Thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed this story, it really means a lot.
Also, thank you for all your KL character nominations. Tyrion won by a country mile, but Varys came a respectable second. So Varys will make an occasional appearance too. Thanks again and I hope everyone enjoys Tyrion's first PoV.
Chapter Thirty: Hard Truths
Tyrion didn't just face the hard truth; he lived the hard truth. To rest of his family, he was the hard truth. That had never been more true than in the aftermath of the Battle of Blackwater. Now, several weeks later, he looked his reflection in the eye, then let his gaze slowly lower to where his nose once was. Two nostril cavities gaped back at him, separated by a flap of skin that had been used to fashion some sort of septum. It was a limp-wristed attempt to give his face a semblance of normality, performed by whatever Maester got to him first. It was definitely the nose that drew the eye, rather than the slash wound working its way across his left cheek. Just like the first time he saw the ruin of his face, he now felt a deadening weight settle in the pit of his stomach.
Once again, fate had seen fit to deal him a cruel hand. Or rather, Cersei had seen fit to deal him a cruel hand. He sighed as he remembered Ser Mandon Moor trying to kill him, but he did not take it personally. Cersei could be persuasive when she wanted to be. But he still chalked it up as one more score to settle with his sweet sister.
He looked hard, accepted his new appearance and then remembered he hadn't exactly been pretty in the first place. With a shrug of his uneven shoulders, he turned from the mirror and set one foot in front of the other. His new chambers were modest, to say the least, so he didn't have far to go to the door. Bronn had knocked and declared himself almost fifteen minutes ago, and Tyrion hated keeping people waiting. Especially when he was giving people so much more to talk about these days.
"Long time, no see," remarked the sellsword, once Tyrion opened the door. Bronn paused then, glancing over his face. "I bet you smell awful these days."
Affronted, Tyrion was about to protest that he had bathed only that morning. But then the penny dropped and he got the joke. He has no nose. He now smells awful.
"Ha. Fucking. Ha." He replied.
Bronn was leaning nonchalantly against the doorframe, arms folded. "Look on the bright side, m'lord. You've had all the dwarf jokes half a hundred time, at least the nose jokes will be new on you."
That's a good point, he inwardly agreed.
"I'll have you know, I have a bewildering array of jests, witticisms and one-line comebacks stored in my head for every conceivable occasion," Tyrion retorted. "But I've always room for more. Now, impart your cheerful tidings and be gone."
Bronn tried to arrange his face into an apologetic expression. "Your beloved sister requires your presence."
Tyrion tried to grimace, but it hurt too much and Cersei wasn't worth the discomfort. No doubt, she had found some way to take all the credit for his hard work in the run up to the battle. No doubt, also, that she was just itching to give him her version of all that had been happening since. Then, something awful occurred to him as he and Bronn set off down the steps of Maegor's Holdfast.
"Have you been in the Throne Room since we won?" he asked Bronn.
"Aye, I have indeed. Why?"
"Joffrey hasn't spiked Stannis' head on one of the swords in the Iron Throne, has he?" It was something that obnoxious little shit would do, with Cersei looking on and smiling indulgently.
Bronn grimaced. "And get traitor's blood all over his lovely silk frock? You must be jesting."
Tyrion's face twisted into a grin. "I should have known!"
Once out in the main thoroughfare of the Red Keep, they ceased their talk of Joffrey lest the wrong ears should hear them. As they walked in silence, he considered what he would say to Cersei. Having spent the weeks between the battle and now hovering between life and death, he had been only drip fed bits and pieces of news. He'd guessed at their victory by virtue of the fact that he wasn't dead. But it was Varys who told him Stannis' had met his death at his father's hands, his head now a prize trophy. The idealistic side of Tyrion wanted Stannis alive, for whatever leverage they could get out of him. But his dominant realist side knew it could be no other way. Not with a man unyielding as Stannis Baratheon.
