Tyrion II
Tyrion was pages deep into The Reign of King Viserys, First of His Name, and the Dance of the Dragons That Came After. Written by Septon Eustace, though it was one of the dryer reads. He found himself wondering if it was because a septon had written it. Grand Maester Pycelle and the Measter here in Harenhall both claim the septon speak accurately of the events, but Tyrion doubted it. Tyrion would always be cynical about anything the Grand Maester claimed, but if Pycelle would claim that Septon Eustace was baised, Tyrion would agree. What would a septon know about the Targaryens anyhow? History was written by the victorious besides. Tyrion did not know much about warfare, but he knew a lot about men. No one in this world is truly good, nor truly evil. Men do what benefits themselves and the people they care about, and it's all a matter of perspective. The deaths of Aegon and Rhaenys came into his mind. Men like Eddard Stark would always call it murder and evil, though his friend Robert Baratheon would call it a necessity to secure his reign, and his dear Father would call it an opportunity. So Tyrion kept chuckling as he read about the evil and hedonistic Queen Rheanyra Targaryen and good king Aegon. That Septon Eustace was a green supporter, Tyrion did not doubt.
''What is so amusing?'' He already knew the sneering voice belonged to his dear sister. It seemed that he could not even chuckle within her proximity.
''A book.'' Tyrion answered simply, opening his mouth once more to quipp about the great resemblance between Rhaenyra Targaryen and Cersei Lannister, but decided against it. The crown prince was also here, and he did not want to suffer one of his tantrums. Not that he would know anything about Targaryen history, or any history for that matter.
''What are you reading?'' Tyrion lifted his head and found the source of the voice. Myrcella's golden hair was shining, but her emerald eyes were gloomy. He closed the book to get a good look at the full title.
''The Reign of King Viserys, First of His Name, and the Dance of the Dragons That Came After by Septon Eustace.'' Tyrion declared with a mummers passion.
Jaime Lannister snorted. ''Sounds interesting.''
''Not really. As a matter of fact, I find it quite dull.''
''Then why do you bother?'' Joffrey Baratheon joined in on the sneering; both he and Cersei seemed bothered by him being here. I was here first, as I seem to recall.
''You have your golden sword and feared prowess, dear nephew. 'Tis I who have the golden mind of the family.''
Joffrey snorted; the quipp went to right over his head, it seemed. Cersei seemed ready to jump him, however. ''Dog! Come with me.'' Joffrey commanded before leaving the Lannister-Baratheon Chamber Hall. Tyrion thanked the Seven.
Cersei gazed at her firstborn as he left the royal Chamber Hall. ''He is probably off to see that rose bitch again.'' She spat out. ''She has her thorns on him, and she will only continue to squeeze.'' His dear sister truly provided with ancient wisdom. Although she was not wrong, even he had spotted the Tyrell girl with Joffrey. Arms entwined and laughing, all the while Cersei looked like she had swallowed wildfire.
Tyrion frowned. ''So? He needs to marry someday; why not let it be Margaery Tyrell? Bringing the Reach into the fold would only benefit us.''
Cersei actually laughed. ''My fat husband will never allow that. It's probably one of the only things we actually have in common.'' Then you are both fools.
''Unless the prince falls in love with her. Joffrey does have the kings strong will.'' Tyrion answered simply, making Cersei's eyes narrow. ''Did you seriously think that no lady in the Seven Kingdoms would rush to him and curry favour?''
''I still remember how you were when Rhaegar rode past you during the last tourney here.'' Jaime said softly. It seemed to invoke something strange in their sister, as she bore an expression completely foreign to Tyrion.
''Princes do tend to draw that kind of attention, but the girl is no camp follower, dear sister.''
Cersei groaned and quickly stood up. ''The children don't need to hear your filth; you've already disgraced our house good enough.''
''What's a camp follower?'' Tommen asked innocently and perhaps a little too shyly for a boy of his standing.
