(This is a genuine question, btw, no sarcasm!)

I am curious: what kind of abusive vibes did you get out of the Tywin/Joanna relationship? Everyone else that blogs about their relationship sees it either as a love story from the get go or at most a duo of two ruthless people set on making everyone’s lives hell together. Because of this, I’m very interested to read a separate opinion!

Mainly bc all of the accounts we get about their ‘love’ is very secondhand and Tywin rarely has anything to say about Joanna at all. And mostly bc the man is abusive to Tyrion, Cersei, and Jaime. That kind of abuse doesn’t build overnight, and abusers will often lash out at whoever is closest to them. Joanna was close to him. When she died, Tywin took it out on Tyrion as a part of a larger pattern of behavior.

Also so many accounts of great love stories turn out to be accounts of abuse. Abusers mythologize their relationship to make it harder for those around them to recognize subtle signs of abuse. Victims play into the mythology because it’s an extremely effective method of psychological entrapment, and they’ve been ensnared. How could I be unhappy when we’re the perfect couple? What’s wrong w me? Etc

And above all else: the vibes

Thanks for the ask! Xoxoxo

Operation Stumpy Re-Read

AGOT: Catelyn IX (Chapter 59)

Each day he would ask one of his lords to join him, so they might confer as they marched; he honored every man in turn, showing no favorites, listening as his lord father had listened, weighing the words of one against the other. He has learned so much from Ned, she thought as she watched him, but has he learned enough?    

Better question: has he learned from Ned’s mistakes?

+.+

"He's your father's bannerman."                 

"Some men take their oaths more seriously than others, Robb. And Lord Walder was always friendlier with Casterly Rock than my father would have liked.

It kills me this is equally applicable to both Walder and Robb.

+.+

The next morning it was Ser Brynden Tully himself who rode back to them. He had put aside the heavy plate and helm he'd worn as the Knight of the Gate for the lighter leather-and-mail of an outrider, but his obsidian fish still fastened his cloak.    

There’s that obsidian fish being mentioned again.

Is this something? Is this nothing? I still don’t know.

+.+

"You sound like a sulky boy, Robb," Catelyn said sharply. "A child sees an obstacle, and his first thought is to run around it or knock it down. A lord must learn that sometimes words can accomplish what swords cannot."    

Some battles are won with swords and spears, others with quills and ravens. - Tywin Lannister (Tyrion I, ASOS)

x

She could read and write better than any of her brothers - Sansa IV, AGOT

Hmmm.

+.+

Did you teach him wisdom as well as valor, Ned? she wondered. Did you teach him how to kneel? The graveyards of the Seven Kingdoms were full of brave men who had never learned that lesson.    

Hey, can someone check if Jon has the next chapter?

+.+

The old knight looked at her son with a faint flicker of amusement in his watery grey eyes, though his gelding whickered uneasily and sidled away from the direwolf. "My lord father would be most honored if you would share meat and mead with him in the castle and explain your purpose here."        

His words crashed among the lords bannermen like a great stone from a catapult. Not one of them approved. They cursed, argued, shouted down each other.

"You must not do this, my lord," Galbart Glover pleaded with Robb. "Lord Walder is not to be trusted."                 

Roose Bolton nodded. "Go in there alone and you're his. He can sell you to the Lannisters, throw you in a dungeon, or slit your throat, as he likes." 

"If he wants to talk to us, let him open his gates, and we will all share his meat and mead," declared Ser Wendel Manderly.                 

"Or let him come out and treat with Robb here, in plain sight of his men and ours," suggested his brother, Ser Wylis.

He’s not going to Dragonstone, guys. It’s insanity.

+.+

"Never more," Catelyn lied glibly. "Lord Walder is my father's bannerman. I have known him since I was a girl. He would never offer me any harm." Unless he saw some profit in it, she added silently  

+.+

Lord Walder was ninety, a wizened pink weasel with a bald spotted head, too gouty to stand unassisted. His newest wife, a pale frail girl of sixteen years

I’m going to vomit.

+.+

What do you have that I should fear? That son of yours? I'll match you son for son, and I'll still have eighteen when yours are all dead.

I think you might eat these words, Late Lord Frey.

(pun!)

+.+

"A few more blackbirds, and we should have enough to bake a pie. I'll save you their feathers for a hat."    

x

Catelyn would gladly have spitted the querulous old man and roasted him over a fire

x

"That would boil them, to be sure. Oh, to be sure. Now, what do you want to say?" [he’s referring to his sons]

x

If I had the sense the gods gave a fish, I'd help the Lannisters boil you all.

x

Perhaps I'll make him heir, wouldn't that boil the rest of them? [he’s referring to his sons]

Um.

Yeah.

+.+

Lord Walder snorted with disdain. "Lord Tywin the proud and splendid, Warden of the West, Hand of the King, oh, what a great man that one is, him and his gold this and gold that and lions here and lions there. I'll wager you, he eats too many beans, he breaks wind just like me, but you'll never hear him admit it, oh, no.

Wait until you hear about his hypocrisy concerning whores.

+.+

Sixteen she is, a little flower, and her honey's only for me.

Boy if there was ever a sentence that brought Sansa immediately to mind.

I’m going to assume that wasn’t the intent.

+.+

Years ago, I went to your father and suggested a match between his son and my daughter. Why not? I had a daughter in mind, sweet girl, only a few years older than Edmure, but if your brother didn't warm to her, I had others he might have had, young ones, old ones, virgins, widows, whatever he wanted. No, Lord Hoster would not hear of it. Sweet words he gave me, excuses, but what I wanted was to get rid of a daughter.    

Random thoughts: it’s absurd Edmure’s not married at this point in the story.

Yeah, I get Arianne Martell didn’t work out, but come on now. The heir to Riverrun. Who are you waiting for?

+.+

I was speaking of your sister. I proposed that Lord and Lady Arryn foster two of my grandsons at court, and offered to take their own son to ward here at the Twins.

ARE YOU ALL SEEING THIS?

I’ve never been more convinced that Robert Arryn will survive the story, if only to answer the question of where he will be fostered.

I’ve stopped caring about everything else, I’m only invested in this.

+.+

Lord Arryn wouldn't have him, or the other one, and I blame your lady sister for that. She frosted up as if I'd suggested selling her boy to a mummer's show or making a eunuch out of him, and when Lord Arryn said the child was going to Dragonstone to foster with Stannis Baratheon, she stormed off without a word of regrets and all the Hand could give me was apologies. What good are apologies? I ask you."

Catelyn frowned, disquieted. "I had understood that Lysa's boy was to be fostered with Lord Tywin at Casterly Rock."

"No, it was Lord Stannis," Walder Frey said irritably. 

(...)

"Jon Arryn was going to foster his son with Lord Stannis, you are quite certain of that?"

Catelyn, are your spidey-senses tingling?

+.+

I need some men to escort two of Lord Frey's grandsons north to Winterfell," she told him. "I have agreed to take them as wards. They are young boys, aged eight years and seven. It would seem they are both named Walder. Your brother Bran will welcome the companionship of lads near his own age, I should think."    

False.

But Robert Arryn is near Bran’s age? Maybe that will go better!

+.+

"Also, if your sister Arya is returned to us safely, it is agreed that she will marry Lord Walder's youngest son, Elmar, when the two of them come of age."    

x

"And you are to wed one of his daughters, once the fighting is done," she finished.

Steep, but I’m not sure what choice she had. Would Brynden have been a better negotiator? Maybe? I’m not convinced.

+.+

"I consent," Robb said solemnly. He had never seemed more manly to her than he did in that moment. Boys might play with swords, but it took a lord to make a marriage pact, knowing what it meant.    

Final thoughts:

We’re one chapter into being introduced to the Frey clan, and I’ve already lost track of all the names.

-> return to menu <-

SFW Alphabet - Tywin Lannister

requested at some point, who knows when, lol. NSFW Tywin is here, Masterlist is here, enjoy yall ~ ⭐

A = Affection (How affectionate are they? How do they show affection?)

At the start of your relationship, he was not terribly affectionate, which didn't surprise you. This was Tywin Lannister, and you hadn't expected much beyond the public, perfunctory gestures of holding your arm or kissing the top of your hand. Even when you two were alone, that was it, save for some extra kisses during your marriage bed duties. 

This is why it was so easy to notice when he started tucking away strands of your hair, taking your hand and actually entwining your fingers, giving you chaste kisses in public and so on. Especially after you made some clever comment to a lord or settled a dispute, he'd wait until no one was looking before giving you some affection or an approving glance. As your relationship progressed, he'd accept much more affection from you, and be more willing to give it once you two are alone. 

B = Best friend (What would they be like as a best friend? How would the friendship start?)

“Friendship” is a bit of a loaded word with him. Tywin doesn’t consider himself to have “friends” nor does he entertain the idea. You know he’s close with his brother Kevan, but you also know Tywin’s friendship is very conditional, as was the case with Genna and Gerion. The problem he sees so few people as equals; you might be in the only one in that category who also isn’t an enemy.... And to him, considering you merely a ‘friend’ would be an insult. Even when you two grew closer, that word never seemed to properly describe the respect, admiration and affection you began feeling for each other.

C = Cuddles (Do they like to cuddle? How would they cuddle?)

You almost exclusively get cuddles when the two of you are in bed, and it’s usually after intimacy. Tywin never sleeps right away, so he lets you rest against him while he looks over a book or paper. If he’s feeling more tired or affectionate, he’ll pet your hair or stroke your back while you doze off. Sometimes you get his full attention, and you two will quietly talk about this or that while you rest against his chest and he runs his fingers through your hair. 

D = Domestic (Do they want to settle down? How are they at cooking and cleaning?)

It’s a lord’s duty to have a wife and heirs, but he really did love Joanna, and the depression that followed her death hit him hard. He had strong, stubborn, often hypocritical feelings about remarrying - even after Jaime joined the Kingsguard, thus robbing him of the heir he truly wanted. He finally married you after much internal debate and consideration of the politics of the match, and the powerful allies your House would make. He’d never consider it if your family wasn’t so powerful and wealthy in their region. Tywin never expected your marriage to turn into the close relationship you have now.

Tywin never has to worry about cooking or cleaning for himself, but he’s naturally very tidy, almost compulsively so. He doesn’t allow servants to clean in his study or room unless he’s present; not that there’s much for them to do beyond clean the floors and dust. 

E = Ending (If they had to break up with their partner, how would they do it?)

Should your marriage not go according to plan, Tywin would end it brutally and coldly. ‘Divorce’ is not a popular concept in Westeros, but there is precedence, and seeing as he was wary of the match in the first place … You’d walk into your chambers with maids already packing your things, with the news that you were either going to be given to one of his sons or be shipped back to your family’s keep.

F = Fiance(e) (How do they feel about commitment? How quick would they want to get married?)

Tywin is very loyal to you, and in turn expects zero disloyalty on your part. He won’t tolerate any rumors being told you about you - especially if it regards your virtue or reputation. 

While he’s quick to arrange marriages for his children, he stalled on marrying you, as you were very aware of. Even though you had suitors ready to break your castle’s door down, Tywin took his time sending a raven back to your parents. He was stubborn about wanting you to marry Jaime or Tyrion, but your father was just as stubborn, it seemed. At the present time, Tywin is glad he has you all to himself (although he’d never say such a thing openly).

G = Gentle (How gentle are they, both physically and emotionally?)

Your husband is capable of gentle touches and words, but he so rarely gives them to anyone but you. It’s usually when you’re both alone, but sometimes you’re being so sweet and radiant at a feast or gala, he just has to lean in and whisper something to you while you sit together. 

H = Hugs (Do they like hugs? How often do they do it? What are their hugs like?)

Tywin isn’t particularly needy for hugs, but he enjoys your presence, so he tolerates it for a time. If it’s late in the evening, he has a harder time resisting you, so he’ll loosely return it with a kiss to your brow. He has a solid body in spite of his age, and his scent is always comforting and warm. If you were the sort of person who needed this close affection, he’d initiate it more often.

I = I love you (How fast do they say the L-word?)

Even after you confront your own feelings and muster the will to say it first, it takes time before Tywin is able to return the words. He shows it in his actions, but the words are a powerful thing, and he hates how they catch on his tongue. It would finally come when he’s at his most vulnerable, his green eyes softening for you, only you. He hides himself by pulling you into his arms and making you rest against his chest. That’s when you hear the words whispered against your hair.

J = Jealousy (How jealous do they get? What do they do when they’re jealous?)

Tywin is very jealous and while he believes he hides it, it’s obvious to you. You know exactly what it looks like, too - how his cold eyes turn absolutely frigid when he notices a lord being too forward with you, or the firm way he takes hold of your waist (instead of your hand) to get you away from said lord. To any man, his voice has the same authority and coldness it always carries, but you can hear the undercurrent of irritation. He’s never done it in front of you, but you’ve heard rumors that men who say inappropriate things or have “untoward” intentions for you end up suddenly leaving Casterly Rock’s court, or disappearing entirely. 

There’s been many times when Tywin has kissed or marked you not out of passion, but out of possessiveness, sometimes even in his office or a secluded part of the castle. You’re free to point out how jealous he’s being, but Tywin is wholly convinced other men should keep their eyes and words to themselves.

K = Kisses (What are their kisses like? Where do they like to kiss you? Where do they like to be kissed?)

In public, his kisses are proper and chaste. He’ll kiss your fingers, cheek and the top of your head if you’re shorter than him. They aren’t that common unless you’re both having to sit together for a long time at a tourney or gala. By the time you two were close and truly fond of each other, you noticed that he couldn’t help himself from bringing your hand to his lips whenever you said something clever. 

In private, it’s a very different story. Your lord husband can be anywhere from simple and gentle, to very rough and firm. Your lips are an obvious place to kiss first - especially when you’re mouthing off - but he loves your pretty neck and your chest, especially when you show them off with a well-tailored dress. He welcomes any deep kisses you initiate … as long as he’s finished with work. 

