TYRION I

"The walls of the Red Keep were high enough, he supposed, but not quite as great as he had expected [or remembered] them to be. The entire castle was like a collection of great red candles, but the towers were only a quarter as high as Casterly Rock, if even that much. Why is the greatest wonders of the world all so far away? He thought to himself. And why couldn't the Targaryens have built their keep inside a cliff, as we did? If the smallfolk would want to, they could practically walk right into the castle courtyard, save for the four guardsmen which currently stood guarding it. But the people were only looking up – or down – at him, of course, as usual. Stare as much as you like, Tyrion thought to himself, the Imp of Casterly Rock is come here at last, to show his funny little form to you all, and parade his golden robes about so that you get but a glimpse of his father's riches. Remember the sight of me, for you won't be seeing me out here, outside the castle on the streets of the city again until it's my time to leave again.

King's Landing was a muckpile of a city, and not better now by the end of the hottest summer in living memory. He had no intention of going outside the Red Keep unless absolutely craving for a decent brothel, and if he did so, he would be sure to bring company, with double the amount of guards. The Starks were bad enough, having already sent one Lannister brother to the Wall for a crime which was about as terrible as quenching out a flaming candle before it burned your house down, and their subjects did not seem all that overjoyed with his presence here either, now that he watched their wary eyes observing him. They see me, parading myself forward in my red and gold, and they think of Jaime, he was sure, and I don't even have Jaime's good looks to go by.

Jyck and Morrec were on either side of him, each on his own horse and with hands steady on their swordhilts, doing their best to keep the people from getting too close. The gates of the Red Keep opened up to receive them, and for just a short while it made Tyrion think of Queen Catelyn and how she would react, once she returned from Winterfell, that was. I wonder how willing the queen will be to receive us when she returns from Winterfell, he mused. Will she open her red skirts for us like the castle itself? He guessed not. The woman was basically a septa in a marriage bed, from what he had seen and heard of her. It was a small miracle that the king had gotten five children out of her. He almost felt ready to applaud the man for it. Although it certainly would take a northerner to try and conquer a lady with such a stony heart.

The worst thing about the queen that he had heard was her tendency to have her maids fired for the slightest wrongdoing. He had had one such story from a young servant girl during their way back from Winterfell on the Kingsroad. The journey back to the capital had been almost as long as the way there, and so there had been much and more time for stories, gossip and the like. The girl, whose name was Lynda or something similar, had said that Queen Catelyn once fired a girl from serving at court for having given her the wrong kind of cheese, and then another time some poor girl for looking too long at Prince Robb, whom she guarded from under her wings with all the tender love of a mother harpy.

But Tyrion supposed that he would not be spending a lot of time with the queen, at any rate, and the king was at least a marginally better man, although a Stark, stubbornheaded and honourable to a fault. If he kept his tongue to himself in the king's presence, he hoped that he would not sow discontent with him, at least. He had managed as much at Winterfell, though this was a smaller castle, and with far more goings-on.

And then there were the children, of course. Robb, the young prince, Sansa, the beautiful princess, Bran, the adventurous climber, although he was now deep asleep in the Crone's state at Winterfell, Arya, the tomboyish little thing, and the littlest one, whom he had already forgotten the name of, though it must surely have started with an R. Ruttiger? Rickard?

The journey to Winterfell and their stay there had been somehow strangely pleasant, despite it all. His sister, who had always been his greatest enemy apart from their father, seemed almost accepting of his presence there somehow. She must have become bored with the North in a fortnight, he reasoned, and almost felt sorry for her. Jaime had seemed okay, though there was something distinctly hardened about him as well, the face and stance of a man who had now served for more than a decade north of the Wall, four of which as First Ranger. He still had the same cocky attitude about him somewhere deep down, but it was lessened, hardened into a deeper form of severity and alware. The North will do that to a man, and further even at that.

He was only glad that his brother had not started to speak like the Starks as of yet. Willam certainly had the frosted accent of his Stark father, though with a little bit of Cersei's honeyed voice in him as well, and the same frostiness held true for Benjen's bastard Jon and the Greyjoy as well.

