'A trial by combat?' Tyrion exclaimed.

'So it would seem, my Lord Hand,' Varys tittered in reply.

'Has the High Septon approved this folly?' Tyrion demanded.

'He has, my lord,' the eunuch confirmed, 'he has utmost faith in the will of the gods.'

Tyrion slumped back in his chair, not much caring that by doing so, he seriously compromised his ability to see Varys' face over the mountains of paperwork, books, raven scrolls and empty wine glasses that scattered the surface of his desk. He sighed deeply, and poured himself another glass of Dornish red.

We pull ourselves out of a mess Cersei made and are immediately plunged into another. The gods must be shitting themselves laughing.

'A trial by combat,' Tyrion repeated, 'a trial for treason and regicide decided by a trial by combat. And yet, a year ago, I might not have thought it so strange.'

'A year ago, we were not six million gold dragons in debt to the Faith,' Varys ventured smoothly, 'and a year ago, the Queen Regent would not have dared to refuse the repayment of a twentieth part of that amount.'

Because my father was still alive. Because Joffrey was still alive.

Tyrion drained his wine glass. Since the death of her eldest child, Cersei had been so wild, so impulsive and so changeable that Tyrion's entire life had been reduced to an elaborate dance involving the constant putting-out of fires and employment of legions of spies to ensure that any spur-of-the-moment scheming was crushed before it became anything more than that. It had been excruciatingly difficult and exhausting; the small council had worsened the situation by flatly refused to relieve Cersei of her duties as Regent despite her obvious ineptitude; and to Tyrion's shame, his own habitual scheming had only accomplished so much.

There is only so much you can do to manipulate or control a person who changes her mind every five minutes.

'A trial by combat,' Tyrion muttered to himself once again, not quite able to shake the absurdity of it, 'perhaps we ought to consider the possibility that my sister has gone mad.'

'A question for the maesters, I think,' Varys smiled.

Tyrion stared morosely out of the window into the darkness of the night.

'She's certainly appeared mad for weeks,' he muttered, 'perhaps the realisation that she was entirely alone in believing in Lady Sansa's guilt had a worse effect on her that I had imagined.'

Lord Varys inclined his head obsequiously.

'No doubt the Queen Regent has some terrible worries.'

Cersei does indeed have some terrible worries, Tyrion thought.

The trial had lasted just over three weeks, and had plumbed new depths of absurdity, horror and outrage for every day of its duration. A significant contributing factor to the general farcicality of the situation was Tommen's being required to attend by law and Cersei's milking the fact for all it was worth; weeping constantly into a handkerchief embroidered in gold silk and trying to present the appearance of an innocent woman and devoted mother who had been deeply, deeply wronged. Tommen, who had woken up on his twelfth name day to the news that his mother had killed his father, had sat staring constantly at Cersei; the crown looking absurdly heavy on his head; his large green eyes innocent and anguished and disbelieving; his bottom lip covered in scabs from where he had bitten himself to prevent himself from crying; his mother trying, all the while, to make him cry as much as possible.

But King Tommen Baratheon, the First of his Name, the boy that people mocked for his love of kittens, hadn't cried once; and as Tyrion had sat beside the boy through day after day of theatrical crying and pleading and hissing and spitting from Cersei, he had felt desperately sorry for him, desperately proud of him, and in a way, desperately sorry for Cersei too.

Since Tommen became king, you have done nothing but punish and ridicule him for crying, sweet sister, Tyrion had thought, and now that he is mastering the art, you hurt the boy further by trying to undo your own handiwork.

Tommen's resilience in keeping his eyes dry had been remarkable in one so young, but by the end of the first week of the trial, his bottom lip had begun to resemble something that wouldn't look out of place in a butcher's window. Tyrion had taken the vast gamble, then, of allowing the boy to bring one of his kittens to the trial every day; on condition that no talking, kissing, chasing or feeding would take place.

If people become accustomed to seeing the bloody kittens, perhaps they won't talk of them so much.

The look of contempt on Cersei's face the first time it had happened had been fearsome. The courtiers had sniggered disdainfully behind their hands and the smallfolk outside had been generous with their guffaws, but to Tyrion's relief, and Tommen's, the gamble had paid off.

Day after day, as Tommen had sat listening to witness after witness calling his mother a whore, a thief, a cretin, a murderer and a pathological seditionist (Cersei all the while making use of her handkerchief and her tears), the little king had gradually stopped biting himself in his moments of sorrow and had begun to stroke his kitten instead; his face becoming smoother and more unmoved by the day; his anguish retreating into himself and away from public view; Tommen the King and Tommen the Boy becoming two different people, and those infernal kittens becoming as inseparable a part of his image as king as the crown he wore on his head. People began to place bets on which cat Tommen would bring to the trial on which day, and when the boy rode from the Great Sept back to the Red Keep in the evenings, it was not unusual for the smallfolk to bring their children for a glimpse of the mysterious felines, and occasionally, a chance to stroke them, if His Grace happened to be in a playful mood. Tyrion remembered his words to Arya – 'Tommen would be a fine king if one could only get him away from his mother' – and smiled. If he could convince the boy to trade the stroking of kittens for the distribution of bread by the time he was fourteen…

I do so love to be right, even under frankly awful circumstances.