If you’re on the shorter side, Tywin is amused by how you can’t reach his lips directly and have to settle for kissing his jaw (no, he won’t bend down to meet you halfway until he feels like it). He enjoys when you kiss his jaw or cheek while sitting next to him in public, although he keeps a passive face and pretends not to notice how people stare at Tywin Lannister being doted on by his beautiful, young wife. 

L = Little ones (How are they around children?)

You knew going in that Tywin would be a stern parent at best, and at worst, you and the maester would have to be doing most of it. He just wanted an heir, after all, but you noticed how he’d allow your son to quietly sit in his office and study, or he’d give simple, firm instructions to the boy on how to hold a sword, things like that. Jaime and Tyrion wasted no time in telling you that Tywin was far more permissive to your son than he was with them, but sometimes Tywin still felt too cold and distant for your taste. Once your son was older, Tywin was much more involved in teaching him.

M = Morning (How are mornings spent with them?)

He’s getting ready, you get up at a similar time when you can. You notice how his eyes glance over you as you get dressed and he’ll occasionally leave touches here and there. He likes it when you have breakfast with him - not that he says it, but you don’t miss that pleased expression and how he wants you right beside him. 

N = Night (How are nights spent with them?)

Tywin works late most nights, so unless you’re a night owl, you’re usually in bed by the time he enters your shared chambers. If he comes back early or you’re staying up, Tywin enjoys watching you wind down for the evening. Applying moisturizer to your face, brushing your hair, shimmying into your nightgown, all of that, and he only scoffs if you tease him for looking. He can’t help from reaching out and stroking your hair or helping you slip your night shift on, and eventually things start leading into this or that. He wouldn’t admit such a sentimental thing, but Tywin enjoys it when you curl up close to him while he reads a book or looks over letters in bed.

O = Open (When would they start revealing things about themselves? Do they say everything all at once or wait a while to reveal things slowly?)

It takes time before either of you are comfortable being yourselves around each other, and that includes talking about anything involving your past. You know all the stories and rumors about Tywin Lannister, but steadily getting to know the man was something else. After being married for several months you gradually began to ask ‘innocent’ questions, and then pointed ones. To your surprise, Tywin was willing to speak to you about some things, and he almost seemed … relaxed as you pulled him into conversation. 

It would take much longer for you to learn more personal things, even the ugliness of his thoughts of Tyrion and the harsh words he has for his siblings and father. It isn’t always pleasant, but Tywin tells you, and by that point in your marriage you can tell he’s exposing many old scars and wounds. It would be two years before Joanna’s name was ever said, and much later after that before there was any talk about her. 

P = Patience (How easily angered are they?)

As much as he appears outwardly patient, you know exactly what sets off your husband’s temper and wounds his pride more than anything. He’ll clench his jaw somewhat and there will be ice in those green eyes, but it’s a very rare day when he raises his voice to his bannermen and other lords. He’s never raised his voice with you during your disagreements, nor would he ever roughly handle you. You two have had disagreements and arguments aplenty, usually involving parenting or how he dealt with a lord without telling you. It’s best that you both fume in your respective rooms for a few days before seeing each other again. 

Q = Quizzes (How much would they remember about you? Do they remember every little detail you mention in passing, or do they kind of forget everything?)

Tywin quickly notices your taste in jewelry, clothing, furniture and generally how you wish for things to be presented. This shows most clearly when he’s buying you a gift or when he’s having rooms arranged to how you like. When you two travel, it’s Tywin who ensures the servants are aware of how you want things done. The lady of Casterly Rock, his lady, should have things exactly to her liking.

When it comes to more sentimental things, like memories you’ve told him about, or stories about this or that, Tywin only remembers the especially important things, what you’ve told him during your evening talks in bed. If it was something told in passing or in a very casual setting, he wouldn’t regard it as much.

R = Remember (What is their favorite moment in your relationship?)

He’d refuse having such sentiment, but truthfully, he has several very fond memories of you. A particularly special one is actually an evening, not a single memory. It was the first time you impressed him with how charismatic and charming you during the first feast you arranged at Casterly Rock. The feast itself wasn’t terribly eventful or important, a standard show of wealth to the Westerlands lords, but it was when Tywin realized how much he had underestimated you until that point. 

S = Security (How protective are they? How would they protect you? How would they like to be protected?)

He has a protective streak, that’s for sure, and not just for your physical safety. Tywin won’t stand for anyone disrespecting you, not even his children. You have a retinue of personal guards whenever you leave Casterly Rock, but more importantly, he quietly protects you from any plots against you… since his enemies would find you an easy way to get to him. Tywin is very amused and impressed when you express the same protectiveness, and this only solidifies your reputation as Westeros’ Most Terrifying Power Couple.

T = Try (How much effort would they put into dates, anniversaries, gifts, everyday tasks?)

You get plenty of gifts, and always the best of anything. Tywin had a good eye for your preference and taste, especially the longer you’ve been married, which always pleasantly surprises you. While it’s expected you’d get something lovely for your name day or a special occasion, sometimes you’ll find a new piece of jewelry or a pretty trinket, and you get to listen to Tywin insist it was just something he happened to come across and buy… Or you don’t say anything, and just notice his pleased expression when you come to the breakfast table wearing the new necklace or hairpin.

U = Ugly (What would be some bad habits of theirs?)

You were fully aware of his frightening reputation and the many things he had been suspected of doing by the time you were betrothed. Once you two were married, you found yourself in the middle of these plots, even if you didn’t agree with them. He’s terribly prideful and has a stubborn streak a mile long, not to mention his dominating nature. There are some things you can fight him on and win, and other things you have to stand down on … Or work behind his back. There are lovely days when he’s your dear husband, but there are other days that remind you of the terrifying reputation he’s rightfully known by.

V = Vanity (How concerned are they with their looks?)

It’s practically a Lannister trademark to have pride and concern in one’s appearance, and Tywin is no different, although he never openly fusses over it. He has fine clothes and makes sure he’s well put together. In addition to simply dressing well, he keeps up with his health and physique, so he has a solid, strong body for his age. You can tell he’s pleased whenever you admire him, and he’ll wear things you’ve had made for him. 

W = Whole (Would they feel incomplete without you?)

Yes. When you first married, both you and Tywin had no illusions about your purpose: To give him another male heir, and maybe help the castellan run Casterly Rock. He tried denying his feelings as time went on, but he faced them eventually … The thought of you suddenly not being in his life, just as quickly as you came in, is not something he’s willing to face. He was already colder and crueler after Joanna, and now, it would be worse. He’d alternate between neglecting any children you had together or being too controlling in their lives, and he’d especially struggle if they took after you. His three older children would be deeply unsettled by the change. In short, Tywin absolutely refuses to entertain the idea of anything happening to you, and that denial and fear only grows as you become closer.

X = Xtra (A random headcanon for them.)

Tywin both loves and loathes how well you know him. When he’s ready to verbally tear off a lord’s head for a slight, you’re there to touch his shoulder and try to talk him down. When you get into an argument, you know exactly what to say to yank his chain and frustrate him further. He’s fully aware of when you leave out details to make a plan of action seem more appealing, and at the end of a long day of work, you know just how to relax him again. It’s both a comfort and a concern that he’s so open to you, even when he isn’t trying to be. 

On a small note, it’s a simple thing, but he loves seeing you wear Lannister crimson. It flatters you so well, and the first time you finally wore a crimson gown to a large feast, the whole room was in awe. Tywin was more than pleased as you sat beside him, your gold and jewels glittering under the candles and just highlighting how lovely and powerful you looked. It was then the Westerlands realized you were truly the Lady of Casterly Rock, and just as formidable a presence as your lord husband. 

Y = Yuck (What are some things they wouldn’t like, either in general or in a partner?)

He has no patience for ignorance and slow wit, and those who think themselves higher than their social station. Also, being interrupted from his work for something frivolous is one of his biggest peeves.

Z = Zzz (What is a sleep habits of theirs?)

He’ll often stay late in his office, but when he returns to your shared room, he’d rather not bring paperwork and letters with him, if it can be helped. He initially began doing this so you both could make a proper heir, but Tywin began to take comfort in having someone so close and warm. He still doesn’t get much sleep, but it’s more restful than it’s been in a long time.

The Sound of Silence

AN: So the basic premise for this is that instead of cutting off Jaime’s hand; instead Locke cuts out Jaime’s tongue, making him mute. Jaime still has both of his hands for the purposes of this story. It will be a two-parter as I really want to explore this AU. Also, special thanks to @sassbewitchedmyass for her awesome support as always.

Mute AU

At the beginning of their journey, she would have longed for Jaime to master the ability of keeping his mouth closed, but not like this. He had saved her from being attacked by Locke’s men, but the price he had paid for it was a severe one. They had mentally tormented him by making Jaime think that they would cut off his right hand. Instead, they had taken his tongue. The tongue that dripped with Lannister Lies as Locke had dubbed it before forcing Jaime to wear it until they reached Harrenhall and the Boltons.

In Harrenhall, the strange maester Qyburn managed to ensure that the remnants of his tongue would not choke him or bleed more than it had done. Although Jaime struggled to eat, he found that he was able to have softer foods or food that had been cut into tiny pieces. Despite being unable to speak a word; Jaime’s rage at having lost his tongue could be clearly be seen and Brienne found herself speaking for him whenever she could attempt to work out what he wished he could say. Aside from sharing a bath, they barely communicated beyond looks or basic signals until Jaime had rescued her from the Bear Pit and they walked out of Harrenhall; wounded, barely armed, still not friends but with a shift in their barely amicable relationship.

Brienne waited until they were several miles from Harrenhall before she decided to break the silence. She had questions that needed answered and although Jaime was unable to speak, she still wanted to try and communicate with him. When she had been a child in Tarth, one of the stable boys had been unable to speak after suffering a kick to the throat by a bucking horse. He managed to use facial expressions, actions and signs in order to communicate with other people. It was possible for her and Jaime to do the same.

“Why did you do that? Why did you come back?” Brienne asked as Jaime opened his mouth, closed it again. He seemed frustrated at the reminder that he couldn’t speak before he paused to think for a moment. After a few minutes, Jaime closed his eyes and rested his head on his joined hand before he pointed at Brienne.

“Sleeping, me,” Brienne interpreted before it made sense. “You had a dream about me?”

Jaime nodded and repeated the action.

I dreamed of you.

“I’m sorry,” Brienne said as Jaime looked at her puzzled. “It’s my fault that this happened to you. We could have fought them off together but I was reluctant to trust you. You almost died twice because of me.”

Jaime shook his head furiously and pointed to himself.

It was me.

He pointed to himself a second time and opened and held his wrists together as if chained.

I got us captured.

He pointed to himself a third time and made a motion as if to jump before pointing at her.

I jumped into the pit for you.

“You’re saying that you were the one speaking, you got us captured and you jumped into the pit yourself?” Brienne guessed and Jaime nodded. “Because of me.”

Jaime frowned and pointed to himself again.

Me.

“I’m not arguing with you, how about this: we both had a part in it and we’re equally to blame?” Brienne suggested and Jaime nodded before pointing to himself again. “How are you still irritating, without a tongue?”

For the first time since they got captured by Locke’s men, Jaime smiled cockily and shrugged his shoulders innocently.

I don’t know.

As the days passed, Brienne could see that having lost his tongue was beginning to irritate Jaime. Being unable to speak, to suggest directions, acknowledge something or eat or a place to sleep, even just saying what was on his mind; was frustrating and she knew that he wasn’t getting enough sleep. Brienne knew that he was having nightmares as the only sounds he could make, were horrific guttural yells that he only made when he was in the depths of a nightmare. Nightmares which only made the feeling of irritation run deeper as Jaime couldn’t explain the cause of his nightmares. Brienne had the feeling that they went beyond his mutilation but wasn’t sure how to ask.

As they walked along the edge of a river one day, Brienne decided to offer Jaime the idea that she had been giving some serious thought to over the past few nights. “When I was a child, there was a stable boy who couldn’t speak. He didn’t know his letters so instead he used actions, gestures and facial expressions to speak. You tried it before but we could do it properly,”

Jaime considered the idea and nodded. Aside from the most basic and universally understood gestures such as nodding, shrugging and thumbs up or down; he was limited in what he could communicate. Anything had to be better than nothing.

As the days turned to weeks and they travelled further and further south; Jaime and Brienne managed to develop a large number of signs, symbols and movements to refer to words, actions, places and people. To assist Jaime’s understanding and skill of performing several actions in a row; Brienne practised and predominantly used their new method of communication in place of speaking. As they built the silent language, they found that they were learning more about each other by not saying a word than they probably would have if Jaime had been able to speak.

Just as they came within the final fifteen miles of the capital. Jaime sat by the fire and looked at Brienne. He mimed crowning himself before slitting his throat.

Kingslayer.

“What is it?” Brienne asked and Jaime repeated the action. “King. Slit throat. Are you trying to say Kingslayer?”

Jaime nodded and scowled at her before he mimed crowning himself again.

The Mad King.

“Aerys,” Brienne summarised and Jaime picked up different items from the ground with one hand and repeated the scowl and crowning movement before tossing the items into the fire. Making a point to show each item on fire to Brienne before tossing it into the flames.

He burned anyone who disobeyed him.  

“He burnt things, no, people. People he hated.” Brienne translated and Jaime nodded. He was unsure of how to explain on the certain day but Brienne filled in for him. “So on the day you killed him, what happened?”

Jaime thought for a moment before drawing a ‘T’ in mid air, pointed upwards and pointed to himself. Brienne watched him repeated the movement, T, up, Jaime. No that wasn’t it. T, big, Lannister. “Tywin Lannister, your father?” Brienne guessed and Jaime nodded.