Cersei sighed, ''Nothing, my sweet cub.'' She threw a cold look at both her brothers before leaving the Chamber Hall, Tommen and Myrcella, and the rest of the Kingsguard close behind her.
''Where is she going?'' Jaime asked.
Tyrion simply shrugged, unbothered by her absence. ''Probably off to watch the lion and the rose.''
''I still find it perplexing why your golden mind needs to know about...'' He approached him, his golden armour rustling before he scanned the title of the book he had closed. ''...The reign of King Viserys.'' Jaime read out.
''One with only a mind to strengthen his house must read books; otherwise, his mind wastes away. And how else am I meant to pass the time until the feast tonight?''
''Hmph.'' Jaime sounded amused. ''Well, I'm off to practice. Will you join me at the tourney grounds?'' Jaime suggested, his emerald eyes glimmered with hopefulness.
Tyrion raised an eyebrow in return, gazing at him. Jaime sighed. ''Don't leave me alone with these people.''
''You're kingsguard, Jaime. Isn't your place by the king?''
''The king is busy fucking Lord Eddard.''
''Our dear sister then? I'm sure Cersei would be more than pleased by your presence. In fact, I'm quite shocked that you did not follow her out just now.''
Jaime's face soured, and his eyes turned just as gloomy as Myrcella's. He opened his mouth, but no words came out. Tyrion saw it all and became annoyed. Trouble in paradise and no company. I'm his last option. Tyrion actually thought that Jaime just wanted to spend some time with him alone.
''I see.'' Tyrion said.
''Are you so hellbent on spending all your time cowed up here?'' Jaime answered, slightly vexxed.
Tyrion suppressed a sigh and jumped down from his seat. ''Very well, let us honour the men in the tourney grounds with our presence. But I'm bringing the book.''
Jaime answered with a smug and a little relieved smirk. ''After you.''
As they neared the door to the outside of the Chamber Hall, Tyrion stopped and looked at his brother. ''What did Lady Whent say about the fire?''
Jaime shrugged. ''They have found no culprit; mayhaps it was just an accident?''
Tyrion smiled at his brother's nonchalance. Jaime Lannister had always been better at swords than politics. ''Mayhaps.''
In truth, he suspected Cersei. He did not know a true motive why she would want to burn down the Chamber Hall of the other Great Houses, especially as no one at the time was there. But it was not like she ever needed a motive. Tyrion found it very hard to believe the fire to be a mere accident; the last uncontrolled fire inside Harrenhal took place hundreds of years ago. Harwin ''Breakbones'' and his father, Lyonel Strong, perished by a similar fire. The cause of that fire was never discovered outside of baseless rumours. Septon Eustace suspected foul play, that Rhaenyra Targaryen killed them to hide evidence of her fornication. Is that Cersei's motive? Has Jon Arryn suspected anything about her blonde children? Did she murder Renly for the same reason? Or are there truly other mummers at play? But then again, no one was inside the Chamber Hall or the respective chambers it held at the time. It did not make any sense.
Tyrion Lannister and his brother exited his chambers and started to make their way outside of the castle. He adjusted his cloak, the deep red fabric emblazoned with the golden lion of his house fluttering as he passed an open window. He glanced up at the towering figure of his brother, Jaime, who walked beside him. As they descended down the stairs, the sounds of his brothers armour clinking softly mingled with the murmurs of men and footsteps. Tyrion could not imagine something more dull than watching his brother spar; he enjoyed doing so when they were children, but now he found himself longing for his cool room instead. He was saved though, as he noticed a commotion. He saw his uncle Kevan talking with Lord Lefford; he seemed a bit uneasy.
''Uncle, what's all this life about?'' Tyrion asked.
''Tyrion.'' Kevan acknowledged; his eyes seemed to calm somewhat as he spotted him and his brother. ''We've only heard tales of foreign envoys from Tyrosh.''
''Tyrosh?'' Jaime asked, frowning.