As he passed through the outer-gallery of the throne room, his attention was caught by a curious tinkling of bells. He glanced toward the source of the noise, but saw nothing but the bellies of the other people crowded round him. He stooped to try and see through their legs, but his view was blocked by the fashionable wide skirts of the ladies. Cursing, he carried on waddling through the waiting petitioners.
The house sigil stitched to the breast of his doublet ensured he skipped the queue and was ushered straight inside. But the halberds of the Kingsguard on the door barred Bronn from entering. Tyrion paused, about to protest. But it would only be one more futile argument before his next futile argument. Besides, he didn't want Cersei to think him afraid of her, so left his bodyguard there and nodded for him to wait.
Inside the throne room, Cersei was pacing at the foot of the iron throne. He looked up at the great monstrosity, grateful for the fact that the King was absent. Only Varys and Grand-Maester Pycelle were there, huddled together and watching from the shadow of a pillar like cats waiting to pounce. As was her wont, Cersei pretended that she had not noticed his entry and carried on pacing, her heels tapping soft and rhythmic on the marble. He played along, in hope it would humour her obviously sour mood. Back and forth she went, her golden hair fanned over her shoulder and her emerald eyes lowered to the floor tiles. The seconds became minutes, before a fourth voice sounded from the opposite side of the room.
"Cersei!" It was Jaime, whom Tyrion had not noticed before. Clad in his gold amour, he stepped into a shaft of sunlight. "Tyrion has arrived, sweet sister. You seem not to have noticed."
Cersei stopped abruptly, looked straight at him and feigned surprise. "You're late. I summoned you a half-hour ago."
For a victory, she was in a surprisingly prickly mood. "I'm worth the wait though, am I not?"
"Now is not the time for your jesting, brother."
"Well then, get on with it before we waste any more time," he curtly advised.
If she didn't want his humour, she could make do without his courtesies too. She had been to see him once since the battle and, as such, had already seen his face. She was almost kind to him on that occasion, assuring him that it was not so bad as others were reporting.
Now, she was back to her old self and darting chilly looks in the direction of Varys and Pycelle.
"We defeated Stannis, as you know and his head now rots on our battlements. His remaining troops bent the knee to Joffrey," she recapped, terse and brittle. "But, we have misplaced both Sandor Clegane and Sansa Stark. The morning after the battle, they were both gone."
At first, he thought he had misheard, or that this was Cersei's attempt at jesting. But her face was pale, her lips compressed. Deadly serious. In response, his heart beat faster.
"What?" he gasped. "The Hound we can live without, but the Stark girl? She was all we had to keep her brother in check. In case you had forgotten, your grace, the Starks are now in alliance with the Tyrells."
"Did you really think I had forgotten that?" she hissed at him, paling further.
Tyrion gathered his thoughts, trying to remember the last time he saw Sansa Stark as though she might still be there – like a lost set of keys. It came to him in a cloud of bewilderment.
"She was with you, in Maegor's Holdfast. I saw her with my own two eyes, going into the ballroom with you. How in seven hells did you manage to lose her?"
This was a dangerous exposition of Cersei's own stupidity, he knew. But he was beyond caring. Cersei had brought this on herself. Her face flushed accordingly, and he thought she might strike him like she often did. He suspected it was Jaime's presence in the chamber that stayed her hand.
"My Lord, I can assure you I have taken personal command of the search for Lady Stark." Varys reminded everyone of his presence in the room by stepping out of the shadows. "All my little birds are watching the city and I have men on the roads, travelling in packs to find her and return her to the Red Keep."
"He probably knew where she was headed before she even left," Cersei piped up, rather optimistically. "She won't get away, so this isn't a problem."
Varys sighed apologetically. "Although her grace does somewhat overestimate my abilities, I assure everything possible is being done."
Tyrion huffed indignantly. "Forgive me if I'm not turning cartwheels, but I will not rest easy until she is back in our custody." Turning back to Cersei, he added: "Now, tell me the good news."
Now she relaxed a little. "Storm's End has yielded to our uncle. Kevan has taken up residence there."
