TYRION

"They are calling it the Clash of the Stags. 'Tis for that it took place outside Storm's End, and that is what they call it when two stags lock antlers, you see." Varys gave an obsequious smile. "Lord Stannis is dead, as I said, and he is not alone in that. Near all of his army was slain with him."

"Ill news indeed," Tyrion said. He had counted on the brothers Baratheon decimating each other in bloody battle, preferably taking many turns of the moon to do it. "What do you know of Renly's losses?"

Ser Kevan looked approving of the question. That is a good sign. Tyrion dared not be too hopeful, but it was clear that it was of the utmost importance to get the Lord Marshal on his side.

"Oh, those are tidings whose flavour you will much prefer, my lord. 'Twas a victory dearly bought." Varys steepled his fingers. "Lord Renly expected his brother's host to be scattered by his vanguard ere his main force even arrived, and many of his knights jostled for the opportunity to join it. 'Tis difficult to hear the specifics of what happened next—there were few who survived, and I suspect Lord Renly does not wish them to be known, for obvious reasons—but they charged into a well-laid and well-hidden trap and then they were surrounded. The massacre was almost total. Lord Renly had to swallow his pride, dismount and send most of the rest of his army to climb up on harder ground, which I am given to understand was made crueller still by pits, Lord Stannis's attacks, and crow's-feet. He lost more in trying to make the ascent before he was at last able to surmount and bring his host to bear upon Lord Stannis. Even the lightest, most generous accounts speak of five-hundred slain in the ascent slain. From what my little birds have told me, I believe the true loss to be double that. His whole losses are like to be four to four and a half thousand, or thereabouts." The eunuch took a sip of his wine. "Perhaps we should raise a glass each to Lord Stannis, for he has so kindly removed himself from the list of enemies whom we are bound to fear and he has harmed our greatest adversary as severely as any man could hope to."

Tyrion had not expected that to be taken seriously, but his sister did. "To Lord Stannis," she said, with an ironic lift and tilt of her glass. "May the time he rots in the seven hells be a little shorter, for the service he has done us." After they all drank, Cersei asked, "Which lords were entrusted with command and won most glory in the battle, and may be chief in Renly's councils? I would know my enemy."

"Lord Renly gave the chief positions to Ser Loras Tyrell," Varys said, "who led the vanguard. Lords Caron of Nightsong and Rowan of Goldengrove led the left and centre. Lord Renly led the right. As for Lord Renly's councils, Lord Tyrell of course stands at the head, and he was always close to Ser Loras, who fell early in the battle. Randyll Tarly also has his ear, and Lord Renly values Tarly's counsel as a warrior, though he fears appearing too dependent on him and chose not to give him a major command."

Kevan said, "That is good news, at least. If nothing else, we have the advantage of poor enemy leadership, which is not to be discounted. If Lord Stannis inflicted a hard, near-fought battle on Lord Renly where there should have been an easy victory, perhaps we can imitate that. Do you know what Lord Stannis's host was?"

"I hear Lord Stannis had a host of ten-thousand men ahorse." Varys gave a wry smile. "Which is rather interesting, as previously I heard that he had half that number, and fewer than one in a dozen of them mounted. And, of course, 'tis the men of the stormlands, most of whom are behind Renly or hearing tell from those who are, who are saying."

"So they lied, then," Littlefinger said, "to make Lord Stannis seem too feeble to be worth joining."

"Mayhaps," Varys said, "or mayhaps they are lying now, to make their heavy losses less embarrassing. My instinct is towards that. It is hard to believe Lord Stannis could have mustered a force of such size, even with all the sellswords he could hire from across the sea. But Lord Stannis allowed few to leave Dragonstone, so we have no tidings of his army from before he laid siege to Storm's End to corroborate in either direction."

Littlefinger sounded doubtful. "To slay four thousand knights with five thousand men, near all of them afoot?"

Tyrion raised an eyebrow. "Indeed. The late Lord Stannis may have been a gifted lord commander, and Lord Renly a fool, but that seems a little extreme even then."

"No doubt you are right, my lords." Varys gave them a simpering smile. "But it is of little import now. Whatever army he had, it died with him. It appears mercy is not one of Lord Renly's kingly virtues."

