Tyrion

Tyrion peered at the book and then pursed his lips a little. Interesting. The Nightfort had a fascinating history. And appeared in most of the North's nastier folk tales. The one about the Night King – the one from the Night's Watch, not the King of the Others – was a particularly nasty one. It could possibly be explained away as a man who had somehow turned against everything that he should have been protecting. Such things happened. And perhaps instead of a female Other – did such a thing even exist? – there were accounts that perhaps she had been from a Barrowlands settlement.

The oddest feeling stole over him at that point. When he realised what it was he put his book down, sighed heavily and then looked about the room. A grave lad with hair that was almost red-brown was staring at him as if he was committing his appearance to memory. Oh. It was Lord Reed's son.

"Can I help you? You're Jojen Reed isn't it?" Wait, Ned Stark had said something about this boy hadn't he? He wracked his brain for a moment.

"Aye," said the boy, in a voice as grave as his face. "You are Tyrion Lannister." He went back to staring at him.

This was unnerving and he shifted a little in his seat. "As I said – can I help you?"

Jojen Reed tilted his head a little. "I had a dream of a small man who became a larger one. I think that the man was you."

He peered at the boy. "A dream?"

The boy nodded. "Father says that I have the Greensight."

The Greensight. Shock roiled through him. Oh, yes, this was the boy with the Greensight. Prophecy. He swallowed. All of a sudden he wanted to run away and hide under the nearest bed. He'd already had one Northerner get possessed by the Old Gods and tell him to do something. He wasn't sure if he could take any more prophecies.

"And what did you… dream about me?"

The boy tilted his head to one side again. "That you grew larger in spirit, with the help of someone."

"Who was that someone?"

"I don't know. Someone thought dead – but was not."

He thought about this for a moment. It didn't sound terribly reassuring. "I see."

"No," said the boy. "You don't. But you will." And then he turned and walked away.

"I suppose," Tyrion muttered to himself after the boy had gone, "That I'll grow after stepping into a magic mirror or something at the Night Fort." He thought about the look on Father's face if he returned as tall as Jaime and then chuckled, before returning to his book.

He spent a very interesting hour or so reading through the book, before finally closing it and sighing. He was going to one of the oldest castles on the Wall. And also the most infamous. Why? Well, that bit was a tad nebulous.

A memory gnawed at him and he bit his lip for a moment, before sighing and then pulling out the message that he'd written earlier. The problem with sending messages by raven was that they were, by necessity, somewhat limited. He wanted to send a massive book back to Casterly Rock, but that would take a team of specially trained ravens to carry it and sadly such a team did not exist. He could have sent an ordinary letter by messenger, but that would have been slower than a raven. So a raven it was. Perhaps he could devise some kind of code, or condensed script? It was an interesting idea.

But first this had to be sent. He got down off his chair and then stumped his way to Luwin's office. He found the old Maester there, working through his mound of books. He had to admit that the Maester knew his business. He had a huge amount of information at his fingertips – and what Tyrion knew to be a giant appetite for more.

He liked the man enormously.

"Can I help you, Lord Tyrion?" Luwin asked as he looked up from his perusal of his own book.

"You can indeed, Maester Luwin," Tyrion sighed. "I have a message to send to my father in Casterly Rock, so I require a raven." He held up the piece of paper with a sigh. Well, the die was cast now. He was committed. He just had to hope that Father wouldn't misconstrue things and think up some kind of plot about the threat from the North.

At least he was dealing with Father and not Cersei. She'd think all kinds of things about this, all of them dead wrong.

Robert

He was going mad waiting. He hated it. When Cersei had given birth to the children he'd always been off doing other things rather than wait. Especially when there were Maesters involved. They always hemmed and hawed and sucked their teeth and then looked worried when he waved a fist under their noses.

Sparring hadn't helped. Normally it did, but his mind had been too busy to handle it correctly and he'd gone through the motions with a visibly worried Ser Barristan.

Pacing didn't work either. He'd paced all over the Red Keep and now had a blister.

So now he had thrown himself onto a horse, told Renly curtly to send a message to the docks if the Maesters emerged from that damn room and then he'd booted the horse into a trot, out the gates and down the hill, Selmy following him.

He couldn't die. Jon just couldn't. He couldn't imagine a world without that wise old man.

The docks were busy. Busier than normal, now he came to think about it. Then he sighed. Of course. Jon's orders for the move North to Winterfell. He smiled sadly. Well, even if he lived he'd be too weak to go with him.