Myrcella and Tommen, in contrast, talked much like their mother still, on account of their spending their days mainly with the septa and Maester Luwin, whose accent he found that he'd had a hard time placing. He supposed that the man could be from the Barrowlands or the Rills, in the southern parts of the North, or else the Riverlands, but he could not be sure.

He had been kind enough, though, lending Tyrion books and parchments with many interesting stories from The North, some ancient texts of which were not even available at the Citadel. He had spent many nights reading by candlelight as the others were carousing in festivities and going to sleep. As a dwarf, or so he believed was the reason, one of his peculiarities was that he did not require much sleep. Only three or four hours each night did the trick, sometimes on rare occasions even one or two, whereas most men needed six or seven. And I pray I don't find myself needing more here in King's Landing...

It was a good thing, he supposed. That way he would be able to keep better track of all things which went on at court, and to steer his nephew in the right direction. The gods themselves knew that the boy needed it. A comfortable upbringing at the Rock, shielded from all of life's harms by his mother Lady Reldina and the stern but golden guardianship of Lord Tywin meant that the boy believed all the world was his for the taking. Mayhaps there was some truth to that, but nonetheless he needed to behave himself in front of the King and Queen, and in front of his potential bride-to-be, Princess Sansa, most of all.

His lord father had charged him with the mission of keeping an eye on him and making sure that the union was followed through. At first he had thought that his father had gotten some strange sudden illness inside his mind – perhaps he had gotten a sudden fever, just like Jon Arryn – or else that he was speaking in jest, but Lord Tywin never jested. He detested the very sound of laughter. And so, he supposed, against all precedent, that his father had simply decided to rely on his skills and put some trust in him for once.

He found it strange, but he also knew that his lord father had been tired of the capital already before his birth, during the time of the Mad King, and so he had thought long and hard and decided to place the responsibility on Tyrion instead. As a plight of duty or a plight of practicality, whichever reason Lord Tywin had, Tyrion would see to make his very best that he would not disappoint his father in this. Although Joffrey would surely do his best to contrive against it, however. The newly-made Lannister heir was already behaving quite unbecoming, in a way which would not be appreciated by the sullen Starks, puffing his golden chest out like some young cock and prancing slowly forward with his horse as if it were some [ ].

"Might I get past as well, dear nephew? There are more in our company who need to reach the Red Keep before winter comes", he japed.

"I am simply showing myself to the common people", Joffrey replied. "They should get a chance to see a true Lannister of the Rock once in their dreary lives."

"And how long is it, exactly, that you have been a true Lannister, again?" Tyrion shot back, and immediately regretted his words. Joffrey snapped with his neck and looked back at him angrily, with fury and shame fuming through his face.

"I am the heir to Casterly Rock now, dwarf, and you will not call my anything less!" the boy shot at him.

Tyrion was in true shock at the angry reaction, though he supposed that his own words had been poorly chosen as well. If this is how he reacts to my insults now, I don't think either of us two will survive the next couple of weeks with our heads and necks intact.

"I beg your pardon, nephew. A dwarf, yes", he said in response, after steadying himself and finding his wording, "and I am so sorry that you have to bear knowing that I, your terrible dwarf uncle, was once before you in the line of succession. Or should I say... my lord. But nonetheless, I am still the elder of us two, as you probably saw at Lord Harroway's Town after the little business with the butcher's boy and your ever so lordly sword, and so you will do your best to keep your golden little mouth quiet in front of the Starks and not chide me with any more derogatory words in front of the others around here. Do you understand?"

"You can talk on, dwarf... Uncle dwarf..." he mocked, "But my father has decided that I shall marry Princess Sansa, and I don't need a babysitter to get the deal done."

"I'm afraid you do, actually", Tyrion said calmly. "There are a hundred things to know about your dear princess and the Starks and Tullys that I fear you do not know yet. I, however, might have some important lessons about that which I could teach you."