“Your father arrived at the capital,” Brienne said; she knew that part of the story. Tywin had waited until the last moment to announce his declaration for Robert Baratheon. A clever move to allow him to reach the capital without being attacked by either side. It was only when the city gates were opened that Tywin unleashed his bannermen onto the city.

Jaime clasped his hands together before miming cutting off a head and holding it out as if presenting a gift. I begged the king, he ordered my father’s head.

“He wanted your head?” Brienne asked and Jaime gave her a thumbs down. Wrong. “Your father’s head.”

Jaime gave her a thumbs up, (correct), before picking up a large green leaf, pointing to it and to the fire. Brienne watched him do it and tried to understand what he meant. Leaf fire? No that was stupid. Green fire… “Wildfyre? The Mad King had Wildfyre?”

Jaime nodded morosely; once again pointing to the flames but then all around them.

Burn them all.

“He was going to burn the city,” Brienne realised and Jaime nodded once more and repeated the action. Burn them all. Brienne knew enough of the story to fill in the rest of the gaps. “So you killed the Pyromancer and then killed the King.”

Jaime sighed and repeated the gesture, this time making a speaking mouth sign with his left hand. Burn them all, he said. Burn them all.

“He said ‘burn them all’?” Brienne asked and Jaime nodded and made the hand speaking sign constantly for about a minute. “He didn’t stop?”

Jaime slumped his shoulders and mimed slitting his own throat. Brienne didn’t need a translation for what that meant. Brienne’s mind was racing with questions; questions that she knew, even with Jaime’s developed signing, he would be unable to answer. Even if he could still speak, they were question she knew that he would be unable to answer. She wanted to ask him why he had never spoken of it before; how had he handled being labelled with such cruel, untrue monikers such as Oathbreaker or Man Without Honour. Instead of asking the questions, Brienne instead put a hand on his arm. She wasn’t sure why after all this time, Jaime had trusted her to tell her his version of what happened but it said a lot more than either of them realised.

“I believe you Lannister.” Brienne said. Once again, Jaime shook his head but made a gesture that she hadn’t seen before. He held up the thumb and forefinger of his left hand before pointing to himself with his left hand, holding that pose. He did it twice more before Brienne realised what it was. The letter J and himself.

“Jaime,” Brienne said, repeating the action, the way he had.

Jaime smiled and repeated the action, pointing to himself twice and repeating it again.

Jaime. My name’s Jaime.

It took them a few more days to reach Kings Landing but in that time, they had built a whole series of actions and signs to use for communication; from their names being their first letter being drawn before pointing to the self and tilting their head either way to decide who would do something. As the spires of the Red Keep rose up in front of them; they wandered through the city, listening out for any sort of news, rumour or even gossip about the nobles but there was very little they could hear. Most of it was talk of the upcoming royal wedding between Joffrey and Lady Margaery Tyrell. As they reached the gates of the Red Keep, a pair of guards stopped them.

“Who are you?” One of them asked and Jaime rolled his eyes. He looked at Brienne and tilted his right.

You deal with this.

“Ser Jaime Lannister and Lady Brienne of Tarth,” Brienne answered as Jaime showed them his sword; the rubies and lion engraved into the hilt helped to confirm his identity. “We’re here to see Lord Tywin.”

“Right away,” the second guard said, wondering why Jaime wasn’t speaking. As they were let inside, Brienne saw the anxious expression on Jaime’s face and she looped her little finger around his, squeezing it tightly. One of the signs they had developed for when one of them had a nightmare. One that meant comfort, support and friendship.

I’m here with you.

Jaime smiled at her and touched his temple with three fingers.

I know.

Elia and Oberyn trading places? Or Jaime Lannister trading places with Arjun?

Hi!

Gosh, anon, thanks for this great fic idea! I struggled for literal months with this fic! But it’s finally done, and here you go!

Arjun blinks at the bright sunlight, taking in his surroundings. He is definitely not in Indraprastha, or Dwarka for that matter. Everything is a shade of red around him. He tries to remember what is going on. Against all that seems familiar, an entire childhood plays in his mind. Here, he isn’t Arjun, as he knows himself to be. He is Jaime. Jaime Lannister, son of Lord Tywin Lannister and Lady Joanna. He remembers others. Cersei, Tyrion. His mother was dead, gone. Arjun reels as he takes this new life in. Abruptly, there is a knock on his door. Before he can respond, a girl enters. “Jaime,” she coos, coming entirely too close to him for comfort. Arjun steps back. Cersei, a voice supplies in his mind. Sister. “Sister,” Arjun says hesitantly. “Oh, feeling coy today, are you?” Arjun stares at her, confused. To his horror, she straddles him. “Cersei!” Arjun curls into himself, instinctive disgust winning over his chivalry. “What is this, sweet brother? Why are you suddenly playing hard to get?” She actually wants…that with him? “Cersei!” Arjun keeps his voice harsh. “Do you want me to tell father?” She pulls back, face pale, lips curled in a snarl. “You don’t matter to me,” she hisses. “You are nothing compared to the Prince Rhaegar.” Arjun says nothing, merely opens the door to let her out. Whatever happens, you are still my sister, and I shall protect you.

Jaime too, has a less-than-flattering introduction to his new life. He’s not sure what to make of it. His father is dead, and Jaime doesn’t know if he should be sad or relieved. Apparently, he should be sad, because Arjun, as he is called now, was the closest to their much-lamented father. That, Jaime could handle. What grated him the worst was the fact that he now had a sanctimonious brother he is supposed to obey at all costs. Actually, he has two elder brothers, and two younger ones. His mother is stern but loving. But it is his eldest brother he distinctly does not like. “You cannot question dharma,” says Yudhisthir. “Honestly, Arjun, how many times should I tell you that?” “Dharma is the way of life, isn’t it, Jyeshth Bhraata? Why can I not choose how I live my life?” Jaime tries to keep his tone respectful because, after all, he is talking to his elder brother. “It is ordained by the Gods,” “Yudhisthir, Arjun, enough of this.” Mother turns to him. “You can question the path all you want, Arjun, but you will have to do your duty.” Jaime nods. He knows that.

Arjun holds the steel in his hand, ignoring the part of him that longs for a bow. In this world, only cowards used the bow-and-arrow. Swords, too, were weapons he knew about. The Master-at-arms is pleased with him and Arjun grins. “Time for your lessons, little lord,” he says. Arjun nods and runs to the Maester’s chambers, excited. Maester Pycelle has a very dry voice. Arjun has to struggle hard to concentrate, but he manages somehow. He is not about to let any knowledge slip out of his hands, after all.After lessons, there’s not much to do except practice swords. In this world, there are no spears that he can learn, no maces, without him stepping past his boundaries.Arjun smiles as he hears the sound of pattering feet behind him. He bends and picks his little brother up, swinging him in his arms. “Tyrion”, Tyrion giggles, nuzzling into him. “Jaime!” Arjun ruffles his hair. “We’re playing together a lot more than before. Did you and Cersei have a fight?” Arjun hesitates. “You could say that. I don’t want to talk about it.” His face heats up as he recalls that fall out. She hasn’t talked to him yet after that.“Lord Jaime.” Arjun turns. It’s Maester Pycelle. He nods at the older man. “What is it, Maester?” “Lord Lannister is arriving from the capital in a few days.” “I see. Have you informed Aunt Genna?” “Yes, my lord, she said she would take care of the arrangements.” “Good. You may go.” I am going to meet my father…Tyrion is looking up at him. “You’re really lordly, Jaime.” Arjun laughs. “Shouldn’t I be?”Lord Tywin Lannister is a far cry from Maharaj Pandu. He’s curt, and cold. He nods approvingly at Arjun. “I see your studies have markedly improved.” Arjun looks down, confused. He doesn’t remark on it. Lord Tywin puts a hand on Arjun’s shoulders. “I am pleased, Jaime. I expect that you are ready for your squiring.” “Father?” Arjun had read about squiring. He is not sure how to feel about it. “You start for Crakehall on the morrow.” Arjun nods. It is his duty, and he shall obey.Squiring, he finds out, is easier than Gurukul Shiksha. Lord Crakehall goes very easy on Arjun, for is afraid of his liege lord. Arjun still learns a lot of the ways of fighting in this world, for he manages to, with a frission of guilt and excitement in him, sneak away and train with the knights. When Arjun is 15, they hear of the Kingswood Brotherhood. He and Lord Crakehall had been on the way to court then, but they join Ser Arthur Dayne and his men to rid the country of the outlaw.

Jaime scowls. He used to respect his teacher, his ‘Guru’. But it is becoming clear that the man has obvious favoritism for his son. Well, he isn’t just standing there and watching it happen. He stands in front of his teacher. “This is wrong.” “Arjun?” “You said you’ll teach all of us equally, isn’t that Guru Dharma?” He looks puzzled. I continue. “Why is it that you gave your son a wider pitcher?” Jaime has no problem doing menial tasks, he’ll do his duty without question, but this is too much. The confusion turns into anger. “Arjun! You will not question-“ Jaime cuts him off. “I will.” He turns away. “So be it.” Some of the other students inexplicably are more friendly with him after that incident. Jaime finds out that Guru Drona had supposedly been favoring him, because Jaime had put effort into learning archery. Jaime scoffs. He does not want favor. He makes the same clear when Acharya Drona cuts off Ekalavya’s thumb. It is not for Jaime’s sake he did that. He did it because he wanted to. Jaime respects his teacher for his teaching, but he doesn’t much like him as a person.Which is why Jaime is surprised when he’s called aside. “Arjun,” “Gurudev,” “Your aptitude for archery shows that you’re capable enough to learn the divyastrs.” Apparently these are something in this world, thinks Jaime. He stays silent, ignoring the way Acharya Drona stares at him. What does he expect? That Jaime would gush? This is what Jaime is owed because of his ability. He didn’t ask for any of this. The Divyastrs are beyond what Jaime expects them to be. In this world, apparently, Gods do exist. He’s awed by the weapons. “Be prepared to learn, Arjun.” “I will be, Gurudev.” “Good.” And that was that. Jaime learns the weapons with due respect, he’s fired with curiosity to learn more, as Drona hints there’s much more he can learn, that these are just the basics. Once that is done with, they go back to Hastinapur. It is a pale shadow of what Westeros was to Jaime’s eyes, but he supposes he’ll have to make do.The competition begins. Jaime effortlessly defeats all the obstacles he faces…until. There he is. That persistent thorn in Jaime’s side. Vasusen has managed to infiltrate even this arena. This is Jaime’s victory. He does not intend to let it slide so easily. “I accept,” he calls in clear tones, easily overriding Kripacharya’s voice. He refuses to listen to Drona, either. He and Vasusen face off. This, too, is a challenge easily won. Jaime smirks at the end of it. Vasusen was richer a Kingdom, yes, but had retreated with his tail between his legs, just as he deserved. Jaime is the unopposed victor.Jaime does his duty and defeats Draupad, too. He does not stay around for the gloating, just leaves the hall as unobtrusively as he can. There is a bitter taste in his mouth. What right did Drona have to demand what he did in the past? What has Jaime unwittingly enabled?Jaime has no choice but to go along the charade that is the journey to Varnavrat. He stays at his mother’s side. She does not understand what Jaime feels often, yet, he loves her, for she tries her best for him. At least, that is what he thinks, till then.He does not hesitate when they need to choose between their survival and the survival of innocents. He does not hesitate when they go to Kampilya and attend the swayamvar. (No, here, he is not hesitate at all. There is a thrill in his blood, an anticipation that he exults in). The arrow smoothly thuds into the eye of the fish, and Jaime grins with characteristic cockiness. Then his breath catches. The woman who moves gracefully towards him is the personification of beauty. He is uncharacteristically bashful when she extends the garland to him. He lowers his head. The flowers hang heavy around his neck, a fragrant promise. He fights off those who dare to raise their weapons without a thought but is speechless when he looks at her…his wife. Bheem is his usual jovial self. By the time they reach the hut, Jaime and Draupadi muster up shy conversation. Jaime smiles to himself when he recalls the moment when Bheem had called him Arjun. The surprise in her eyes is not something he’d easily forget. And then Bheem plays a game that backfires. “Look what we’ve brought as alms, mother!” he calls before Jaime can forestall him. Mother, without turning, says “Share it among you brothers.” His eldest brother turns with what seems to Jaime like alacrity, gazing at Draupadi. He had known that Jaime had won! Jaime frowns at him. “I am afraid that is not possible, mother,” Jaime says. He can see the disappointment in his eldest brother’s gaze. “Why not?” “It is Panchali’s swayamvar I won, she is my wife.” “The eldest brother must marry first, according to dharma…” “She chose me. That is the end of that.” Draupadi is nodding to his words. “He is right. It is Rajkumar Arjun I choose as my husband.” Jaime smiles at her. She smiles back.

