"That wretched bastard!" Cersei's shriek split the air as she hurled her goblet across the chamber.
Tyrion's eyes tracked its arc with detached fascination—the way the morning light caught the Myrish glass, the intricate gold filigree glittering like a falling star before it exploded against the stone wall in a shower of shards. A pity, really. That particular cup had taken craftsmen in Lannisport three moons to decorate, each swirl of bronze and silver painstakingly inlaid by hands that trembled at the thought of displeasing House Lannister.
And now it was so much broken finery, scattered across the floor like Cersei's fractured dignity.
His sister paced before the hearth like a caged lioness, her golden hair coming undone from its coils, her cheeks flushed with fury. Tyrion winced—not at her rage, but at the waste. Such excellent dramatic potential, he mused, wasted on a private tantrum. That goblet would have made a splendid statement if shattered before some simpering lordling during war negotiations. And here he'd always credited Cersei with a flair for theatrics.
"Rather crude of you," Tyrion remarked, leaning back in his chair. He took a deliberate sip from his own (thankfully intact) cup. "Lancel Lannister is our cousin."
The words hung in the air, ripe with implication. Cersei whirled on him, her emerald eyes blazing. For a heartbeat, Tyrion wondered if another goblet would meet its end, perhaps aimed at his head this time.
But then her lips twisted into something too sharp to be called a smile. "You always did have a bastard's sense of humor," she spat.
Tyrion raised his drink in mock salute. "And you, dear sister, have a queen's talent for stating the obvious."
She didn't rise to the bait, though the way her fingers dug into the arms of her chair spoke volumes. The carved lion heads beneath her palms seemed to grimace in sympathy as she sat, her golden skirts pooling around her like molten metal.
Tyrion hid his smirk behind his goblet. He'd been riding hard for King's Landing at Father's command when the most delicious rumor had reached his ears - his sweet sister Cersei, the proud lioness of Casterly Rock, supposedly hiding away in that backwater town of Rosby. The image alone had been worth altering his route.
"One does wonder," he mused, swirling his wine, "what could possibly lure our radiant queen to such... rustic accommodations?" The corners of his mouth twitched.
The flush creeping up Cersei's neck was more satisfying than the Dornish vintage in his cup. He'd made excellent time to Rosby and the truth, when he uncovered it, had been even more entertaining than he'd imagined.
Cersei Lannister, Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, had been overthrown in a coup orchestrated by their teenage cousin Lancel. The thought would have been laughable if it weren't so alarming. The regency had been stripped from her, and his sweet sister had been sent away, (kicking and screaming, no doubt), like some misbehaving child.
"He has Joffrey's ear," Cersei warned, her nails tracing the rim of her new goblet with dangerous precision. "And he moved against me rapidly."
Tyrion raised a brow. "And you gave him no provocation, I assume?" The words dripped with skepticism. "Attempting to murder Robert's bastards before the entire court, when the King himself expressly forbade harming his half-siblings, was rather... ill-advised. Even for you."
Cersei's grip tightened, her knuckles whitening. But she said nothing on the matter, as the silence stretched.
"Joffrey... he is ill."
That had Tyrion lowering his cup in alarm. "Ill?"
His sister nodded, her gaze distant. "After Stark's execution, he fell under some spell. Screaming himself senseless, shaking with seizures. He regretted the death and ordered the head taken down from the walls."
Tyrion's fingers stilled around the stem of his goblet. That particular detail had not reached him on the road. Slaughtering cats as boy seemed the extent of the boy's cruelty, if he regretted the death of men so deeply.
"And the same night, Baelish and his cohort were killed." She told him. "On the morning of Stark's confession, the Hound told me that Baelish intercepted Joffrey in the halls. He advised him to execute the Lord of Winterfell. By morning, Baelish and Janos Slynt were found dead."
Tyrion's mind raced. The court was now missing a Master of Coin and a Commander of the Gold Cloaks, two positions when just one was already too many vacancies. Lancel Lannister was one thing; the boy might be ambitious, but he would still be loyal to kith and kin. But there would be vultures circling, eager to exploit the chaos.
"And you believe Joffrey ordered their deaths?" Tyrion pressed.
Cersei was silent for a long moment, her emerald eyes flickering with uncharacteristic uncertainty. Then, slowly, she nodded. "My son kept his own counsel on the matter. But when I asked him if he'd commanded it... he did not deny it."
