TYRION
The candle at his desk was burning low. Tyrion called in a servant to bring another and bent down over the parchment.
CW
541 sg 5 sr 1 g
163 sg 9 sr 1 g
44 sg
190 1 d 11 m
36 3 d 20 m
m
1 20 d
If 'CW' stood for 'City Watch' as he thought it did, that was the gold cloaks' wages, listed by rank. The writing in Littlefinger's accounts was not meant for outsiders. It was thick with abbreviations and it was often hard to tell the end of one number from the start of another, especially this far beyond dusk.
There was something odd about those numbers. Tyrion flipped back a week. There was no parallel expenditure then. He flipped a few days further back, in case he had missed it, and spotted no other such entry.
Why not? Have I misunderstood 'CW'? As multiple evenings and early mornings going through these accounts had told him, Littlefinger was not the sort of master of coin who was haphazard and disorganised with his payments.
Then an idea occurred to him. He flipped back a whole moon and, sure enough, he found more such accounts. This was not a weekly or fortnightly wage, it was a moonly one.
A pittance!… but of course. Since Lord Renly had blocked the bounty of the Reach from the city, the price of food in King's Landing had been rising horrifically high. The ordinary gold cloaks were paid a pittance that would scarcely suffice to buy food, even lower than the wage of many in the city, but the wage jumped rapidly with position. A sergeant of the Watch earned thrice the wages of his men-at-arms, and for higher ranks it multiplied even greater, and, comparing the numbers in each rank, there were far more men in the upper ranks compared to the number of ordinary watchmen than there had been before. A gold cloak's wage was not high enough to drive out other forms of employment, but the lower ranks had a strong incentive to rise higher, and undoubtedly that required Littlefinger's patronage. Meantime, the lower-ranking gold cloaks had little choice but to live by corruption and intimidation, so that they had enough to eat. Tyrion knew that many of the city's merchants quietly paid off the City Watch, lest they meet with any 'accidents'. And of course it would be useful to a man like Petyr Baelish to drag his men into such practices. Corrupt men could be made loyal through the threat of exposing their wrongdoing.
What could be done? Little enough. He could hardly organise a mass demotion of the gold cloaks' upper ranks, nor could he demand higher wages for the common watchmen, given the parlous state of the realm's treasury. It was just another part of a disturbing picture about the hold that Littlefinger had over the city.
There was a knock on the door. "Not now," Tyrion said. "I'm busy."
"Begging your pardon, m'lord," came the voice of a messenger boy, "but you'll be wanting to hear this."
"A moment." With a sigh, his feet tingling with disuse, Tyrion stood. After calling in a servant to dress him, he strode out to the king's reception chamber.
The room was well lit, unlike his own bedchamber. Torches flickered at the sides, casting shadows that played in strange shadings with the intricately embroidered tapestries. Varys and Littlefinger were already seated. The latter looked perfectly healthy, even though he had been absent from the small council allegedly on grounds of illness until twelve days ago. Tyrion had not trusted the announcement for a minute; he had immediately ordered the Moon Brothers, Black Ears and Stone Crows to watch Littlefinger's chambers and brothels, the city gates and, more loosely, the city as a whole. They had caught no fewer than five men whose features from a distance resembled Littlefinger's trying to sneak out of the city by darkness. None of them were the man himself, nor had they ever met him; they had been hired, and advised on their disguises, by a nameless white-haired sellsword with lopsided teeth and a long nose. Not a trace of this sellsword had been found elsewhere in the city. Tyrion had even visited the master of coin while he was sick and found a man asleep in bed except for the occasional moment of woeful coughing and non-lucid wakefulness whose resemblance to the true Lord Baelish was startlingly strong. He had seriously considered the possibility that the sellsword with the long nose could have been working for Cersei or Varys and that Baelish might be genuinely ill, perhaps even poisoned, but he had not dismissed his watchful eyes and ears and that had profited him. When a bent-backed old drunkard had wandered into one of Littlefinger's brothels, Chella daughter of Cheyk had informed Tyrion at once; the disguise was good but the Black Ears were better. Tyrion had sent Bronn to hire some men to explore the nearby towns and castles in the hopes of finding out why and where Baelish had absented himself from the capital for nearly three weeks. Dressed and equipped as Tyroshi cloth merchants—King's Landing had no lack of men with Essosi heritage, who could imitate the accents and ways of dress well enough to fool a lord from out in the provinces—they had gone as far as three days' ride on a fast horse from King's Landing before they found Castle Spilbroke, a small keep to the east of Rosby, where a talkative servant had seen a man arrive from the direction of the city and be welcomed by Lord Spilbroke in the middle of the night, at the right time for it to be Baelish. Tyrion had not the faintest idea what Lord Petyr Baelish could be plotting with a minor crownlander lord like Raymont Spilbroke, scarcely a step up from a landed knight, but he still had his hirelings watching the man; he meant to find out.