Cersei's attempts to present the image of innocence continued despite Tommen's progress, but they were not, however, sufficient to make people forget that not a single witness could be found to testify in her favour and that all her former agents had deserted her. The evidence presented by a large number of unlikely sources, including Tyrion's idiot cousin Lancel, had eventually led her to be condemned to death for her role in the death of King Robert, and to be found guilty of a large number of other offences that included trying to frame Margaery Tyrell and two of her cousins for treason and licentiousness. That trial had taken place directly before Cersei's and had been even more of a farce; serving no purpose but to increase the Tyrells' power at court: the exact opposite of what Cersei had envisioned.

As Tyrion looked at Varys, he remembered, as though waking from a dream, that Cersei had only been condemned yesterday; and that years seemed to have passed between then and now. When the sentence had been pronounced, she had not said a word; allowing herself to be led back to the dungeon and spitting at the feet of every person who had testified against her; adding to her already-prodigious list of enemies and ensuring that even more people would now take to singing The Whore That Killed King Robert instead of The Boar. Cersei had begun her trial without a friend in the world, and she had foolishly devoted the entirety of the proceedings to ensuring that it stayed that way.

'Nobody will fight for her,' Tyrion observed quietly, 'no one. The execution will be so well-attended that we might even have to sell tickets.'

'Oh, surely somebody could be found, my lord,' Varys tut-tutted, 'even were it merely for the sake of defending House Lannister's honour.'

'What do you know, Varys?' Tyrion asked bluntly.

Varys' face as he replied was the picture of solicitousness and graceful behaviour.

'I went to visit Her Grace this morning,' the eunuch said, 'merely to condone with her in this difficult time, of course.'

'Of course,' Tyrion smirked.

Varys smirked back at him and continued.

'She informed me, amongst her other communications, that she intends to ask Ser Jaime – that is, Lord Jaime – to stand as her champion. The raven will be sent today.'

The sudden anger that scalded Tyrion's chest made him choke on his wine and glare mutinously at the entirely blameless Varys.

'Now we know for certain that she's lost her mind,' he spat.

'It is certainly an impractical choice,' Varys replied coolly, 'particularly when one considers Lord Jaime's maiming –'

'Forget his maiming!' Tyrion growled, suddenly wanting to smash every fragile object in the room, 'she has absolutely no right to ask him!'

Varys cocked one eyebrow at him, and Tyrion coloured; ashamed by his own candour.

'Jaime…Jaime will certainly not agree to such a thing,' he stammered, 'they've been estranged for –'

'Estrangements tend to disappear when imminent death is involved,' Varys interrupted courteously.

Tyrion snorted in response, still enraged by his sister's nerve.

'Imminent death will play no role in repairing this estrangement, Lord Varys,' he growled, 'my sweet sister has not made herself very pleasant over the past few months, particularly as regards my unfortunate brother. She will die, I fear, with no one to defend her, and I don't intend to lose sleep convincing my brother to do it.'

'Am I to understand that you desire her death, my lord?' Varys asked, a hint of shock colouring his simpering voice.

Tyrion looked at Varys, and then away from him; unable to answer; not knowing his own mind. He had hated Cersei for so long – and she him. Sometimes as a child, he had desired her death. He had prayed for it – when he still believed in the mercy of the gods. But now, after hating her and devoting his life to thwarting her every action with every inch of cunning that he possessed…he could not tell if he wanted her dead. She was his blood. The fact made him sick to his stomach, but…

Varys was looking in pity across the silence at him; his robes the colour of the candlelight. Tyrion thought they should have been the colour of the shadows instead.

'May I enquire,' Lord Varys asked, 'if Lord Jaime intends to return to King's Landing soon?'

Tyrion had absolutely no idea.

Arya had written to him about a week previously, telling him the circumstances of their discovery of Lady Sansa's whereabouts. The letter had been extremely long, consuming almost an entire roll of parchment, but some instinct had made his eyes ghost across the paper to the very end, where ten words were written in an elegant and shaky hand that was entirely different from the masculine-looking clarity of the writing that covered the rest of the parchment.

My lord.

I am well. Really, I am.

Lady Sansa.

He had rushed back to the beginning of the parchment at that, his heart roaring in ears, to learn why the fuck she felt the need to tell him she was well and only make him worry more by saying it.

Sansa, it seemed, had been seized by a sudden illness after the trauma of watching her Aunt Lysa and Lord Baelish die. Her departure from the Eyrie with Jaime and Arya had therefore been delayed at the invitation of Lady Myranda Royce, who had also thought it prudent that little Lord Robert, who had become quite attached to Sansa during her stay, be given the chance to grow accustomed to the idea of being without her. This particular aspect of the visit had not gone well, and before too long, the little lord had made a lifelong enemy of his cousin Arya, screaming and crying each time he saw her and descending into fits of hysteria at the very sight of her wolf.