Joffrey spat back at him in defiance.

"I've already had a proper maester's training on all of the houses, just as you. I know it all already!"

"Yes, you know the houses themselves, I'm sure", Tyrion agreed, "but there is more to Winterfell and the Starks than the direwolf of their sigil, wouldn't you agree? And just like that, there will be more and much more to this great red city and its goings-on than its banners or titles would appear to show us. Enemies and potential allies, love interests, the secrets of Princess Sansa's heart... Secrets which even I do not know yet, nor can I before we have spent enough time here..."

"I don't need any help", Joffrey said again, clearly frustrated at being treated like a child. "I'm thirteen years old. I know how to take care of myself."

Tyrion could see that the boy was lying to himself, but he let it pass.

"Very well then. Just tell me if you should need any sage advice from a wise old uncle dwarf, and I will be here to give them. Can you understand that much at least?"

There was silence between them for a couple more moments, as Morrec decided on whether to try and steer his horse right into the back of Joffrey's, prompting it on, but then the young lordling replied at last.

"Fine", Joffrey mumbled. And then he swung his horse forward, and they could carry on inside the walls of the Red Keep.

Gods be good, and don't give my lord father an excuse to have me disinherited. It's going to be a long couple of moons before the wedding is through, Tyrion thought to himself. And now I am the designated keeper of a young restless lion, and a young precocious she-wolf, at that, and I cannot rest from my duty that is put on my misshapen shoulders until I can see the litter of their cubs crawling before me on the floor. What great joy, this, King's Landing...

...

Their welcoming party was pleasant enough, though. A servant by the name of Martyn immediately took care of their horses, giving them to some awaiting stablemen, and escorted them inside the confines of the Red Keep itself. The Starks and Tullys had already gotten through far ahead, Tyrion saw, and he did his best to catch up with them and not fall too far behind. There would be more time to rest on the morrow, he told himself, and so made to hurry all that he could with his stunted legs and body still aching from the long ride.

The entrance hall was very tall in its ceiling, but not overly broad if one measured from the closests pillars. The walls were decorated with great tapestries, banners, shields, and paintings most of all.

"Small place, this, compared to the Rock", Joffrey said, walking beside him in strides with his long slender youth's legs. Tyrion considered telling him to be quiet with his thoughts, but then decided to let the boy say what he would, and agreed with him. The king and the royal children all stood beyond a thick line of twenty or more knights and men-at-arms, and were not within hearing.

"Yes, you're quite right, the Red Keep is one of the smaller great castles of Westeros", he said instead, hoping to give his nephew a valuable history lesson. "It was constructed by King Maegor the Cruel, and once he was done he had all the builders killed, so that they could not tell anyone of the secret tunnels and passways of the castle which he had commisioned them to build."

Joffrey turned back to Tyrion at that, and laughed out loud. "He sounds like a clever man."

"Indeed."

"But if he killed them so that noone ever would know, how come you know this story?"

"I have read about it", he inclined, tilting his malformed head at the saddlebag of books which Jyck at present held beneath in his arms. "'The History of The Red Keep: From its Cruel Construction to the Dance of the Dragons's Destruction and the Angry Reign of King Aegon The Dragonbane', by Maester Thomard. He always had a penchant for rhyming his titles."

"He wrote that?" Joffrey asked. "Maester Thomard? And how did he know about it?"

"Maester Thomard does not tell that much, I'm afraid. Though I suppose that it would have been a well-known rumour going around at the Targaryens' court in the time when he wrote the book, more than a hundred years back. The talk of servingmaids and washerwomen. There are more secrets to a castle than those its lords and ladies know and talk about to themselves. I believe we are both accustomed to such rumours, nephew, are we not?"

They both knew that Tyrion was referring to the hideous washerwomen who Joffrey had had executed and put up on spikes for gossiping about him as a "spoiled boy" and a "bit of cat's gold", and his mother the "red bedwarmer of Lord Tywin".

"The bloody hags all had it coming", he shrugged. "They would do well to shut their faces and hold their thoughts to themselves the next time."

