Tyrion went down the servant's steps to the ground floor, and paused. If he continued on down the stairs to the cellar underneath, and along a hallway, he'd be beside the dragon skulls. Shae was waiting there. It had been a little trickier than usual to organise the liaison, with the added hassle of avoiding the hundreds of rowdy wedding guests occupying the outer ward.
Shae. Probably wearing little or nothing, anticipating his arrival. In contrast to his wife Sansa's distant demeanour of polite, resigned loathing, Shae was cheeky and eager. Shae, with her dark hair and devilish smile, her dirty whispered words. Shae, the one happiness in Tyrion's otherwise underwhelming life.
Fuck Jaime. Fuck Jaime's damsel in distress, fuck my nephew's wedding, and fuck my sister most of all. Gods be good, this whole mess will sort itself out with minimal input from me. Cersei won't go anywhere tonight, Jaime will find the Maester in the first Inn he comes to, and I can still meet up with Shae later. Tyrion took a moment to make sure the gods at least understood his resentment of the whole situation, before he reluctantly turned away from the cellar steps, and Shae, and went out the door of the Kitchen Keep.
Along the path that bordered the godswood and past the rookery, to the Holdfast and Cersei's sleeping quarters. The air was clear and cold, and the sounds of Dornish songs sung in tuneless mass rose and fell behind him, amid muffled shouts and whistles. Tyrion wondered if there would be any respite from the noise tonight at all. Possibly. They've reached the communal singing stage, I think the next stage is passing out.
Near the drawbridge to the Holdfast, he stopped. There were shadows here deep enough to lose a horse in, let alone a very small man. The stone blocks pressed cold against his back, and the scar across his nose felt tight in the icy air. He tried not to think of Shae's warm skin. Her hot, soft mouth. Of course, trying not to think of something only ensures it's the only thing you can think about. Godsdamn it.
Jiggling from foot to foot to prevent his toes from cramping, he imagined standing in the kitchens earlier and telling Jaime the hard truth. 'Is our sister being difficult? A tad unreasonable, you say? She's only been completely batshit evil for the last 20 years; what a shame you've been so focused on what was under her skirts that you willingly overlooked all that. You've turned a blind eye, been complicit in her wrongdoings, compromised your own honour, and told yourself it was all for love. And now she's turned on you? Who'd have fucking thought. Best of luck, brother, laying in that bed of your own making.'
Why didn't I say it? Is it because I'm a coward?
Tyrion considered this. He was often cowardly, but he knew this wasn't the reason he hadn't been honest with Jaime. It was because his brother was, in the end, the glue that held the Lannisters together. When Jaime had problems, they all had problems. He was his father's golden boy, his sister's protector, the one person guaranteed to treat Tyrion with kindness. The one person who, growing up, Tyrion could rely on, laugh with, and trust. That's the reason I can't throw Cersei's true nature in his face. Because without Jaime keeping the peace, the family tears itself to pieces. The truth wouldn't only hurt him, it would hurt all of us.
The Lannisters. Was there a more formidable family, anywhere in Westeros? One a Queen, one Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, their bastard son a King, their father the King's Hand. Tyrion himself, Master of Coin. Their combined power over the Seven kingdoms was well nigh absolute. Between them they controlled the political, military and financial forces of the Realm. United they were a stronghold. But divided?
Fractures form from within. A seemingly small wound, left unchecked, can spread. Mighty structures can be brought crashing down from a tiny weakness, a fissure, that grows, widens, splits apart, until mountains fall. Dynasties, even. This Tyrion knew. He was only too aware of the simmering hostilities between him and his father and sister. Neither had any fondness for the dwarf who killed his own mother. Their bonds were based on a harsh concept of 'family,' one that considered love a mere distraction to the ultimate goal: an enduring legacy named 'Lannister'.
Tyrion huffed on his cupped hands, tucked them under his cloak. He had an uneasy feeling in his stomach. Was a fracture forming within House Lannister even now, creeping insidiously outwards? Were they all just desperately hanging on, maintaining a thin pretence of solidarity, while inside, decades-old slights and fears festered and poisoned? Was paranoia setting in like grubs to fruit, eating their family from the inside out?
With Jaime returned healthy and unharmed, we should be strengthening our position, Tyrion thought. But it doesn't feel that way. My brother hasn't slotted back into his sorely-missed role as peace-keeper. Quite the opposite, in fact. We need the old Jaime now more than ever, but somewhere in the filth and confines of Robb Stark's Northern prison, the old Jaime went missing. And the rest of us can't seem to handle the new one.
