Chapter 19: Tyrion II

Tyrion rather liked Prince Oberyn, he decided.

It was natural, after all. He was practically obligated to like the man after he risked his life fighting the Mountain for Tyrion. Not that he had done it for Tyrion, but he didn't begrudge him that. He got to keep his head, and that was enough. And though Oberyn had offered him insult after insult, his tone had betrayed his true feelings. There was a touch of hostility at his name, and a little amusement, but no true venom.

Yes, Tyrion decided. I was sad to see him go.

And not a week after he had gone, a new curiosity had arrived at court. His concern in particular, given the man's allegiances.

Noho Dimittis, the Braavosi named himself. An interesting name for an interesting man. And though he was quite the dour and serious character, he had an interesting voice, too. There was that Braavosi tang in his manner of speaking, but there was some hint of something else that Tyrion could not quite discern.

And he had been hearing a lot of that voice, as of late. Noho was incessant in his hectoring.

When he paused for a breath, Tyrion had spoken frankly, "No, Lord Noho, I do not have an answer for you. The King's orders were quite clear. I beg patience. His Grace will meet with you when he can."

"Yet he understands why we cannot approve the bill of sale?"

Tyrion nodded tiredly, "I have informed him, and he has told me he does. It is not in the Iron Bank's interest to let foreign entities control it's vaults. He understands that perfectly well."

Noho had stalked off then, impatient. Two more days passed fruitlessly before Tyrion made his way to the King's solar to finally put the matter to rest. Why Tommen had insisted that Noho had to wait, Tyrion did not know, but he knew better than to question it.

The guards outside Tommen's solar let him in silently, standing to attention, and he came in and hopped up onto one of the chairs in the corner, and sat waiting with his hands in his lap. He looked over to Tommen's desk, and saw a stack of papers half as tall as him. They were rumpled, and the language on them looked... strange.

Possessed by his curiosity, Tyrion pulled one sheet off the heap and read it closely. It was nonsensical. He tried to pronounce the words, only for the sounds to emerge a garbled mess in his throat. Whatever language this was, it was unlike any Tyrion had seen before. He looked over at the rest of the desk, and making quite sure he was alone, flicked through the stack of papers.

They were all like the one he held in his hand. A complete mess of letters assembled in ways that could not possibly be words.

He quickly abandoned his search, however, when the door to the solar again opened. His father strode in, his face set into a frown. "Tyrion," he said, more an acknowledgement than a greeting.

"Father," Tyrion acknowledged him in turn. "I presume His Grace has summoned you here as well?"

"To oversee the negotiation, yes."

"I take it you don't approve," Tyrion deduced.

"It was as I said in the Small Council. One does not negotiate with the Iron Bank."

"And yet, here we are, preparing to negotiate." Tyrion frowned, "Why? If it were Joffrey or Jaime or anyone, you would not have allowed it."

His father turned to look at him. "What were you looking at when I walked in?"

Tyrion saw little harm in telling the truth, and showed his father the sheet of paper, "This."

"Tell me, Tyrion, were you able to understand a word?"

Tyrion shook his head, "No. It's nonsense, anyhow."

"When Tommen arranged to have you freed with that farce of a trial, I was displeased," he said. "I went to confront him, and he told me he knew you were innocent. Not that he suspected, not that he thought or believed, but that he knew you were innocent with the same certainty that I know I am a Lannister."

He isn't a mage, my lord, he's a dreamer. Tyrion listened to his father with rapt attention as he asked, "How?"

"Spies," Tywin said, much to Tyrion's own confusion. "Or so he claimed. A network so vast and powerful that it put the combined efforts of Varys and Baelish to shame. And he did this as a mere boy. The tall tales of a child, or so I thought, but his tales turned true."

"He has spies?" Tyrion asked, though he did not really feel the surprise that laced his tone. He was smiling. "Tommen?"

"I had his rooms searched whilst he was in court," his father said, as though it were the most normal thing in the world to do to a King. "The men found a sheaf of papers, three-dozen pages thick, just like this."

Tyrion stared at the page again, and suddenly saw a method to the madness scrawled onto the page. There were blotches of ink scattered about, and the script was untidy and looked hastily put down. Some of it was almost recognisable, but it's meaning evaded Tyrion. It looked as though a child, or perhaps a commoner, had written it, "And you think they come from his spies?"

"Where else?" Tywin asked. "And why else would the King keep nonsense on his desk?"

"If His Grace can do that..."

"Then what else can he do?" Tywin finished his thought. "What else will he do? Tommen has not proven such a failure as Joffrey. He is no fool. But he must learn. And he can only learn by doing."

Tyrion quirked an eyebrow, "High praise, coming from you."

It was at that moment that Tommen finally strode into the room, a faint smile on his lips. "Uncle! Grandfather! I trust you are both well?"

"Well enough, nephew," Tyrion said as Tommen rounded the desk and sat in his chair, reciprocating Tommen's familiar tone.