The situation had then been rendered all the worse by the return of Lord Nestor Royce, who had charged back to the Gates of the Moon along with most of the Lords of the Vale when the news of Lady Lysa's passing had reached them. Though it seemed that Lady Sansa, in the guise of Alayne Stone, had made herself so well-liked during her stay in the Vale that few of the Lords liked to doubt her word, Lord Nestor had been seized by the perhaps understandable suspicion that Jaime and Arya had somehow been responsible for his lady's death rather than Littlefinger. While he had not dared to have them arrested; the consequences of such an action being too ghastly to imagine; he had spent a great deal of time composing polite but infinite variations and implications on his favourite expression ('Lannisters lie'); questioning both Jaime and Arya in excruciating detail; and, when no fault could be found in the stories of either, calling Jaime a charlatan that sought to use an innocent young girl for political gain and Arya a harlot and a traitor to her House. It was at this point that Jaime, after what Arya described as a 'frankly petrifying' pronouncement of the words 'How dare you speak to her like that?', had asked to speak to Lord Nestor alone, and all that Arya or Tyrion or Varys' little birds had been able to learn of what had been said in that private interview had been its consequence: a profuse apology from Lord Nestor and an overly-long visit to the privy after making it. Lady Sansa had been pronounced fit to travel after a week, and Lord Nestor had very graciously decided to redeem himself by sending them as far as Casterly Rock with an escort of a hundred knights. Tyrion had not yet received word of their arrival, though he expected it to be any day now.

'My lord?' Varys said breezily, 'will he?'

Tyrion looked at him.

'Will who do what?'

'Will Ser Jaime soon return to the capital?' Varys repeated.

'Ah, yes,' Tyrion replied, 'do forgive me. The news of Cersei's execution will reach my brother soon enough. As will this confounded fucking raven scroll that she plans to send. I fear he'll have to return to the capital then. Even if merely to be present at the execution. It'll be expected of him.'

Varys smiled enigmatically.

'I could always have the ravel scroll intercepted, my lord,' the eunuch purred, 'it is rather unfortunate that the Lord of Casterly Rock has spent so little time at Casterly Rock since the beginning of his tenure, and King Tommen could very easily be persuaded of his lord uncle's loyalty.'

Tyrion pursed his lips, considering it.

'No,' he said firmly, 'let Cersei send it. My brother has the right to decide for himself.'

Varys bowed his head.

'Is there anything else to discuss before tomorrow's small council meeting?' Tyrion yawned, his own head beginning to ache from the wine and from the lateness of the hour.

'The Regency, my lord,' Varys responded brightly, 'I met today with Mace Tyrell, as you commanded.'

Tyrion groaned and poured himself another cup of wine, not caring if he'd regret it in the morning.

'Is the fool still insisting that we give the Regency to him?' Tyrion sighed.

'Yes indeed, my lord,' Varys confirmed, sighing in return.

'And has Lord Tyrell been informed that it will snow in Dorne before we let that happen?'

'He has, my lord. Except this time it has occurred to him to threaten to break the alliance with House Lannister should we not do what he wishes.'

Tyrion sat back in his chair and smiled sweetly at Varys.

'That's a rather clever course of action to have invented on his own,' he mused.

'Lady Olenna has once again forgotten her walking stick, I fear,' Varys agreed.

'Of course she has,' Tyrion groaned, 'Tommen is a naïve and perfectly sweet boy; though after this trial it remains to be seen if he will stay that way. He needs to be surrounded by people with his best interests at heart; and though Mace is not clever enough to be much of a threat, Margaery is, and will almost certainly find a way to rule through him should Tommen not prove amenable after their marriage.'

'And why should the dear sweet child not prove amenable?'

'I have high hopes for the boy at present, but until he is wise enough to take care of himself, I will not have Margaery doing anything more significant than speaking prettily and fucking regularly. The lady certainly has talent – she may very well have been born to rule – but I will not risk her using her talent until Tommen is more mature. As to the Regency, I wish to recall my Uncle Kevan from Casterly Rock, on condition that he leaves his wife behind. I don't want her turning Tommen into another Lancel.'

'You are cruel, my lord,' Varys observed.

'I am. Or perhaps I am simply drunk. But someone is responsible for the way the wretched boy turned out, and it certainly wasn't my uncle. As to bloody Mace Tyrell, we can make him Master of Laws, or some such thing. That should placate him for a while.'

Tyrion yawned and got to his feet to retire for the night, but Varys was still speaking.

'We should think on this further, my lord,' the eunuch insisted politely, 'we do need the Tyrells; as Lady Olenna is rather fond of reminding us.'

'True,' Tyrion agreed, 'but perhaps someone should remind Lady Olenna that the Tyrells also need us.'

He looked at Varys, the last true remaining master of intrigue in King's Landing, and suddenly felt sorry for him.

'Lord Varys,' he said, 'I suddenly feel rather selfish. I've been so busy seeing to the removal of Cersei's head that I haven't thought to ask you about Littlefinger's death. You were friends of a sort, were you not?'

Lord Varys seemed to think about it.

'I did rather enjoy him,' the eunuch agreed, 'but I must confess to feeling a certain relief that he is no longer with us. Does that make me wicked?'

'I'm not so sure, Lord Varys,' Tyrion smiled weakly, 'something tells me that he'd say the same about you.'