Ser Arthur Dayne is someone Arjun actually admires for his honor and his sincere drive to help common folk. To actually fight alongside him is a rare honor, one that Arjun seizes at. The excitement that Arjun had felt dies away quickly when he takes a look at the battlefield. The welter of noise, the bloodshed and death is a far cry from the songs of his childhood, either as himself or in this new world. But he fights nonetheless, he still has his sense of duty. He jumps in front of Ser Arthur and the Smiling Knight when the older man stumbles, fends him off the best he can. “Do you solemnly swear, in the name of the Seven?” “I swear, Ser Arthur.” “Then rise, Ser Jaime Lannister!” Arjun stands. He doesn’t feel different. But he knows the responsibility being a knight is. He vows to himself that he would never forswear his oaths.He goes to the court with Father for a few months. The court is ostentatious to the extreme. He vastly prefers what he remembers of Indraprastha. The language people talk in here is alien to him, people who say one thing and yet mean another. He still makes an effort to untangle all these webs. Arjun is certain he succeeds, a least a little, for Father has started to trust him with matters of his own. Arjun is walking down a corridor when he hears a woman scream. He does not stop to think. He runs. Runs down the corridor until he reaches an oaken door, behind which he can hear broken weeping. Ser Arthur Dayne is standing outside that chamber, leaning on the door. “Jaime.” “Ser Arthur. What happened?” “The King…visited the Queen.” Arjun’s eyes widen. He raises his hand and knocks. “Your Grace?” “Jaime Lannister!” There is no response from the other side of the door. Arjun shrugs off Ser Arthur’s restraining hand, opens the door, and walks in. The Queen is inside, curled into herself. Arjun gets a flash of another life, his own life, where he was standing, helpless, as his wife curled into herself, blood staining her garments, tears streaking down her face. He flinches. I will not stand aside this time. He touches her gently on the shoulder. “Your Grace?” She flinches. “Shall I call for someone?” he asks. He keeps his voice quiet, gentle. Purple eyes blink up hesitantly at him. ‘Joanna?’ Joanna? Oh. She is thinking I’m my mother. “It’s Jaime, Your Grace,” he says. She sits up, smiling wanly at him. “You’re Joanna’s son?” He nods, ignoring the voice in his head that says he isn’t, he is Parth, son of Pritha. “Let me, Your Grace,” he assists her. She nods at him. “Thank you.” After that day, Arjun is very watchful around the Queen. He tries his best to protect her. She in turn is almost…motherly towards him. To Arjun, struggling to understand his cold family and longing for someone, that is more than enough. When Prince Rhaegar marries Princess Elia, Arjun meets her along with the Queen. He is spellbound by her beauty but remains within his bounds. She is the crown Prince’s wife, not someone he has any right over. And yet…Arjun shakes his head. No. She is the future Queen. Arjun stays with Princess Elia and the Queen whenever he could, for he is still avoiding his own sister. Matters between him and Cersei have never resolved since that day so long ago. He is welcomed among them. Princess Elia and he strike up a warm friendship. She tells him tales of Dorne, and he counters with stories of Tyrion. At the tourney of Harrenhaal, Arjun handily defeats Prince Rhaegar in the last joust. He is grinning widely as he crowns the Princess Rhaenys. All of four, the child glows like he’s handed her the Sun. As it was, she clung to him for he entertained the least of her requests whenever it was possible for him to. Since that day, she clings to him ever harder.Sadly, it is not meant that he spend time in court. Father and the King have a bad falling out, Arjun is rather clueless as to exactly why, but he understands enough to deduce that it is somehow related to him. Father leaves the court in high dudgeon, and Arjun has no choice but to follow. Events snowball out of control then. Arjun watches helplessly as the world spins towards a war, a war caused by Prince Rhaegar abandoning his wife and running away with Lady Lyanna Stark. Princess Elia. What will become of her? Arjun catches himself thinking of her at odd times. He generally tries to dismiss those thoughts but is rarely successful. He is at the forefront of the army which waits at the doors of King’s Landing. Arjun himself has no idea why he fought tooth and nail with Father to command this army, when Father wanted him to be safe. But fight he did, and here he was.Arjun runs in, no clear objective in mind, when the King opens the gates. He tries his best to limit the carnage his men wish to unleash, instead marshalling them to protect innocent people. Arjun himself, once he’s done this as quick as he could, runs towards the Red Keep. By the grace of the Gods, Arjun reaches before the Mountain could hurt Princess Elia. He makes short work of the huge man, then tackling Armory Lorch with ease. He manages to save Princess Elia and her children. Arjun is grateful for that. Princess Elia directs him to the throne room. On the way there, they meet Rossart. The King’s Pyromancer is an easy man to recognize. He is muttering under his breath about a welcoming fire, and Arjun recognizes the wildfire in his hands. He wastes no time in asking the man his purpose. Finding the purpose in question too horrible to contemplate, Arjun kills him instantaneously.When Arjun, the Princess Elia and her children enter the Throne Room, King Aerys is dead, Lord Eddard Stark standing by the throne. Princess Elia’s voice is cool as she greets Lord Stark. “Lord Stark.” “Lady Elia.” “I am a Princess of Dorne, my Lord Stark. I want nothing to do with this monstrosity of a throne. I only ask for the lives of my children to be spared.” “That remains to be seen. They are no children, but dragonspawn.” The new voice that intercedes is that of Robert Baratheon. Elia stiffens, mouth open to retort. Arjun steps in between them. “Your Grace,” he says, giving the older man a perfunctory bow. “Princess Elia and her children were harmed by the Prince Rhaegar for no crime of theirs. I take the responsibility of their safety and loyalty on my own head.” “A wise decision, Lord Lannister.” Arjun looks to the side, startled. It is Lord Arryn, accompanied by his father. “Do you accede to your son’s decision, Lord Tywin? It is the honorable thing to do.” Father is cornered, Arjun thinks. “I do.” Arjun sends a relieved smile to Princess Elia. “Fear not, Princess,” he says quietly to her. “I shall not hurt you.” “I believe you, my Lord.” Rhaenys is still clinging to him. He smiles down at her. “You are safe, Rhaenys,” he assures the child. She looks at him with wide purple eyes, still afraid. Lord Jon Arryn sways Robert Baratheon to support Arjun in this regard. They all depart for Casterly Rock.In name, Princess Elia is a hostage, but Father, apparently, thinks that he will be a fine match for her. Arjun is hard-pressed to request his father allow her a mourning period, at least in name, for her departed husband. At length does he allow it. It is during this period that Arjun and Tyrion go hunting together. They sight a girl running through the woods. Arjun dismounts and follows the girl on foot. It turns out that the girl had been running away from a man who had hurt her. Her name is Tysha. Arjun sits her on his horse and leads her to Casterly Rock. There, she is employed as Elia’s maid, and is safer than she was before.

Arjun looks on as the septon ties Elia’s hand together with his. “I am hers, and she is mine,” he says. With that, Elia is Elia Lannister, his wife. And Arjun is happy. So is Elia herself.

After Jaime’s marriage to Draupadi, he and his brothers have enough political power to reveal themselves. At Hastina, they are given the land of Khandavprastha to rule. The land itself is fallow, barren. “Well, no matter,” says Bheem to Jaime. “We’ll make it tick in no time.” “Isn’t that Jyeshth’s Dharma, Bhraata Bheem?” Jaime asks. For a man who harps on and on of Dharma, his eldest brother is forever keen to delegate his responsibilities to Bheem and Jaime himself, it seems. Bheem laughs. “It is our Dharma to follow him, Arjun.” Sometimes, Jaime rues his sense of duty. Jaime, Bheem and the twins toil to build the city of Indraprastha. It is a beautiful city. For a while, everything is right in Jaime’s world. Draupadi is a wife who exceeds all his expectations, Indraprastha a place where Jaime is regarded with respect. They administer their Kingdom ably, Jaime being the general of all the armies. Jaime finds an easy camaraderie with the men. He spends more and more time with them when his brother gets too much to bear, so much so that it is a running joke amongst themselves. “The Samrat too full of himself again, Rajkumar Arjun?” asks Jaime’s closest aide. Jaime nods, laughing. “Don’t worry, that’s what we’re here for!” Jaime and his men conduct a war of conquest on the Samrat’s orders, emerging victorious along with his other brothers. And then, of course, the Samrat goes and almost loses everything. Fortunately, Jaime is still in full possession of his wits. When his brother bets on his Kingdom, Jaime has enough of sitting dumbly. He stands. “With all due respect to this assembly of august men, the King serves the Kingdom as much as the Kingdom serves the King.” There. That ought to bring some sense into the man. This is a line quoted almost verbatim from the scriptures his eldest brother so follows. Abashed, the Samrat ends the game. Jaime is still glaring at him. For once, his sanctimonious eldest brother can’t meet Jaime’s eyes and give yet another sermon. Draupadi walks to his side. “My husband is right, Samrat,” she says, taking Jaime’s hand. Grandfather Bhishma is the one who forestalls whatever was going to happen next. “The game ends here,” he says. They are feted half-heartedly in Hastina in the following days. Bheem and Jaime both give the Samrat a piece of their minds in private, as the man very well deserves. Once the feasts and festivities ostensibly in their honor are over, they leave together for Indraprastha, the crown still firmly on his kingly brother’s head.Since then, he and Bheem watch the man over like hawks, stalling his excess fits of gallantry (stupidity, Jaime and Bheem agree), in time.They secure their Kingdom.  