Tyrion exhaled sharply. Overeager opponents at court were one thing. An unstable nephew wearing the crown was another entirely, and far more dangerous.
As much as he delighted in needling Cersei - watching her emerald eyes flash with fury, her perfect lips twist in that particular way they did when she was one sharp word away from having him killed - even Tyrion knew when to retreat. There was only so far one could push a lioness before she remembered she had claws.
With a theatrical sigh, he drained his goblet and made his farewells, leaving behind the dreary backdrop of Rosby and his sister's simmering rage. His small host of mountain tribesmen, loyal, bloodthirsty, and blessedly indifferent to courtly intrigues, fell into formation behind him as they returned to the kingsroad.
The journey to King's Landing stretched before him, the dusty road winding through fields and forests like a grey and brown serpent. Tyrion adjusted his saddle, already missing the comfort of proper chambers and decent wine. Still, he thought with a private smile, the look on Cersei's face when he'd casually mentioned Lancel's growing influence had been almost worth the discomfort.
Almost.
As his horse plodded onward, Tyrion found himself turning over Cersei's revelations about Joffrey. A king who regretted his decisions was dangerous enough; a king who regretted them violently was a catastrophe waiting to happen. He made a mental note to have Bronn look into the deaths of Baelish and Slynt, because if there was one thing more concerning than his nephew's instability, it was not knowing who might be exploiting it.
The sun beat down mercilessly as they rode, but Tyrion barely noticed. His mind was already in the capital, where the game continued without him, and where, he suspected, the pieces were moving in ways no one had anticipated.
"What do you think it means?" Bronn asked, squinting at the crimson scar splitting the dawn sky. The unnatural streak burned brighter than any comet Tyrion had seen, its tail bleeding across the pale morning like a wound in the heavens.
Tyrion tilted his head, studying the phenomenon. "The priests would call it an omen, I imagine," he mused, shifting uncomfortably in his saddle. The Dragon Gate loomed before them, its iron portcullis still raised despite the hour. The queue of travelers stretched farther than he'd ever seen, hundreds of anxious smallfolk clutching meager possessions, merchants arguing with gold cloaks, even a few minor lords' retinues looking decidedly worse for wear. "Though whether good or bad, I couldn't say."
"All such omens are bad," Timett growled from beside him. The Burned Man's single eye reflected the bloody light unnervingly. "Will the halfman be let in?" His hand rested on the hilt of his axe, anticipating trouble.
Tyrion frowned. Chelle had reported seeing similar crowds at the Lion Gate when she'd scouted ahead. Worse, all other entrances to the city had been sealed tight.
A child wailed somewhere in the press of bodies. The scent of unwashed humanity and fear hung thick in the air. Tyrion's nose wrinkled as he caught the distinct odor of smoke drifting from the city, not the usual hearthsmoke, but the acrid tang of something burning uncontrolled. It was severely alarming.
"Good man!" Tyrion called out, raising a hand in greeting as a rider in Baratheon colors trotted past their position. The black stag on gold seemed duller than he remembered, the fabric worn at the edges from hard use. The knight, or perhaps just a seasoned man-at-arms, pulled up sharply at the sound of his voice, his warhorse stamping impatiently as it turned toward them.
The rider's face was weathered, his beard streaked with gray, and his eyes held the hollow look of a man who had seen too much and slept too little. "Tyrion Lannister," he acknowledged with a curt nod, his voice rough. There was no warmth in the greeting, but at least there was recognition. That was something.
Tyrion offered his most disarming smile. "I was wondering if I might be let into the city any time before the end of this century?" He gestured toward the interminable line of refugees.
The man's gaze flicked over Tyrion's party, Bronn lounging lazily, Timett and his Burned Men with their unsettling stares, the other clansmen bristling with weapons and impatience. To his credit, the rider's expression barely shifted. There was distaste, yes, but less than Tyrion had expected. "No one gets into the city without signing their name to the King's lists," he said flatly.
"And so we have been told," Tyrion replied, his tone light but edged with steel. "But we've been waiting here for hours now. What will Joffrey think if his own beloved uncle were to be stopped at the gate?"
Tyrion had spent hours on the road planning for every conceivable obstacle in King's Landing. He had envisioned venomous schemes from the court, stubborn pride and loyalty from Cersei's old lickspittles, even the Small Council's skepticism when he presented his father's letter naming him Hand. He had prepared sharp retorts for every insult, clever maneuvers for every trap.