The horizon caught his eye and he glared at it. He had to confess that he didn't like the sea much. He had been at Storm's End when Windproud had sunk in that storm. Right in front of his eyes. Taking his parents with it. Old memories crowded through his mind. His parents. Gods, he missed them so much at times. But it had been Jon Arryn who had all but brought him up. He'd been a father to him. Steffon Baratheon… well, he'd been a good friend to the Mad King. Before he became as mad as he had in his last years.

He heard hooves behind him and he closed his eyes for a long moment and then opened them again before turning around. Ser Davos Seaworth was dismounting. He nodded seriously to Selmy, who nodded back and then approached and went to one knee, getting up again at Robert's curt wave of a hand.

"News from the Red Keep?"

"Nay your Grace. The Goldcloaks have searched the city. Lady Arryn is not in King's Landing. She must have been in one of the many parties that left the city that day. You know how large Kings Landing is, Your Grace. Dozens of parties leave every day. However, ravens have been sent to every town in the area. We'll find her Your Grace."

He nodded abruptly and then brooded again. "It was definitely her. It was her knife on the floor, with her own husband's blood on it. And judging by his own knife, with blood on it as well, and the fact that Lady Arryn was seen with a cut to her arm… it can only have been her."

A silence fell. Seaworth coughed. "I fear it was because of Baelish your Grace."

He sighed and then nodded. "Aye. Damn the man. Damn that wretched bloody man. Even dead he's a threat." He looked back up at Ser Davos. "How goes your work with the Goldcloaks?"

The Onion Knight pulled a slight face. "Slow but steady your Grace. It's still early days and the best thing that I can say of Janos Slynt is that he left a trail of slime everywhere."

"Including his own execution," Robert muttered as he remembered the filthy mess that the wretched man had left when he was dragged to the block. "Damn him as well."

"Aye, but I am making some progress." He shifted a little. "I shall return to the Red Keep your Grace. If the Maesters have any news I shall send word at once." He bowed awkwardly and then mounted and left.

Robert glared again at the horizon and then paced up and down the docks. And then he heard the sound of metal on metal and a puff-puff of bellows. Looking over to one side he could see smoke rising from a chimney that appeared to be attached to a chandlers. A memory tickled his mind and he strode over to it. Startled men watched him approach and tugged their forelocks in some cases, bowing in others.

Yes, the boy was there, at the forge. Gendry was frowning at a piece of red-hot metal that he had been pounding on with a hammer. He started when he caught sight of Robert and then bowed clumsily.

"Don't me lad – finish working your piece of metal," he said gruffly. He was, he had to say, curious about how good the lad was. "Take a break after that though. I need to talk to you."

Gendry looked at him carefully and then nodded and went back to the anvil, where he shaped the cooling metal with a few deft strokes. He peered at it again, put the metal back in the forge for a few minutes and then pulled it out again and hammered with what Robert could tell was carefully applied force. It took skill to do that. He was making… oh. A marlinspike. He paused. Of all the daft things he'd picked up from the Greyjoy Rebellion that had somehow stuck in his brain.

The boy looked at the piece of metal critically, nodded decisively and then placed it in the correct quenching bucket, before carefully putting everything in the correct place and then turning to Robert. "I'm done your Grace."

He nodded and then jerked a thumb at the nearest quay. "Need to talk to you."

The lad nodded and then followed him. When they reached a bollard he sighed and then turned to face his bastard son. "You probably have questions about your mother."

This brought a flush to Gendry's face, along with a choppy nod. "I… I do, M'Lor- I mean your Grace."

He sat on the bollard and sighed. "She was a pretty thing, your mother. Her smile could light up a room. And lift your heart. She was funny and cleverer than she appeared."

Gendry scuffed a boot on the planks of the dock. "I don't take after her much then."

"You can swing a hammer with a lot of skill. A fool can't do that. Don't be hard on yourself lad." He sighed and then scratched at the back of his head. "And you take after your father a lot."

The lad stared at him. "My father? Did you know him as well, your Grace?"

This was embarrassing. And harder than he ever thought it would be. "Erm… yes. In a matter of speaking." He stood up and ran a hand over his face. Then he looked the lad in the eye. "There's a reason that Lord Arryn and Lord Stannis came to see you. You look a lot like me. That's because I'm your father."

Gendry stared at him for a long moment, looking as if that marlinspike had walloped him on the back of the head. "Pardon, your Grace?" He said the words in a low, astonished voice.