Tyrion

They have my son," Tywin Lannister said. "They do, my lord." The messenger's voice was dulled by exhaustion. On the breast of his torn surcoat, the brindled boar of Crakehall was half-obscured by dried blood. One of your sons, Tyrion thought. He took a sip of wine and said not a word, thinking of Jaime. When he lifted his arm, pain shot through his elbow, reminding him of his own brief taste of battle. He loved his brother, but he would not have wanted to be with him in the Whispering Wood for all the gold in Casterly Rock. His lord father's assembled captains and bannermen had fallen very quiet as the courier told his tale. The only sound was the crackle and hiss of the log burning in the hearth at the end of the long, drafty common room. After the hardships of the long relentless drive south, the prospect of even a single night in an inn had cheered Tyrion mightily . . . though he rather wished it had not been this inn again, with all its memories. His father had set a grueling pace, and it had taken its toll. Men wounded in the battle kept up as best they could or were abandoned to fend for themselves. Every morning they left a few more by the roadside, men who went to sleep never to wake. Every afternoon a few more collapsed along the way. And every evening a few more deserted, stealing off into the dusk. Tyrion had been half-tempted to go with them. He had been upstairs, enjoying the comfort of a featherbed and the warmth of Shae's body beside him, when his squire had woken him to say that a rider had arrived with dire news of Riverrun. So it had all been for nothing. The rush south, the endless forced marches, the bodies left beside the road . . . all for naught. Robb Stark had reached Riverrun days and days ago. "How could this happen?" Ser Harys Swyft moaned. "How? Even after the Whispering Wood, you had Riverrun ringed in iron, surrounded by a great host . . . what madness made Ser Jaime decide to split his men into three separate camps? Surely he knew how vulnerable that would leave them?" Better than you, you chinless craven, Tyrion thought. Jaime might have lost Riverrun, but it angered him to hear his brother slandered by the likes of Swyft, a shameless lickspittle whose greatest accomplishment was marrying his equally chinless daughter to Ser Kevan, and thereby attaching himself to the Lannisters. "I would have done the same," his uncle responded, a good deal more calmly than Tyrion might have. "You have never seen Riverrun, Ser Harys, or you would know that Jaime had little choice in the matter. The castle is situated at the end of the point of land where the Tumblestone flows into the Red Fork of the Trident. The rivers form two sides of a triangle, and when danger threatens, the Tullys open their sluice gates upstream to create a wide moat on the third side, turning Riverrun into an island. The walls rise sheer from the water, and from their towers the defenders have a commanding view of the opposite shores for many leagues around. To cut off all the approaches, a besieger must needs place one camp north of the Tumblestone, one south of the Red Fork, and a third between the rivers, west of the moat. There is no other way, none." "Ser Kevan speaks truly, my lords," the courier said. "We'd built palisades of sharpened stakes around the camps, yet it was not enough, not with no warning and the rivers cutting us off from each other. They came down on the north camp first. No one was expecting an attack. Marq Piper had been raiding our supply trains, but he had no more than fifty men. Ser Jaime had gone out to deal with them the night before . . . well, with what we thought was them. We were told the Stark host was east of the Green Fork, marching south . . . " "And your outriders?" Ser Gregor Clegane's face might have been hewn from rock. The fire in the hearth gave a somber orange cast to his skin and put deep shadows in the hollows of his eyes. "They saw nothing? They gave you no warning?" The bloodstained messenger shook his head. "Our outriders had been vanishing. Marq Piper's work, we thought. The ones who did come back had seen nothing." "A man who sees nothing has no use for his eyes," the Mountain declared. "Cut them out and give them to your next outrider. Tell him you hope that four eyes might see better than two . . . and if not, the man after him will have six." Lord Tywin Lannister turned his face to study Ser Gregor. Tyrion saw a glimmer of gold as the light shone off his father's pupils, but he could not have said whether the look was one of approval or disgust. Lord Tywin was oft quiet in council, preferring to listen before he spoke, a habit Tyrion himself tried to emulate. Yet this silence was uncharacteristic even for him, and his wine was untouched. "You said they came at night," Ser Kevan prompted. The man gave a weary nod. "The Blackfish led the van, cutting down our sentries and clearing away the palisades for the main assault. By the time our men knew what was happening, riders were pouring over the ditch banks and galloping through the camp with swords and torches in hand. I was sleeping in the west camp, between the rivers. When we heard the fighting and saw the tents being fired, Lord Brax led us to the rafts and we tried to pole across, but the current pushed us downstream and the Tullys started flinging rocks at us with the catapults on their walls. I saw one raft smashed to kindling and three others overturned, men swept into the river and drowned . . . and those who did make it across found the Starks waiting for them on the riverbanks." Ser Flement Brax wore a silver-and-purple tabard and the look of a man who cannot comprehend what he has just heard. "My lord father—" "Sorry, my lord," the messenger said. "Lord Brax was clad in plate-and-mail when his raft overturned. He was very gallant." He was a fool, Tyrion thought, swirling his cup and staring down into the winy depths. Crossing a river at night on a crude raft, wearing armor, with an enemy waiting on the other side—if that was gallantry, he would take cowardice every time. He wondered if Lord Brax had felt especially gallant as the weight of his steel pulled him under the black water. "The camp between the rivers was overrun as well," the messenger was saying. "While we were trying to cross, more Starks swept in from the west, two columns of armored horse. I saw Lord Umber's giant-in-chains and the Mallister eagle, but it was the boy who led them, with a monstrous wolf running at his side. I wasn't there to see, but it's said the beast killed four men and ripped apart a dozen horses. Our spearmen formed up a shieldwall and held against their first charge, but when the Tullys saw them engaged, they opened the gates of Riverrun and Tytos Blackwood led a sortie across the drawbridge and took them in the rear." "Gods save us," Lord Lefford swore. "Greatjon Umber fired the siege towers we were building, and Lord Blackwood found Ser Edmure Tully in chains among the other captives, and made off with them all. Our south camp was under the command of Ser Forley Prester. He retreated in good order when he saw that the other camps were lost, with two thousand spears and as many bowmen, but the Tyroshi sellsword who led his freeriders struck his banners and went over to the foe." "Curse the man." His uncle Kevan sounded more angry than surprised. "I warned Jaime not to trust that one. A man who fights for coin is loyal only to his purse." Lord Tywin wove his fingers together under his chin. Only his eyes moved as he listened. His bristling golden side-whiskers framed a face so still it might have been a mask, but Tyrion could see tiny beads of sweat dappling his father's shaven head. "How could it happen?" Ser Harys Swyft wailed again. "Ser Jaime taken, the siege broken . . . this is a catastrophe!" Ser Addam Marbrand said, "I am sure we are all grateful to you for pointing out the obvious, Ser Harys. The question is, what shall we do about it?" "What can we do? Jaime's host is all slaughtered or taken or put to flight, and the Starks and the Tullys sit squarely across our line of supply. We are cut off from the west! They can march on Casterly Rock if they so choose, and what's to stop them? My lords, we are beaten. We must sue for peace." "Peace?" Tyrion swirled his wine thoughtfully, took a deep draft, and hurled his empty cup to the floor, where it shattered into a thousand pieces. "There's your peace, Ser Harys. My sweet nephew broke it for good and all when he decided to ornament the Red Keep with Lord Eddard's head. You'll have an easier time drinking wine from that cup than you will convincing Robb Stark to make peace now. He's winning . . . or hadn't you noticed?" "Two battles do not make a war," Ser Addam insisted. "We are far from lost. I should welcome the chance to try my own steel against this Stark boy." "Perhaps they would consent to a truce, and allow us to trade our prisoners for theirs," offered Lord Lefford. "Unless they trade three-for-one, we still come out light on those scales," Tyrion said acidly. "And what are we to offer for my brother? Lord Eddard's rotting head?" "I had heard that Queen Cersei has the Hand's daughters," Lefford said hopefully. "If we give the lad his sisters back . . . " Ser Addam snorted disdainfully. "He would have to be an utter ass to trade Jaime Lannister's life for two girls." "Then we must ransom Ser Jaime, whatever it costs," Lord Lefford said. Tyrion rolled his eyes. "If the Starks feel the need for gold, they can melt down Jaime's armor." "if we ask for a truce, they will think us weak," Ser Addarn argued. "We should march on them at once." "Surely our friends at court could be prevailed upon to join us with fresh troops," said Ser Harys. "And someone might return to Casterly Rock to raise a new host." Lord Tywin Lannister rose to his feet. "They have my son," he said once more, in a voice that cut through the babble like a sword through suet. "Leave me. All of you." Ever the soul of obedience, Tyrion rose to depart with the rest, but his father gave him a look. "Not you, Tyrion. Remain. And you as well, Kevan. The rest of you, out." Tyrion eased himself back onto the bench, startled into speechlessness. Ser Kevan crossed the room to the wine casks. "Uncle," Tyrion called, "if you would be so kind—" "Here." His father offered him his cup, the wine untouched. Now Tyrion truly was nonplussed. He drank. Lord Tywin seated himself. "You have the right of it about Stark. Alive, we might have used Lord Eddard to forge a peace with Winterfell and Riverrun, a peace that would have given us the time we need to deal with Robert's brothers. Dead . . . " His hand curled into a fist. "Madness. Rank madness." "Joff's only a boy," Tyrion pointed out. "At his age, I committed a few follies of my own." His father gave him a sharp look. "I suppose we ought to be grateful that he has not yet married a whore." Tyrion sipped at his wine, wondering how Lord Tywin would look if he flung the cup in his face. "Our position is worse than you know," his father went on. "It would seem we have a new king." Ser Kevan looked poleaxed. "A new—who? What have they done to Joffrey?" The faintest flicker of distaste played across Lord Tywin's thin lips. "Nothing . . . yet. My grandson still sits the Iron Throne, but the eunuch has heard whispers from the south. Renly Baratheon wed Margaery Tyrell at Highgarden this fortnight past, and now he has claimed the crown. The bride's father and brothers have bent the knee and sworn him their swords." "Those are grave tidings." When Ser Kevan frowned, the furrows in his brow grew deep as canyons. "My daughter commands us to ride for King's Landing at once, to defend the Red Keep against King Renly and the Knight of Flowers." His mouth tightened. "Commands us, mind you. In the name of the king and council." "How is King Joffrey taking the news?" Tyrion asked with a certain black amusement. "Cersei has not seen fit to tell him yet," Lord Tywin said. "She fears he might insist on marching against Renly himself." "With what army?" Tyrion asked. "You don't plan to give him this one, I hope?" "He talks of leading the City Watch," Lord Tywin said. "If he takes the Watch, he'll leave the city undefended," Ser Kevan said. "And with Lord Stannis on Dragonstone . . . " "Yes." Lord Tywin looked down at his son. "I had thought you were the one made for motley, Tyrion, but it would appear that I was wrong." "Why, Father," said Tyrion, "that almost sounds like praise." He leaned forward intently. "What of Stannis? He's the elder, not Renly. How does he feel about his brother's claim?" His father frowned. "I have felt from the beginning that Stannis was a greater danger than all the others combined. Yet he does nothing. Oh, Varys hears his whispers. Stannis is building ships, Stannis is hiring sellswords, Stannis is bringing a shadowbinder from Asshai. What does it mean? Is any of it true?" He gave an irritated shrug. "Kevan, bring us the map." Ser Kevan did as he was bid. Lord Tywin unrolled the leather, smoothing it flat. "Jaime has left us in a bad way. Roose Bolton and the remnants of his host are north of us. Our enemies hold the Twins and Moat Cailin. Robb Stark sits to the west, so we cannot retreat to Lannisport and the Rock unless we choose to give battle. Jaime is taken, and his army for all purposes has ceased to exist. Thoros of Myr and Beric Dondarrion continue to plague our foraging parties. To our east we have the Arryns, Stannis Baratheon sits on Dragonstone, and in the south Highgarden and Storm's End are calling their banners." Tyrion smiled crookedly. "Take heart, Father. At least Rhaegar Targaryen is still dead." "I had hoped you might have more to offer us than japes, Tyrion," Lord Tywin Lannister said. Ser Kevan frowned over the map, forehead creasing. "Robb Stark will have Edmure Tully and the lords of the Trident with him now. Their combined power may exceed our own. And with Roose Bolton behind us . . . Tywin, if we remain here, I fear we might be caught between three armies." "I have no intention of remaining here. We must finish our business with young Lord Stark before Renly Baratheon can march from Highgarden. Bolton does not concern me. He is a wary man, and we made him warier on the Green Fork. He will be slow to give pursuit. So . . . on the morrow, we make for Harrenhal. Kevan, I want Ser Addam's outriders to screen our movements. Give him as many men as he requires, and send them out in groups of four. I will have no vanishings." "As you say, my lord, but . . . why Harrenhal? That is a grim, unlucky place. Some call it cursed." "Let them," Lord Tywin said. "Unleash Ser Gregor and send him before us with his reavers. Send forth Vargo Hoat and his freeriders as well, and Ser Amory Lorch. Each is to have three hundred horse. Tell them I want to see the riverlands afire from the Gods Eye to the Red Fork." "They will burn, my lord," Ser Kevan said, rising. "I shall give the commands." He bowed and made for the door. When they were alone, Lord Tywin glanced at Tyrion. "Your savages might relish a bit of rapine. Tell them they may ride with Vargo Hoat and plunder as they like—goods, stock, women, they may take what they want and burn the rest." "Telling Shagga and Timett how to pillage is like telling a rooster how to crow," Tyrion commented, "but I should prefer to keep them with me." Uncouth and unruly they might be, yet the wildlings were his, and he trusted them more than any of his father's men. He was not about to hand them over. "Then you had best learn to control them. I will not have the city plundered." "The city?" Tyrion was lost. "What city would that be?" "King's Landing. I am sending you to court." It was the last thing Tyrion Lannister would ever have anticipated. He reached for his wine, and considered for a moment as he sipped. "And what am I to do there?" "Rule," his father said curtly Tyrion hooted with laughter. "My sweet sister might have a word or two to say about that!" "Let her say what she likes. Her son needs to be taken in hand before he ruins us all. I blame those jackanapes on the council—our friend Petyr, the venerable Grand Maester, and that cockless wonder Lord Varys. What sort of counsel are they giving Joffrey when he lurches from one folly to the next? Whose notion was it to make this Janos Slynt a lord? The man's father was a butcher, and they grant him Harrenhal. Harrenhal, that was the seat of kings! Not that he will ever set foot inside it, if I have a say. I am told he took a bloody spear for his sigil. A bloody cleaver would have been my choice." His father had not raised his voice, yet Tyrion could see the anger in the gold of his eyes. "And dismissing Selmy, where was the sense in that? Yes, the man was old, but the name of Barristan the Bold still has meaning in the realm. He lent honor to any man he served. Can anyone say the same of the Hound? You feed your dog bones under the table, you do not seat him beside you on the high bench." He pointed a finger at Tyrion's face. "If Cersei cannot curb the boy, you must. And if these councillors are playing us false . . . " Tyrion knew. "Spikes," he sighed. "Heads. Walls." "I see you have taken a few lessons from me." "More than you know, Father," Tyrion answered quietly. He finished his wine and set the cup aside, thoughtful. A part of him was more pleased than he cared to admit. Another part was remembering the battle upriver, and wondering if he was being sent to hold the left again. "Why me?" he asked, cocking his head to one side. "Why not my uncle? Why not Ser Addam or Ser Flement or Lord Serrett? Why not a . . . bigger man?" Lord Tywin rose abruptly. "You are my son." That was when he knew. You have given him up for lost, he thought. You bloody bastard, you think Jaime's good as dead, so I'm all you have left. Tyrion wanted to slap him, to spit in his face, to draw his dagger and cut the heart out of him and see if it was made of old hard gold, the way the smallfolks said. Yet he sat there, silent and still. The shards of the broken cup crunched beneath his father's heels as Lord Tywin crossed the room. "One last thing," he said at the door. "You will not take the whore to court." Tyrion sat alone in the common room for a long while after his father was gone. Finally he climbed the steps to his cozy garret beneath the bell tower. The ceiling was low, but that was scarcely a drawback for a dwarf. From the window, he could see the gibbet his father had erected in the yard. The innkeep's body turned slowly on its rope whenever the night wind gusted. Her flesh had grown as thin and ragged as Lannister hopes. Shae murmured sleepily and rolled toward him when he sat on the edge of the featherbed. He slid his hand under the blanket and cupped a soft breast, and her eyes opened. "M'lord," she said with a drowsy smile. When he felt her nipple stiffen, Tyrion kissed her. "I have a mind to take you to King's Landing, sweetling," he whispered.

Tyrion

In the chilly white raiment of the Kingsguard, Ser Mandon Moore looked like a corpse in a shroud. "Her Grace left orders, the council in session is not to be disturbed."

"I would be only a small disturbance, ser." Tyrion slid the parchment from his sleeve. "I bear a letter from my father, Lord Tywin Lannister, the Hand of the King. There is his seal."

"Her Grace does not wish to be disturbed," Ser Mandon repeated slowly, as if Tyrion were a dullard who had not heard him the first time.

Jaime had once told him that Moore was the most dangerous of the Kingsguard—excepting himself, always—because his face gave no hint as what he might do next. Tyrion would have welcomed a hint. Bronn and Timett could likely kill the knight if it came to swords, but it would scarcely bode well if he began by slaying one of Joffrey's protectors. Yet if he let the man turn him away, where was his authority? He made himself smile. "Ser Mandon, you have not met my companions. This is Timett son of Timett, a red hand of the Burned Men. And this is Bronn. Perchance you recall Ser Vardis Egen, who was captain of Lord Arryn's household guard?"

"I know the man." Ser Mandon's eyes were pale grey, oddly flat and lifeless.

"Knew," Bronn corrected with a thin smile.

Ser Mandon did not deign to show that he had heard that.

"Be that as it may," Tyrion said lightly, "I truly must see my sister and present my letter, ser. If you would be so kind as to open the door for us?"

The white knight did not respond. Tyrion was almost at the point of trying to force his way past when Ser Mandon abruptly stood aside. "You may enter. They may not."

A small victory, he thought, but sweet. He had passed his first test. Tyrion Lannister shouldered through the door, feeling almost tall. Five members of the king's small council broke off their discussion suddenly. "You," his sister Cersei said in a tone that was equal parts disbelief and distaste.

"I can see where Joffrey learned his courtesies." Tyrion paused to admire the pair of Valyrian sphinxes that guarded the door, affecting an air of casual confidence. Cersei could smell weakness the way a dog smells fear.

"What are you doing here?" His sister's lovely green eyes studied him without the least hint of affection.

"Delivering a letter from our lord father." He sauntered to the table and placed the tightly rolled parchment between them.

The eunuch Varys took the letter and turned it in his delicate powdered hands. "How kind of Lord Tywin. And his scaling wax is such a lovely shade of gold." Varys gave the seal a close inspection. "It gives every appearance of being genuine."