But this? Being halted like a common beggar at the gates? That he hadn't anticipated.
The Baratheon man's gaze swept over Tyrion's motley host, the hundred and fifty clansmen bristling with axes and bronze, their faces etched with the same impatience simmering in Tyrion's chest.
"Magnars!" the rider barked. And then continued speaking words that were certainly not Common.
Tyrion barely had time to wonder why he'd used the Old Tongue before Timett and Chelle tensed beside him.
"What did he say?" Tyrion muttered.
Chelle's lips curled. "He says we must swear oaths to keep peace and obey the laws before we're allowed into The Joff's city."
The Joff. Tyrion nearly choked on the word. He schooled his face into solemnity just as the Baratheon man repeated the terms in a guttural dialect of the Old Tongue, harsher than what Tyrion had heard beyond the Neck, but unmistakable.
"Yes," Timett answered without hesitation. "I will make my oaths to the King Joff, and all the Gods will witness."
One by one, the other clan chiefs grunted agreement, some spitting on their palms before clasping hands with the rider. Tyrion watched, stunned.
Of course. The Vale clans were no mere bandits, they were the last shards of First Men kingdoms, shattered but never fully conquered. Oaths were iron to them, even if their honor was written in blood and savagery.
Tyrion's fingers tightened around his father's letter. If this is the welcome at the gates, he thought wryly, the Red Keep will be a delight.
The Baratheon man nodded, satisfied, and led them toward the Iron Gate where another party waited in the shadow of the walls. The afternoon sun glinted off polished armor and a white cloak, and for a moment, Tyrion didn't recognize the hulking figure at their head, not until the man turned, and that familiar, ruined face came into view.
"Is that you, Clegane?" Tyrion asked, blinking up at the Hound. The man looked almost foreign in his new white cloak and Kingsguard plate, the steel gleaming where it wasn't streaked with road dust.
Sandor Clegane gave him a slow, measuring glance. "Lannister," he grunted, as if the word itself was a burden.
Tyrion's eyes flicked to the group behind him, a handful of boys, none older than five and ten, their fine clothes rumpled from travel. Some stood straight-backed, trying for bravery; others looked like they might be sick.
"And where would you be returning from?" Tyrion asked lightly, though he already suspected the answer.
The Hound's lip curled. "The King has called his banners from the Crownlands, but the lords dally and make excuses." He jerked a thumb at the boys. "These are hostages so they dally no longer."
A knight beside Clegane, Baratheon stag proudly emblazoned across his tabard, spluttered. "These are the King's guests, Ser Sandor. Not hostages."
Sandor rounded on him with a snarl. "I am no ser," he spat, the scarred side of his face twisting. "Call them what you will. Doesn't change what they are."
The knight paled but held his ground, though his hand drifted toward his sword. The boys exchanged nervous glances. One, a fair-haired lad with blue eyes, looked like he was weighing the odds of bolting.
Tyrion sighed. Ah, Joffrey. Ever the diplomat.
"Well," he said, clapping his hands together, "let's hope their fathers have a keen sense of urgency, and that the King's hospitality proves more comfortable than his summons."
The Hound only grunted and turned away, but not before Tyrion caught the flicker of disgust in his eyes.
Yes, Tyrion thought as the gates finally creaked open. This will end well.
They were stopped again just inside the city walls, where a harried scribe with ink-stained fingers painstakingly recorded the names of the Hound's "guests" before allowing them passage. Clegane departed without ceremony, his white cloak swirling as he marched his charges toward the Red Keep. Then it was their turn.
To Tyrion's surprise, it wasn't his contingent of mountain clansmen that gave the scribe pause, though their bronze weapons and scarred faces drew nervous glances from the gold cloaks. No, the trouble came when the quill hovered over Shae's name, the girl having tried (and failed) to blend in among the clanswomen.
"And what seems to be the matter, good man?" Tyrion asked, affecting an air of mild curiosity.
The scribe's nose wrinkled as if smelling something foul. "The girl lists her profession as... a whore."
"And?" Tyrion arched a brow. "Surely the capital hasn't run short of sins to record?"
The man's quill tapped impatiently against the parchment. "His Grace King Joffrey has outlawed prostitution within the capital. All brothels have been closed."