Of course, he said nothing of this to Littlefinger. As far as he knew, the man had no idea he had been spotted, though he surely knew of the capture of the decoys, and Tyrion intended to keep it that way.
The next to appear was Grand Maester Pycelle. "What is the meaning of this, Captain?" he demanded of the burly watchman in the chamber. "I am an old man, tired…"
"M'lords," said the man, one of Bywater's underlings, "there's a knight who demanded to see the king's council at once. He came here in a cog from Gulltown and claims he's a courtier from the Eyrie."
Tyrion inhaled sharply. The Eyrie. They already knew that Lady Selyse Baratheon had come by ship to Gulltown and, for propriety's sake, had sat down to a feast with the Graftons and other lordlings and puffed-up personages of that city, on her way to treat with Lady Arryn. An ambitious merchant with a swift ship had come to King's Landing with that news more than a moon past, and a dozen others shortly afterward, but they had heard naught of Lady Baratheon meeting Lady Arryn yet. He had an idea of what this news might be, and he doubted it would hearten him.
They waited more than a quarter of an hour before Cersei deigned to grace them with her presence. She was dressed magnificently in a gown of deep Tyroshi purple and cloth-of-gold. The purple had probably been dearer.
"For what did you disturb my sleep?" she said, glaring at the watchman, who wilted beneath her eyes.
"There's a knight, Your Grace, Ser Gerold Lynderly," he said in a very small voice, "wanted to see the king's—His Grace's council, says he's a courtier with news from the Eyrie."
"Do you even know this so-called Ser Gerold is a knight and a Valeman? Any man can claim such a thing; it's quite different to be it."
The gold cloak reddened. "He talked like one, begging Your Grace's pardon."
"I see," said Cersei thinly. "Can you all do anything without me? Examine him, Grand Maester. If he is truly a courtier from the Eyrie, I would like to know it. If he is a liar, I want his head."
"Your Grace," Pycelle said, "I would need a book—"
Of course you do, Tyrion thought. Not even a Grand Maester knows the name and face of every second cousin of a noble House in Westeros. But Cersei only said, "Then get one."
By the time Ser Gerold's face, ancestry and heraldry had been suitably ascertained, it had been almost another hour. Tyrion was slouching in his chair, hating the bright light that kept his eyes open, when the courtier was finally allowed in to the reception room.
"Your Grace, my lords, Ser Gerold Lynderly!" A thin young man with a thick chestnut moustache was let in to the room, with two armed gold cloaks at his sides. His clothing was clearly of fine make but bore signs of wear.
"Your Grace," said Ser Gerold, kneeling before Cersei, who sat in the biggest chair, flanked by the four councillors. "My sword is yours."
"I am very glad of that, ser," Cersei said, her voice all soft courtesy. Tyrion wondered that she could be the model of demure politeness and yet she so frequently chose the face she presented to the world to be one of arrogance and derision. She addressed the gold cloaks: "Leave us."
They obeyed.
"Rise, Ser Gerold. What news do you bring for your queen?"
"I have long been at the court of the Eyrie, Your Grace, long before the Lady Lysa returned there from this city. A moon and five days past, Selyse Baratheon ascended the buckets and set foot in the Eyrie. She introduced herself as queen, and the Lady Lysa called her 'Your Grace'."
"What?" Cersei's voice was shrill.