Look at how I reacted, to his confessions just now, Tyrion realised. With disbelief and resistance. I wanted to bloody strangle him. Instead of trying to understand, I refused to accept it. I was thinking 'How can Jaime do this? Loyal, strong-willed Jaime, who puts family first every time. I've always been a fuck-up, but Jaime? He's the good son.' I only cared how he'd let me down, by not being who I wanted him to be.
I guess we have more in common than I ever realised. Maybe we should run away to Dorne together. There, Lords can wed baseborn girls, I hear. The Lannister brothers and their common wenches, living happily ever after.
He grinned crookedly as he pictured it. Him, Shae, his brother and his brother's delivery girl. No Cersei to be seen. Totally unrealistic of course, but a man can dream.
The tapping of footsteps interrupted his thoughts. Cersei, wrapped in a heavy velvet coat over a white gold-trimmed silk gown, and carrying a lantern, came trapping over the bridge with purposeful intent. Despite waiting for this exact eventuality, Tyrion still startled. He held his breath until she'd passed by, then slunk after her. He kept well back in the trees, following the sound of her footsteps, and emerged from the godswood just in time to glimpse her pale skirts disappearing around the corner of the Kitchen Keep.
Is she going to my room? To grill me about Jaime and his cheating ways? Tyrion scurried as fast as his short legs could carry him across the yard to head her off, but when he reached the door that led up to his apartments all was quiet. The stairs were likewise deserted. Strange.
He caught his breath, looked all around, but his sister appeared to have vanished. Like a ghost. He peered down the laneway behind the Kitchen Keep, which he'd seen her enter into only minutes ago. The narrow space between the high stone walls wound like a tunnel, black as pitch, but didn't lead anywhere except to here. Tyrion checked the stairwell again, went half-way up and then returned just to make sure, but nothing. My sister is as venomous as a sea-serpent and twice as slippery. Where in seven hells has she slid off to?
Tyrion sat on the bottom step and wondered if Shae was still waiting for him in the cellars. She probably figured he'd been delayed. He wondered if she was wearing much. Maybe a coat. She never wears much underneath.
Only the thought of Jaime's disappointment stopped Tyrion from rushing straight down there to check. If I hurry, I can still make it back. Wait for me, Shae. He got up and looked down the laneway again, then began to creep slowly into the blackness, feeling his way along the wall with his fingers. If Cersei had suspicions she was being followed, he was right now walking straight into her trap.
What could I even say I was doing? 'Oh hey sister, fancy meeting you here in this little-used laneway that leads pretty much nowhere, in the middle of the night. What a coincidence.'
In the overhang of the tall buildings, it was too dark to see anything. A few more hesitant steps, and he decided it wisest to stop and have a think.
After all, it wasn't likely that Cersei was going to kill Jaime's delivery girl tonight, on her own. Death was unavoidably messy. Too many leaking fluids. His sister was only too happy to kill people, as long as it wasn't her hand actually wielding the blade. And that gown she was wearing was one of her favourites; Tyrion was positive she'd never risk getting it stained. Blood was near impossible to get out of a delicate material like silk.
Jaime's whore was most likely not in imminent danger.
Jaime said she wasn't a whore, but... semantics. Whether the wench had actually whored herself out to other men previously or not, her act in seducing Jaime Lannister could only mean she planned to get her hands on wealth, status and possibly Casterley Rock. There are cheap whores and there are ambitious whores, it's all just a matter of degree.
Tyrion hadn't always been so cynical. He'd used to believe in love for it's own sake, love between commoners and Nobles, love pure and simple. He'd used to be quite the naive romantic, once. But life experience had taught him better.
Life experience, and a sharp lesson courtesy of Father and Jaime, years ago. Yet Jaime is the one seems to have forgotten it.
Tyrion would never forget. He closed his eyes every night and saw her face. Tysha. Dark haired, slim, an infectious smile. And a whore, like Shae. He obviously had a type. Tyrion idly wondered what Jaime's 'type' was.
I've slept with hundreds of women, it's possible my type is fairly flexible. Jaime might be rather more particular in his tastes.
The light from a lantern suddenly splashed on the path up ahead, a few yards in front of him. Tyrion tensed and crouched low, preparing to run. As if she'd materialised from out of the wall, Cersei stood for a moment in the glow, preoccupied with some package she was carrying. Then, thankfully, she turned in the opposite direction from Tyrion and headed back the way she'd come. He waited until her steps had faded, then hurried over to where she'd been.
