an auroch to carry it."

"Don't make promises you can't keep, Imp."

Next day, the two head south towards King's Landing. However, not long into their travel, they come across soldiers bearing the red and gold banner of House Lannister. Bronn looks confused at Tyrion. Wait, why are they here? Is it because of my kidnapping? They gallop towards the soldiers who exclaims in surprise upon seeing them.

"Tyrion!" a helmeted man shouts. He lifts his visor, revealing the face of his uncle Ser Kevan Lannister. "By the Gods, you're here! I thought you were taken by the Tullies!"

"I was in the Vale, uncle. Luckily, the dungeons of the Eyrie had no walls. Now may I ask, why is the Lannister banners flying over the Riverlands?"

"I think it's best you speak with my brother. He's at the Crossroad Inn"

Even my father is here... What is going on? "Thank you, uncle. I'm sure he'll be happy upon finding the heir of Casterly Rock is still alive."

The two trot behind Ser Kevan. The sight of the Lannister encampment is a strange one, knowing that he was kidnapped not far from here. Tents dot the ground as far as the eye could see. How many are here? Ten thousand? Twenty, thirty? Are they trying to wage a war? Crossroad Inn bears the emblems of the Lannisters at its windows. The usual drinking and clamour is nowhere to be seen. Instead, he sees his father brooding over maps and letters in the middle of the inn. "Tyrion," he says, not looking up at his son. "I see that you are well."

"Of course, father. It is great to see you as lively as ever. Though I'm curious, why are you here and not at Casterly Rock?"

"Retribution, Tyrion. The Tullies have done a great disservice to our honour and pride by kidnapping you. In doing so, they've declared you unfit for the seat of Casterly Rock, something I don't take kindly towards. So, we are here to make a point; the Lannisters are not to be trifled with. However," he gestures towards Tyrion, "I don't think we have any need to siege the Eyrie as well."

"Ah, so you do love me."

"I do not, Tyrion. But my status as Warden of the West relies on keeping you alive. May I ask, who is this man next to you?"

"Bronn, a humble sellsword, Lord Tywin," Bronn bows at the balding old man.

"He volunteered as my champion at the Eyrie, father. Managed to prevent me from flying."

"It's great to see that my son has the capability of finding talented men. However," he looks up at Bronn, "right now I'm discussing family matters. I can assure you that us Lannisters will pay grandly for your services and valour. We always pay our debts."

"Of course. You can find me in the arms of liquor and fine women, Imp. See ya around!"

With Bronn gone, Tywin discards his cheery demeanour. He turns to Tyrion. "How much do you owe him?"

"About a hundred dragons."

Tywin sighs, rubbing his head in frustration. His age is clearer now whenever the talk of money is involved. "And why do you owe him that much?"

"He saved my life twice. First by trial of combat, and the other through an incident at the Vale. It was by the skin of my teeth."

"Frankly, I wish he hadn't." Tyrion understands his father's hatred towards him. The Lion still blames his son for the death of his wife. Not only that, but with Jaime becoming a Kingsguard, that only leaves Tyrion as the rightful heir of Casterly Rock. An Imp ruling over a mountain of gold. Now that's a terrifying thought for the Old Lion. "Tell me, what did he exactly save you from?"

"Well, I challenged the Lord of the Vale with Bronn as my champion and he won quite handily. The second... Is stranger. Some foul winds and a massive grey cone ripped through the mountains, tearing trees and rocks alike. He saved me then as well."

"Grey cone?"

"Spinning, dizzying thing of massive girth and height. No name for it, though I can say it convinced me to get a brand new pair of breeches."

"Your tales are getting taller by the day. Sadly, it won't erase the fact that you're a dwarf."

"Yes, your dwa-"

Tywin slams his fist on the table, silencing Tyrion. He doesn't like the constant reminder of the dwarf being his son; a living monument to his everlasting shame. Letting the anger pass over him, he drinks from the cup on the table. It's watered-down wine. "I half-expected you to die to mountain wildlings. And then throw your body down a ravine."

"Well, those wildlings seem to be fairer hosts than Lord of the Vale nor the Warden of the West. Speaking of which," he points at the crow perched on the windowsill, "that's a gift from them."

"A crow?"

"Jaime the crow."

"Gods, it seems that your time there have turned you mad."

"Not mad, father. Lonely. There's a difference. Now," Tyrion pours himself a cup of the wine, "interestingly enough, the mountain wildlings seems to have eschewed their wild and savage traditions and banded together to a single clan: Stormcrow. Under one they call the Great Lady Stormcrow."

"And why should the matters of wild men concern me?"