"And what of the royal fleet, Lord Varys?" Kevan demanded.

"Why, little, my lord," said Varys. "They fled before Lord Renly could take them. One might presume they are waiting idly with Lady Selyse on Dragonstone."

"There is our opportunity," Kevan declared. "I care little for what we might sacrifice to gain it. We need Lady Selyse's allegiance."

"Why so, my lord uncle?" said Tyrion. "What good would her fleet do us? Lord Renly will not march here by sea. We cannot thus block him from approaching the city."

"And the islands of the Narrow Sea are poor as dirt," said Cersei. "What little the islanders can spare of their fish will never sate the hunger of this city. And their men-at-arms were few enough before this battle. Lord Stannis complained incessantly to us of it; Robert groaned whenever he spoke of it, like all the times he moaned about various things to do with being made to give up Storm's End for Dragonstone. Now? After this Clash of the Stags, I doubt she has as many as a thousand."

Kevan looked frustrated. "Do none of you see? In the position we find ourselves in now, even two-thousand more men-at-arms are of less value than the royal fleet. Yes, it cannot stop Lord Renly on the march, but it can sail up the river and stop him from crossing the Blackwater. That means everything. He has no hope of surrounding the city from all sides on land if he cannot cross the river, and even if he did, we would not be surrounded truly."

Kevan pointed at the window, where the Red Keep overlooked the mouth of the Blackwater and the deep blue, seemingly endless expanse of the Narrow Sea.

"So the fleet could escort merchantmen bearing food to us. That would remedy the city's starvation at a stroke. Without the ability to starve us into submission Lord Renly cannot take the Iron Throne by laying siege. He will have no choice but to attempt to take the city by storm. My lord brother says oft that one man on a wall is worth many men beyond it. Here we have four-thousand men of mine and perhaps one or two thousand of the gold cloaks salvageable enough to be of good worth." The Lord Marshal looked around the room in appeal. "My lords, Your Grace, I would not envy Lord Renly sitting beneath the shadow of our walls with no choice but to take them by storm, always a gamble, risking that he may spill an ocean of his soldiers' blood for no gain at all."

Tyrion sat still and weighed his uncle's proposal in his thoughts. Cersei, of course, said at once, "But uncle, we cannot treat with her. That letter came from Dragonstone."

"Her husband wrote that letter, Your Grace," Littlefinger said. Tyrion tried to control his surprise; he had not expected the master of coin to support the Lord Marshal. "I know of no reason to think she had a hand in it."

"And she may hate us, and regard us as adulterers and usurpers," Tyrion said slowly, "but Lord Renly has just killed her husband—oh, not by his own hand, I grant you, but 'tis past certain by his will the deed was done—and her hopes of making her daughter queen died with him, and near all her lords bannermen's levies. I daresay if we were wise in how we went about it we could persuade her, however little love she has for us, she hates Lord Renly more."

"But how would we ever persuade her?" Cersei objected, mostly to Kevan. "What titles or honours can we offer her that she would value highly enough to join those she thinks of as usurpers? She thought herself a queen, and if Lady Arryn and then Lords Tully and Stark had consented, perhaps she would have been one. Her allegiance won't be won with crumbs from our table."

"Then if it is worth so much to us to have the royal fleet," said Tyrion, "we needs must offer her more than crumbs from our table."

"'Tis easy to say that," Cersei snapped. "What do you mean to give her?"

"Why, nothing more or less than what she sought before," Tyrion said with a crooked smile. "Her daughter as queen. But not by inheritance; by marriage."

"What?You would marry my son to a girl with greyscale?"

"A girl formerly with greyscale, sweet sister," Tyrion sighed. "Few afflicted by it are lucky enough for it to stop its progress, but if it dies, 'tis dead; it doesn't spread further on the body, nor is it catching. And her greyscale was on her face, not her, ahem, nether regions. There's no reason to believe her to be aught but perfectly fertile."

"But—" Cersei seemed to realise she needed to change tack. "But Joffrey is betrothed to Sansa Stark."

"Marriage contracts can be broken. What advantage is there in wedding the king to the daughter of a dead traitor?"

