Author's Note: Deepest gratitude to kickstand75 and jennilyn411 for all their input. Enjoy!

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Chapter 6 - TYRION

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March 9, 2015 - Present Day

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Tyrion Lannister loathed his sister. Had loathed the sight of her for as long as he could remember. It was the sort of loathing that imagined an unfortunate accident on the stairs or a mugging gone terribly wrong, and then trying not to laugh all the way through the eulogy. But, for all his dreams of sororicide, even Tyrion had to admit that Cersei Lannister-Baratheon was the consummate First Lady.

It was an annoyingly cold day, and unseasonably so for March in King's Landing. Gloomy grey clouds hung above the Red Keep, pushed along by a chill, damp breeze off the bay that seeped through Tyrion's clothes. But, while he felt soggy and frozen like a fish who'd had a particularly bad day, Cersei was apparently unbothered. She stood at the podium a statue of marble, beautiful and cold, playing the part of the aggrieved mother with pride, dignity, and refined grace. Hundreds of cameras were trained on her. Flash bulbs shuttered in rapid succession and flared at blinding levels. Reporters volleyed question after question at her, and she answered each one calmly, her perfectly poised veneer steadfastly in place.

Bitch.

"Mrs. Baratheon," one reporter yelled, "any comment on the escalating hostilities in Meereen?"

"The President will make a statement on that and other issues concerning Essos and our foreign policies at another time."

Another reporter jumped in quickly. "Speaking of Essos, there are rumors that Daenerys Targaryen is setting herself up for a run in the next election. She spent most of her life in Essos, but she was born in Westeros and legally has a valid claim."

Cersei met the portly man's stare with a cat-eyed bearing. "I don't comment on rumors. Is there a question in there, Mr. Gilchrist, or shall we move on?"

Any response was immediately lost in the renewed shouts of journalists vying for the next question. "Mrs. Baratheon! Mrs. Baratheon!"

Cersei pointed into the crowd.

"Mrs. Baratheon, Sansa Stark's trial has been set to begin a month from today. Do you and the President plan on attending?"

There was a noticeable pause. Cersei glanced down at the podium, and then she lifted her chin. "Joffrey Baratheon was my eldest son. I consider it my obligation to be there to see his killer answer for her crime. As for my husband, naturally he also would like to be there, but his attendance will depend entirely on matters of state."

"Is the President worried his presence might sway the jury?" a woman cried out.

"Robert has the utmost faith in the people of the Crownlands. He knows that the justice system will prevail."

Dozens of voices chimed in at once until Cersei pointed once again, this time to Sharynn Slate from WBS Channel 5. Sharynn's star was on the rise around Westeros, developing a reputation for her in-depth one-on-one interviews. Tyrion wouldn't have minded a sitdown with her himself. Her coffee black hair was slicked back into a polished chignon, and she wore a tailored business suit with cleavage just on the right side of wrong.

A startling contrast to the ambitious frenzy of the other reporters, her question came out soft and sympathetic. "Mrs. Baratheon, Miss Stark's lawyer has consistently declined to make a statement on her behalf. Have you visited Miss Stark personally? Have you asked her what happened that night?"

Cersei bowed her head for a moment. No doubt thinking of her beloved former son. Touching. Very touching.

"No, I have not. Miss Stark was a guest in my home. Her parents, the gods rest their souls, were dear friends, and my Joffrey loved her more than life itself." She released a small, breathy sigh. "It has been a painful time for my family, not only to have lost one of our own, but to also have to realize that someone we once cared for was not who she appeared. I will have to reconcile myself to that fact. And, until I do, I don't think seeing Miss Stark is in anyone's best interests."

Especially not Sansa's, Tyrion thought with chagrin.

"If you could ask her one question, Mrs. Baratheon, what would it be?"

Strands of golden hair blown loose in the breeze touched Cersei's face. "I hardly know," she said, all humility and carefully contained sadness. "I suppose I'm no different than any other parent who has ever suffered the loss a child. I live every moment of every day wondering if there was something I could have done differently, something more that might have made a difference. I doubt there are any answers to those questions. But … perhaps I would want to know why. Why my son? Why him?"

Well done, sister. Audiences everywhere would lap that up with a spoon.