"ALL of the mountain clans have gathered under her. That's, what, a quarter of everyone in the Vale? More than what previous lords could muster up, that's for sure. And from the looks of it, they're heading up towards the Eyrie. Fear is driving them, father. Fear of this Lady Stormcrow. Things are changing there. But for the better? I do not know." He takes a large gulp of the wine, savouring its sweet and sour taste. Man, do I miss arbor gold. "My suggestion is to make allies with them. Who knows? Perhaps we'll have a new Lord of the Vale."

Tywin taps his fingers on the table, digesting the information. "Was Lady Catelyn Tully present at the Eyrie during your leave?"

"Yes, though I don't know if she has begun her descent."

"We must assume she must, meaning that there's nothing to gain by climbing up there."

"Mountain men?"

Tywin glares at his son. "We're lions, Tyrion. We don't stoop so low as to make friends with birds."

"Of course, father," Tyrion bows. He does still want to secure that connection with this mysterious Lady Stormcrow. Whatever his father is doing here, extra hands are still good to have. Speaking of hands... "Regarding this quest for retribution, what about the Lord Hand Ned Stark? Won't he find it distasteful that you're seeking to attack his wife's family? And what of Robert? Surely, even with Cersei as his Queen the drunken oaf will not agree to such actions."

"Robert is dead."

"...What?" What in the seven hells have been happening since I was locked up!?

"Well, not dead yet. But soon he'll be."

"Wait wait wait! Please, go back. What happened?"

"A hunting accident. He was gored by a boar through his stomach whilst drunk on the hunt. Lancel was giving him too much wine to drink. Ravens tell me that the King lies dying in his bedchamber, his days numbered. Now, we await the crowning of Joffrey and his naming of me as the Hand of the King."

This... This is all too perfect, too well-planned for coincidences. Tyrion wonders if all of this have been planned in advance. Shit, that Lancel! That boy has always been so eager to please the King... Don't tell me that Cersei has a hand in this. Did she open her legs for him as well? But lastly, Joffrey... Joffrey is what Tyrion worries most. Not only the boy is too young to rule as king, but he has a record. A nasty one if tales of the bodies in the river are true. Damn it, even that drunken fat oaf is well-liked by the commonfolk. "So what do we do now?"

"Your brother Jaime won the battle at Golden Tooth not long ago. The Mountain has conquered Harrenhal and should be returning here shortly. Now, Jaime's forces are besieging Riverrun, the Seat of House Tully. It's only a matter of time until they succumb."

"What of the Starks? I doubt Lord Eddard will just dawdle as this is happening." Even without the title of Hand, the Stark still commands the immense power of the North. Rallying against them AND the Riverlands would be suicidal.

"I have faith in my daughter," answers Tywin.

"I don't have faith on what you've just said," Tyrion replies. "Cersei is Queen, yes. But she's a Queen, not Lord Regent and not her son. What if," he leans closer, careful not to be overheard. "What if the boy fucks up? You've seen his temper; there's something wrong with him."

"Are you insulting the Prince?"

"I'm relating to you, father, that my sister has her faults. You put too much faith in her accomplishing this secret goal of yours. What if she fails? What if she does not follow this plan? Who will rein the two in? Starks? Stannis? Renly? Those Baratheons will fight for the right to sit on the throne, father. I'm sure you know that already." Tyrion finishes his cup. If he had just strung all the words right, then he has a chance to go to King' Landing and right whatever the boy might be thinking of doing.

"Hmm... I hear what you're saying, Tyrion. You're asking me to send you to King's Landing."

"I'm not asking you, I'm merely suggesting."

"And what will you do there, I wonder? Spend your dragons on whores?"

"Though I can't say that I will not do that, I will make it my main goal to control the actions of my sister and nephew." Tyrion still wants that whorehouse luxury. It has been so long since his last taste of a woman.

"By being out of my sight. No, you will stay here with me. At least until this campaign is over. It is a good opportunity for you to put the you've read to good use. If you plan on being my heir, then you must be capable of it." Tywin writes some notes down on a piece of paper and hands it to Tyrion. "Gather a hundred men under your command and I will see if you're fit for battle. And take a bath, you smell like shit."

So much for the warm reception. "Come, Jaime. We have work to do." The crow flies out as he opens the door. Now out of the inn, he notices that there are a few crows and ravens about. He could barely tell which one is Jaime and which are not. "I see your friends have come to visit."

"CAW!"

The sky is full of life; well, too full if the guard chasing a crow with a piece of bread in its mouth is anything to go by. No doubt they're waiting for all of us to die, he thinks bitterly. Pecking out our eyeballs in the battlefield. Hopefully Jaime is too polite to do that. He looks at the crow, which tilts its head to him. "Well then Jaime, let's go find Bronn."