"And the Lady Shireen's bloodline is impeccable," Ser Kevan Lannister interjected. "On one side she is Joffrey's cousin in House Baratheon. On the other, the Florents are a House of ancient stock, by far more venerable and respectable than the Tyrells they serve, and may well be tempted to join us were we to hold out a hand to them, 'less we look too weak to be worth fighting for."

"But the girl is too young," said Cersei. "She's three years his junior. 'Twill be six years at the very least, more like to be eight or ten, ere she is strong enough to bear him a child."

"It will," Tyrion agreed, "but Tommen can marry an older girl to stabilise the succession, as well as Myrcella's Dornish marriage. And when he requires, ah, further sustenance before the Lady Shireen is old enough to participate, well, there are solutions."

Littlefinger leant on an elbow resting on the table and clasped his chin in a gloved hand. Tyrion was fairly sure that Lord Baelish wanted the queen not to see his smile.

"Joffrey will never be so base as Robert or you. He will never drown himself in wine and whores," Cersei retorted.

"Doubtless you know your son better than I do," Tyrion said sweetly. Cersei nodded, all confidence. "In which case the Lady Shireen's youth is no problem for him, so we need hear no more of it."

He had to admit, if only to himself, that Cersei's impotent, silent rage was immensely satisfying.

"I am pleased the matter is settled, my lords, Your Grace," Petyr Baelish said. "As this idea is yours, my lord Hand, and long has it been said that the Hand speaks with the king's voice, I suppose you will soon be on your way to Dragonstone."

What?!

His sister added her voice to Littlefinger's with alacrity. "Oh yes," Cersei said pleasantly, twisting the knife. "You are of the king's blood, brother dear. The Florents are of ancient pedigree, and, for their dispute with House Tyrell, intent on such in a manner few other Houses are. Surely Lady Selyse would accept no less. And, why, who could be better-suited to the role? You wield words as skilfully as Jaime wields a sword."

Tyrion was stunned. The suddenness of his sister's move—unplanned as it must have been, taking advantage of his own suggestion—took him wholly by surprise. He knew perfectly well that if he were exiled from the city everything he had achieved here would soon be undone and Cersei would do her best to reassert control of the capital, in the process handing true power to corrupt snakes like Pycelle whom she lacked the wits to recognise for what they were.

He fumbled for an excuse. "You are too kind, sister, but it seems to me that a boy's mother is better fitted to arrange his marriage than any uncle. And you have a gift for winning friends that I could never hope to match."

Cersei was still smiling. "But you said it yourself, brother. Lady Selyse regards us as adulterers and usurpers. Joffrey and I dare not go. I shudder to think what she might do to us!" It was an unconvincing shudder. "But you, even in her eyes, are guilty of nothing but fighting for your family."

"Her Grace makes a convincing argument," Kevan intervened. "I am needed here. No man or woman else can command the defence of the city. Lady Selyse will react better to you, my lord Hand, than to any other of our House, and a Lannister it needs must surely be."

Traitor! Tyrion was dumbstruck. His lord uncle had not seemed enamoured of Cersei's leadership; he had not expected him to take her side. A disagreement between the Queen Regent and the King's Hand could go either way, and Ser Kevan alone could not defy all civil authority, but with the rest of the council united against him, including the queen and the Lord Marshal of the Defenders of King's Landing, he had no recourse. He looked to Varys, in a desperate hope that the eunuch would speak for him, but the master of whisperers shrank from his gaze back into his chair.

Gods damn them all. Tyrion rose to his feet. He said icily, "It appears my lords have come to a conclusion. I will require a written commission, Your Grace, signed and sealed by you and the king, making absolutely clear to the Lady Selyse that I come with your blessing and sanction to act on your behalf. And I will need plenty of gold and time to buy bounteous gifts for Lady Selyse and her lords bannermen… well, mostly ladies and widows at that, now, I suppose."

"Done," Cersei said at once. She gave him a look like the cat that got the canary. "You do us a great service, brother dear. Joffrey will be so grateful."

"I look forward to it," Tyrion said sourly. "Is that all?"

"I believe so," said Cersei.

It was a dismissal if ever he had heard one.

Tyrion was in his bedchamber that evening, drowning his sorrows in a bottle of fine Lysene white, when he heard the call from the door. "Your uncle's here," Bronn called, with his customary regard for courtesy.