A bone-chilling gust of wind rattled the trees and blew straight through Tyrion's coat. He glanced at his watch and looked around the courtyard. The press conference was pretty much at its end. Surely he'd made a sufficient show of family unity to satisfy his father. Regardless, if he didn't leave soon, he wasn't sure he'd ever find his balls again without sending out a search party. Maybe when he got back to his office, he should have Pod rustle up Sharynn's private number. For health reasons.

Tyrion turned his stunted stride past Cersei's entourage and back toward the Red Keep. Behind him, the chorus of hungry reporters resumed, shouting in earnest, the media always desperate for one more sound bite. "Mrs. Baratheon! Mrs. Baratheon, what about Sandor Clegane? Why did he help Miss Stark escape the authorities? Do you think he played a part in your son's murder? Any thoughts on the suspicious nature of his death? Any comment on the claims that Joffrey's murder might have been self-defense? Mrs. Baratheon! Mrs. Baratheon!"

The droning voice of the Press Secretary took Cersei's place at the microphone, and Tyrion went inside. Podrick Payne, his assistant, was waiting for him in the entryway. He had a round face and an eager if somewhat vacant expression of which Tyrion had grown oddly fond.

Tyrion shook out of his coat and handed it off before continuing down the hall. "I need something to drink, Pod. Something strong, something stiff, and I need it now."

Left behind for a moment, Pod hurried to catch up. "Yes, sir."

"And deliver a bottle of champagne to my sister's solar. Nothing too expensive. We can't have her thinking I give a damn, can we?"

"No, sir."

"As much as I enjoy pithy conversation, Podrick, you look like a man with something to say. What else have you got for me?"

Fumbling around Tyrion's pea coat, Pod thrust out a list of messages. "Mr. Rosby called. Tomorrow's Treasury meeting has been changed from 10:30 to 11:00. And your ex-wife—"

"Would that be Shae or Tysha?"

"Umm …" Pod snatched the note back from Tyrion's hand and quickly glanced down at his own handwriting. "Shae."

Quirking his brow, Tyrion reclaimed his messages. "In the future, let's refer to Tysha as my ex-wife and Shae as my ex-ex-wife. Cuts down on the confusion." It would also be a ready reminder as to how much he and that particular ex-wife were never ever ever getting back together.

And now that song was going to be stuck in his head all day. Merciful gods. Wasn't having to deal with his sister on a daily basis hell enough?

"Yes, sir," Pod replied with a nod. "She says your alimony check is two days late, and she needs you to call the dealership about her car. It's making a funny noise."

Tyrion sighed. "Never get married, Podrick."

"Yes, sir."

Tyrion eyed him.

"No, sir?" Pod amended, nervously searching for the correct answer.

Tyrion pursed his lips, observing him with the intense scrutiny of an ant under a magnifying glass. "I've changed my mind, Podrick. With that kind of stick-to-itiveness, you'll make the perfect husband." He gave a short little wave. "Go. Marry some nice girl. Have a long and happy life, with a moderately sized house, only one car, and lots of fat babies."

Pod's eyebrows lifted in surprise. "Oh. Thank you, sir."

"Just learn from my mistakes. Avoid the clingy ones and anyone who asks for a credit card number first. Shae, I'm embarrassed to say, was both."

"Yes, sir," Pod agreed. Too quickly, this time. At least, he then had the decency to stare shamefacedly at the floor.

Guilt did wondrous things for Pod's productivity, however. In minutes, he had Tyrion settled in his office with a snifter full of Cognac, the thermostat bumped up to a more comfortable level and the day's files already sorted on his desk. He made himself scarce, and Tyrion set down to work. An altogether too sobering task of late.

He thumbed through spreadsheets regarding the national debt and some worrying reports from the Federal Reserve. Terrorist attacks in Meereen and riots in Yunkai had sparked talk of war in Essos, and with so many allied countries on the fringes of the conflict, Westeros would be expected to take an active part in their defense. However, the economy at home had taken a turn for the worse in the last few years. Westeros could scarcely afford to go to war, but it was hard to find anyone around here lately who cared. The Secretary of the Treasury, Gyles Rosby, was recently diagnosed with terminal lung cancer and was getting ready to resign his position. Tywin Lannister, arguably the most powerful man in the country with Lannister Corp. at his back and the office of VP clutched tightly in his fist, was more concerned about the next election cycle than the economy. And Robert …

After Ned Stark's death, Robert had crawled into a bottle and didn't come out. Joff's death hadn't helped, although Robert was as aware as anyone of his shithead tendencies. These days, Robert was more pickle than President. It was his last term of office, and short of setting the Red Keep on fire, Tyrion doubted he could get Robert to bat an eye at the treasury projections. The entire economy could collapse, and he wouldn't care.