"Well, that's something- "
"It's better than 'something'," she snapped back, keen to make the most of her one advantage. "It's one of our strongest fortresses. If we hold Storm's End, the Starks and Tyrells can never defeat us. We can hold out in there for years, if need be."
Although still reeling from the loss of Sansa Stark, Tyrion soon shaped his mind to the situation at hand and planned accordingly. It helped, in this game, to be adaptable.
"We need to make the most of this," he stated, taking a seat on the steps to the throne. "I propose we unite the Stormlands to House Lannister through a betrothal between King Joffrey and his cousin, Lady Shireen."
Cersei reacted with all the rage he had expected. "Marry my firstborn to that ugly little monster? Gods, I'd sooner see my Myrcella wed to you before that happens."
The insult washed over him without leaving a trace of effect. He was used to it. He almost expected it. However, his reply was cut off by the clanking of Pycelle's chains.
"A most insulting offer indeed, your grace; to see our glorious King married to such a … such a …. disfigured creature as that one would make our royal family a laughing stock. She has been cursed by greyscale."
How Tyrion wanted to kick him. He was still bare faced from where his whiskers had been cut off at his own command. Clearly, Pycelle had not forgotten that either. Varys, meanwhile, was looking sidelong at the Grand Maester, lip curled in distaste.
"However," said the eunuch. "The match does make eminent political sense. Alliances for House Lannister are becoming increasingly difficult to find. She is highborn, of royal descent through her uncle, King Robert, and would bring the Florents onto our side into the bargain. Your Grace, as distasteful as it may seem, please do give the proposal some consideration."
That was a hard truth too, Tyrion thought. Lannister allies were hard to come by. They may have won the battle of Blackwater, but their victory was hollowing out before his very eyes. Cersei had to be made to see sense, then they had to get Joffrey on board. Before he could press the matter, however, it was Jaime's turn to pour the cold water on their plans.
"Don't bank on the Florents," he said. "Selyse threw herself off the battlements after yielding to Uncle Kevan. But our men slew Ser Axell Florent."
Tyrion wanted to lay down and scream. But, he was a Lannister of Casterly Rock. Lannisters have dignity, or so he had been told. Contenting himself with a sigh, he rose stiffly to his feet again. "But, a lovely royal wedding between our two houses could soothe away such diplomatic difficulties, surely you can see that?"
Cersei looked thunderous. It maddened Tyrion that she was more concerned with getting her precious son a lovely, trophy bride than she was with forging real alliances that might actually get them somewhere. Even now, when it was all crumbling away, appearances were everything. That had always been Cersei's problem, however. As long as everything looked all right she honestly thought everything else would follow in due course. He knew that better than anyone. He who had never looked all right.
"There's something else," Jaime interjected.
Tyrion braced himself for the worst.
"This match cannot happen because it seems Lady Selyse only yielded the Castle after her daughter managed to get away," he further explained. "The likeliest candidate for her rescuer is that Onion Knight Stannis relied on so much."
Tyrion buried his face in his hands. To keep himself sane he pretended none of it was real and none of it was happening. All through his illness he had been force fed dreamwine and milk of the poppy, giving him the strangest and most vivid dreams. For a moment, he needed to pretend that this was another of those. But when he opened his eyes again and dropped his hands from his face, it was all still there. It was all still happening.
"But we still have prisoners, surely?" Cersei asked, now rounding on Jaime as the deliverer of bad news. "I was told in person that we did take prisoners. Important prisoners."
Jaime raised one golden gauntleted hand. "Yes. Calm yourself, sister. The prisoners will be presented as soon as we're done here."
Tyrion drew a deep breath. Florents would be good – they may even be used to curtail the Tyrells. Celtigars would be promising, too. They were so desperate, in reality, that any highborn prisoners would do. But, with Shireen at large, ugly as she was she would always be a focal point of rebellion to the restive houses sworn to Dragonstone. More hard truths, he thought to himself.
"So, what of Lord Baelish?" he asked, turning dejectedly to Varys. There was no point asking Cersei, given how far from reality she seemed to have moved in his absence.