Tyrion sat upright and, quickly, splashed a little water on his face. He dared not too much, lest it be obvious. "Send him in."

Ser Kevan Lannister, Lord Marshal of the Defenders of King's Landing and most trusted confidant of the Lord of Casterly Rock, entered the room in surprising lack of dignity. He was alone, leaving his guardsmen outside, and dressed plainly. "Tyrion," the man said gently.

"Uncle," Tyrion said. It had not meant to sound like a curse, but it did. "Why are you here?"

"To speak with you," said Kevan. "Tyrion, you must understand, it was not meant as a slight. I spoke naught but the truth when I spoke of why I think you should be sent in the king's stead, rather than your sister… but I did not relate the whole truth."

"Does it matter?" Tyrion asked. "I will leave the city and Cersei will assume control. 'Tis what you wanted. I'll remember it, I promise you that; a Lannister always pays his debts. Why now do you come to me?"

The sting of betrayal was still hot. He had trusted Kevan. His uncle had been kind to him when he was a boy in Casterly Rock and his lord father was not.

"I'm aware you and your sister have never shared what a brother and a sister should," Kevan said with a sigh, "but this is not part of that quarrel. I chose to send you because you truly are better-suited to negotiation than your sister. She has too much pride, and grows wroth and devoid of reason whenever she scents a whiff of insult. In the company of Lord Stannis's widow there will be more than a whiff of it for our House. Are you so convinced of my malevolence that it truly does not occur to you that I am right, you will be better at the task than Cersei?"

A plan began to form in Tyrion's mind. He hung his head in mock contrition. "I suppose you're right," he lied. "I apologise for my discourtesy."

"Good." Kevan looked relieved. "Whatever else may come, you are my nephew, and I would not that you think ill of me."

"Pray do not leave yet, my lord uncle," Tyrion said. "There is much we must discuss. This city is a pit of serpents and it is incumbent upon me to tell you what I know of them ere you must deal with them without me."

"That sounds wise," Kevan said cautiously. "What of it?"

Tyrion paused, picking his words carefully. "Petyr Baelish has his fingers in more pies than you may care to think," he said. "I have been going through his accounts, as well as the reports of Varys's whisperers, for more than four turns of the moon. Under him the crown's revenues are tenfold what his predecessor could acquire, but I fear it is not only from legitimate means. He doesn't just store the king's gold. He takes it, lends to those he considers likely to repay him, buys concerns in ships and houses and cloth and grain and dyes and anything you can imagine. He moves it, stores it, sells it on in times when the price is more favourable. It all seems to work, and his numbers are meticulously recorded; I've checked many of them with the folk of the city the crown has done business with to see if I can catch him out, and there's nothing to find where the records do not match the true transactions. And I do not think it is as simple as stealing from the treasury, for the gold we truly have stored in the vaults and the gold his figures suggest that we should have are one and the same. All the numbers add up. But I have reason to believe that in the past there have been other transactions where he lent out the king's gold and put it back, with no obvious discrepancy, and kept the gold for himself. A lot of it."

"How do you know?" asked Kevan.

"Near three moons past, Lord Baelish appeared to be ill. I didn't trust that for a moment, so I posted guards to watch his properties and all the gates of the city. If a man as canny and ambitious as Lord Baelish should choose to absent himself from the city which is his centre of power, 'twill not be for a minor reason. Five men with good enough resemblance to Littlefinger to work in the darkness tried to leave the city from various properties of his on that same night. We caught them. None of them were the real man. All of them had been hired independently by the same man, an old sellsword with lopsided teeth, white hair and a long nose, who has vanished without a trace. I visited his sickbed myself, and the man there resembled him so strongly I almost thought that it was truly himself and that the decoys might have been sent as a ruse by Varys or Cersei… but I kept watch, and I believe he didn't anticipate that, as it profited me. Near three weeks after his disappearance, he wandered into one of his brothels in the guise of an old drunkard, a convincing guise but not good enough to fool my clansmen. His recovery was announced the next day. I sent men beyond the city to see if I could find where he had gone, and from a chattering servant I discovered it: Castle Spilbroke."

"Spilbroke?"