"Er, yes, Your Grace." The knight sounded like he feared for his life. If he does, that is wise of him. "The Lady Lysa has always been erratic, Your Grace, ever since she set foot there a year ago. She spends her time playing with the hearts of her suitors; just when one thinks he has found her favour he is cast aside for another. She is fickle as any woman ever has been. But I stayed there for four days afterward, while she and Lady Baratheon spoke, and her mind seemed close to being set. She means for Lord Robert to wed Shireen Baratheon; she means for her son to be a king, to succeed Lord Stannis. As your faithful servant it fell to me to warn your royal self, so I rode to Gulltown as fast as I could and sailed here."
"I see," Cersei said softly. "Thank you for informing me of this, ser." She raised her voice. "Watchman!"
A gold cloak reappeared at the door a few moments later. "Your Grace?"
"Fetch a servant and ensure that Ser Gerold has some pleasant chambers for the night. He has had a long ride and a long voyage, with little rest."
The watchman bowed. "Your will, Your Grace."
Once the gold cloak had been dismissed, Cersei looked to him. "Tyrion, you've met Lady Arryn quite recently. Does that lickspittle's account hold water?"
"Lady Arryn dotes on her sickly, appalling little boy. She treats him like a baby and prefers to keep him close, but at the same time seems to think the world of him. Would she like to make him king, if the thought were presented to her? Yes, I think so."
"Then father must be informed."
"Yes, and word must be sent to the Rock and our other loyal lords as well. Grand Maester," Tyrion said, "see to it."
Pycelle seemed surprised by the abrupt dismissal. "My lord, Your Grace, my counsel—"
"Has been heard enough today. I hope you will not keep our lord father waiting."
Tyrion woke up very late the next morning. It was the morning after that when he headed to the throne room to treat with Ser Cleos Frey.
The Iron Throne of Aegon the Conqueror was a tangle of nasty barbs and jagged metal teeth waiting for any fool who tried to sit too comfortably. Nonetheless, when she swept imperiously into the room and sat down, Queen Cersei looked as if she were born on it. She was robed in green silk, clasped by gold and rubies, with ermine white as snow over her shoulders. Lannister guardsmen stood silent in their crimson cloaks and lion-crested halfhelms. Ser Jacelyn's gold cloaks faced them across the hall. The steps to the throne were flanked by Ser Arys Oakheart and Ser Boros Blount, both of them sworn brothers of the Kingsguard. Courtiers filled the gallery while supplicants clustered near the towering oak-and-bronze doors. Sansa Stark looked especially lovely this morning, though her face was as pale as milk. Lord Gyles stood coughing, while poor cousin Tyrek wore his bridegroom's mantle of miniver and velvet. Since his marriage to little Lady Ermesande three days past, the other squires had taken to calling him "Wet Nurse" and asking him what sort of swaddling clothes his bride wore on their wedding night.
"Ser Cleos Frey may be admitted to my presence," the Queen Regent called, her voice echoing through the chamber. Unexpectedly, Tyrion felt a stab of envy, just for that.
Ser Cleos made the long walk between the gold cloaks and the crimson, looking neither right nor left. He knelt before the Iron Throne.
"The northmen's terms are wholly unacceptable," Cersei decreed. "These are the terms that you will bring to Stark. He must swear fealty to His Grace Joffrey of the House Baratheon, the First of His Name, King of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm and cease warring against his vassals. There will be an exchange of hostages: the freedom of my brother Ser Jaime Lannister and my cousins Willem Lannister and Tion Frey in exchange for the freedom of Lord Medger Cerwyn, Ser Wylis Manderly, Ser Donnel Locke, Harrion Karstark and Lord Stark's sisters Sansa and Arya Stark and the return of the sword Ice. If our hostages are harmed, the same harm will be done to his. Tell him he would be well-advised to accept our terms the first time, for they are generous. We offer four highborn men of the north, and his sisters, and his ancestral sword, for only three highborn men of the south, two of them young. If this offer is rejected out of hand, we will be less generous."
Before the news of the day before yesterday, they had planned to insist that Jaime be freed first. Now, with the threat of the royal fleet and the hosts of the Vale allying with the Stark boy under the banner of Lord Stannis, their plans had changed considerably.