Oh, for the love of all the gods! Tyrion nearly lost his composure. Where Stannis Baratheon had failed for years, his nephew had apparently succeeded with a stroke of his royal pen. He could already imagine the consequences, the whores scattered through the city's underbelly, plying their trade in even more dangerous circumstances, the brothel owners-
"Those displaced by the decree," the scribe continued primely, "have been offered respectable employment as nurses at the King's Hospital and the new sickhouses established across the city."
Tyrion's mouth actually fell open. He could feel Bronn's amused gaze burning into the side of his head.
The scribe's face darkened like a stormcloud rolling over Blackwater Bay. His quill snapped between ink-stained fingers as he leaned forward, his voice dropping to a venomous whisper.
"Some of the brothel owners thought to defy His Grace's mercy." The man's eyes gleamed with grim satisfaction. "Raised a mob of cutthroats and whoresons, stormed the hospital on the Street of Silk. Tried to drag the nurses back to their filthy pillows."
Tyrion felt his stomach twist. Beside him, Shae went very still.
"King Joffrey declared them slavers and flesh dealers," the scribe continued, relishing each word. "Had the whole lot crucified along the Cobbler's Square. Took three days for the last of them to die."
Bronn let out a low whistle. The mountain clansmen shifted uncomfortably, Timett's hand drifted to the axe at his belt, as if expecting violence to spill into the street at any moment.
"There was one," the scribe added, lowering his voice further, "a Lysene who took a girl of five-and-ten hostage. Barricaded himself in a pleasure house with a knife to her throat." A macabre smile twisted his lips. "His Grace personally caved the man's chest in with his warhammer. They say the nurses cheered as he dragged the body through the streets."
Tyrion's mouth went dry. This wasn't justice, this was theater. Cruel, calculated spectacle worthy of Mad Aerys himself. He could picture it too clearly: Joffrey's golden curls gleaming in the sunlight, the spray of blood across his royal doublet, the way he'd surely smiled as the crowd roared approval.
"Most... decisive," Tyrion managed at last. His mind raced. However noble the hospital scheme might appear, this response revealed its true purpose, not reform, but control. A way to break the brothel owners' power while binding the common folk to the crown through brutal paternalism.
The scribe finally returned to his ledger, dipping his quill with deliberate slowness. "So you understand why we must be... thorough with our records." His beady eyes fixed on Shae. "The King takes a personal interest in the welfare of his nurses."
"Nurses?" Tyrion repeated dumbly.
"His Grace's mercy extends to all his subjects," the scribe intoned. "The girl must declare her intention to seek honest work or be denied entry."
Shae, who had remained silent through this exchange, now stepped forward with surprising dignity. "Then write that I will serve as nurse," she said, her voice clear. "And that I thank His Grace for his... compassion."
As the scribe scratched out the notation, Tyrion found himself torn between incredulous laughter and dawning horror. What fresh madness had taken root in King's Landing during his absence?
The brothels of King's Landing had been institutions as old as the city itself, their owners wealthy, connected, some rumored to pay tribute to Littlefinger himself. To uproot them so violently...
After securing inns for the clansmen, no easy feat given their reputation and the city's current unrest, 00Tyrion ascended Aegon's High Hill with Bronn, Timett, and a handpicked guard of five Burned Men whose axes had seen more use than most knights' swords. The Red Keep loomed before them, its crimson towers casting long shadows in the afternoon light.
To his surprise, no guards challenged them at the gates. No fanfare announced his return. The lack of recognition stung more than he cared to admit, was he truly so forgettable, or had the court already moved on from Lannister influence?
A passing steward nearly dropped his ledger when Tyrion stopped him. "The Small Council," the man stammered when prompted, "has just been called by the King, my lord."
No guards barred the council chamber doors either. Tyrion exchanged a glance with Bronn, this was either astonishing negligence or a trap. Still, he entered with a confident stride, his retinue falling back to take positions just outside the door.
"Ah, Lord Tyrion!" Varys' voice oozed from the shadows, as meticulously polished as the marble floors. The Master of Whispers materialized with a rustle of silk robes, his sly smile never quite reaching his eyes. The council chamber stood empty around them, the heavy chairs unoccupied, the ledgers on the table untouched.
"I heard you've had some trouble on the road," Varys murmured with theatrical concern. "The court was ever so relieved when we learned you'd escaped Lady Arryn's... clutches."
Tyrion snorted, already reaching for the wine. "It has been a remarkable journey," he agreed, pouring himself a generous cup. "So long, in fact, I'd nearly forgotten my trial in the Eyrie."