"Well, now there won't be a next time for them, will there?" he said.

"No, precisely. There won't", said Joffrey, with a gleeful smile, and Tyrion had to shiver a bit down to his spine at the carelessness of his new lord's relaxed countenance.

Though he supposed that he would have been much the same in his position, having grown up a bastard to the great lord Tywin, if not worse. A young lion grown up without a leash, and now free to roam this motley city of wolves, trouts, lambs, birds, spiders and snakes. Let she show begin...

And begin it most certainly did, he thought, as Lord Baelish and Gyles Rosby, along with [Lord Stannis?], Wylis Manderly, Grand Maester Pycelle and Ser Barristan Selmy, stood welcoming them into the capital, along with various other knights, lords, ladies, servants and retainers. Tyrion was secretly excited to meet the great legend Ser Barristan the Bold, but he did not allow himself to look further at the man before he had gotten himself a good enough purview of the other lords apparent.

They, the members of the Small Council, could not have been further different from eachother even if they had held a meeting about it, he thought. Lord Stannis was a hard and serious man, a tall and strong but slightly sinewy Baratheon commander with thinning hair, a great square lantern jaw, deep blue eyes beneath vaguely [missnöjda – disgruntled?] eyebrows, and a close-cropped night-black beard. How two Baratheon brothers could be more unlike eachother than Stannis and Lord Robert he found it hard to fathom.

Lord Baelish, the spymaster called Littlefinger, by contrast, was by contrast a small man by normal standards, with smiling grey-green eyes and short cropped brown hair, clad in a [silvery-grey and brown? ] doublet/tunic] with a silver mockingbird pin on his chest. His grandfather had been a merchant from Braavos, as Tyrion remembered it, and he came from a little spit of land on the Fingers in the Vale, but his father had once saved Lord Hoster Tully's life on the battlefield and so the young boy Littlefinger had been fostered with the Tullys at Riverrun, and risen up high as a result.

Grand Maester Pycelle was an ancient and wise-looking man, with a long and broad snowy white beard which grew down to his chest. Whispy strands of white hair framed the bald dome of his head above his white bushy eyebrows and great nose. Around his neck and chest was the enormous necklace of chains marking him as Grand Maester, a heavy maester's collar of two dozen heavy chains woven together into a ponderous metal necklace. Links of black iron, red gold, bright copper, dull lead, steal, tin, pale silver, brass and bronze, platinum, garnets, emeralds, rubies and much more. He had been the grand maester for over forty years and served three Targaryen kings, and now he served King Eddard Stark, Tyrion reflected.

"Welcome to the capital, Lord Tyrion", Grand Maester Pycelle said, inclining his weary grey head down in a respectful bow. Tyrion thanked him graciously

"How was your journey, my lord? Did the sights of Winterfell and the Wall live up to your expectations?" the grand maester [enquired/inquired].

"I suppose they did", Tyrion replied. "The North is much like they describe it, though bigger, somehow. It's a vast open place, with endless stretches of land – fields, forests and snowcovered hills – but very few people. Quite the opposite to the capital, now that I am here."

"Ah, yes,", Pycelle agreed. "I have served here for forty years, and I dare say that the city has seldom been so overrun as these past summer moons. But the goldcloaks manage the peace quite well. It is only the heat, my lord, which makes people susceptible to all kinds of folly and depravities to fill their days."

"I would suppose that the heat rather made men rest during the warmth of the day, and do their depravities by night", Tyrion jested.

"Ah, yes, mylord", Pycelle agreed, though numb to the joke. "There have been troubles in Flee Bottom again. It is, as you might know, the lowest and generally the most violent part of the city."

"Yes, I believe I have heard one or two things about Flee Bottom", Tyrion said, trying to angle a concerned smile up at the maester. Pycelle barely looked down at Tyrion any longer, though, but now soon held his monologue towards the empty air above Tyrion's head.