"Of course it's genuine." Cersei snatched it out of his hands. She broke the wax and unrolled the parchment.

Tyrion watched her read. His sister had taken the king's seat for herself—he gathered Joffrey did not often trouble to attend council meetings, no more than Robert had—so Tyrion climbed up into the Hand's chair. it seemed only appropriate.

"This is absurd," the queen said at last. "My lord father has sent my brother to sit in his place in this council. He bids us accept Tyrion as the Hand of the King, until such time as he himself can join us."

Grand Maester Pycelle stroked his flowing white beard and nodded ponderously. "It would seem that a welcome is in order."

"Indeed." Jowly, balding Janos Slynt looked rather like a frog, a smug frog who had gotten rather above himself. "We have sore need of you, my lord. Rebellion everywhere, this grim omen in the sky, rioting in the city streets . . . "

"And whose fault is that, Lord Janos?" Cersei lashed out. "Your gold cloaks are charged with keeping order. As to you, Tyrion, you could better serve us on the field of battle."

He laughed. "No, I'm done with fields of battle, thank you. I sit a chair better than a horse, and I'd sooner hold a wine goblet than a battle-axe. All that about the thunder of the drums, sunlight flashing on armor, magnificent destriers snorting and prancing? Well, the drums gave me headaches, the sunlight flashing on my armor cooked me up like a harvest day goose, and those magnificent destriers shit everywhere. Not that I am complaining. Compared to the hospitality I enjoyed in the Vale of Arryn, drums, horseshit, and fly bites are my favorite things."

Littlefinger laughed. "Well said, Lannister. A man after my own heart."

Tyrion smiled at him, remembering a certain dagger with a dragonbone hilt and a Valyrian steel blade. We must have a talk about that, and soon. He wondered if Lord Petyr would find that subject amusing as well. "Please," he told them, "do let me be of service, in whatever small way I can."

Cersei read the letter again. "How many men have you brought with you? "

"A few hundred. My own men, chiefly. Father was loath to part with any of his. He is fighting a war, after all."

"What use will your few hundred men be if Renly marches on the city, or Stannis sails from Dragonstone? I ask for an army and my father sends me a dwarf. The king names the Hand, with the consent of council. Joffrey named our lord father."

"And our lord father named me."

"He cannot do that. Not without Joff's consent."

"Lord Tywin is at Harrenhal with his host, if you'd care to take it up with him," Tyrion said politely. "My lords, perchance you would permit me a private word with my sister?"

Varys slithered to his feet, smiling in that unctuous way he had. "How you must have yearned for the sound of your sweet sister's voice. My lords, please, let us give them a few moments together. The woes of our troubled realm shall keep."

Janos Slynt rose hesitantly and Grand Maester Pycelle ponderously, yet they rose. Littlefinger was the last. "Shall I tell the steward to prepare chambers in Maegor's Holdfast?"

"My thanks, Lord Petyr, but I will be taking Lord Stark's former quarters in the Tower of the Hand."

Littlefinger laughed. "You're a braver man than me, Lannister. You do know the fate of our last two Hands?"

"Two? If you mean to frighten me, why not say four?"

"Four?" Littlefinger raised an eyebrow. "Did the Hands before Lord Arryn meet some dire end in the Tower? I'm afraid I was too young to pay them much mind."

"Aerys Targaryen's last Hand was killed during the Sack of King's Landing, though I doubt he'd had time to settle into the Tower. He was only Hand for a fortnight. The one before him was burned to death. And before them came two others who died landless and penniless in exile, and counted themselves lucky. I believe my lord father was the last Hand to depart King's Landing with his name, properties, and parts all intact."

"Fascinating," said Littlefinger. "And all the more reason I'd sooner bed down in the dungeon."

Perhaps you'll get that wish, Tyrion thought, but he said, "Courage and folly are cousins, or so I've heard. Whatever curse may linger over the Tower of the Hand, I pray I'm small enough to escape its notice."

Janos Slynt laughed, Littlefinger smiled, and Grand Maester Pycelle followed them both out, bowing gravely.

"I hope Father did not send you all this way to plague us with history lessons," his sister said when they were alone.

"How I have yearned for the sound of your sweet voice," Tyrion sighed to her.

"How I have yearned to have that eunuch's tongue pulled out with hot pincers," Cersei replied. "Has father lost his senses? Or did you forge this letter?" She read it once more, with mounting annoyance. "Why would he inflict you on me? I wanted him to come himself." She crushed Lord Tywin's letter in her fingers. "I am Joffrey's regent, and I sent him a royal command!"

"And he ignored you," Tyrion pointed out. "He has quite a large army, he can do that. Nor is he the first. Is he?"

Cersei's mouth tightened. He could see her color rising. "If I name this letter a forgery and tell them to throw you in a dungeon, no one will ignore that, I promise you."

He was walking on rotten ice now, Tyrion knew. One false step and he would plunge through. "No one," he agreed amiably, "least of all our father. The one with the army. But why should you want to throw me into a dungeon, sweet sister, when I've come all this long way to help you? "

"I do not require your help. It was our father's presence that I commanded."

"Yes," he said quietly, "but it's Jaime you want."

His sister fancied herself subtle, but he had grown up with her. He could read her face like one of his favorite books, and what he read now was rage, and fear, and despair. "Jaime—"

"—is my brother no less than yours," Tyrion interrupted. "Give me your support and I promise you, we will have Jaime freed and returned to us unharmed."

"How?" Cersei demanded. "The Stark boy and his mother are not like to forget that we beheaded Lord Eddard."

"True," Tyrion agreed, "yet you still hold his daughters, don't you? I saw the older girl out in the yard with Joffrey."

"Sansa," the queen said. "I've given it out that I have the younger brat as well, but it's a lie. I sent Meryn Trant to take her in hand when Robert died, but her wretched dancing master interfered and the girl fled. No one has seen her since. Likely she's dead. A great many people died that day."

Tyrion had hoped for both Stark girls, but he supposed one would have to do. "Tell me about our friends on the council."

His sister glanced at the door. "What of them?"

"Father seems to have taken a dislike to them. When I left him, he was wondering how their heads might look on the wall beside Lord Stark's." He leaned forward across the table. "Are you certain of their loyalty? Do you trust them?"

"I trust no one," Cersei snapped. "I need them. Does Father believe they are playing us false?"

"Suspects, rather."

"Why? What does he know?"

Tyrion shrugged. "He knows that your son's short reign has been a long parade of follies and disasters. That suggests that someone is giving Joffrey some very bad counsel."

Cersei gave him a searching look. "Joff has had no lack of good counsel. He's always been strong-willed. Now that he's king, he believes he should do as he pleases, not as he's bid."

"Crowns do queer things to the heads beneath them," Tyrion agreed. "This business with Eddard Stark . . . Joffrey's work?"

The queen grimaced. "He was instructed to pardon Stark, to allow him to take the black. The man would have been out of our way forever, and we might have made peace with that son of his, but Joff took it upon himself to give the mob a better show. What was I to do? He called for Lord Eddard's head in front of half the city. And Janos Slynt and Ser Ilyn went ahead blithely and shortened the man without a word from me!" Her hand tightened into a fist. "The High Septon claims we profaned Baelor's Sept with blood, after lying to him about our intent."

"It would seem he has a point," said Tyrion. "So this Lord Slynt, he was part of it, was he? Tell me, whose fine notion was it to grant him Harrenhal and name him to the council?"

"Littlefinger made the arrangements. We needed Slynt's gold cloaks. Eddard Stark was plotting with Renly and he'd written to Lord Stannis, offering him the throne. We might have lost all. Even so, it was a close thing. If Sansa hadn't come to me and told me all her father's plans . . . "

Tyrion was surprised. "Truly? His own daughter?" Sansa had always seemed such a sweet child, tender and courteous.

"The girl was wet with love. She would have done anything for Joffrey, until he cut off her father's head and called it mercy. That put an end to that."

"His Grace has a unique way of winning the hearts of his subjects," Tyrion said with a crooked smile. "Was it Joffrey's wish to dismiss Ser Barristan Selmy from his Kingsguard too?"

Cersei sighed. "Joff wanted someone to blame for Robert's death. Varys suggested Ser Barristan. Why not? It gave Jaime command of the Kingsguard and a seat on the small council, and allowed Joff to throw a bone to his dog. He is very fond of Sandor Clegane. We were prepared to offer Selmy some land and a towerhouse, more than the useless old fool deserved."

"I hear that useless old fool slew two of Slynt's gold cloaks when they tried to seize him at the Mud Gate."

His sister looked very unhappy. "Janos should have sent more men. He is not as competent as might be wished."

"Ser Barristan was the Lord Commander of Robert Baratheon's Kingsguard," Tyrion reminded her pointedly. "He and Jaime are the only survivors of Aerys Targaryen's seven. The smallfolk talk of him in the same way they talk of Serwyn of the Mirror Shield and Prince Aemon the Dragonknight. What do you imagine they'll think when they see Barristan the Bold riding beside Robb Stark or Stannis Baratheon?"

Cersei glanced away. "I had not considered that."

"Father did," said Tyrion. "That is why he sent me. To put an end to these follies and bring your son to heel."

"Joff will be no more tractable for you than for me."

"He might."

"Why should he?"

"He knows you would never hurt him."

Cersei's eyes narrowed. "If you believe I'd ever allow you to harm my son, you're sick with fever."

Tyrion sighed. She'd missed the point, as she did so often. "Joffrey is as safe with me as he is with you," he assured her, "but so long as the boy feels threatened, he'll be more inclined to listen." He took her hand. "I am your brother, you know. You need me, whether you care to admit it or no. Your son needs me, if he's to have a hope of retaining that ugly iron chair."

His sister seemed shocked that he would touch her. "You have always been cunning."

"In my own small way." He grinned.

"It may be worth the trying . . . but make no mistake, Tyrion. If I accept you, you shall be the King's Hand in name, but my Hand in truth. You will share all your plans and intentions with me before you act, and you will do nothing without my consent. Do you understand?"

"Oh, yes."

"Do you agree?"

"Certainly," he lied. "I am yours, sister." For as long as I need to be. "So, now that we are of one purpose, we ought have no more secrets between us. You say Joffrey had Lord Eddard killed, Varys dismissed Ser Barristan, and Littlefinger gifted us with Lord Slynt. Who murdered Jon Arryn? "

Cersei yanked her hand back. "How should I know?"

"The grieving widow in the Eyrie seems to think it was me. Where did she come by that notion, I wonder?"

"I'm sure I don't know. That fool Eddard Stark accused me of the same thing. He hinted that Lord Arryn suspected or . . . well, believed . . . "

"That you were fucking our sweet Jaime?"

She slapped him.

"Did you think I was as blind as Father?" Tyrion rubbed his cheek. "Who you lie with is no matter to me . . . although it doesn't seem quite just that you should open your legs for one brother and not the other."

She slapped him.

"Be gentle, Cersei, I'm only jesting with you. If truth be told, I'd sooner have a nice whore. I never understood what Jaime saw in you, apart from his own reflection."

She slapped him.

His cheeks were red and burning, yet he smiled. "If you keep doing that, I may get angry."

That stayed her hand. "Why should I care if you do?"

"I have some new friends," Tyrion confessed. "You won't like them at all. How did you kill Robert?"

"He did that himself. All we did was help. When Lancel saw that Robert was going after boar, he gave him strongwine. His favorite sour red, but fortified, three times as potent as he was used to. The great stinking fool loved it. He could have stopped swilling it down anytime he cared to, but no, he drained one skin and told Lancel to fetch another. The boar did the rest. You should have been at the feast, Tyrion. There has never been a boar so delicious. They cooked it with mushrooms and apples, and it tasted like triumph."

"Truly, sister, you were born to be a widow." Tyrion had rather liked Robert Baratheon, great blustering oaf that he was . . . doubtless in part because his sister loathed him so. "Now, if you are done slapping me, I will be off." He twisted his legs around and clambered down awkwardly from the chair.

Cersei frowned. "I haven't given you leave to depart. I want to know how you intend to free Jaime."

"I'll tell you when I know. Schemes are like fruit, they require a certain ripening. Right now, I have a mind to ride through the streets and take the measure of this city." Tyrion rested his hand on the head of the sphinx beside the door. "One parting request. Kindly make certain no harm comes to Sansa Stark. It would not do to lose both the daughters."

Outside the council chamber, Tyrion nodded to Ser Mandon and made his way down the long vaulted hall. Bronn fell in beside him. Of Timett son of Timett there was no sign. "Where's our red hand?" Tyrion asked.

"He felt an urge to explore. His kind was not made for waiting about in halls."

"I hope he doesn't kill anyone important." The clansmen Tyrion had brought down from their fastnesses in the Mountains of the Moon were loyal in their own fierce way, but they were proud and quarrelsome as well, prone to answer insults real or imagined with steel. "Try to find him. And while you are at it, see that the rest have been quartered and fed. I want them in the barracks beneath the Tower of the Hand, but don't let the steward put the Stone Crows near the Moon Brothers, and tell him the Burned Men must have a hall all to themselves."

"Where will you be?"

"I'm riding back to the Broken Anvil."

Bronn grinned insolently. "Need an escort? The talk is, the streets are dangerous."

"I'll call upon the captain of my sister's household guard, and remind him that I am no less a Lannister than she is. He needs to recall that his oath is to Casterly Rock, not to Cersei or Joffrey."

An hour later, Tyrion rode from the Red Keep accompanied by a dozen Lannister guardsmen in crimson cloaks and lion-crested halfhelms. As they passed beneath the portcullis, he noted the heads mounted atop the walls. Black with rot and old tar, they had long since become unrecognizable. "Captain Vylarr," he called, "I want those taken down on the morrow. Give them to the silent sisters for cleaning." It would be hell to match them with the bodies, he supposed, yet it must be done. Even in the midst of war certain decencies needed to be observed.