With palms flat, he felt the outline of hinges; a door, hidden behind the base of a turret. A small room built under the kitchens. Going by the faint whiff of vinegar hanging in the air, maybe an old pickling room. Tyrion had no knowledge of it. He pushed on the handle but, obviously, it was locked. There was no other way in, everything was stone.
Is Jaime's delivery girl in there? Tyrion got down and peered through the thin gap under the door that he could feel with his fingers. There were no sounds inside, no light either. Well, it's hardly likely that Cersei had a night-time craving for old pickles, so it's a safe bet I've found Jaime's missing girl. He got up, wondered who else may have a key. Probably the Maester that Jaime was seeking out. Tyrion wasn't quite sure what to do next.
I could wait here to make sure nothing happens to Jaime's delivery girl. I could return to my room and get some sleep. Or I could go see if, by some miracle, Shae is still waiting for me.
Tyrion sighed. Why bother trying to salvage anything good from this night, it was almost over. Shae would be long gone, she wasn't anywhere near as stupid as he was. He may as well commit himself to this folly.
He sat down and made himself as comfortable as possible in the dark, damp, weed-infested doorway. Which was, by any measure, still very uncomfortable. The temperature was below freezing, and he huddled into his thick wool cloak. Good night, Jaime's delivery girl, he thought. I hope my brother derived great pleasure from his illicit liaisons with you, because tonight you've totally ruined mine. He closed his eyes, and dreamt of Tysha.
Tyrion woke a few hours later as the sky brightened. He sat up, rubbed the crick in his neck, and examined the door in the dawn light. Even lit, it was concealed by the turret's edging and was barely noticeable.
Well, you're on your own for a while, delivery girl. Tyrion knew he couldn't wait here any longer. He had to be at the wedding breakfast so as not arouse Cersei's suspicions, and cover for Jaime if he was still absent. Please don't be absent, dear brother. I'm not continuing this farce for the rest of the damned day. Witnessing Joffrey being feted and celebrated at his wedding is going to be a painful enough ordeal, without having to keep up a steady stream of lies and excuses as to why you aren't around.
Tyrion made it back to his bedchamber before Sansa awoke. There was no word of Jaime coming to see him. He had Pod help him change clothes, and was out in the crowded bailey by the time the sun had risen, dodging between legs and boots. Behind him he heard the spine-chilling sound of Cersei's tinkling laughter, and he turned.
She had her back to him and was talking to a man with slicked-back black hair. Tyrion saw her drop a pouch into the man's hand; it chinked heavily with the weight of substantial coin. Then Cersei switched her attention and moved off, to charm some unsuspecting Tyrell.
Tyrion waited until she'd left, then 'Ser!' he called out to the black-haired man. 'A quick word.' Tyrion marched through the tightly packed mob, stomping on people's toes and elbowing kneecaps until they parted, and he reached the man's side.
'I was wondering if you might be able to do something for me. I'm in urgent need of someone to watch over something today, while I'm elsewise occupied at the King's wedding.'
The black haired man regarded Tyrion thoughtfully, one hand on the long dirk at his hip, the other in his pocket. Before he could reply, Tyrion's arm was grasped and he was spun around. 'There you are, little brother,' his sister exclaimed gaily. She sounded almost pleased to see him, which would be unheard of.
Cersei mustn't have got more than a couple of hours sleep either, but her green eyes sparkled, and her skin shone. 'Sansa is already seated in the ballroom, she said you'd gone for a walk. Have you seen Jaime? He's not in his tower, and the breakfast is about to start. Then, Joff will be receiving his gifts.'
'I can scarely wait,' Tyrion said. 'But no, I haven't seen our brother. I'm sure he'll not be far away.'
'I hope so,' Cersei sighed, and pressed her hands together under her chin in girlish prayer. 'It's going to be such a big day. I'd hate for him to miss any of it.'
She started to walk back towards the ballroom, still clutching Tyrion's arm. He wrenched it free of her. 'One moment, dear sister. I just have to...' he held up a finger, then quickly ducked back through the throng of guests as they pushed forward. His eyes scanned for the black-haired man, and finally sighted him at the outskirts of the crowd, strolling away.
Tyrion ran to catch up and tugged on his shirt hem. 'Wait up! About that job I need you to do -'
'I'm sorry, M'Lord Tyrion,' the man said, with an oily grin. 'No can do today. I already got a better offer.'