Tyrion III

As Tyrion approached the Tower of the Hand, his keen eyes caught sight of a familiar figure emerging from its grand entrance—Cersei, his sister, draped in her customary regal attire. She moved with an air of forced grace, but there was no denying that the past days had worn heavily on her. Tyrion had witnessed her slow unraveling, the once proud and imposing queen reduced to a shadow of herself. Her face had grown hollow, her skin pallid and drawn tight over her bones, her once luminous golden hair dull and unkempt. It had been clear to anyone who cared to look that grief had consumed her—grief and something darker.

But today, there was a change. Cersei's usual haunted look was gone, replaced by something sharper, something more dangerous. Her eyes, which had recently been clouded with sorrow, now gleamed with a familiar venomous intensity, like a lioness ready to strike. The lines of despair still etched her face, but there was a new hardness beneath them, a resolve that made Tyrion wary.

He could tell she was still broken inside, the agony of her recent loss not far from the surface, but there was a shift in her demeanour that made him uneasy. The brittle queen who had wandered the halls aimlessly in her grief was gone. In her place stood a woman rekindled with purpose—dark, bitter purpose, no doubt—but purpose all the same.

Something had happened.

Tyrion slowed his pace as they crossed paths, his eyes scanning her for any hint of what might have caused the change. Her lips curled ever so slightly into a smile, though it held no warmth. She said nothing as she passed, her cold gaze flicking over him dismissively, as though he were less than an insect beneath her heel. For a fleeting moment, Tyrion thought to ask her what had transpired, but he held his tongue. The answer would come soon enough, he suspected.

Whatever had taken place, whatever storm had passed through her mind and heart, it had given her back a measure of her old ferocity. And that, Tyrion knew, could only mean trouble.

He turned his attention away as he heard a voice call from inside the room.

"Tyrion!" It was Tywin, summoning him with that familiar tone of authority.

Tyrion entered the chamber with an uneasy feeling, his thoughts immediately jumping to Roslin. She and Robb had left the city the day before, but doubt gnawed at him. Had they been stopped? Was she locked in a black cell even now, with her secrets laid bare? Every possibility of disaster weighed on his mind as he approached his father.

"Is there news?" Tyrion asked, his voice steady but his mind racing. "Has something happened?"

Tywin stood by the window, his posture as rigid and composed as ever, though Tyrion knew better than to mistake his father's calm for indifference. Tywin had the uncanny ability to turn the tide of events in his favor, to see several steps ahead in the deadly game of power. But for once, Tyrion hoped his father's machinations hadn't reached Roslin.

Tywin's gaze shifted slightly, and for a brief moment, Tyrion thought he saw something flicker in his father's eyes—recognition, perhaps? Or suspicion?

"There have been some arrests," Tywin said flatly, his voice as calm and detached as if he were commenting on the weather. His eyes didn't even flicker toward Tyrion as he spoke, the matter seemingly of no more consequence than a passing breeze.

Tyrion's heart skipped a beat. "Arrests? I didn't know you had any suspects."

Tywin's tone remained as cold as stone. "Well, as I said, it's nothing you need concern yourself with."

Tyrion's mind raced. What had he missed? Who had been taken in? And more importantly, why hadn't he heard of it sooner? "Father, I am your son," he pressed, his voice steady but edged with tension. "And now, I am your heir. Joffrey was my nephew. I want to know who killed him."

Tywin hesitated for the briefest of moments, his eyes narrowing just enough for Tyrion to catch the shift. "A whore," Tywin said finally, his words deliberate and pointed. "A whore was discovered on a ship bound for Essos. The captain, when questioned, told us her passage had been arranged privately. She was to have a cabin, a comfortable one, and upon her arrival, she was promised a house and her own household, all generously paid for by her mysterious sponsor."

Tyrion's blood ran cold. He felt a sick, twisting knot form in his gut as his father's words sank in. He knew exactly who Tywin was talking about—Shae. But Shae had no part in Joffrey's murder. None. Why would she be arrested? And more importantly, how had they found her?

Tywin's gaze locked onto Tyrion's with a sharpness that cut through the room like a blade. "The girl refused to name her sponsor," Tywin continued, his voice low but seething with unspoken accusations. "But it didn't take us long to put the pieces together."

Tyrion's chest tightened, panic bubbling just beneath the surface. He struggled to keep his face composed, to keep his thoughts from betraying him. Shae was supposed to be gone, safely away from the dangers of King's Landing, beyond the reach of men like his father. He had sent her away to protect her, but now it seemed that even the ocean wasn't enough to shield her from the Lannisters' grasp.