''Tyrosh no longer, the Three Daughters now.'' Tyrion corrected, passing them and walking towards the Great Hall. This was something he could not possibly miss. He knew King Robert was worried about them; he was not the only one. He could only assume that Pentos and Braavos would be worried along with him. Why would they be here? What could they possibly want from Robert? A declaration of peace? An offer of an alliance? Has Volantis beaten them back?
Tyrion managed to slip inside the Great Hall gracefully. Its high stone walls were adorned with the banners of House Whent and House Baratheon. Numerous flickering torchlights cast long shadows across the hall, and Tyrion could feel the air of anticipation. Nobles from all corners of the realm were clustered together, sounds of different conversations echoing throughout the hall. He felt a hand on his shoulder, and when he turned around, he saw his brother signalling for him to follow. Jaime navigated them through the sea of richly clad lords and ladies, his golden armour catching the light, making him stand out even among the highborn. Tyrion followed close behind, trying to spot something that could tell him more about the situation. Tyrion could see that Jaime was leading them towards Addam Marbrand, who was near one of the grand pillars, a goblet of wine in his hand, his brow furrowed with curiosity.
''Marbrand, why are the Triarchy here?'' Jaime asked his childhood friend. Marbrand responded with a shrug.
Before they could speculate further, the doors at the far end of the hall swung open with a loud creak. A hush fell over the crowd as a steward, clad in the colours of House Whent, stepped forward. ''King Robert of House Baratheon, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men! Together with Jon Arryn, Lord of the Eyrie, Warden of the East, and Hand of the King!'' A steward announced.
The words rippled through the hall, and the nobles parted like a sea to make way for the king and his hand. King Robert's puffed face was already red; if it was from exhaustion or anger, Tyrion did not know. Jon Arryn's face was a grim mask. The otherwise fatigued old man has seemed to have found new energy as he walked towards the high table with an unusual grace. Tyrion and Jaime exchanged a glance as they watched the pair make their way to the high table. The nobles bowed and curtsied as the king passed. Behind the King and the Hand were numerous other men; his small size made it difficult for him to see who they were, but once they all descended upon the high table and sat down, he knew three of them were Stannis Baratheon, Ser Barristan Selmy, and Petyr Baelish. Numerous white knights of the Kingsguard were standing behind them dutifully, and only when he saw his brother golden armour there with them did he notice that Jaime had left him to do his duty. The hall remained silent for some time, even as the men at the high table had gotten themselves comfortable in their seats.
''Bring them in!'' King Robert bellowed, breaking the long silence.
A door to the side of the dais creaked open, and a dozen Baratheon guards filed in, surrounding two men who stood out starkly against the backdrop of Westerosi nobility. The first man was slender and tall, his skin sun-bronzed, and his green dyed hair tied back with a strip of leather. He wore robes of deep crimson, adorned with gold thread in intricate patterns. The second man was shorter but broader, with a closely cropped beard and the look of a warrior, his garb simpler but no less foreign—a tunic of sea-green and sand-coloured trousers. Both had the weary look of men who had travelled far.
The guards escorted them to a spot just below the high table, and the eyes of the assembled nobles followed their every movement with curiosity. Tyrion, to his annoyance, has still not figured out why they were here, but they would find out nonetheless.
The taller man stepped forward, bowing deeply to King Robert. ''Your Grace,'' he began, his voice accented but clear. ''I am Myron of Lys. This is my companion, Kallio of Tyrosh. We come as representatives of the Triarchy, rulers of the Three Daughters.''
''The Triarchy,'' King Robert repeated; his expression seemed to suggest that the words tasted bad in his mouth. ''And what brings Triarchy envoys to my lands, so far from the sea? Speak plainly.''
The tall envoy called Myron seemed to hesitate, looking around him and sharing a glance with his companion. He took a deep breath. ''We have come to seek answers.''
''Answers?'' King Robert answered, his brow furrowed.