"I'd never heard aught of it either. 'Tis a small keep east of Rosby three days' ride from the capital, owned by a certain Lord Raymont Spilbroke. He is the least and meanest sort of lord, and I daresay there are perhaps a few dozen or hundred landed knights in the Seven Kingdoms with lands of similar size, but a lord nonetheless. I have men watching him now. I know naught of what Littlefinger gained from him, but I know what he gained from Littlefinger: several thousand dragons, stored in a heap in his wine-cellar. Not a grand sum on the scale of the king's debts, but enough to ransom a dozen knights of the noblest birth, and many times more than Lord Baelish's own holdings could supply in a lifetime. Fortunately Lord Spilbroke is much less discreet than his visitor. My men gathered much of this information from talkative servants at his keep, and from the same source I know Lord Spilbroke had no contemporaneous visitor. Whatever Littlefinger is using Lord Spilbroke for, he has gone to extraordinary lengths to hide it from us, and he has stolen royal gold."

"So he's been taking gold he could have given to the king, but only gold he earned which we wouldn't otherwise have, and he has some arrangement with a backcountry lord. He probably means to marry the man's daughter, negotiating discreetly. 'Twould be little enough, but his own House is poor and new, and if this House Spilbroke is older than his own, 'tis a step up for House Baelish. I see no reason why I should be concerned, and less still why I should replace a man who you yourself have admitted is excellent at what he does for us," Kevan concluded, briskly. "Is that all?"

"Far from it," Tyrion said, his thoughts racing. He had not expected his uncle to disregard the matter with Lord Spilbroke, but it was not the only piece of dirt he had to expose. "I've examined the payments of the gold cloaks. With the way the price in food has soared, the lowest-ranking watchmen are paid so little they can scarcely afford to buy food, even lower than most are paid in this city, so they have little choice but corruption and intimidation if they want to eat. I've taken a look discreetly at the merchants and shopkeepers of the city, and many of them pay tithes to the City Watch to protect them from thieves and vandals. If they don't pay, the thieves and vandals, often recognisable as men of the Watch, smash their wares themselves. Meanwhile, a sergeant of the Watch earns thrice his men's wages, and for higher ranks it multiplies further. Though the number of men in the lower ranks has risen vastly in the time the city has been threatened, since the beginning of the war, the number in the higher ranks for every ordinary watchman has risen faster. So the gold cloaks have little choice but to get entangled in a network of corruption which enserfs them to Littlefinger, as he can threaten them with exposure and death for looting if they move to disobey him, while those who are obedient are rewarded with higher rank, not to command as a deserved award but to receive more money, to give an incentive for loyalty to him. Littlefinger brought the gold cloaks against Eddard Stark when we settled the matter of the succession, though he was convinced the man was on his side. It is he who rules them, and no other. Janos Slynt was his man. Jacelyn Bywater is mine, but he presides over a Watch filled with men whose loyalties lie with Littlefinger."

"Yet none of that says he deserves dismissal," Kevan said. "Corruption in the Watch would be concerning in a perfect world, but if it keeps them sweet, that is a price worth paying. Did he live, the late Lord Stark could have told you not to trust such men to act from honour. As far as I know, Lord Baelish served King Robert and his lawful heir well. I do hope this isn't just because he agreed with your sister."

Tyrion was growing desperate. Only now did he reveal his final card. "Of course it is," he said, "but that feud is for good reason. Do you know he tried to have me killed?"

That, at last, got through to his uncle. "What?"

"He did," Tyrion insisted. "When Lady Catelyn took me prisoner she was utterly convinced I was guilty of sending a killer with a dagger I've seen before, a Valyrian steel blade and a dragonbone hilt, to murder her second son, Brandon, at Winterfell after he fell from a tower while climbing, an attempt she foiled and got deep scars on her fingers for the trouble. I only survived because I found a sellsword who won a trial by combat against one of Lady Arryn's knights for me. 'Tis a dagger I'm alleged to have won from Littlefinger over the joust Loras Tyrell won against Jaime on Joffrey's nameday. In truth Littlefinger did lose that dagger, but not to me. You know I never gamble against Jaime. Robert did, so the knife was in royal hands… and accessible to the keeper of his treasury. Who had told her? Why, none other than her trusted childhood friend Petyr Baelish, when she secretly visited King's Landing while her lord husband was Hand for Robert because of this same affair with Brandon Stark. And I know her tale to be true, she did meet Littlefinger, for I saw that same dagger on Littlefinger's hip when I returned to the city. He knows it as well. He even mocked me with it, offering it to me, using the words: 'it's yours'."