The crushing weight of responsibility fell like an avalanche down on Tyrion's pint-sized shoulders. He swished the Cognac around in the glass and gulped it down until his insides felt like they had been doused in high-priced battery acid. He exhaled on a long, lingering puff, vaguely disheartened to see his glass already empty.

If he was going to attempt to keep the country from burning, he was definitely going to need more alcohol.

"Podrick!" he shouted through the open doorway. His assistant's desk lay just outside. Movement in the periphery of his vision spurred him to continue. "Podrick, I need you to go down to Records and pull a few files for me, and my glass could use a little freshening up."

Frowning as he gave himself over to the problem of finding solutions, Tyrion barely noted Pod as he refilled his glass. He just scribbled off a short list of what he needed onto a sticky note and carelessly stuck it to his faithful assistant's arm as he moved past.

"Mmhmm," Pod murmured, completely unfazed.

He wandered toward the door, then screeched to a sudden halt as Cersei swooped in, a bottle of champagne dangling by the neck in her hand.

"What is this?" she demanded without wasting a moment.

Pod gulped.

Tyrion leaned back in his chair and sighed, the corners of his mouth pinched into an impatient scowl. Whatever arch impulse that had possessed him to send in the bottle in the first place had since flown off to a tropical beach somewhere to enjoy the sunshine while he was stuck here with her. "It was a gift, dear sister, meant with my sincerest compliments."

Cersei shot him a withering look. "I don't have time for your games."

"Well, that's convenient, as I have little interest in playing them." Tyrion waved her off, already bored. "Please, feel free to share it with whomever you like. I know Jaime hasn't shown much interest of late, but there's always Lancel. Or that Kettleblack fellow on your security team. What's his name? Osfryd?" Reconsidering, he cocked his head to the side. "Although, it was Osney's company you always preferred, wasn't it? My apologies. I can never remember which one is which."

Tyrion tried once again to focus on his reports while Cersei glared at him with all the warmth of a coiling snake. Her eyes shifted, and she looked down her nose at Pod. "Leave us."

"Sir?" His questioning, almost pleading gaze found Tyrion's.

"It's all right, Podrick. You can go." Tyrion didn't blame him. This was the last place he wanted to be, as well.

The instant he was out of the room, Cersei returned her attention to Tyrion. Her voice, like sweet poison, dripped from her lips, sedate and lethal. "Who do you think you're talking to? How dare you speak to me like that."

"Now, now, sister. It's not as if your late night pastimes are any great secret. The only one who doesn't know is Robert. And Father, of course." Tyrion idly flicked a pen across his desk. It clicked and clattered over the varnished surface to land crookedly against his calendar. "According to him, you're still the only one of his children who's ever amounted to anything, Jaime having thumbed his nose at the family legacy for a career in law enforcement, of all things, and I—"

"And you being the drunken, philandering troll that you are."

"That's drunken, philandering dwarf if you don't mind," Tyrion replied with a wry smirk. And of the three, that was undoubtedly the greatest sin of them all, as far his family was concerned. "Father should be pleased, anyway, at your performance this morning. There's nothing quite like a family tragedy to gain sympathy with the voters, and you do play the role of the grieving mother so well. Truly. I was almost moved to tears."

Beneath her even exterior, Cersei bristled with rage. "And what would you know about it? Losing someone. You, who can't even hold a marriage together for more than a year at a time. Your closest friends are people paid to put up with you, and your own family can hardly stand the sight of you."

Tyrion's expression molded into an austere frown. This was the Cersei he knew—vengeance, not tears. He refused to give her the satisfaction of knowing that she'd hurt him. "I just want to make certain you've thought this through, putting Joffrey out as some kind of saint and painting Sansa as a monster."