"Yes, where is he?" Cersei repeated, louder now. "I sent him to Bitterbridge to negotiate with the Tyrells. Is he so fearful of my wrath at his failure that he's now hiding on that spit of land he calls home?"
It was Tyrion's idea to send Baelish to Bitterbridge, but he did not correct her. Then Varys stepped forward again, a solemn look on his broad face.
"As I understand it, Lord Baelish rode on to the Vale," he explained, no doubt repeating what his little birds had been whispering in his ear. "I suppose he saw no point in hanging on with the Tyrells. But, since arriving at the Vale, it seems he has wed Lysa Arryn."
The revelation dropped into a well of silence, words echoing in Tyrion's head. Never had he been able to guess Baelish's game, it was why he liked to keep the Master of Coin close, where he could see the bastard.
"Is he bringing the Vale out for us?" he asked quietly, as though reluctant to face this hardest of truths. So far, the knights of the Vale had declared for nobody. Lysa Arryn was the sister of Catelyn Stark, her nephew the King in the North. Was it even bloody likely Lysa would turn her men against such powerful kin?
"The last I heard they had not left the Vale, my lord," Varys answered, gravely. "But many at the Vale remember Eddard Stark and Robert Baratheon- "
"Yes, yes, there's no need to remind us!" Cersei interjected, throwing up a hand to silence the eunuch.
Tyrion watched her with mounting anger. She murdered her husband and Baelish probably knew it. The knights of the Vale, already angry about Ned Stark, would never forgive her for that. It was less than twenty years ago that many of the same men had risen up against Aerys to protect those young wards. They were the first into the fray and Cersei, in one rash move, had alienated them all simply to rid herself of a husband she disliked. As he mulled it over, he bit his tongue so hard it drew blood.
"There is every need to remind you, you stupid, selfish woman," he whispered, low and dangerous. Too low for anyone to hear him, but Varys who turned to him sharply. A warning look, silently commanding him to hold his peace. Regardless of how badly he wanted to give Cersei a piece of his mind, he shrank back and sat down again. The iron throne loomed over him, empty and indifferent.
Cersei sighed and stepped around him, mounting the steps to the throne. "Enough of this; send in the prisoners."
Tyrion rose again as Jaime vacated the chamber, hoping this would be good. Very good. But when Jaime returned moments later, he was leading a handsome boy with black hair and blue eyes.
"Edric Storm, your grace, taken from Storm's End," Jaime explained.
Tyrion risked a back glance to Cersei, seeing how she reacted to the arrival of one of her dearly departed husband's bastard sons. No doubt, poor Edric would be dead before the week was out.
Tyrion heard the second prisoner before he saw him. The ringing of bells again. He had heard it in the outer-gallery not one hour past. Now the source of that noise appeared, unnerving and sinister. The Fool's face was a patchwork of motley tattoos of green and red, matching his clothes. On his head he wore a half-helm decorated with the antlers of a stag which, in turn, had little bells hanging off the prongs. Was this Stannis' way of paying tribute to his older brother? By dressing his Fool in a parody of that infamous antlered helm of his, worn at the Trident. Edric Storm tried his best to shrink away from the Fool and Tyrion perfectly understood why, already. There was something about him; something … off.
"Is this it?" he asked, looking up at Jaime. "These are our prisoners."
"Surely not," Cersei murmured.
Jaime shrugged. "This is it."
Tyrion swallowed, trying and failing to not look at the Fool. "A Fool and a bastard. That's quite a haul we have here."
The Fool's small eyes found Tyrion, fixing him in a look of sharp malice. Suddenly, his wit deserted him as he found himself rooted to the spot by that penetrative glare. In mounting discomfiture, he watched the tattooed creature begin to twitch and tremble, almost convulsing. Every movement causing the little bells to tinkle and chime, echoing through the near empty throne room. For all the twitching, it seemed to Tyrion that the Fool kept eye contact; staring him down all the while singing.