"Petyr Baelish," Tywin declared, his voice measured but laden with finality, "was arrested in connection with the King's death in the early hours of this morning."

The words hung in the air like a blade, sharp and poised to cut through the tension that had built between them. Tyrion stood motionless, struggling to comprehend the weight of the news. Baelish? Of all the names he expected to hear, Petyr Baelish had not been one of them.

"He has yet to admit to anything," Tywin went on, his tone cool and authoritative, "but the pieces are starting to fall into place. Baelish has always been an ambitious viper, slithering his way through the cracks of power. It seems he used that whore to kill the King and ignite the chaos he thrives on. Or perhaps," Tywin added, his lips curling into something that might have been a smirk, "that gives him too much credit. Maybe the girl was a genuine gift to the King, a gesture to gain more favour. And, well, we all know Joffrey had a particular way of dealing with his gifts."

Tyrion hesitated, his throat tightening as he prepared to speak. "What will happen to her... to him?" His voice was quieter than he intended, edged with unease.

"They will face a trial for their crimes," Tywin said flatly, as if it were the most natural course of action. "I imagine Cersei will call for both of them to be executed."

Tyrion felt a surge of panic twist in his chest. "But you know... you know it wasn't her," he objected, trying to keep the desperation from seeping into his tone. "Shae had no part in this."

Tywin's gaze hardened, cold and assessing. "Unless you have something else to tell me," he said, his voice low and dangerous, "I would strongly suggest you keep your mouth shut. Is there something you know, Tyrion?"

Tyrion held his father's gaze, but his heart raced. He could feel the weight of Tywin's words pressing down on him like a vice. There was no love lost between them, no compassion in Tywin's offer—only a veiled threat, a test of loyalty. Tyrion knew his father would not hesitate to destroy him if he even suspected a betrayal.

So he said nothing.

Tywin let the silence stretch, his eyes never leaving Tyrion's face. When he finally spoke, his words were slow, deliberate, each one striking like a hammer.

"At this very moment, the people are scared," Tywin said, his tone more measured, almost clinical. "Cersei is scared. Tommen is scared. The Tyrells are scared. Fear is a weapon, Tyrion. It keeps people in line, and right now, the realm is teetering on the edge of chaos. It doesn't matter if Baelish is truly guilty. The people need someone to blame. They need a villain to direct their anger at, and Littlefinger is the perfect target."

Tyrion clenched his jaw. He knew this was how his father operated, manipulating public perception to solidify his power. But what shook him most was how easily Tywin dismissed the truth, how quickly he would throw someone to the wolves if it served his purpose.

"I don't care if Baelish did it," Tywin continued. "The people need to believe that he did. Once they have someone to pin the blame on, we can begin to heal. Joffrey—" he paused, his mouth tightening as though it pained him to even speak the boy's name. "Joffrey wasn't fit to be King. I know Cersei loved him, but he was twisted. The boy enjoyed cruelty in a way that even I couldn't tame. The Tyrell girl tried to control him, but she failed. Margaery—" he spat the name with thinly veiled contempt, "—thought she could play the game better than the rest of us. She learned the hard way that even queens aren't safe from a mad king."

Tywin's voice softened, almost thoughtful. "But Tommen... Tommen is different. That boy can be a good King, if I'm given the time to guide him. And Margaery—she's still a good Queen, despite her... misjudgment. Together, they can give this realm the peace it so desperately needs."

He leaned back in his chair, his hands steepled before him, eyes narrowing as if considering every possible outcome. "But right now, what this realm needs is a villain. Someone to hate, someone to take the fall for all of it. Baelish, or that whore, it makes no difference."

Tyrion's stomach churned. His father's callous pragmatism was terrifying in its efficiency. He had always known Tywin would do anything for power, but to hear him speak so openly about sacrificing lives for the greater good—it chilled him.

"But she's innocent," Tyrion whispered, his voice strained. He looked up at his father, hoping for some glimmer of mercy, but he found none. Tywin's face remained a mask of icy control. "I've done everything you've asked," Tyrion said, his voice rising in frustration. "I married Sansa Stark. I've played the dutiful son."

Tywin raised an eyebrow, but said nothing, waiting for him to continue.

Tyrion took a deep breath, steeling himself. "But I... I love her." His voice broke slightly as he admitted the truth. "Please... spare her. I'm begging you, Father."

For the first time, Tywin's expression shifted, but it wasn't compassion that softened his features. It was something colder, more calculating. He regarded Tyrion with the same detached scrutiny he might use when considering whether to sign a contract or lead an army into battle.