Vylarr grew hesitant. "His Grace has told us he wishes the traitors' heads to remain on the walls until he fills those last three empty spikes there on the end."

"Let me hazard a wild stab. One is for Robb Stark, the others for Lords Stannis and Renly. Would that be right?"

"Yes, my lord."

"My nephew is thirteen years old today, Vylarr. Try and recall that. I'll have the heads down on the morrow, or one of those empty spikes may have a different lodger. Do you take my meaning, Captain?"

"I'll see that they're taken down myself, my lord."

"Good." Tyrion put his heels into his horse and trotted away, leaving the red cloaks to follow as best they could.

He had told Cersei he intended to take the measure of the city. That was not entirely a lie. Tyrion Lannister was not pleased by much of what he saw. The streets of King's Landing had always been teeming and raucous and noisy, but now they reeked of danger in a way that he did not recall from past visits. A naked corpse sprawled in the gutter near the Street of Looms, being torn at by a pack of feral dogs, yet no one seemed to care. Watchmen were much in evidence, moving in pairs through the alleys in their gold cloaks and shirts of black ringmail, iron cudgels never far from their hands. The markets were crowded with ragged men selling their household goods for any price they could get . . . and conspicuously empty of farmers selling food. What little produce he did see was three times as costly as it had been a year ago. One peddler was hawking rats roasted on a skewer. "Fresh rats," he cried loudly, "fresh rats." Doubtless fresh rats were to be preferred to old stale rotten rats. The frightening thing was, the rats looked more appetizing than most of what the butchers were selling. On the Street of Flour, Tyrion saw guards at every other shop door. When times grew lean, even bakers found sellswords cheaper than bread, he reflected.

"There is no food coming in, is there?" he said to Vylarr.

"Little enough," the captain admitted. "With the war in the riverlands and Lord Renly raising rebels in Highgarden, the roads are closed to south and west."

"And what has my good sister done about this?"

"She is taking steps to restore the king's peace," Vylarr assured him. "Lord Slynt has tripled the size of the City Watch, and the queen has put a thousand craftsmen to work on our defenses. The stonemasons are strengthening the walls, carpenters are building scorpions and catapults by the hundred, fletchers are making arrows, the smiths are forging blades, and the Alchemists' Guild has pledged ten thousand jars of wildfire."

Tyrion shifted uncomfortably in his saddle. He was pleased that Cersei had not been idle, but wildfire was treacherous stuff, and ten thousand jars were enough to turn all of King's Landing into cinders. "Where has my sister found the coin to pay for all of this?" It was no secret that King Robert had left the crown vastly in debt, and alchemists were seldom mistaken for altruists.

"Lord Littlefinger always finds a way, my lord. He has imposed a tax on those wishing to enter the city."

"Yes, that would work," Tyrion said, thinking, Clever. Clever and cruel. Tens of thousands had fled the fighting for the supposed safety of King's Landing. He had seen them on the kingsroad, troupes of mothers and children and anxious fathers who had gazed on his horses and wagons with covetous eyes. Once they reached the city they would doubtless pay over all they had to put those high comforting walls between them and the war . . . though they might think twice if they knew about the wildfire.

The inn beneath the sign of the broken anvil stood within sight of those walls, near the Gate of the Gods where they had entered that morning. As they rode into its courtyard, a boy ran out to help Tyrion down from his horse. "Take your men back to the castle," he told Vylarr. "I'll be spending the night here."

The captain looked dubious. "Will you be safe, my lord?"

"Well, as to that, Captain, when I left the inn this morning it was full of Black Ears. One is never quite safe when Chella daughter of Cheyk is about." Tyrion waddled toward the door, leaving Vylarr to puzzle at his meaning.

A gust of merriment greeted him as he shoved into the inn's common room. He recognized Chella's throaty chuckle and the lighter music of Shae's laughter. The girl was seated by the hearth, sipping wine at a round wooden table with three of the Black Ears he'd left to guard her and a plump man whose back was to him. The innkeeper, he assumed . . . until Shae called Tyrion by name and the intruder rose. "My good lord, I am so pleased to see you," he gushed, a soft eunuch's smile on his powdered face.

Tyrion stumbled. "Lord Varys. I had not thought to see you here." The Others take him, how did he find them so quickly?

"Forgive me if I intrude," Varys said. "I was taken by a sudden urge to meet your young lady."

"Young lady," Shae repeated, savoring the words. "You're half right, m'lord. I'm young."

Eighteen, Tyrion thought. Eighteen, and a whore, but quick of wit, nimble as a cat between the sheets, with large dark eyes and fine black hair and a sweet, soft, hungry little mouth . . . and mine! Damn you, eunuch. "I fear I'm the intruder, Lord Varys," he said with forced courtesy. "When I came in, you were in the midst of some merriment."

"M'lord Varys complimented Chella on her ears and said she must have killed many men to have such a fine necklace," Shae explained. It grated on him to hear her call Varys m'lord in that tone; that was what she called him in their pillow play. "And Chella told him only cowards kill the vanquished."

"Braver to leave the man alive, with a chance to cleanse his shame by winning back his ear," explained Chella, a small dark woman whose grisly neckware was hung with no less than forty-six dried, wrinkled ears. Tyrion had counted them once. "Only so can you prove you do not fear your enemies."

Shae hooted. "And then m'lord says if he was a Black Ear he'd never sleep, for dreams of one-eared men."

"A problem I will never need face," Tyrion said. "I'm terrified of my enemies, so I kill them all."

Varys giggled. "Will you take some wine with us, my lord?"

"I'll take some wine." Tyrion seated himself beside Shae. He understood what was happening here, if Chella and the girl did not. Varys was delivering a message. When he said, I was taken by a sudden urge to meet your young lady, what he meant was, You tried to hide her, but I knew where she was, and who she was, and here I am. He wondered who had betrayed him. The innkeeper, that boy in the stable, a guard on the gate . . . or one of his own?

"I always like to return to the city through the Gate of the Gods," Varys told Shae as he filled the wine cups. "The carvings on the gatehouse are exquisite, they make me weep each time I see them. The eyes . . . so expressive, don't you think? They almost seem to follow you as you ride beneath the portcullis."

"I never noticed, m'lord," Shae replied. "I'll look again on the morrow, if it please you."

Don't bother, sweetling, Tyrion thought, swirling the wine in the cup. He cares not a whit about carvings. The eyes he boasts of are his own. What he means is that he was watching, that he knew we were here the moment we passed through the gates.

"Do be careful, child," Varys urged. "King's Landing is not wholly safe these days. I know these streets well, and yet I almost feared to come today, alone and unarmed as I was. Lawless men are everywhere in this dark time, oh, yes. Men with cold steel and colder hearts." Where I can come alone and unarmed, others can come with swords in their fists, he was saying.

Shae only laughed. "If they try and bother me, they'll be one ear short when Chella runs them off."

Varys hooted as if that was the funniest thing he had ever heard, but there was no laughter in his eyes when he turned them on Tyrion. "Your young lady has an amiable way to her. I should take very good care of her if I were you."

"I intend to. Any man who tries to harm her—well, I'm too small to be a Black Ear, and I make no claims to courage." See? I speak the same tongue you do, eunuch. Hurt her, and I'll have your head.

"I will leave you." Varys rose. "I know how weary you must be. I only wished to welcome you, my lord, and tell you how very pleased I am by your arrival. We have dire need of you on the council. Have you seen the comet?"

"I'm short, not blind," Tyrion said. Out on the kingsroad, it had seemed to cover half the sky, outshining the crescent moon.

"In the streets, they call it the Red Messenger," Varys said. "They say it comes as a herald before a king, to warn of fire and blood to follow." The eunuch rubbed his powdered hands together. "May I leave you with a bit of a riddle, Lord Tyrion?" He did not wait for an answer. "In a room sit three great men, a king, a priest, and a rich man with his gold. Between them stands a sellsword, a little man of common birth and no great mind. Each of the great ones bids him slay the other two. ‘Do it' says the king, ‘for I am your lawful ruler.' ‘Do it' says the priest, ‘for I command you in the names of the gods.' ‘Do it' says the rich man, ‘and all this gold shall be yours.' So tell me—who lives and who dies?" Bowing deeply, the eunuch hurried from the common room on soft slippered feet.

When he was gone, Chella gave a snort and Shae wrinkled up her pretty face. "The rich man lives. Doesn't he?"

Tyrion sipped at his wine, thoughtful. "Perhaps. Or not. That would depend on the sellsword, it seems." He set down his cup. "Come, let's go upstairs."

She had to wait for him at the top of the steps, for her legs were slim and supple while his were short and stunted and full of aches. But she was smiling when he reached her. "Did you miss me?" she teased as she took his hand.

"Desperately," Tyrion admitted. Shae only stood a shade over five feet, yet still he must look up to her . . . but in her case he found he did not mind. She was sweet to look up at.

"You'll miss me all the time in your Red Keep," she said as she led him to her room. "All alone in your cold bed in your Tower of the Hand."

"Too true." Tyrion would gladly have kept her with him, but his lord father had forbidden it. You will not take the whore to court, Lord Tywin had commanded. Bringing her to the city was as much defiance as he dared. All his authority derived from his father, the girl had to understand that. "You won't be far," he promised. "You'll have a house, with guards and servants, and I'll visit as often as I'm able."

Shae kicked shut the door. Through the cloudy panes of the narrow window, he could make out the Great Sept of Baelor crowning Visenya's Hill but Tyrion was distracted by a different sight. Bending, Shae took her gown by the hem, drew it over her head, and tossed it aside. She did not believe in smallclothes. "You'll never be able to rest," she said as she stood before him, pink and nude and lovely, one hand braced on her hip. "You'll think of me every time you go to bed. Then you'll get hard and you'll have no one to help you and you'll never be able to sleep unless you"—she grinned that wicked grin Tyrion liked so well—"is that why they call it the Tower of the Hand, m'lord?"

"Be quiet and kiss me," he commanded.

He could taste the wine on her lips, and feel her small firm breasts pressed against him as her fingers moved to the lacings of his breeches. "My lion," she whispered when he broke off the kiss to undress. "My sweet lord, my giant of Lannister." Tyrion pushed her toward the bed. When he entered her, she screamed loud enough to wake Baelor the Blessed in his tomb, and her nails left gouges in his back. He'd never had a pain he liked half so well.

Fool, he thought to himself afterward, as they lay in the center of the sagging mattress amidst the rumpled sheets. Will you never learn, dwarf? She's a whore, damn you, it's your coin she loves, not your cock. Remember Tysha? Yet when his fingers trailed lightly over one nipple, it stiffened at the touch, and he could see the mark on her breast where he'd bitten her in his passion.

"So what will you do, m'lord, now that you're the Hand of the King?" Shae asked him as he cupped that warm sweet flesh.

"Something Cersei will never expect," Tyrion murmured softly against her slender neck. "I'll do . . . justice."