"Yes, well, the realm grows unrulier by the day," Varys sighed, gliding to the table. "These are uncertain times."
Tyrion took a slow sip, studying the eunuch over the rim of his goblet. "You seem to be holding court alone, Varys. Where are the others?" He leaned back, feigning nonchalance. "I hear I owe Petyr Baelish some gratitude, or so Catelyn Stark claimed."
Varys' brows lifted in delicate surprise. "Oh?" He tutted softly. "That is unfortunate. I'm afraid the Master of Coin encountered some... trouble one dark night. He has regrettably passed."
"Truly?" Tyrion widened his eyes just enough to feign shock, careful not to overplay his hand. No need to hint he already knew, or to spread rumors when Joffrey had clearly buried the truth.
But Varys was no fool. His dark eyes gleamed with knowing amusement, as if silently acknowledging the charade. Of course he's already pieced it together, Tyrion thought. The real question was, had the Spider spun any part of this web himself?
Baelish had overreached spectacularly, advising Joffrey to execute Ned Stark. And when the boy king's regret curdled into fury, someone must have whispered in his ear, guiding his rage toward the man who'd given him such disastrous counsel.
Tyrion swirled his wine, considering. Varys was the obvious suspect, but was he truly the only player capable of such maneuvering?
"A pity," Tyrion mused aloud. "The crown loses a most... creative financier."
Varys inclined his head. "Indeed. Though I suspect the vacancy shall not remain for long."
Tyrion smirked. "No. In King's Landing, the rats always find their way to the cheese."
The Spider's answering chuckle was as light as a knife slipping between ribs.
Tyrion's gaze drifted to Pycelle's vacant seat at the council table, the carved wooden chair conspicuously empty. A thin layer of dust had settled on its armrests.
"Should I send a runner to fetch our dear Grandmaester?" Tyrion mused aloud, swirling his wine. "Or has the old fool finally blundered down a flight of stairs in his dotage?"
Varys' lips curled with unmistakable amusement. "Oh, I'm afraid the Grandmaester will no longer be joining us for these meetings." He adjusted his silk sleeves with deliberate calm. "He has also... passed."
The goblet nearly slipped from Tyrion's fingers. This time, his shock was genuine, and unconcealed.
"Oh yes," Varys continued airily, as if discussing the weather rather than the execution of the realm's most senior maester. "His Grace brought his half-sister, the babe Barra, into the Red Keep along with her mother. He charged Grandmaester Pycelle and Ser Lancel Lannister with their care, and with absolute secrecy regarding the child's presence."
Tyrion's throat tightened. Gods be good. "And Pycelle broke his vow?"
"Perhaps he believed he acted in the king's best interest," Varys offered magnanimously, "when he informed the Queen Regent."
A cold dread settled in Tyrion's stomach. He could picture it too clearly, Cersei's face twisting in rage, Pycelle's trembling hands, the way Lancel must have watched and calculated and chosen his moment.
"Her Grace was... overcome by her fury," Varys murmured. "The matter concluded with her retirement to Rosby. As for the Grandmaester..."
Tyrion didn't need to hear the rest, but Varys delivered it with relish anyway:
"While the King's half-sister was unharmed by the affair, three Kingsguard were sent to the Wall over the incident. But His Grace showed no such mercy to Maester Pycelle. Ser Ilyn Payne took his head that very night. It adorned the Traitor's Walk for a full day before being removed."
Lancel. Tyrion's mind raced. His cousin had moved with startling speed, first to escape Joffrey's wrath, then to turn the king against both Cersei and Pycelle in one masterful stroke. If the entire affair had unfolded in mere hours, as Varys implied, then Lancel was far more cunning than Tyrion had ever credited him.
And far more dangerous.
"I see," Tyrion said at last, his voice carefully measured. "It seems my nephew has developed a taste for... decisive leadership."
Varys' smile was a razor in the dark. "Oh, my lord, you have no idea."
"It seems the Small Council grows smaller by the day," Tyrion mused, tapping his fingers against the polished oak table. "With Renly crowning himself at Highgarden and Stannis sulking on Dragonstone, we appear to have more vacancies than members."
Varys inclined his head, the candlelight catching the sheen of sweat on his bald pate. "Yet His Grace has seen fit not to formally attaint either uncle, not for Renly's treason nor Stannis's... prolonged contemplation."