"The shadows come to dance my lord, dance my lord, dance my lord. The shadows come to play my lord, play my lord, play my lord- "
"Silence!" Cersei cut over the maddening Fool.
For once, Tyrion swelled with gratitude towards her. But the Fool turned his twitching, convulsing face towards Cersei, then. Fixing her with the same look he had treated Tyrion to.
"Gold will be their crowns my lady, crowns my lady, crowns my lady. Gold will be their shrouds my lady, shrouds my lady, shrouds my lady- "
"Remove him now!" Cersei had flown into a rage.
Tyrion spun on his heels as she descended the steps of the throne, her eyes flashing like wildfire. But the idiot Fool carried on capering, singing his sinister songs and ringing those crazed bells.
"Get him out of here!" she stormed, pushing past him. "Get that monster out of my sight and away from my children!"
"Jaime, just do it!"
Tyrion joined his voice to his sister's, wondering why their brother seemed stunned. But, seconds later, the Fool was gone. The sound of his bells ringing out receded down the outer-gallery, then faded altogether. Relieved, he turned to his sister and her still pale and shaking violently. Gone was the haughty arrogance. Now she just looked like a frightened woman. Unsure what to do, he raised his hand and placed it gently on Cersei's forearm for reassurance. When she looked at him, the fury had gone from her eyes.
"Well then," he said, speaking gently to her. "I think we'll stick with Moonboy for now, don't you agree?"
The sarcasm was out before he could stop it and he thought she would strike him as a result. Her brow did tighten again, but then her breath hitched and she laughed. Bewildered and wondering what in the seven hells just happened, Cersei shook her head and laughed. But Tyrion could see how she continued to tremble in fear.
"You seem happier, sweetling."
Margaery turned at the sound of her mother's voice and smiled. "Yes, I am."
They, along with Olenna, were strolling along the north bank of the God's Eye, just beyond the walls of Harrenhal. Out there, the air was sweeter and fresher and they didn't have to look at the foreboding ruins of the castle all around them. Instead, they took in the peaceful, placid waters and the distant, misty Isle of Faces.
"At least you have this time to get to know your betrothed," Lady Alerie pointed out. "I met Mace for the first time on our actual wedding day."
"You wouldn't have married him had you met him any sooner!" Olenna retorted. "And don't expect me to apologise; deception was the only way to offload him on some other poor woman."
"Grandmother!" Margaery chided, eyes-widening although she was well used to her Grandmother's thorns.
Alerie, also, was used to hearing it and a lot worse. She suppressed a laugh and raised a knowing eye-brow. "Nonsense, mother, Mace was a handsome lad back then. He's filled out a little now, of course, but he's still handsome I think."
"If you say so," Olenna huffed, carefully stepping over a jutting rock.
Margaery proffered her arm, but the old lady gently batted it away. "I'm not infirm yet, my dear."
As they reached a long, lazy bend in the shoreline, they chattered away among themselves. The noise of the camp inside Harrenhal reached them in waves, but they were far enough away by now to not be bothered by it.
"We've decided we will first be wed once the fighting is done, at the Godswood of Winterfell," said Margaery. "I know it's going to be a pain to get everyone that far north, but it would mean a lot to both of us."
"Well I don't mind, I've always wanted to see the north," Olenna replied.
A splash in the distance caught their attention, followed swiftly by a man's voice shouting. The echo sounded over the still waters. Margaery spun round in a twirl of skirts, towards where she thought the noise came from. Ripples spread out in ever widening circles across the surface of the God's Eye.
"What was that?" she asked, hitching the hem of her skirts over her ankles, she hurried a few steps ahead. "Was something thrown in the lake?"
"It sounded like it," Alerie agreed.
They rounded the bend in the shore line, and Margaery stopped dead in her tracks and clamped a hand over her mouth to keep herself from laughing. Three men, her elder brother among them, had thrown themselves into the clean waters of the God's Eye, as naked as the day they were born. With Garlan, was Robb Stark and Jon, another northern Lord was ducking beneath the surface.
"Skinny-dipping in the God's own Eye," Olenna remarked, drawing level with Margaery. "Whatever next?"