"You always hated Joffrey."

"I did," Tyrion readily confessed. "He was a blithering toad, who never would've been the golden prince you and Father wanted him to be."

"No. You always hoped for that title yourself."

"That doesn't mean I wanted him dead." Tyrion took a long breath, his jaw screwed tight. "He deserved it, sister. You know that as well as I do. Sansa was a virtual prisoner in this house. He was hitting her."

Cersei shook her head. "I know nothing of the sort."

"Fine. Stay in denial if you want, but Sansa's trial is coming up. Whatever goodwill you and Father secure for when he makes his run for President will evaporate when the truth comes out in court."

"Sansa Stark murdered my son," Cersei hissed. "That is the truth. That is the only truth that matters."

"Barristan Selmy doesn't see it that way. Yes, there was some conflicting evidence, but the man was the most respected Chief in the history of the King's Landing Police Department, and he resigned rather than pin a murder charge on that girl."

"She's guilty. That evidence you so readily want to ignore says so."

"You know it's not that simple."

"I know I can hardly expect a bunch of swinging cocks to look past that girl's pretty face long enough to see the truth."

Tyrion glared and his voice lowered to a resonant pitch. "There was blood all over, sister. I saw it. So did you. Most of it was Sansa's, and we know there was another person in that room."

Cersei scoffed and a cold smile touched the corner of her mouth. "And he's dead, isn't he? For keeping her from me. For trying to hide what she did."

A deathly chill raced along Tyrion's spine, and he went silent.

"Sansa Stark killed my boy, and it's her turn to pay for it." Cersei sauntered over and thunked the champagne bottle down in front of him. "Keep your gift. I'll do my celebrating when this is all over."

"Cersei, the DA's case won't hold up at trial," he called after her. "There are too many discrepancies. And even if you manage to get Sansa convicted, there's no way you'll be able to keep Joffrey—and this family—from getting slandered all over the media."

Cersei waltzed out as if she hadn't heard him, and Tyrion balled up his fist in frustration. Naturally, Cersei had no intention of ever letting it get as far as a trial, but somehow he'd thought he could still reason with her. That leveraging Tywin's future plans for the Presidency against her personal vendetta might make her think twice about her course of action. Idiot. Cersei was blind, and he was a fool.

Tyrion picked up his office phone and dialed his assistant's extension. "Yes, Pod. Is he back yet? Alright. Tell him I want to see him."

He hung up the receiver. He looked darkly across his office and sipped his Cognac, carefully this time, as visions of a young redheaded girl, smart and friendly though a little shy, slipped across his memory. He'd met Sansa Stark at dinner her first night in the Red Keep. She was seventeen, then. Wide-eyed and far too sweet. Although he'd been busy exchanging pleasantries with her parents and the other dignitaries invited to welcome the Starks to King's Landing, he still remembered the knot that had formed deep in the pit of his stomach when he saw how taken she was already by Joffrey's attentions. He'd thought the Stark name would protect her. Still, he should have done something.

He'd never imagined how things would end up.

Several minutes later, Pod's head popped around the door. "He's here, sir."

Tyrion nodded and set down his glass. Pod disappeared and Bronn took his place, casually leaning against the doorframe with his thumbs tucked inside his belt. "You know, I rather enjoy these little fact-finding jobs you send me out on."

"Oh?"

"Aye," he said, his lilting tone in full effect. He gave up his position in the doorway and swaggered into the room. He plopped down into one of the two receiving chairs across from Tyrion and threw his feet up onto Tyrion's desk. "I'm thinking one of these days, I might give up this security gig and try it full time. Blackwater, P.I. has a pretty nice ring to it, don't you think?"

Tyrion glanced pointedly at Bronn's boots.

"Oh. Sorry." Bronn pulled a foot back, dusted off the bottom of his shoe, and placed it right back where it was.

Tyrion rolled his eyes. Unlike the staid, suit-wearing division of the President's Guard, Bronn, head of Tyrion's own private security, didn't take too much stock in formalities. Not that he wasn't capable; he just didn't see the point in it. Saying anything more would have been equally as pointless, so Tyrion let it go. He'd have Pod repolish his desk later.

"Any luck locating Osney yet?"