Tyrion's thoughts ground to a halt. What fresh madness is this?
"The King," Varys continued smoothly, "in his magnanimity, seeks reconciliation. Ser Arys Oakheart rides south with Lord Redwyne's twin sons, who had been guests-of-honor, to treat with Renly. Meanwhile, Ser Preston Greenfield has sailed for Dragonstone to parley with Lord Stannis."
The empty goblet slipped from Tyrion's fingers, clattering against the table. "You'd advise sending envoys (and Reach hostages!) to treat with a man spreading vile rumors about the King's legitimacy?" His voice rose despite himself. "This isn't magnanimity, it's-"
Suicide.
"The King has received wise counsel," Varys demurred, though his eyes glittered with secret amusement. "Yet he proves... selective in heeding it where his uncles are concerned."
Tyrion's jaw tightened. Oh, I'm sure he has, he thought bitterly. And I wonder who's been whispering such wisdom into his ear?
"What terms could possibly justify this insanity?" Tyrion demanded.
"For Renly?" Varys steepled his fingers. "Hereditary Prince of the Stormlands. Warden of the South."
"Warden of-" Tyrion choked. "Gods be good, has Joffrey stripped Mace Tyrell of the title already?"
"His Grace took particular offense at the Rose Lord calling his banners without leave." Varys sighed. "An attainder seemed... prudent."
"These are concessions you give to loyal vassals, not traitors!" Tyrion snapped. His father had feared Stannis's silence more than Renly's posturing, but this, this was a blunder of monumental proportions.
"Alas," Varys murmured, "the King's mercy cannot be swayed."
Mercy? Tyrion nearly laughed. This reeked of a half-formed scheme to pit Renly against the Tyrells, a gambit so transparent that even the Oaf of Highgarden would see through it.
"And Stannis?" Tyrion pressed. "What honeyed words await the King's brooding uncle?"
Varys's smile turned enigmatic. "That, my lord, even the little birds have not uncovered. His Grace has been... uncharacteristically silent on the matter."
A cold finger traced Tyrion's spine. That was more troubling than all of Joffrey's ill-considered "mercy" combined.
The creak of the council chamber doors snapped Tyrion's attention away from Varys. He turned, and blinked in astonishment.
"Uncle!" Tommen and Myrcella came barreling toward him, their faces alight with joy. Then, remembering themselves mid-stride, they skidded to a halt and adopted the measured walk befitting royal children. Tyrion rose to meet them halfway across the chamber.
He couldn't suppress his grin as he reached up on his toes to ruffle their hair, Tommen messy golden curls and Myrcella's neatly braided locks. "Gods be good!" he mock-lamented. "You're both growing like weeds. Soon I'll need a stool just to pat your heads."
"My prince, my princess," Varys intoned warmly from behind him. Then, with a deeper bow: "Lady Sansa, Lady Arya."
Tyrion's smile faltered as he noticed the Stark girls trailing his niece and nephew. Sansa stood rigid as a marble statue, her Tully-blue eyes guarded. Arya, smaller than he remembered, glared at the floor, her hands clenched into fists.
He cleared his throat. "My ladies," he said solemnly, "you have my deepest condolences for your loss."
Sansa's face might have been carved from winter ice. "Thank you, my lord," she replied, each word precise as a needlepoint.
Arya said nothing. The hatred radiating from her small frame needed no elaboration.
Tyrion searched for safer ground. "What brings you to the council chamber at this hour?" The jest escaped before he could stop it: "Surely His Grace hasn't appointed you to his Small Council?"
Even as the words left his mouth, he winced. Seven hells, surely it has not come to this?
Myrcella's musical laugh dispelled the tension. "His Grace has made us pages," she explained, smoothing her emerald-green skirts. "To further our education in governance."
Oh, thank the gods.
"It's so boring, Uncle!" Tommen burst out, his round face scrunching in dismay. "We have to write everything down, and pay attention, and Joffrey always quizzes us afterward!" The boy's nose wrinkled. "He gets cross when we get answers wrong."
Tyrion tousled his hair again. "A young prince must learn these things," he said gently, though his mind raced. Since when did Joffrey care about his own education, much less anyone else's? "One day this knowledge will serve you well."
Tommen opened his mouth to protest further, but Myrcella deftly steered him away, the Stark girls trailing behind like silent shadows. Tyrion watched them go, struck by the change in his youngest nephew, the boy seemed brighter, more animated without Cersei's smothering presence.