"In exchange for this peace," Cersei continued, "we will draw a line under this year of turmoil and bloodshed. There will be no retribution enacted against Houses Tully and Stark for treason, nor against their lords bannermen. Harrenhal will remain in His Grace the King's hands. The hosts of Lords Tully and Stark will not fight His Grace the King's hosts, and loyal vassals of His Grace the King will be sent as observers to Riverrun, Winterfell and other major castles in the riverlands and the north, sending ravens every week, to confirm that these terms are not being broken. Tell him that he will never achieve a better peace than this. Tell him that my lord father maintains a strong defence in the southern riverlands, a line which all of his strength will not suffice to break." She looked ill. "And tell… tell him that he has fewer allies than he may think, for Prince Doran Martell and I have consented that his son, Prince Trystane, should wed my daughter, Princess Myrcella."
Whispers flowed across the gallery. Some sounded pleased; others did not.
"His father's bones will return to him with you, to show His Grace the King's good faith."
"Your Grace," Ser Cleos replied, "I will convey these terms to Lord Stark."
"I will send fifty men of my guard with you, to protect you on the way. Gods speed."
As Ser Cleos left the room, a herald stepped forward and said, "If any man has other matters to set forth before the Queen Regent and the King's council, let him speak now or go forth and hold his silence."
"I will be heard." A slender man all in black pushed his way between the Redwyne twins.
"Ser Alliser!" Tyrion exclaimed. "Why, I had no notion that you'd come to court. You should have sent me word."
"I have, as well you know." Thorne was as prickly as his name, a spare, sharp-featured man of fifty, hard-eyed and hard-handed, his black hair streaked with grey. "I have been shunned, ignored, and left to wait like some baseborn servant."
"The Queen Regent is not here to listen to complaints," Ser Boros said harshly. "Speak now or be silent."
"How may we be of help to you, good brother?" Grand Maester Pycelle asked in soothing tones.
"The Lord Commander sent me to His Grace the King," Thorne answered. "The matter is too grave to be left to servants."
Tyrion winced. That was not a wise thing to imply to my sister.
"His Grace the King is not yet of age," Cersei told him. "I am his mother and his regent. I rule on his behalf."
Ser Alliser must have sensed the danger, or perhaps he was just familiar with the pride of queens and princes. "I most humbly beg your pardon, Your Grace. I meant no offence to your dignity or to your station." His voice sounded as if he were eating lemons whole.
"You are granted it." The man lived at the Wall, but Tyrion fancied it could not be much colder than Cersei's voice was at this very moment. "What do you ask of me?"
"Your Grace, the Lord Commander sent me to tell you that we found two rangers, long missing. They were dead, yet when we brought the corpses back to the Wall they rose again in the night. One slew Ser Jaremy Rykker, while the other tried to murder the Lord Commander."
Tyrion heard someone snigger. He fought for Aerys Targaryen in the Rebellion. Does he mean to mock us? Surely that was likelier than there being any truth to such a bizarre tale. And yet… and yet…
Tyrion remembered a cold night under the stars when he'd stood beside the boy Jon Snow and a great white wolf atop the Wall at the end of the world, gazing out at the trackless dark beyond. He had felt… what?… something, to be sure, a dread that had cut like that frigid northern wind. A wolf had howled off in the night, and the sound had sent a shiver through him.
Don't be a fool, he told himself. A wolf, a wind, a dark forest, it meant nothing. And yet… he had come to have a liking for old Jeor Mormont during his time at Castle Black. And he was not sure he believed that there was truly nothing beyond the Wall but wildlings and endless snow.
Cersei felt no such uncertainty. She said, sweetly, "So you mean to tell me that you have come here from the Wall to tell me that the Night's Watch is under threat from dead men?"
This time Ser Alliser wholly missed the danger in her tone. "It is, Your Grace," he said with all earnestness. "I saw it with my own eyes, as did the Lord Commander. We brought back Jared's hand as proof. It was dead and rotting but it was still moving, and sought to kill."
For one unbelievable moment Tyrion thought the man might have saved himself. Cersei seemed interested. "I would see this hand."
"Your Grace, it rotted to pieces while I was kept waiting. There's naught left to show but bones."