Tommen sighted the papers on his desk, and picked one up. "Tell me," he said, the slightest smirk on his face, "have you figured out what they say?"

"No," Tywin said back. And though his father betrayed nothing in his expression, there was a certain curtness in his tone that exposed his irritation.

"Good," Tommen simply responded. "After all, what use would a code be if you could read it?"

"Don't you think," his father said, "that you should tell me your plans? Given I am your hand?"

"I tell you as much as you need to know," Tommen replied as he shuffled through his papers. "And no more."

Tywin raised the sheet in his hand, "And this? Is there nothing I need to know about this?"

Tommen gave an exasperated sigh, and turned to look at Lord Tywin, "What is there to tell? My spies send me reports, and I read them. You've had my rooms searched, I'm sure. You know this."

"Is this why we don't have a Master of Whispers?" Tyrion broke in.

"Partially," Tommen said. "That, and I have yet to find anyone I can truly trust with the task. The last one was a traitor."

"Varys?" Tyrion questioned.

Tommen nodded tiredly, "Yes. A Targaryen loyalist through and through, that one. Such a shame. He and Baelish were at one time the best at their craft in all of Westeros, perhaps even the world. So good, in fact, that I had little choice but to kill him once his true loyalties were revealed to me. A man like that is too dangerous an enemy to leave alive."

Tyrion sat stunned. Did father know? He looked over, and saw just the slightest quirking of a single eyebrow. No, then, he hadn't known. But he didn't seem surprised, either. He suspected it. Tyrion had had his own suspicions, of course, but to hear it said openly was entirely a different matter...

"Aegon," he mumbled, suddenly holding Varys's dying body in his arms again. Blood soaked his palms, the air blew in cold-

"What?" Tommen snapped, frowning. "What did you say?"

Tyrion snapped back to the present, his nephew's eyes locked on his own, his gaze intense. Tyrion shook his head, "Nothing."

Tommen's eyes flashed with suspicion, "No, you said something: 'Aegon.' Where did you hear that name?"

"Varys," Tyrion admitted. "It was one of his last words when he died."

"Any more last words?" his father asked, his manner of speaking suddenly rich with scorn.

"No need," Tommen said. "Let me guess, he mentioned something about the 'one true king,' didn't he?"

Tyrion nodded dumbly. How?

Tommen sighed again, shut his eyes tight, and rubbed his brow as though he were attempting to dispel a headache.

"You know something," Lord Tywin deduced. "What?"

"Aegon Targaryen," Tommen finally said. "Or, at least, someone claiming to be him. Varys claimed that he switched the babes before the Mountain's arrival, and that what you presented to my father was merely a common babe. As I said, he was a Targaryen loyalist through and through. My spies think that he's planning a claim to my crown. Reports are sparse, information is thin on the ground, but there are rumours that the Golden Company plans to take up arms with him."

"Traditionally supporters of the Blackfyres," Lord Tywin noted.

Tommen nodded, "My thoughts exactly. I have not yet managed to confirm Varys' claims, though I suppose it matters little. An army is still an army."

"And you didn't think I needed to know this?" his father questioned. There was a hostile edge to his tone, but Tyrion was surprised to discover how small it was. He likes this one, Tyrion thought.

"I had already planned to deal with him," Tommen explained. "This hardly changes much. I had hoped my spies were mistaken, of course, but I am not surprised. The main problem now will be preventing Danaerys Targaryen and Aegon from joining ranks. Alone, I can quite comfortably handle them. But with the might of the Golden Company joined together with the Dothraki and the Unsullied, and those three dragons of hers, and the threat they can pose becomes quite concerning."

Dragons! he thought, half-hysterical. And an army to match! "And you had a plan for this?" Tyrion asked incredulously.

"Yes," Tommen nodded, deadly calm. "I was going to pit the black dragon against the red, and allow them to weaken each other. I am told that Aegon plans to offer his hand in marriage to Daenerys. It should not be too hard to muddle that up. Let old rivalries take their course once again. It's risky, but it is the path that costs me the least for the moment. There were other plans, but those are even riskier, and more difficult. Even if the rewards are greater."

"And your men could do this?" Tywin asked.

Tommen shrugged. "Perhaps, perhaps not. But that is a matter for another day," he said as a servant entered to announce the arrival of Noho Dimittis. Tommen sent the servant back, bidding Noho to enter. He then turned back to the two of them, "Now, remember, you will answer when I call on you. Do not interrupt unless you think it absolutely necessary. I don't think I have to tell either of you how important this is."

Tyrion nodded, and asked: "We wish to stall repayments, yes?"

Tommen shook his head, "No, not quite. We want to simply reduce repayments. If the Iron Bank receives no gold from us, then there is a risk they may seek it elsewhere. The goal is to balance expenditures and revenues, not to strengthen an enemy of ours."