He placed a hand gently on his son's shoulder. "You heard me right, lad. And I'm sorry. Your mother never sent me word. I didn't know that she was with child. That she'd had you." He looked at his feet for a moment and then winced a little at the fact that he had to peer over his gut to do so. He had a lot of work to do. Then he looked back up again. "But I know that you exist now, so I can make up for some things."

The lad was pale and trembling and he didn't blame him. It was a lot to take in. After a long moment the lad asked: "What… what will happen to me now?" He said it in a dazed voice.

I try and make sure that my bloody scold of a wife doesn't try and kill you, was the thing that he couldn't say to the lad, so he didn't. The history of the Blackfyres was long and complicated and bloody awful, and not something to be hinted at, so he didn't. "You know how to swing a hammer," he found himself saying eventually. "Have you ever held a warhammer?"

Gendry shook his head.

"Perhaps it's time you learnt. And not here." He thought carefully for a moment. He couldn't send the lad to Winterfell – Edric was on his way there as well and the Scold would get suspicious. Hells, given the nature of this fucking city there was probably someone watching him right now and compiling a report, for Varys or the Scold, or Pycelle for all he knew. Dragonstone? Stannis might not like that. Right. He knew where now. "I'm sending you to Storm's End. The place that your ancestors built. Get back to work now, but get your things ready. There'll be a ship going there today I think, your Uncle Renly's sending messages to his new Steward there."

The lad gaped at a bit at this but then rallied. "But my work here…"

"Can be done by someone else. Who's your overseer?"

"Master Tyrnbull. Over there."

"Let me have a word with him. Now – back to work."

The lad strode off and he watched him go with a slight smile. Gods, it was like looking at a younger version of himself. Then he walked over to have a word with Tyrnbull, who had been watching them with a look of uncertainty on his face, which vanished after Robert snapped out a string of orders.

He walked back to the docks and stared out at the sea again with a different kind of scowl. You did what you needed to do for family. How had he forgotten that? He pulled a face. Too drunk and fat and full of food perhaps in the past? Well by the Gods no longer. He mounted his horse and vowed to get the rest of this fat off him, if he had to spar all day and all night. And then he saw the messenger as he rode up in a cloud of dust. It was a Baratheon man, who reined in hard.

"Your Grace," the man gasped, "Word from the Red Keep. Lord Arryn will live."

He grinned fiercely. "Good man!" And then he spurred his horse and galloped up the hill, feeling more alive than he had for years.

Kevan

He drew rein in the courtyard and then looked about. The place was abuzz with messengers, with the odd raven coming and going and he looked about quizzically. What was going on? Well, whatever it was it had been enough to recall him at once from his long-planned visit to Feastfires. Tywin's message had been abrupt even for him, just 'Return as soon as possible', so he had.

He dismounted and walked over to the doorway, where a servant was standing with a bowl of water and a cloth and he quickly washed the dust of the road off his face and hands, before nodding at the servant and then striding off down the corridor that eventually led to Tywin's solar.

There was an almost constant stream of messengers going backwards and forwards out of the room and he watched them with bemusement and no small amount of dread. But then he thought about it. If his brother was taking the Westerlands to war then why hadn't he seen any soldiers on the roads that he'd ridden along.

Striding into the solar he saw Tywin almost hidden from sight behind a mound of books. Odd. They were ledgers and account books. His brother was perusing the books, glaring at a series of messages in one hand and scribbling messages with the other, messages that he was giving out to the messengers. When he saw Kevan he grunted. "About damn time." Then he looked at the messengers. "Get out. Wait to be allowed back in." They left, quickly, closing the door behind the last one.

"What's happened? Why all the books?" Kevan asked as he sank into a chair and suppressed a groan as various muscles twinged.

Tywin sat back and glowered at him. "A message from King's Landing. Robert Baratheon needs a new Master of Coin. Petyr Baelish is dead."

He frowned a little. "Was he ill?"

"No. He was arrested and then all but executed by Jon Arryn."

He felt his eyebrows fly up. "Arrested? For what?"

"Peculation. Thieving from the Crown," Tywin growled. "Thieving from everyone. And thieving FROM ME!" The last words were shouted in a guttural roar of fury that made the room quiver.

Kevan looked at his brother worriedly. "He did what?"

Tywin calmed himself with a visible effort of will, before standing and striding over to a small table, where he poured two goblets of wine, one of which he handed over to Kevan, who sipped it carefully.

"The ravens came three days ago," Tywin muttered as he sat at his chair again. "Messages, all. Baelish was arrested, then he was dead. And the list of his crimes… is a long one. He stole from the Crown. From the Iron Bank as well. And, of course, from me." A brief and savage smile crossed his face, and Kevan realised that his own mouth was hanging open. "Ambitious wasn't he?"