"Love," Tywin said quietly, his voice dripping with disdain. "You are my son, Tyrion. Love is a weakness—a flaw you cannot afford. The woman is a complication, one I would have dealt with long ago if you hadn't been so insistent on keeping her." He rose from his chair, his gaze hardening once more. "Your sentimentality blinds you to the greater game at hand. This isn't about you, or your feelings. It's about ensuring the survival of our House."

Tyrion's heart sank, knowing his father's mind was already made up. He had played his hand, and he had lost.

"Baelish's arrest will serve its purpose," Tywin continued, his voice resolute. "And if the whore must die to protect this family, then so be it."

Tyrion opened his mouth to protest, to plead one last time, but the look in Tywin's eyes silenced him. There would be no reasoning with his father. Not now.

"Now," Tywin said, dismissing him with a wave of his hand, "unless you have anything else to say, I suggest you prepare yourself. The trial will be announced soon, and I expect you to stand by your family, as you always have."

"Actually," Tyrion began carefully, his voice calm but deliberate, "I came to ask your leave to return to Casterly Rock. I want to take Sansa home."

Tywin glanced up from his desk, his expression one of mild indifference. "You are more than welcome to take your wife back to the Rock," he said, waving a hand dismissively, "after the trial and after Tommen's coronation."

Tyrion's jaw tightened. He knew his father well enough to anticipate the resistance, but he also knew he couldn't back down. Not this time.

"Sansa is pregnant," Tyrion said suddenly, the words hanging in the air between them like a loaded crossbow.

Tywin's eyes snapped to his son, a flash of surprise crossing his face before he quickly masked it. He rose to his feet, slowly, deliberately, as if weighing the implications. For once, Tyrion had managed to get his full attention.

"We discovered she was with child just before Joffrey's wedding," Tyrion continued, keeping his gaze steady on his father. "This child matters to me," he said, and then, more pointedly, "I know it matters to you too."

Tywin stood silently for a moment, his mind clearly racing as he digested the news. A legitimate Lannister heir, the blood of the North and the South united in one child, a potential bond between House Lannister and the Stark legacy. It was more than just a grandchild—it was a strategic asset. Tywin's calculating nature couldn't ignore the possibilities this brought to the table.

"I would like to take my wife and our child somewhere calm and safe," Tyrion pressed, "where they can remain undisturbed until the birth. King's Landing is no place for her right now. The city is on edge, the Tyrells and the Martells are circling, and gods only know what Cersei might do next. Sansa deserves peace, not to be caught in the middle of all this madness."

Tywin regarded his son with that same, unreadable expression he always wore when weighing the value of something—or someone. His face remained impassive, the lines of age and power etched deep, but Tyrion could see the subtle shift in his eyes, the flicker of thoughts moving rapidly behind them. The gears of Tywin Lannister's mind were always turning, calculating the angles, assessing the worth of every piece on his board.

"And the child is…?" Tywin began, his voice cold and precise, as though discussing a business transaction rather than the life of his own grandchild.

"Mine," Tyrion replied firmly, holding his father's gaze without flinching. "Without a doubt."

For a long moment, Tywin said nothing. His expression remained stoic, but Tyrion knew his father well enough to sense the weight of this revelation sinking in. Tywin had long since written him off as an unworthy son—a disappointment, a stain on the Lannister name. But now, with the death of Joffrey and the fragile hope of Tommen, Tyrion knew he was once again useful. He was no longer just the disfigured son; he was the father of a potential heir. A child, part Lannister, part Stark—a union that would solidify their power in the North.

"Well," Tywin finally said, his voice low and measured, "I suppose congratulations are in order." There was no warmth in the words, no true pride, but Tyrion detected a subtle shift—a grudging acknowledgment of his new importance. The son Tywin had so often dismissed now held something of immense value.

But Tyrion knew better than to be fooled by this temporary recognition. His father's approval was never freely given, and this child, while useful, would serve Tywin's interests first and foremost. The old lion was already planning, already thinking about how to best use this grandchild to further the Lannister legacy.

"How far along is she?" Tywin asked, his tone more clinical than curious.

"Early enough that it's still a secret," Tyrion replied. "But we'll need to move quickly if we want to keep it that way."

Tywin's eyes narrowed slightly. "You've already decided then—this trip to Casterly Rock. You want to hide her away."

Tyrion met his father's gaze steadily. "I want to keep my wife and child safe, yes. The longer we stay in King's Landing, the greater the danger. You know as well as I do that the court is no place for a pregnant woman—not with Cersei on the warpath and whispers flying through the city."