Cersei exploded. "Do you think me a little girl, to shudder in fear of snarks and grumkins? I am the Queen Regent! I will not hear such mockery. I will not hear it! Ser Arys, throw this insolent filth in the black cells."
Thorne knew better than to challenge a knight of the Kingsguard. "Your Grace, I mean no mockery!" he cried. "It is no mockery! The Lord Commander saw it himself; if you send a raven to Castle Black they will tell you the same tale! I would never have come here with such a tale if I didn't have proof!" He flailed around wildly in Ser Arys Oakheart's arms, eventually seizing on an idea. "The Imp! The Imp kept me waiting, out of ill will!"
"You will not insult my brother in my presence! Get him out of my sight!"
Tyrion's shock at his sister defending him in public was tempered by the knowledge that it was only because she now hated Ser Alliser more. Still, it felt almost pleasant. And he felt little regard for Thorne's cause now that the man had tried to blame him.
At Cersei's signal, the herald cried an end, and the court began to empty as the Queen Regent stormed to her own apartments, fair face twisted by fury. Grand Maester Pycelle had already scuttled off, but Varys and Littlefinger had watched it all, start to finish. Littlefinger drew Tyrion aside. "A word, my lord, if I may."
Tyrion followed. "Lord Petyr, I sense that you are unhappy with me."
"I love you as much I ever have, my lord. Though I do not relish being played for a fool. If Myrcella weds Trystane Martell, she can scarcely wed Robert Arryn, can she?"
"Not without causing great scandal," he admitted. "I regret my little ruse, Lord Petyr, but when we spoke, I could not know the Dornishmen would accept my offer."
Littlefinger was not appeased. "I do not like being lied to, my lord. Leave me out of your next deception."
Only if you'll do the same for me, Tyrion thought, glancing at the dagger sheathed at Littlefinger's hip. "If I have given offence, I am deeply sorry. All men know how much we love you, my lord. And how much we need you."
"Try and remember that." Littlefinger left the throne room.
Tyrion breathed deeply. He had very nearly commented on how much his family would miss Littlefinger if they lost him, but any such reference to Littlefinger's supposed illness so long after it had happened would imply Tyrion's own awareness of the deception behind it. He did not dare take such a risk. He did not want to move against Lord Baelish until and unless he was ready.
Tyrion headed back to Varys, who had stood in another corner of the room, his eyes inscrutable. "Walk with me," he said to the eunuch. They left through the king's door behind the throne, the eunuch's slippers whisking lightly over the stone.
"I grow ever more admiring of you, my lord," Varys confessed. "However did you manage to persuade your sister to release half of her own guard?"
"Oh, quite simply. I told her it is part of my scheme to free Jaime. And in a way, it even is."
Varys stroked a powdered cheek. "This would doubtless involve the four men your man Bronn searched for so diligently in all the low places of King's Landing. A thief, a poisoner, a mummer, and a murderer."
"Put them in crimson cloaks and lion helms, they'll look no different than any other guardsmen. I searched for some time for a ruse that might get them into Riverrun before I thought to hide them in plain sight. They'll ride in by the main gate, flying Lannister banners and escorting Lord Eddard's bones." He smiled crookedly. "Four men alone would be watched vigilantly. Four men among fifty can lose themselves. So we had to send the true guardsmen as well as the false, as my sister agreed. Truth be told I'm pleased it worked so well; I did not dare ask for her whole guard, lest she suspect my other purpose, and it was a risk to gamble on even so high as fifty."
"Cleverly done, my lord. Still, the loss of her red cloaks will surely make her uneasy."
"I like her uneasy," said Tyrion.
Ser Cleos Frey left that very afternoon, escorted by fifty red-cloaked Lannister guardsmen. The men Robb Stark had sent joined them at the Gate of the Gods for the long ride west.
That night he feasted with the Stone Crows and Moon Brothers in the Small Hall, though he shunned the wine for once. He wanted all his wits about him. "Shagga, what moon is this?"
Shagga's frown was a fierce thing. "Black, I think."
"In the west, they call that a traitor's moon. Try not to get too drunk tonight, and see that your axe is sharp."