"He… stole from the Iron Bank? Was the man mad?"

"I suspect," Tywin growled after sipping from his own goblet, "That he reached the point where he stole because he could. After so many years of not being found out, of diverting coin into his own pockets – and then his trousers and then finally his boots – I think that he threw caution out of the window."

Kevan winced at his brother's savage tone. "You said 'all but executed'. How did he die? And who has replaced him?"

Tywin's eyes glittered with malevolence. "I did not think that Jon Arryn had it in him to be creative. I was wrong. He sentenced Baelish to trial by combat, in heavy armour. Very heavy armour. A shame, because his opponent – Arryn's champion – was the sea itself. He had him dropped through a hole in the dock. His head is now on a spike in the Red Keep." He frowned again. "No replacement has yet been named. My idiot daughter has sent me this." He waved another message. "She thinks that we can use the Crown's debt to us to force Arryn to appoint someone pliable to the Lannister cause."

This seemed like a good thing, but why was… oh. He looked at the books. "What did Baelish do with the money he stole?"

Tywin nodded approvingly. "Finally, someone else sees it! Very good Kevan. Baelish took the coin and invested it. He was a clever man. A man who realised that if you have a big bag of money hidden under your bed you are not rich, you are merely a hoarder. A rich man is one that lets the coin work for him.

"And Baelish was rich and clever. Foolhardy as well, but that's an aside. He used the coin to buy interests in all the Seven Kingdoms. Counting houses. Trading posts. Trading companies. Shipping companies. Smithies. Masons. Lumberyards. Mines. Brothels. The list is a long one, as is the list of the false names he used to buy them with." He held up a small sheath of messages. "This is the latest. I have been using it to find all the properties and holdings that Baelish had bought in the Westerlands. Rage filled his voice again. "Which were MANY! The records show the wretched man had tendrils all over the place. All over the Westerlands. He was buying up properties under my nose. And he was investing it. Which makes things worse."

Kevan frowned – and then a lamp of understanding was lit in his mind. "Making what he bought more valuable?"

His brother nodded again. "Yes. And Arryn has written to say that we can appropriate what Baelish owned in the Westerlands. How honourable of him. Oh – and of course any such appropriations will of course be set against the Crown's debt to us. So when my idiot daughter writes to me of using that debt as leverage – what leverage? What debt?"

His mouth was hanging open again. He closed it with a snap. "Baelish's properties are worth that much?"

"Oh yes. Baelish chose well. Invested wisely. We will reap the benefit. In fact we will profit mightily. Which we will have to thank the Crown for! Clever of Arryn. Cleverer than I thought he was capable of." He picked up a letter and then then threw it to one side. Kevan could see Cersei's characteristically flamboyant signature at the bottom of it.

Tywin pinched the bridge of his nose and then sighed slightly. "Why is it," he asked softly, "That the only one of my children with even half a brain is the one that I cannot stand to look at sometimes? Cersei is spiteful and not as clever as she thinks she is, Jaime thinks ridiculous things about honour and hones remarks that he regards as being clever. Tyrion at least uses his brain at times."

"You are too hard on Tyrion," Kevan said softly. "He has a brilliant mind. I see you scowl a little, but Tyrion is clever in a way that few others are."

"He drinks too much and frequents whores."

"He would do less of that if you gave him something meaningful to do." He paused. He was on delicate ground here. "You should have made him your heir years ago."

Tywin stiffened, as his face worked slightly. "I am… considering the matter." Which was same thing that he had said on the matter in question for years.

There was a moment of silence and then Tywin leant forwards with a sigh and started looking through the books again. "Well now, I must continue. Now that you are back I have a job for you. The one place nearby that I have so far not appropriated is in Lannisport. Baelish had a factor there, a man with something of a reputation for… violence and duplicity. I want you to take a hundred men and arrest the man before he has a chance to falsify any of his records. If we are to profit from the fall of Baelish I wish to profit in full. This will take care, tact and the appropriate use of the threat of violence. So I need your talents."

Kevan stood up. "A compliment, brother? I'm touched."

"An accurate description, nothing more. Let me know when it's done." And then he gestured at the door. "I need messengers. Apparently Baelish owned property near Golden Tooth. I would know where and why."

"And Cersei's message?"

"Is to be ignored. She will soon realise the truth of the matter. If she bothers thinking about it, that is."

Kevan winced slightly but then nodded and strode from the room, leaving the door open for the messengers to re-enter. Well. It seemed that he had a little more travelling to do that day.