He could not blame him for doing so, however; the day was warm, even here in the swallor of the castle, and the aged Pycelle already did his best to stand up tall with his enormous maester's chain wrapped four times around his neck and gleaming with the colors of more than [twenty?] links, the signum of all of his studies; of history, sums, alchemy, astronomy, warfare, craftsmanship, politics, foreign tongues, beasts and plants, and much else. The maester was surely too much bowed down by all the weight of the chain on his ancient neck, along with the heat of the day, to also keep that neck bent down to Tyrion's height for any extended time. He felt compelled to say something of the sort.

"I see that you have studied the histories of the East, Grand Maester. I was hoping to find some information about the Free Cities' history. I was never allowed to go there in my youth, you see. My father thought that I should get a more important job as I came of age. Sewage and drain manager, one might call it. Still, I might try and visit there some time now I thought it worth my while."

"Oh yes, my lord, certainly... The Free Cities are a miracle to behold... The architecture alone would make the journey worth it, and the people and the many wonders which one can see there... The three bells of Norvos... The long bridge of Volantis... Yes, there are many things to see, indeed."

"Fascinating. Could you tell me more some day?"

"Oh yes, certainly, my lord. My door is always open. Come to my solar tomorrow, and we shall gladly speak on whatever finds your interest."

"Wonderful." Tyrion smiled up at Pycelle and then continued on to the others of the party. Most of them had already chosen someone else to speak to, however, and were rapidly engulfed in conversations.

He noticed however that the king was reclining to his bedchamber already. The long and solemn figure of King Eddard Stark walked away into the hallway, with two of his Kingsguard, Ser Jory Cassel and Ser Marlon Manderly, by his side.

So much for the celebratory welcoming of House Lannister to the capital, Tyrion thought. But that would of course wait until his lord father came there, in [about a fortnight/a moon's time?].

Seven days before he had planned to begin the journey, according to his latest letter, and then perhaps a little under a fortnight – ten days, he guessed, with a little luck and good road's weather – to make it all the way from Casterly Rock to King's Landing. Then he would start his tenure as Hand, and Tyrion would feel his eerie green eyes staring down his neck and scalp even more as he tried to plant a way for the possible betrothal of the two younglings.

The Princess Sansa was a truly sweet young girl, beautiful, with blue eyes, a perfect nose and face, pale skin and red hair the colour of the Tullys, and as regal as anyone could be expected to be at her young age, in truth far better than Joffrey deserved, but he would do his best to try and show the boy's best sides to her, and then – in time – to somehow try and take or introduce the matter before the King. First he needed to get to know the man, the Good King Eddard Stark, however.

Good King Eddard, Good King Ned, Eddard the Just, The silent wolf king. He certainly had many monikers, and Tyrion had seen that he was living up to most of them during their way to and stay at Winterfell, as well indeed as on the way back. King Eddard was strong, patient, silent for the most part, though eloquent and well-balanced enough when he did speak, slow to anger, and slow and frosty to most other emotions as well, with a silent, sullen look that he had most everywhere he went.

The poor man takes the responsibility of the crown almost a little too hard, thought Tyrion. He does not seem to have much joy from it. But such was of course always the way it had to be for a first monarch, who tried to establish his own dynasty after what had come before him.

King Eddard had moved away the dragon skulls of the Targaryens and had them moved down to the dank cellars underneath the keep, if the stories and rumours could be believed. He decided that he would ask the king as soon as he got his time to have an audience with him. Perhaps in one or two days' time, he guessed. Maybe three. The king was a very busy man, after all, and he would be, for taking care of all the things which had lain behind him only managed by the Small Council while they had been away.

He would be busy just all the way up until Lord Tywin came and alleviated him of some of his tasks, Tyrion thought. In the meantime, it is best that I am patient, and do not try and consider myself as something too much. He respects Jaime all too little, what must he think of me and the newly made Joffrey Lannister then?

But he would try, and he would try his best, to make a good impression on the King, and to Sansa, for both his own sake, for the saker of his father and of his house, and for Joffrey. He'd promised.

And so my watch begins..."