"I see," Kevan said softly. "That, if not the others, warrants questioning, and questioning there shall be. Rest assured I shan't trust Lord Baelish."

Tyrion exhaled, weary with relief. "I'm very glad of it, uncle. Eddard Stark did, and see where that left him. But I am not done."

Kevan raised an eyebrow. "More on Lord Baelish?"

"No. Others. Grand Maester Pycelle is as treacherous as any, but he's a less dangerous traitor than Littlefinger. He urged Aerys to let in you and my lord father for the Sack of King's Landing, poisoned Lord Arryn on behalf of Cersei and helped her to kill King Robert too, you may wish to know." Even Kevan looked shocked at the latter. "When I sent a raven with important information to the Prince of Dorne, planning Myrcella's marriage, specifying that he mustn't read it and that secrecy was of the utmost importance, he told it to Cersei, who threw a fit that her daughter might wed. It nearly ruined everything. You shouldn't trust any message you send through his ravens to be unread. Doubtless he'll betray you to Cersei as easily as he'll betray her to you."

"Noted," Kevan said grimly. "I gather that scarcely any of the small council can be trusted. Who next? The Spider?"

"Oh, don't trust him either, 'tis good sense, though I've not caught him at anything truly nefarious yet. But no. The next is Cersei."

That took Kevan aback even further. "Gods be good, Tyrion, have you gone mad? Your sister a traitor? The king is her own son!"

"Oh, she won't betray him, uncle, but there's much you need to know of her. You wouldn't believe it from me, so you should ask the one I heard it from myself: not her son, yours."

"Lancel?"

"Oh yes." Tyrion was enjoying this. Exile me from the city, will you, Cersei? Very well. You won this round. I am done for. But I'll shortly be a sea's voyage away from you, and a cornered lion is most dangerous of all. "Go to him, uncle. Tell him that you love him and you won't be angry. Be kind to him. He is not the one at fault for this. And tell him that I sent you to him and for both your sakes, so that you know how trustworthy my sister is, I want him to tell you the truth."

"Tyrion," Kevan said with surprising softness, "I know we may not be as close as you and Jaime, and I thank the gods that if nothing else you have as warm a kinship with him as I have with my own elder brother. But I've known you and loved you since you were newborn, when my lord brother was consumed with grief for Joanna, as perhaps he still is in some ways. How in the names of all the gods did you come to think I wouldn't believe the truth from you?"

Tyrion was touched. It was almost enough to make him stop manipulating the man. Almost. "That is kind of you, uncle, truly, but I insist. You will not believe how great an ill deed it is unless you hear it from someone you trust as much as you trust your son."

"Very well. I will speak with Lancel." Kevan rose, heavily. "Gods speed, Tyrion. May the winds bear you swift and safe."

"And with company?" quipped Tyrion.

His uncle laughed. "Yes."

Author's Note: Tyrion, by the machinations of his enemies, has been thrust into a situation where his life expectancy might be very short indeed, if Lady Selyse is in a vengeful mood. He's also been exiled from the city, which he dreaded in canon, fearing that it would allow Cersei to get rid of all the progress he'd made. As a result, he's in a "if I'm going down, I'm taking you down with me" mood towards Cersei, so he's giving Kevan all the dirt he can muster on Cersei and her allies. In case anyone doesn't remember, in canon (and also in this story, unchanged from canon) Cersei made Lancel, who's a very young man, have a love-affair with her in a rather abusive relationship, using him as a toy while Jaime is gone, and Kevan is Lancel's father. Tyrion thinks of Kevan as Cersei's pawn and his aim is to deprive Cersei of a useful pawn by making Kevan think poorly of her. This isn't a cunning ploy for some subtle game; he's just lashing out as Cersei in a manner as damaging as he can without publicly revealing the Cersei-Jaime incest, since that would hurt Jaime too (as well as hugely discrediting House Lannister as a whole) and Tyrion likes Jaime.