For a moment, Tywin said nothing, his gaze fixed on his son as if searching for a weakness, a crack in the armor. But Tyrion held firm. He wasn't the frightened boy Tywin had tried to crush under his heel for years. He was a husband now, and soon to be a father. And despite his father's scorn, he knew this child was a lifeline—a bargaining chip that would keep them safe, at least for a little while.

"Very well," Tywin finally said, his voice cold but laced with an undercurrent of acceptance. "You may take her to Casterly Rock. But understand this—this child is more than just your heir. It is a Lannister. And I will not have anything jeopardising its future. Do you understand me?"

Tyrion nodded, his jaw tightening. "I understand."

"And you will return," Tywin said, his tone even sharper, as though daring Tyrion to defy him. "As soon as Sansa is settled, you will come back to King's Landing and serve as a judge in the trial. That is not up for discussion."

Tyrion squared his shoulders, his chin lifting ever so slightly in defiance. "No," he said firmly. The word hung in the air, thick with tension, the silence that followed almost unbearable. "I will not return to be part of this farce. I will stand aside as the trial proceeds, I won't interfere, but I refuse to take part in it. You have your scapegoat, Father—Baelish, Shae, whoever you decide to pin the blame on. But I won't be here to watch you manipulate the outcome."

Tywin's face tightened, his lips a thin, bloodless line. "You think you have a choice in this, Tyrion? You will do as your duty demands."

"Duty?" Tyrion laughed, though there was no humor in the sound. "Duty demands I serve this family, that much I know. I married the Stark girl when you commanded it, despite her loathing me and despite my own objections. I became the heir to Casterly Rock, something you never wanted but accepted because there was no one else. And now you ask me to judge a trial that will end in the death of people who may well be innocent."

Tywin's eyes flashed with impatience, but Tyrion pushed forward, his voice rising in passion.

"I have done everything you've asked—everything! I've bent to your will time and time again. But I will not sit in judgment over this sham trial. I will not stand beside you as you sentence people to death to suit your plans." He took a breath, calming himself before continuing. "What I will do is return to Casterly Rock and fulfill my duty as the heir. You wanted me there, didn't you? To rule in your name, to secure the future of the Lannisters, to produce heirs. Well, I've done two of those things, Father. I've taken a suitable wife, and now she's carrying your grandchild. But you have to let me do the last."

Tywin remained silent, his jaw clenched, his cold eyes locked on his son. He was not used to being spoken to this way—especially by Tyrion. But Tyrion didn't stop.

"I will return to Casterly Rock with Sansa, and I will stay there. I'll rule as your heir, and I'll ensure the line of House Lannister continues. But this trial? I want no part in it. I refuse to watch you orchestrate another twisted scheme, or see the faces of the condemned when you've already decided their fate. You have Jaime and Cersei here—let them play the game. I'm done."

For a moment, Tywin said nothing. The tension in the room was palpable, a heavy weight pressing down on them both. Tyrion could feel the heat of his father's anger simmering just beneath the surface, but he didn't flinch. He had made his choice.

Finally, Tywin leaned forward, his voice low and dangerous. "You think you can just walk away, Tyrion? You think that because you've married and produced a child, your duty is done? You are still my son, and as long as I live, you will do as I command."

Tyrion met his father's gaze, his own eyes dark with resolve. "I am your son," he said quietly, "but I am also more than just a pawn in your game. You wanted an heir, and I've given you one. But I will not let my child—or my wife—become part of your machinations. Not this time."

Tywin's eyes flickered with something—a brief spark of calculation, perhaps even a trace of grudging respect. But his voice remained cold, unyielding. "You'll return to the Rock," he said, each word clipped and deliberate. "But understand this—this isn't your escape, Tyrion. You are still bound to this family, to me, whether you like it or not. And one day, you will be called upon again to serve."

Tyrion gave a small, bitter smile. "Perhaps. But for now, I'm taking Sansa home. And that's the only thing that matters to me."

Tyrion nodded, turning to leave the room. His heart pounded in his chest, and he knew that this small victory was only temporary. His father would never truly let him go, never release him from the chains of their family's legacy. But for now, at least, he had won this battle. He had secured a safe path for Sansa and their child, away from the viper's nest of King's Landing.

And for that, he was willing to pay whatever price came next.

A/N: Hi all, Just a quick one. Thank you so much for reading, I hope you're enjoying. We're definitely moving into the second act of this story and I hope you still like it. I do have the majority of the major plot lines for this story planned but if theres anything you want to see more of just let me know.