Margaery had been so surprised by the sight that she'd neglected to stop her mother and grandmother from getting any nearer the scene. As always, however, Olenna surveyed the scene before her with an aloof eye. Garlan was practising his breaststroke, but Margaery kept her eye on Jon as he emerged from the depths of the lake, water dripping from his hair and body.
"He's not bad, you know," her mother stated.
Olenna drew a deep breath. "I'm inclined to agree."
"Now there's a ringing endorsement-"
"Mother! Grandmother!" Margaery admonished them both, turning away. "We shouldn't be seeing this!"
"Oh gods, that's my Garlan!" Alerie flushed red as they made a hasty retreat.
But Margaery lingered, watching as Jon parted from the others and swam out on his own. She could see his pale body, just beneath the surface of the shivering waters. A smile played at the corner of her lips as she stood again, still waist deep and made eye contact. He was embarrassed, she could tell, but he did not run away. She let her gaze rove down his chest and stomach, flat as a washboard. She winked at him, before following her mother and grandmother.
Sansa had lost track of time, but she knew it had been weeks since she escaped the Red Keep. The road never seemed to end, but the scenery changed frequently and it was easier now that she had her own horse. A friendly white palfrey who was anyone's for an apple. All the while, Sandor rode alongside her, mostly silent and wrapped up in his own thoughts. She glanced over at him frequently, making sure he was still conscious. Always he was alert, focused on the road ahead.
"I still don't know why you brought me with you," she said as they approached a large lake. "It would have been far safer for you to flee alone."
"Who else but you would bombard me with silly questions the whole way there?" he replied, gruff as ever.
Sansa beamed at him. "It's only polite to make conversation with one's travelling companions."
After that short burst of talk, their regular routine continued as normal. They set up camp at sundown and lit a cook fire. They had some rabbits saved from a hutch they raided at an abandoned farmhouse. Sandor skinned them with his dirk and Sansa skewered the carcasses and put them over their makeshift spit. Once they'd eaten, he kept watch while she slept for a few hours. Come dawn, they started out again after a breaking their fast on hard cheese and stale bread they had purchased from an Inn they passed.
She was used to his silence, so when he spoke it almost jolted her out of her saddle.
"I had a sister once." He followed the statement up by drinking deeply from his recently filled wine skein.
His brother had killed her. Everyone at Court heard the rumours, but no one ever mentioned it to him if they valued their lives. Not knowing how to react, she kept her mouth shut and remembered her own sister, wondering where Arya was now. Meanwhile, they skirted the south shore of the lake, continuing to avoid the nearby Kings Road.
Come midday, they let the horses lap at the water. During this time of inactivity, Sansa stretched her legs by walking a little way north, picking at some wild flowers as he went. Now that the mists had cleared, she could just make out the dark, broken towers of Harrenhal.
"We're here!" she called over her shoulder, to where Sandor was tending Stranger. "We've almost made it."
He looked over at her, still tightening the horse's bridle. "You sound surprised, little bird. Even after all the promises I made you."
"I never doubted you," she assured him.
He gave her a disbelieving look. "Aye, right you didn't!"
Excitable now, she practically skipped back over to him. "I did not! I just didn't expect the castle to come looming out of the mists like that."
"This here's the God's Eye, little bird," he explained, gesturing to the lake at large. "That there's Harrenhal."
She had guessed that, but grinned broadly as she sniffed her new flowers. Separating a few of them, she handed them to Sandor. "Here you go."
He took them, then looked at them as if he'd never seen a bluebell before. "And what, pray tell, am I supposed to do with these?"
Still he sniffed them, tucked them into his breastplate and set off up the road with them still in place. Sansa thought they cheered up his dull grey armour rather nicely.
Thank you again for reading. Reviews would be lovely, if you have a minute.
BTW, I'm assuming even non-book readers are familiar with Stannis' creepy fool, Patchface. But, in case you aren't, he's the scary guy captured on Dragonstone that we meet in Tyrion's PoV.