The broader man stepped forward next. Both envoys bore different expressions; the tall man looked uneasy, while the broader man looked angry. ''Answers.'' The broader envoy practically hissed. ''Answers for the heinous crimes committed by the Iron Throne and its subjects.''
The tall envoy glared at the broad man before speaking himself. ''Your Grace. Our ships and our people have come under attack at the Stepstones. It was not pirates, but longships—scores of them, bearing banners that we could not mistake."
At this, Robert's expression darkened, his hand gripping the arm of his chair. ''And whose banner would that be?'' he asked, though a dangerous edge had crept into his tone.
''A silver scythe on black, silver fish on pale green, and the golden kraken on black, Your Grace.''
A wave of shock swept through the hall, the nobles erupting in murmurs and gasps of disbelief. Tyrion's eyes widened in surprise.
Robert's hand clenched into a fist on the armrest of his chair, his knuckles turning white. ''Squids, you say?''
Stannis Baratheon spoke next. ''Who commanded these ships? What proof do you have of this attack?''
Myron's expression darkened, while the broader envoy named Kallio was visibly seen trying to fight his composure. ''We have seen the banners ourselves, my lord. Or do you take us for liars?'' Myron of Lys said.
''Do you think us fools?'' Kallio of Tyrosh erupted at the question. ''The crowned stag flew right next to the kraken. They were carrying your banners.''
Jon Arryn's expression turned grim; Stannis' jaw tightened while Robert's hand clenched into a fist, his knuckles white against the armrest of his chair. ''My own banner? You dare accuse me of such in my own hall?'' His voice was a low growl, the threat barely concealed.
Myron of Lys quickly raised his hands in a placating gesture. ''Your Grace, we mean no disrespect. We are only relaying what we have seen with our own eyes. These ships bore your sigil as well as others, and they attacked us with the ferocity of those who believe they have royal sanction.''
A collective gasp swept through the hall, and loud murmurs followed; one or two men even started to roar, calling the envoys liars. ''ORDER!'' King Robert bellowed, and soon after did the hall turn quiet again.
''What was the outcome of this attack?'' Jon Arryn asked.
''Ten of our ships were sunken; ten more were badly damaged. Hundreds of our own, gone. But reinforcements managed to repel them.''
''So the attackers are dead then?'' Stannis asked sternly.
''Most of them managed to escape, but we counted seven of their ships sunken.'' Myron of Lys answered.
''Then, surely, you have captured some of their sailors who could provide with more information?'' Petyr Baelish said.
''Our reports speak of ships manned by Westerosi—hard men. 'Tis true that we have taken some prisoners; all of them claim to serve a king, though they offer no name.''
''Then there is nothing more to discuss. King Robert did not order any such attack, and The Iron Throne cannot offer compensation to the Three Daughters based on hearsay.'' Jon Arryn said firmly.
Myron of Lys' voice took on a sharper edge as he replied. "We understand, but the damage is done, and we cannot ignore it. Our people are crying for justice, and the Triarchy has responded.''
The silence that fell into the hall was disconforting, and Tyrion could swear that the hall got colder. Robert's eyes flared with sudden, barely contained fury. "What do you mean?''
''The High Council of the Triarchy has decided to collect the debt owed by the Iron Throne.''
For the first time, Tyrion could see Littlefingers facade breaking. His eyes widened, and his face turned slightly pale. But it only lasted for a moment, and no one else seemed to notice it; Tyrion did though.Interesting.Robert's face turned a deep shade of red, but before he could act on his rage, Jon Arryn seemed to whisper something in his ear. No one below the high table could hear it, but what he said calmed the king down. ''Very well. You'll stay here under my protection until we sort this mess out. But hear this—if you've lied to me, if this is some scheme to drive a wedge between me and my bannermen, I swear on the mother above you'll regret ever setting foot in Westeros.'' King Robert said, before rising suddenly. ''Court dismissed!''