"A Stone Crow's axe is always sharp, and Shagga's axes are sharpest of all. Once I cut off a man's head, but he did not know it until he tried to brush his hair. Then it fell off."
"Is that why you never brush yours?" The Stone Crows roared and stamped their feet, Shagga hooting loudest of all.
By midnight, the castle was silent and dark. Doubtless a few gold cloaks on the walls spied them leaving the Tower of the Hand, but no-one raised a voice. He was the Hand of the King, and where he went was his own affair.
The thin wooden door split with a thunderous crack beneath the heel of Shagga's boot. Pieces went flying inward, and Tyrion heard a woman's gasp of fear. Shagga hacked the door apart with three great blows of his axe and kicked his way through the ruins. Timett followed, and then Tyrion, stepping gingerly over the splinters. The fire had burnt down to a few glowing embers, and shadows lay thick across the bedchamber. When Timett ripped the heavy curtains off the bed, the naked serving girl stared up with wide white eyes. "Please, my lords," she pleaded, "don't hurt me." She cringed away from Shagga, flushed and fearful, trying to cover her charms with her hands and coming up a hand short.
"Go," Tyrion told her. "It's not you we want."
"Shagga wants this woman."
"Shagga wants every whore in this city of whores," complained Timett son of Timett.
"Yes," Shagga said, unabashed. "Shagga would give her a strong child."
"If she wants a strong child, she'll know who to seek," Tyrion said. "Timett, see her out… gently, if you would."
The Burnt Man pulled the girl from the bed and half-marched, half-dragged her across the chamber. Shagga watched them go, mournful as a puppy. The girl stumbled over the shattered door and out into the hall, helped along by a firm shove from Timett. Above their heads, the ravens were screeching.
Tyrion dragged the soft blanket off the bed, uncovering Grand Maester Pycelle beneath. "Tell me, does the Citadel approve of you bedding the serving wenches, maester?"
The old man was as naked as the girl, though he made a markedly less attractive sight. For once, his heavy-lidded eyes were open wide. "W-what is the meaning of this? I am an old man, your loyal servant…"
Tyrion hoisted himself onto the bed. "So loyal that you sent only one of my letters to Doran Martell. The other you gave to my sister."
"N-no," squealed Pycelle. "No, a falsehood, I swear it, it was not me. Varys, it was Varys, the Spider, I warned you—"
"Do all maesters lie so poorly? I told Varys that I was giving Prince Doran my nephew Tommen to foster. I told Littlefinger that I planned to wed Myrcella to Lord Robert of the Eyrie. I told no-one that I had offered Myrcella to the Dornish… that truth was only in the letter I entrusted to you."
Pycelle clutched for a corner of the blanket. "Birds are lost, messages stolen or sold… it was Varys, there are things I might tell you of the eunuch that would chill your blood…"
"My lady prefers my blood hot."
"Make no mistake, for every secret the eunuch whispers in your ear, he holds seven back. And Littlefinger, that one…"
"My lady prefers my blood hot."
"Make no mistake, for every secret the eunuch whispers in your ear, he holds seven back. And Littlefinger, that one…"
"I know all about Lord Petyr. He's almost as untrustworthy as you. Shagga, cut off his manhood and feed it to the goats."
Shagga hefted the huge double-bladed axe. "There are no goats, Halfman."
"Make do."
Roaring, Shagga leapt forward. Pycelle shrieked and wet the bed, urine spraying in all directions as he tried to scramble back out of reach. The wildling caught him by the end of his billowy white beard and hacked off three quarters of it with a single slash of the axe.
"Timett, do you suppose our friend will be more forthcoming without those whiskers to hide behind?" Tyrion used a bit of the sheet to wipe the piss off his boots.
"He will tell the truth soon." Darkness pooled in the empty pit of Timett's burnt eye. "I can smell the stink of his fear."
Shagga tossed a handful of hair down to the rushes, and seized what beard was left. "Hold still, maester," urged Tyrion. "When Shagga gets angry, his hands shake."
"Shagga's hands never shake," the huge man said indignantly, pressing the great crescent blade under Pycelle's quivering chin and sawing through another tangle of beard.