"Nope. Same story everywhere. Got fired and decided to take a trip out of town. I went by his apartment. Suitcases are gone, though his clothes are still there. Trash and sink are empty, his voicemail's full, and the landlady's been collecting his mail—junk for the most part, by the way. Doesn't look like he's been there for a long time."

"How long do you think?"

Bronn shrugged. "Landlady's got stuff dating back from last August, so I'd say at least that long. And from what I can gather, nobody's heard from him either."

Tyrion made a noise, a low "hmm" in the back of his throat.

Bronn nodded. "Aye. I thought it seemed off too, so I did a little more digging. Turns out his rent's up-to-date. Paid like clockwork on the 1st of every month."

Tyrion sat forward, his interest suddenly piqued. "By whom?"

"Who else? Lannister Corp."

Naturally, Tyrion thought. Lannister Corp. was his family's bread and butter. Tywin Lannister had spent a lifetime building his father's company up from a middling outfit to a giant in the mining industry. Currently, Kevan Lannister, the company's CFO, was heading the board while Tywin was occupied by public office, but Tywin's influence at its headquarters in Casterly Rock was still felt. It was in the walls. He still made regular visits. He still consulted with Kevan on an almost daily basis. For all Tyrion cared, he could die there.

But Tywin wouldn't give a damn about Osney Kettleblack's rent. It had to have been Cersei. The question was: why? Tyrion's suspicions had been brewing now for months, but he had no evidence, and similar to Joffrey's murder, every answer he got seemed to contradict itself.

"You're sure there wasn't any sign that Gregor had been there?"

Bronn huffed out loud. "If the Mountain had been there, everyone would've noticed. He's not one you easily miss."

"True." And without Tywin's say so, Gregor wasn't likely to have been there anyway. Just as Bronn belonged to Tyrion and the Hound had belonged to Cersei, Gregor Clegane was Tywin's private security and, when necessary, his personal army. Gregor wasn't the type to make someone quietly disappear. He was the weapon Tywin used when he wanted to make a statement. If Gregor had ever set foot in Osney's apartment, there would have been pieces of him everywhere and stains no shampoo would ever get out.

That ruled out Tywin. So he was back to Cersei working on her own and the events of last July.

"What about the Hound?" Tyrion asked. "Is there still no sign of him?"

Bronn paused, his spine stiffening, his jaw taut. "No. No, there's nothing." A faint shadow passed momentarily over his features, one Tyrion might've interpreted as regret if he didn't know better. It surprised him. Most of the men employed by his family were thugs and ex-mercenaries. While he hid it better, Bronn was more mercenary than most. It was hard to believe he had a sentimental bone in his body.

"It's been eight months. Maybe he really is dead," Tyrion said.

Bronn nodded soberly. "Probably. Bad way to go, that. Especially for him."

Tyrion agreed. He had never liked the Hound, per se, but dying in a fire was something he wouldn't have wished on his worst enemy. Not even Cersei.

"What are you going to do about the girl?" Bronn asked.

Tyrion shook his head. "I'm not sure. Frankly, it's a miracle she's survived this long."

"Aye, there's been no chance for your sister's goons to grab her. She hasn't set a pretty Northern toe outside the Black Cells since she went in. Not even for off-site jobs. Almost like she's in prison," he added facetiously.

Tyrion reached for his glass. Rich amber liquid undulated along the sides as he rested it in his palm. "Well, whatever degree of safety it bought Sansa, I don't think it will last much longer. Cersei can't afford to draw this out any longer. If a slow, painful death in an abandoned warehouse somewhere is what Cersei was hoping for, she may have to settle for quick and dirty instead."

Bronn looked him straight on. "You think she's already got someone on the inside."

"I'd bet my life on it."

"So what are you going to do?"

"I'm not sure how much I can do." Tyrion gulped the last of the Cognac and hissed as it went down. The brilliant blue of Ned and Catelyn Stark's daughter haunted him when he remembered how she was that first night, seated at the corner of the table next to Joffrey, huddling close as they spoke with each other. Her bright smile. The occasional laugh. Joffrey could be charming when he wanted to. Tyrion just wished he had thought to warn her.

He owed Sansa Stark a debt, and a Lannister always pays their debts.

"Give me a few hours," he said, determined. "I need to make a few phone calls."