King Robert and his councillors quickly exited the hall, with the Kingsguard and his brother Jaime following dutifully behind. The court quickly cleared after that, and soon enough Tyrion was the only one left inside the Great Hall besides a few other noblemen and servants. The stag and the three maidens were circling each other. It was not a good start to a tournament; tourneys were the signs of peacetime and prosperity, in theory anyway. It was entertaining though; Tyrion did not doubt that. The memory of Littlefingers face falling was enough to keep him satisfied for at least a moon. One question would not escape his mind though: What debt did the Iron Throne owe the Triarchy? Tyrion Lannister did not claim to be a financial expert, and he was sure that he would make a terrible Master of Coin. But the Crown seemed, for all intents and purposes, thriving economically. The king ate, drank and whored, as well as threw feasts and tourneys, as a man who inherited a fortune. And all men inside the Red Keep had heard about Littlefingers ability to rub two coins together to make a third one. He went from a minor customsman in the ports of Gulltown to the Master of Coin because of his ability to grow profits. The Triarchy was a somewhat new collective as well. Yet his laughing grey-green eyes had turned spooked.How much coin did The Iron Throne owe them?
He quickly figured out that he did not want to find that out at the moment, and the book was growing heavy to the point that he might drop it. Tyrion needed space, so he navigated himself out of the Great Hall and through the corridors to the courtyard outside. It had been the calmest out here for a while, so he quickly spotted two Lannister guards leaning against one of the towering black walls. They straightened as they noticed him approaching.
''Ser Bruyn, Oswyll.'' He greeted, handing over the heavy book to Oswyll. ''I find myself in need of an escort to the quiet outside the sea of tents, and I have no desire to meet my end to some ambitious bandit or hedgeknight.''
The guards exchanged a glance before nodding. ''As you wish, m'lord.'' Ser Bruyn replied, and they fell into step behind Tyrion as he moved outside the gates. He stopped by a merchant who had a filled wineskin to buy and paid him generously. The path through the camp was a maze of tents, stands, and half-drunken revellers, but Tyrion navigated it with practiced ease, his sharp eyes scanning for a clear way out. The sounds of the camp gradually faded as they walked, replaced by the rustle of leaves and the distant calls of birds. Tyrion's feet were getting tired, and he got slightly annoyed when he saw two people playing with wooden swords together with two older men guarding them. The annoyance turned into a silent desperation and gratitude when he saw a mattress and a few pillows and a tree to lean on to boot just yards away from them. He approached them, and the guards' hands turned to the pommels of their swords. He now saw that one of the children holding a sword was a girl. They both had dark-brown hair and grim grey eyes that looked at him with a mix of curiosity and annoyance. He noticed the sigil embroidered on the girl's dress and the boy's lack of sigil and quickly figured out who they were.
''Wolves, so far from their pack. I hope you don't mind a lion borrowing that tempting resting place you have built. I'm in need of a quiet place, far away from men who want to go to great lengths and bother me.''
''We do mind; go away.'' Arya Stark said, ruffled.
''Arya...'' The Lord of Dragonstone said low. Earning a glare from her, but under her brother's gaze, she relented. Jon's gaze shifted to Tyrion. ''Help yourself, Lord Lannister.''
Tyrion smirked. Well, will you look at that? A northerner that did not seem as grim as all the other ones. ''Call me Tyrion; I thank you.''
He wasted no time as his legs started to ache. He placed one of the pillows right on the tree and proceeded to lean on it, his legs grateful and stretched out before him. Ser Bruyn handed him the book and wineskin, and Tyrion commanded him to join Oswall with the other guards and turned to open the book. Taking a deep chug of the wineskin before reading the pages. He only managed to read half a page before a voice decided to bother him.
''Is it true that they call you the Imp?'' Tyrion suppressed a groan, and his gaze turned up from the book, revealing the two wolves gazing at him mere feet away like he had just arrived freshly from Sothoryos.
