Tyrion's third cousin twice removed – Ser Emrick, if he recalled correctly – was only remarkable insofar as how neatly he fit the typical Lannister mold.

Brilliant blonde hair, shining green eyes, slim pointed nose and sharp cleft chin, he'd the standard looks, accouterments too, crimson doublets and golden capes, and he carried himself with that customary air of self-important snobbery. He was proud of his pedigree, assured in his station, yet wholly content (or resigned – same difference, really) to unremarkably fritter his days under the all-consuming shadow of the Great Lord Tywin.

Today, however, his poise had fled; dragged before the gilded throne of the ancient Kings of the Rock, it was only by the grace of God that he hadn't soiled his pants.

"I ask again, Ser – are you a traitor, or an incompetent?"

Emrick swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing like a chicken.

Tyrion almost pitied him.

"M-my Lord," the knight sputtered, "I have f-faithfully – "

The lord raised a hand; his signet ring gleamed in the blood-red beams that streaked through the stained-glass windows, and Emrick all but choked on his tongue.

Tywin Lannister had seen better days.

From a distance, sure, he still radiated authority, loomed just as harsh and imposing as the lickspittles had come to expect, but Tyrion had endured enough of his Lord Father's company to recognize the signs that he was fraying at the edges: the twitching fingers, the bags under his eyes, the stubble dusting his chin.

The annexation of the Iron Islands hadn't gone nearly as smoothly as hoped.

When resettlement began in earnest, the smoldering embers of the Greyjoy War erupted into wholesale rebellion. Outposts fell silent, patrols disappeared into the night, while stockpiles burned and bridges collapsed and garrisons cowered behind thick stone walls.

This latest fiasco was but the most disastrous – two thousand dead or captive, another thousand wounded, and some six months of provisions all but gifted to the enemy.

And Emrick, the ranking officer, the one who'd blundered his command straight into an ambush?

Well, he made it out just fine.

Tywin studied the man as one would a cockroach, lip curling in disdain.

"No," he mused aloud, "you haven't the stones for treason." His gaze sharpened. "Say nothing of the decency to die with honor."

Not that Tywin gave a rat's ass for honor in its own right, but he knew this sort of thing would reflect rather poorly on the Lannister name. Clegane's … handling of Elia and her children, however necessary (and however cathartic), had caused enough damage as is – the last thing his reputation needed was the stain of a kinsman's cowardice.

Especially considering his own absence from the battlefield.

A hum.

"Whatever the case, failure demands consequence."

A flick of the wrist, and a pair of guardsmen, trooping up from behind, seized Emrick by the arms.

The knight resisted, of course, reddened and blustered and tried to pull away, but his heart skipped and muscles seized and eyes widened to hen's eggs when, head whipping towards the throne to demand an explanation, he beheld a glower fit to peel the skin from the bones.

Tyrion snorted – his father always had to make a show of things.

Dampening his rage, beating his death glare down to a mere withering scowl – it's a fine line that a lord has to walk; too much anger and you're hysterical, too little and you're soft – Tywin straightened his back, squared his shoulders, and leaned ever so slightly forward in his seat, just enough to make Emrick squirm.

"From now until death, you are banished from the Westerlands."

One could almost hear a pin drop.

"Your properties are seized, and honors forfeit. Your wife, if she does not join your exile, will return to her family a widow. Your children … "

Crossing his arms, Tyrion tuned the rest of it out – 'Why bother with the sermon,' he grumbled. 'Just get on with it.'

Twist the knife, sure, that's half the fun, but don't make it tedious.

Gaping, shuddering, Emrick tried taking a rattled step backwards, but the guardsmen tightened their grips; he struggled, they resisted, and his outrage twisted and bled to desperation.

"We are family!"

Eyes burning like coals, Tywin clenched his jaw. "It is only because we are family that you still have your head."

Executing a relation for anything less than red-handed regicide?

Simply beyond the pale.

But exiling a relation, reducing him to penury, then making a show of quiet solemnity when, a week or so later, a 'mugger' garrotes him in an alleyway?

Well …

Let's just say 'relatively palatable.'

And yet, this 'mercy' did nothing to reassure the onlookers – watching Tywin seethe as Emrick tearfully blubbered for forgiveness, they furtively whispered into their neighbors' ears, accusing their lord of despotism, betting which poor soul he'd ruin next, questioning his continued sanity.

Comparing him to Aerys.

Tywin was a harsh ruler, they could accept that (even respect it, to a certain degree), for his tyranny had always been measured, selective, deliberate – a scalpel, not a hammer, excising whoever'd dare slight his family name.

No more, and no less.

So long as his bannermen stuck to their oaths, stayed within their lanes, kept the corruption and intrigue and other such nonsense to an appropriate minimum, they could expect to be safe from the lion's claws.

Today's performance, however, beat that understanding to a sinewy pulp, then ran it headfirst through a woodchipper.

After all, the courtiers reasoned, if he'd attaint a Lannister for mere incompetence, just imagine what horrors he'd inflict upon the rest of them for so much as looking at him funny.

Perhaps, they thought, it'd be best to tread lightly, seclude themselves in anonymous mediocrity until Tywin had spent his wrath.

Or, maybe they ought to confront him, appeal to him as concerned subjects, and try their damndest to make him see reason.

Or, they might find it best to pursue … alternatives.

(Seems the mailed fist can only take you so far – fear has a rather nasty habit of simmering to resentment.)

Tyrion had never felt so smug.

Even though his father still refused to name him heir, balked at granting him his birthright, the erstwhile dwarf simply couldn't bring himself to care. With Her Majesty's blessing, he'd power now, real power, independent the fragility of titles and reputation, outside the confines of tradition and propriety.

A lord can be sidelined, a king overthrown, but a sorcerer?

Magic is feared for a reason.

Let the sheep lock horns over castles and gold, he'd far grander things in store.

And as Tyrion watched the guardsmen drag Emrick kicking and screaming from the hall, a stray thought slithered from the roiling depths to tickle at the forefront his mind – 'Why am I still here?'

The notion had struck him oft before, in moments of wanderlust and whimsy, but, until now, he'd never really given it serious consideration.

'Why don't I just leave?'

It's not like anything was stopping him, certainly not anymore. Lannisport had ships enough, and his capabilities would trivialize the logistical particulars (surely his father wouldn't mind if a ton or two of coin were 'borrowed' from the treasury), along with any obstacles he might encounter on the way, manmade or otherwise.

Slowly, staidly, subconsciously, a plan weaved itself into being.

A plan to escape Casterly's suffocating air.

A plan to see the world and all its wonders.

A plan to spread the word of his Goddess, and in some small way repay her benevolence.

His grin almost hurt.