Only then did he notice the small writing desks arranged in the corner, child-sized chairs, pots of fresh ink, neat stacks of parchment waiting to be filled with royal observations. The sight was equal parts charming and unsettling.
Varys materialized at his elbow. "His Grace believes hands-on experience is the finest tutor," the Spider murmured.
Tyrion eyed the eunuch. "And what exactly is His Grace tutoring them in?"
Before Varys could answer, the doors swung open again, this time admitting a far less welcome presence.
Lancel Lannister stood transformed from the trembling squire Tyrion remembered. Gone was the boy who flinched at Robert's booming voice, in his place stood a man with shoulders squared and chin lifted, his crimson cloak draped with the easy confidence of one accustomed to power. Only the briefest hesitation as he spotted Tyrion betrayed any surprise.
"Lord Tyrion." Lancel's bow was perfectly measured, respectful without being deferential.
"Ser Lancel." Tyrion kept his tone neutral, though the title still tasted faintly absurd on his tongue. When did we start knighting boys for fetching wine?
Lancel's eyes, sharper than Tyrion recalled, studied him with unsettling focus. "Do you bring word from Lord Tywin? Is that why you've come to council?"
So quick to dismiss me? Tyrion's fingers twitched toward his belt. "Something like that." He produced the sealed letter and handed it to Varys.
The eunuch broke the wax with delicate precision. "Lord Tywin has seen fit to appoint Lord Tyrion as Acting Hand of the King in his stead," he announced, his voice dancing with barely concealed amusement, "while he campaigns in the Riverlands."
Lancel's brow furrowed. He took the letter, his lips moving slightly as he read, before returning it with deliberate care. "In this matter," he said, too formally, "the King must decide whether to approve the appointment."
Tyrion felt the barb like a pinprick. Since when does a glorified cupbearer question Tywin Lannister's decrees? He bit back a dozen scathing replies, House Lannister could ill afford visible fractures, and mustered a smile that didn't reach his eyes.
"Of course, cousin." Tyrion's words dripped with honey, as he eyed the knight silently.
A flicker of unease crossed Lancel's face. Good. Let him remember who held the true power here.
The echo of new footsteps drew Tyrion's attention to the chamber doors, where three unfamiliar figures stood framed in the torchlight. He blinked at their plain woolen doublets and unadorned belts - no sigils, no jewels, none of the trappings of nobility. Yet they carried themselves with the stiff-backed assurance of those newly elevated to power.
Lancel noted his confusion with visible satisfaction. "May I present Tribunes Jon Fletcher, Malora Noter, and Richard Spurrier," he announced, gesturing with a flourish that seemed practiced. "His Grace has recently raised them to high office and now welcomes them to his Small Council."
Tyrion's fingers tightened around his goblet. Tribunes? The title tasted foreign on his tongue, more suited to the Free Cities than Westerosi governance. He studied their faces - Fletcher's peasant-broad features, Noter's sharp merchant's gaze, Spurrier's soldier's scars - and understood at once.
"How... progressive of His Grace," Tyrion managed, the wine suddenly bitter in his mouth.
Noter, the woman, met his scrutiny with unsettling calm. "We serve at the king's pleasure," she said, her voice carrying the clipped tones of a trained clerk. "The realm requires new perspectives in these troubled times. "
Oh, I am sure he did. How could he have looked down on Lancel thus, when apparently, he had raised his own lickspittles to the council? This was going far worse than he'd ever imagined. And here he though it would be easy after Cercei's exile.
AN: Well damn, sorry this took (checks notes) 8 months to release. The muse for this story has only recently gotten back to me.
This chapter features: Mastermind Lancel Lannister because I really couldn't help myself. Tyrion "I am losing my fucking mind" Lannister is also here, screaming in the corner. With special appearance from Sandor "Fuck right off" Clegane and in the back ground, the reputation of Joffrey "Fuck around and find out" Baratheon. Cersei is sulking in Rosby and Stannis does so in Dragonstone.
Though this time around, its Renly who reveals the incest instead of his brother. Pretty sure I already revealed this in the Tywin chapter, but wanted to double down on it here.
I am trying out a new writing style and for the first time, actually have a proper beta reader instead of fumbling around with the English language by myself. Not too sure if I wanna go back and edit past chapter though, since I am lazy like that.
Hopefully it won't take me almost a year for another chapter... maybe...