Tyrion nodded again as Noho Dimittis entered, "Your Grace."

"Lord Noho!" Tommen said with a pleasant smile and a jovial lilt to his voice. "Please, sit. Are you well?"

"Well enough, Your Grace," Noho replied flatly. "I was told you wished to discuss the debts?"

"Yes," Tommen nodded. "I wish to negotiate to a lower interest payment."

"The Iron Bank will be paid in full," Noho declared. "Nothing less will suffice."

"That they will," Tommen assured him. "And yet winter comes regardless. Simply put, Lord Noho, the current debt payments exceed our revenues. And to protect your investment - and our ability to pay - some concessions will have to be made."

Lord Noho looked doubtful.

"You must ask yourself, Lord Noho: what is in the Iron Bank's interests? That the realms starves, and we lose our ability to continue paying? Perhaps you think you can back one of my rivals instead, but that will not change the reality of this situation. Even if they win - and that is not likely - they will inherit the same frozen fields and empty vaults. There is a superstition among the smallfolk, you might like to know, that the longer the summer, the longer the following winter. And this summer has lasted more than a decade." Tommen leaned forwards, his tone earnest and open, "We want to pay. We just need a little room to breathe."

Noho considered the King's words for a long moment. Then, he said: "What do you propose?"

"Interest payments should be cut in half over the course of the coming winter and the following summer. We will continue paying that half quite happily, and then once the realm has recovered from winter and this terrible war, repayment can resume in full."

Noho still seemed reluctant, "I note your coffers are full. The Iron Bank demands surety."

"The Iron Throne is prepared to deposit a hundred-thousand as surety," Tommen calmly replied. "Consider it a down-payment on the debt, if you will, and reduce our payments by that sum."

"You have more," Noho said. "A hundred-thousand is not sufficient, given the size of the debts you owe us."

The King nodded, "I do. That gold is meant for fighting the last wars to unite my kingdom, to repair the damage done by these wars, and to plant and reap the last harvests before winter. And, if the worst comes true, to import enough food to stave off a famine. You must be reasonable, Lord Noho."

"I am being reasonable," Noho replied. "A hundred-thousand is insufficient."

"Very well," Tommen sighed, exasperated. "I will be generous, and offer a hundred-and-fifty-thousand, and not a groat more. Five percent of all that we owe should suffice."

Noho nodded, looking neither pleased nor displeased.

"And you should note, Lord Noho, that I consider it the Iron Bank's responsibility to collect this sum. You will send your ships here, and I will load them with my gold and silver, and then what happens to them after they leave my shores is neither my responsibility nor my concern. Once the gold is on those ships, I will consider my obligations fulfilled."

Noho frowned, but nodded regardless, "That is... acceptable."

"Well enough," the King said, "with that matter settled, there is one last thing I wished to discuss."

"What, Your Grace?" Noho asked.

"I hear, Lord Noho, that the Iron Bank has some connection with the Faceless Men of Braavos. Is this true?"

Noho seemed suddenly uncomfortable, "We... have employed their services in the past. Against those who failed to repay."

"And... you would be willing to employ their services again?" Tommen questioned. "On my behalf?"

"We would," Noho nodded hesitantly. "For a fee."

The King smiled a wicked smile, and clapped his hands together in delight. "For a fee!" he exclaimed. "Of course, Lord Noho, of course. I think this has been a productive meeting for the both of us, no? Please, Lord Noho, you are welcome to stay a while longer. I will have the details of the arrangement for you later."

Noho smiled a cold, humourless smile. He nodded as he stood from his seat and said, "Yes, I think so too. I will arrange transport for what you owe us, Your Grace. And I will await your message."

"My thanks, Lord Noho," Tommen said. "You are dismissed."

The three of them watched Lord Noho leave the room in silence. Nobody said a word. Then, finally the King sighed a relieved sigh and said, "Well, that was easier than I thought it would be."

"The faceless men?" Tyrion asked.

Tommen shrugged, "They are as good as killers get. And I need some people killed."

"They are expensive," Tywin said.

"A price worth paying," Tommen simply said as he stood from his seat, "when the prize is a kingdom."

"Who?" his father asked, fast reaching the limit of his patience.

"The claimant across the water," Tommen said. "Who else? Now, if you'll forgive me, my lords, I must leave you. The training yard beckons. Tyrion, I trust you will be able to organize the payments with Lord Noho?"

Tyrion nodded dutifully, "I will." When His Grace was gone, Tyrion turned to his father, "What do you think of him?"

"Entirely too impudent by half," his father said as he stood from his seat. "Not unlike you in wit, though far more prudent with his tongue."

"And he's not a dwarf," Tyrion added glibly. "You must be thrilled."

"He has not yet proven a disappointment," Tywin said in a voice of quiet satisfaction.

No, Tyrion thought as he watched his father leave, I suppose he hasn't.

Well, I'm back!

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P.S. May be subject to a rewrite or edits in the future