''Among other things, yes. And you? What do they call you? Longface?'' Tyrion asked. She replied with a look like she had just been slapped. Her brother frowned, making Tyrion shift his gaze.
''Ahh, I know who you are.'' Tyrion said, like he had not figured out who he was minutes ago. ''You were quite the talk of the court a while back.''
''Truly?'' Jon Snow asked.
''Yes, Robert Baratheon's golden northern bastard. I must say, you have already earned yourself some foes from numerous noblemen and their sons who expected the position.''
''He is no bastard!'' Arya Stark hissed, eager to defend her brother's honour.
''Then I'm no Imp!'' Tyrion replied with a mummers gasp. ''My father will rejoice to hear it.''
''I never asked for the lordship.'' Jon said bitterly.
''Yet you desire it; I can see it in your eyes, bastard.''
Both of them looked like they were ready to carry him back to the castle, a humiliation that he would like to avoid. So he closed the book and raised his hands in peace. ''I have offended you both; forgive me. It has been a long day so far.''
''I'm not offended; men have called me that all my life. There is no use in denying or hiding away from it. But don't talk like that to my sister again.'' Jon Snow said, his voice dangerously low, with a look of a man that had already spilt blood in his life for less.
Tyrion replied with a calm smile. ''I'm not one of your foes, Lord Stark. Save the expression for them.''
Jon's eyes only narrowed, while his sister was frowning. Then he saw it, just to the left of his eye sight. It made him nearly jump and run for the god's eye that was just a few hundred yards away. The white wolf was silent as it crept from the tree behind him and rounded his master. It's mouth was bloody, fresh from a hunt, undoubtedly. Red eyes stared into his soul; at first he had been horrified, but when it silently and calmly lay on the mattress and closed its eyes. The fear turned into pure fascination. The beast had accepted him, it seemed, and Jon Stark looked calmer for it.
''His name is Ghost.'' Arya Stark said smugly.
Tyrion chuckled. ''A good name, very silent and very deadly. Where did you find him?'' He asked, his gaze shifting from the wolf to the young man.
''The Wolfswood. There has not been a direwolf south of the Wall for hundreds of years. The mother was killed, but her pups survived.'' Jon said softly while scraching the wolf's ear.
''You have been north of the wall, or am I mistaken?'' Tyrion asked.
The Lord of Dragonstone did not immediately answer, instead continuing to scratch the wolf's ear. An almost comfortable silence had taken hold before he broke it. ''Aye, I have.''
''Did you see anything of note?''
''No, except wildlings. A lot of them, we lost good men.'' Jon answered a little too quickly. A half-truth, by Gods, northerners are truly easy to read. Or mayhaps they are just disgraceful in the art of deception. He would have to become better at that now that he is a southern lord.
''So I've heard. I'm very sorry to hear about what happened to your uncle. Ser Arthur Dayne had many admirers.''
''My uncle is the best swordsman to ever walk this land. He may still be among us.''
''Of course.'' Tyrion said. He did not want to dump any of his cynicism on a hopeful nephew. The gods are cruel, though.
''Jon!'' Arya Stark howled; she was standing with her wooden sword in hand, ready to 'spar'.
''I leave you to your reading, Lord Tyrion.''
He took a sip from his skin, the taste of Dornish wine lingering on his tongue as he returned his attention to his book. But even as he read, the sound of wooden swords clashing and the soft banter between the two young Starks that he thought he would find annoying turned into a comforting backdrop, a tiny reminder of, in this moment, at least, simpler times when he and Jaime were a similar age. Playing in the Stone Garden at Casterly Rock. From time to time, Tyrion glanced up again, watching as Jon showed Arya a new technique, guiding her with patience and care. Tyrion couldn't help but admire the sight. There was something refreshing about their youthful energy. An enthusiasm that Joffrey, Myrcella, and Tommen did not have. Eventually, though, Tyrion could only hear the soft rustle of leaves as his mind dived deep inside the book that was resting in his lap.