"How long have you been spying for my sister?" Tyrion asked.
Pycelle's breathing was rapid and shallow. "All I did, I did for House Lannister." A sheen of sweat covered the broad dome of the old man's brow, and wisps of white hair clung to his wrinkled skin. "Always… for years… your lord father, ask him, I was ever his true servant… it was I who bid Aerys open his gates…"
That took Tyrion by surprise. He had been no more than an ugly boy at Casterly Rock when the city fell. "So the Sack of King's Landing was your work as well?"
"For the realm! Once Rhaegar died, the war was done. Aerys was mad, Viserys too young, Prince Aegon a babe at the breast, but the realm needed a king… I prayed it should be your good father, but Robert was too strong, and Lord Stark moved too swiftly…"
"How many have you betrayed, I wonder? Aerys, Eddard Stark, me… King Robert as well? Lord Arryn, Prince Rhaegar? Where does it begin, Pycelle?" He knew where it ended.
The axe scratched at the apple of Pycelle's throat and stroked the soft wobbly skin under his jaw, scraping away the last hairs. "You… were not here," he gasped when the blade moved upwards to his cheeks. "Robert… his wounds… if you had seen them, smelt them, you would have no doubt…"
"Oh, I know the boar did your work for you… but if he'd left the job half done, doubtless you would have finished it."
"He was a wretched king… vain, drunken, lecherous… he would have set your sister aside, his own queen… please… Renly was plotting to bring the Highgarden maid to court, to entice his brother… it is the gods' own truth…"
"And what was Lord Arryn plotting?"
"He knew," Pycelle said. "About… about…"
"I know what he knew about," snapped Tyrion, who was not anxious for Shagga and Timett to know as well.
"He was sending his wife back to the Eyrie, and his son to be fostered on Dragonstone… he meant to act…"
"So you poisoned him first."
"No." Pycelle struggled feebly. Shagga growled and grabbed his head. The clansman's hand was so big he could have crushed the maester's skull like an eggshell had he squeezed.
Tyrion tsked at him. "I saw the tears of Lys among your potions. And you sent away Lord Arryn's own maester and tended him yourself, so you could make certain that he died."
"A falsehood!"
"Shave him closer," Tyrion suggested. "The throat agin."
The axe swept back down, rasping over the skin. A thin film of spit bubbled on Pycelle's lips as his mouth trembled. "I tried to save Lord Arryn. I vow—"
"Careful now, Shagga, you've cut him."
Shagga growled. "Dolf fathered warriors, not barbers."
When he felt the blood trickling down his neck and onto his chest, the old man shuddered, and the last strength went out of him. He looked shrunken, both smaller and frailer than he had been when they burst in on him. "Yes," he whimpered, "yes, Colemon was purging, so I sent him away. The queen needed Lord Arryn dead, she did not say so, could not, Varys was listening, always listening, but when I looked at her I knew. It was not me who gave him the poison, though, I swear it." The old man wept. "Varys will tell you, it was the boy, his squire, Hugh he was called, he must surely have done it, ask your sister, ask her."
Tyrion was disgusted. "Bind him and take him away," he commanded. "Throw him down in one of the black cells."
They dragged him out the splintered door. "Lannister," he moaned, "all I've done has been for Lannister…"
When he was gone, Tyrion made a leisurely search of his quarters and collected a few more small jars from his shelves. The ravens muttered above his head as he worked, a strangely peaceful noise. He would need to find someone to tend the birds until the Citadel sent a man to replace Pycelle.
He was the one I'd hoped to trust. Varys and Littlefinger were no more loyal, he suspected… only more subtle, and thus more dangerous. Perhaps his father's way would have been best: summon Ilyn Payne, mount three heads above the gates, and have done. And wouldn't that be a pretty sight, he thought.
Author's Note: In addition to the obvious differences from canon, there's something a bit more subtle, except to those who've memorised every scene of ACoK. In canon, Tyrion and Cersei heard news of Stannis besieging Storm's End, and while Cersei was distracted by her glee, Tyrion was able to slip her a laxative that left her indisposed for a while, so he sat on the Iron Throne during this scene. In Knees Falling he didn't get this opportunity for obvious reasons.