Eddard

Eddard Stark rode through the towering bronze doors of the Red Keep sore, tired, hungry, and irritable. He was still ahorse, dreaming of a long hot soak, a roast fowl, and a featherbed, when the king's steward told him that Grand Maester Pycelle had convened an urgent meeting of the small council. The honor of the Hand's presence was requested as soon as it was convenient. "It will be convenient on the morrow," Ned snapped as he dismounted. The steward bowed very low. "I shall give the councillors your regrets, my lord." "No, damn it," Ned said. It would not do to offend the council before he had even begun. "I will see them. Pray give me a few moments to change into something more presentable." "Yes, my lord," the steward said. "We have given you Lord Arryn's former chambers in the Tower of the Hand, if it please you. I shall have your things taken there." "My thanks," Ned said as he ripped off his riding gloves and tucked them into his belt. The rest of his household was coming through the gate behind him. Ned saw Vayon Poole, his own steward, and called out. "It seems the council has urgent need of me. See that my daughters find their bedchambers, and tell Jory to keep them there. Arya is not to go exploring." Poole bowed. Ned turned back to the royal steward. "My wagons are still straggling through the city. I shall need appropriate garments." "It will be my great pleasure," the steward said. And so Ned had come striding into the council chambers, bone-tired and dressed in borrowed clothing, to find four members of the small council waiting for him. The chamber was richly furnished. Myrish carpets covered the floor instead of rushes, and in one corner a hundred fabulous beasts cavorted in bright paints on a carved screen from the Summer Isles. The walls were hung with tapestries from Norvos and Qohor and Lys, and a pair of Valyrian sphinxes flanked the door, eyes of polished garnet smoldering in black marble faces. The councillor Ned liked least, the eunuch Varys, accosted him the moment he entered. "Lord Stark, I was grievous sad to hear about your troubles on the kingsroad. We have all been visiting the sept to light candles for Prince Joffrey. I pray for his recovery." His hand left powder stains on Ned's sleeve, and he smelled as foul and sweet as flowers on a grave. "Your gods have heard you," Ned replied, cool yet polite. "The prince grows stronger every day." He disentangled himself from the eunuch's grip and crossed the room to where Lord Renly stood by the screen, talking quietly with a short man who could only be Littlefinger. Renly had been a boy of eight when Robert won the throne, but he had grown into a man so like his brother that Ned found it disconcerting. Whenever he saw him, it was as if the years had slipped away and Robert stood before him, fresh from his victory on the Trident. "I see you have arrived safely, Lord Stark," Renly said. "And you as well," Ned replied. "You must forgive me, but sometimes you look the very image of your brother Robert." "A poor copy," Renly said with a shrug. "Though much better dressed," Littlefinger quipped. "Lord Renly spends more on clothing than half the ladies of the court." It was true enough. Lord Renly was in dark green velvet, with a dozen golden stags embroidered on his doublet. A cloth-of-gold half cape was draped casually across one shoulder, fastened with an emerald brooch. "There are worse crimes," Renly said with a laugh. "The way you dress, for one." Littlefinger ignored the jibe. He eyed Ned with a smile on his lips that bordered on insolence. "I have hoped to meet you for some years, Lord Stark. No doubt Lady Catelyn has mentioned me to you." "She has," Ned replied with a chill in his voice. The sly arrogance of the comment rankled him. "I understand you knew my brother Brandon as well." Renly Baratheon laughed. Varys shuffled over to listen. "Rather too well," Littlefinger said. "I still carry a token of his esteem. Did Brandon speak of me too?" "Often, and with some heat," Ned said, hoping that would end it. He had no patience with this game they played, this dueling with words. "I should have thought that heat ill suits you Starks," Littlefinger said. "Here in the south, they say you are all made of ice, and melt when you ride below the Neck." "I do not plan on melting soon, Lord Baelish. You may count on it." Ned moved to the council table and said, "Maester Pycelle, I trust you are well." The Grand Maester smiled gently from his tall chair at the foot of the table. "Well enough for a man of my years, my lord," he replied, "yet I do tire easily, I fear." Wispy strands of white hair fringed the broad bald dome of his forehead above a kindly face. His maester's collar was no simple metal choker such as Luwin wore, but two dozen heavy chains wound together into a ponderous metal necklace that covered him from throat to breast. The links were forged of every metal known to man: black iron and red gold, bright copper and dull lead, steel and tin and pale silver, brass and bronze and platinum. Garnets and amethysts and black pearls adorned the metalwork, and here and there an emerald or ruby. "Perhaps we might begin soon," the Grand Maester said, hands knitting together atop his broad stomach. "I fear I shall fall asleep if we wait much longer." "As you will." The king's seat sat empty at the head of the table, the crowned stag of Baratheon embroidered in gold thread on its pillows. Ned took the chair beside it, as the right hand of his king. "My lords," he said formally, "I am sorry to have kept you waiting." "You are the King's Hand," Varys said. "We serve at your pleasure, Lord Stark." As the others took their accustomed seats, it struck Eddard Stark forcefully that he did not belong here, in this room, with these men. He remembered what Robert had told him in the crypts below Winterfell. I am surrounded by flatterers and fools, the king had insisted. Ned looked down the council table and wondered which were the flatterers and which the fools. He thought he knew already. "We are but five," he pointed out. "Lord Stannis took himself to Dragonstone not long after the king went north," Varys said, "and our gallant Ser Barristan no doubt rides beside the king as he makes his way through the city, as befits the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard." "Perhaps we had best wait for Ser Barristan and the king to join us," Ned suggested. Renly Baratheon laughed aloud. "If we wait for my brother to grace us with his royal presence, it could be a long sit." "Our good King Robert has many cares," Varys said. "He entrusts some small matters to us, to lighten his load." "What Lord Varys means is that all this business of coin and crops and justice bores my royal brother to tears," Lord Renly said, "so it falls to us to govern the realm. He does send us a command from time to time." He drew a tightly rolled paper from his sleeve and laid it on the table. "This morning he commanded me to ride ahead with all haste and ask Grand Maester Pycelle to convene this council at once. He has an urgent task for us." Littlefinger smiled and handed the paper to Ned. It bore the royal seal. Ned broke the wax with his thumb and flattened the letter to consider the king's urgent command, reading the words with mounting disbelief. Was there no end to Robert's folly? And to do this in his name, that was salt in the wound. "Gods be good," he swore. "What Lord Eddard means to say," Lord Renly announced, "is that His Grace instructs us to stage a great tournament in honor of his appointment as the Hand of the King." "How much?" asked Littlefinger, mildly. Ned read the answer off the letter. "Forty thousand golden dragons to the champion. Twenty thousand to the man who comes second, another twenty to the winner of the melee, and ten thousand to the victor of the archery competition." "Ninety thousand gold pieces," Littlefinger sighed. "And we must not neglect the other costs. Robert will want a prodigious feast. That means cooks, carpenters, serving girls, singers, jugglers, fools . . . " "Fools we have in plenty," Lord Renly said. Grand Maester Pycelle looked to Littlefinger and asked, "Will the treasury bear the expense?" "What treasury is that?" Littlefinger replied with a twist of his mouth. "Spare me the foolishness, Maester. You know as well as I that the treasury has been empty for years. I shall have to borrow the money. No doubt the Lannisters will be accommodating. We owe Lord Tywin some three million dragons at present, what matter another hundred thousand?" Ned was stunned. "Are you claiming that the Crown is three million gold pieces in debt?" "The Crown is more than six million gold pieces in debt, Lord Stark. The Lannisters are the biggest part of it, but we have also borrowed from Lord Tyrell, the Iron Bank of Braavos, and several Tyroshi trading cartels. Of late I've had to turn to the Faith. The High Septon haggles worse than a Dornish fishmonger." Ned was aghast. "Aerys Targaryen left a treasury flowing with gold. How could you let this happen?" Littlefinger gave a shrug. "The master of coin finds the money. The king and the Hand spend it." "I will not believe that Jon Arryn allowed Robert to beggar the realm," Ned said hotly. Grand Maester Pycelle shook his great bald head, his chains clinking softly. "Lord Arryn was a prudent man, but I fear that His Grace does not always listen to wise counsel." "My royal brother loves tournaments and feasts," Renly Baratheon said, "and he loathes what he calls ‘counting coppers.' " "I will speak with His Grace," Ned said. "This tourney is an extravagance the realm cannot afford." "Speak to him as you will," Lord Renly said, "we had still best make our plans." "Another day," Ned said. Perhaps too sharply, from the looks they gave him. He would have to remember that he was no longer in Winterfell, where only the king stood higher; here, he was but first among equals. "Forgive me, my lords," he said in a softer tone. "I am tired. Let us call a halt for today and resume when we are fresher." He did not ask for their consent, but stood abruptly, nodded at them all, and made for the door. Outside, wagons and riders were still pouring through the castle gates, and the yard was a chaos of mud and horseflesh and shouting men. The king had not yet arrived, he was told. Since the ugliness on the Trident, the Starks and their household had ridden well ahead of the main column, the better to separate themselves from the Lannisters and the growing tension. Robert had hardly been seen; the talk was he was traveling in the huge wheelhouse, drunk as often as not. If so, he might be hours behind, but he would still be here too soon for Ned's liking. He had only to look at Sansa's face to feel the rage twisting inside him once again. The last fortnight of their journey had been a misery. Sansa blamed Arya and told her that it should have been Nymeria who died. And Arya was lost after she heard what had happened to her butcher's boy. Sansa cried herself to sleep, Arya brooded silently all day long, and Eddard Stark dreamed of a frozen hell reserved for the Starks of Winterfell. He crossed the outer yard, passed under a portcullis into the inner bailey, and was walking toward what he thought was the Tower of the Hand when Littlefinger appeared in front of him. "You're going the wrong way, Stark. Come with me." Hesitantly, Ned followed. Littlefinger led him into a tower, down a stair, across a small sunken courtyard, and along a deserted corridor where empty suits of armor stood sentinel along the walls. They were relics of the Targaryens, black steel with dragon scales cresting their helms, now dusty and forgotten. "This is not the way to my chambers," Ned said. "Did I say it was? I'm leading you to the dungeons to slit your throat and seal your corpse up behind a wall," Littlefinger replied, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "We have no time for this, Stark. Your wife awaits." "What game are you playing, Littlefinger? Catelyn is at Winterfell, hundreds of leagues from here." "Oh?" Littlefinger's grey-green eyes glittered with amusement. "Then it appears someone has managed an astonishing impersonation. For the last time, come. Or don't come, and I'll keep her for myself." He hurried down the steps. Ned followed him warily, wondering if this day would ever end. He had no taste for these intrigues, but he was beginning to realize that they were meat and mead to a man like Littlefinger. At the foot of the steps was a heavy door of oak and iron. Petyr Baelish lifted the crossbar and gestured Ned through. They stepped out into the ruddy glow of dusk, on a rocky bluff high above the river. "We're outside the castle," Ned said. "You are a hard man to fool, Stark," Littlefinger said with a smirk. "Was it the sun that gave it away, or the sky? Follow me. There are niches cut in the rock. Try not to fall to your death, Catelyn would never understand." With that, he was over the side of the cliff, descending as quick as a monkey. Ned studied the rocky face of the bluff for a moment, then followed more slowly. The niches were there, as Littlefinger had promised, shallow cuts that would be invisible from below, unless you knew just where to look for them. The river was a long, dizzying distance below. Ned kept his face pressed to the rock and tried not to look down any more often than he had to. When at last he reached the bottom, a narrow, muddy trail along the water's edge, Littlefinger was lazing against a rock and eating an apple. He was almost down to the core. "You are growing old and slow, Stark," he said, flipping the apple casually into the rushing water. "No matter, we ride the rest of the way." He had two horses waiting. Ned mounted up and trotted behind him, down the trail and into the city. Finally Baelish drew rein in front of a ramshackle building, three stories, timbered, its windows bright with lamplight in the gathering dusk. The sounds of music and raucous laughter drifted out and floated over the water. Beside the door swung an ornate oil lamp on a heavy chain, with a globe of leaded red glass. Ned Stark dismounted in a fury. "A brothel," he said as he seized Littlefinger by the shoulder and spun him around. "You've brought me all this way to take me to a brothel." "Your wife is inside," Littlefinger said. It was the final insult. "Brandon was too kind to you," Ned said as he slammed the small man back against a wall and shoved his dagger up under the little pointed chin beard. "My lord, no," an urgent voice called out. "He speaks the truth." There were footsteps behind him. Ned spun, knife in hand, as an old white-haired man hurried toward them. He was dressed in brown roughspun, and the soft flesh under his chin wobbled as he ran. "This is no business of yours," Ned began; then, suddenly, the recognition came. He lowered the dagger, astonished. "Ser Rodrik?" Rodrik Cassel nodded. "Your lady awaits you upstairs." Ned was lost. "Catelyn is truly here? This is not some strange jape of Littlefinger's?" He sheathed his blade. "Would that it were, Stark," Littlefinger said. "Follow me, and try to look a shade more lecherous and a shade less like the King's Hand. It would not do to have you recognized. Perhaps you could fondle a breast or two, just in passing." They went inside, through a crowded common room where a fat woman was singing bawdy songs while pretty young girls in linen shifts and wisps of colored silk pressed themselves against their lovers and dandled on their laps. No one paid Ned the least bit of attention. Ser Rodrik waited below while Littlefinger led him up to the third floor, along a corridor, and through a door. Inside, Catelyn was waiting. She cried out when she saw him, ran to him, and embraced him fiercely. "My lady," Ned whispered in wonderment. "Oh, very good," said Littlefinger, closing the door. "You recognized her." "I feared you'd never come, my lord," she whispered against his chest. "Petyr has been bringing me reports. He told me of your troubles with Arya and the young prince. How are my girls?" "Both in mourning, and full of anger," he told her. "Cat, I do not understand. What are you doing in King's Landing? What's happened?" Ned asked his wife. "Is it Bran? Is he . . . "Dead was the word that came to his lips, but he could not say it. "It is Bran, but not as you think," Catelyn said. Ned was lost. "Then how? Why are you here, my love? What is this place?" "Just what it appears," Littlefinger said, easing himself onto a window seat. "A brothel. Can you think of a less likely place to find a Catelyn Tully?" He smiled. "As it chances, I own this particular establishment, so arrangements were easily made. I am most anxious to keep the Lannisters from learning that Cat is here in King's Landing." "Why?" Ned asked. He saw her hands then, the awkward way she held them, the raw red scars, the stiffness of the last two fingers on her left. "You've been hurt." He took her hands in his own, turned them over. "Gods. Those are deep cuts . . . a gash from a sword or . . . how did this happen, my lady?" Catelyn slid a dagger out from under her cloak and placed it in his hand. "This blade was sent to open Bran's throat and spill his life's blood." Ned's head jerked up. "But . . . who . . . why would . . . " She put a finger to his lips. "Let me tell it all, my love. It will go faster that way. Listen." So he listened, and she told it all, from the fire in the library tower to Varys and the guardsmen and Littlefinger. And when she was done, Eddard Stark sat dazed beside the table, the dagger in his hand. Bran's wolf had saved the boy's life, he thought dully. What was it that Jon had said when they found the pups in the snow? Your children were meant to have these pups, my lord. And he had killed Sansa's, and for what? Was it guilt he was feeling? Or fear? If the gods had sent these wolves, what folly had he done? Painfully, Ned forced his thoughts back to the dagger and what it meant. "The Imp's dagger," he repeated. It made no sense. His hand curled around the smooth dragonbone hilt, and he slammed the blade into the table, felt it bite into the wood. It stood mocking him. "Why should Tyrion Lannister want Bran dead? The boy has never done him harm." "Do you Starks have nought but snow between your ears?" Littlefinger asked. "The Imp would never have acted alone." Ned rose and paced the length of the room. "If the queen had a role in this or, gods forbid, the king himself . . . no, I will not believe that." Yet even as he said the words, he remembered that chill morning on the barrowlands, and Robert's talk of sending hired knives after the Targaryen princess. He remembered Rhaegar's infant son, the red ruin of his skull, and the way the king had turned away, as he had turned away in Darry's audience hall not so long ago. He could still hear Sansa pleading, as Lyanna had pleaded once. "Most likely the king did not know," Littlefinger said. "It would not be the first time. Our good Robert is practiced at closing his eyes to things he would rather not see." Ned had no reply for that. The face of the butcher's boy swam up before his eyes, cloven almost in two, and afterward the king had said not a word. His head was pounding. Littlefinger sauntered over to the table, wrenched the knife from the wood. "The accusation is treason either way. Accuse the king and you will dance with Ilyn Payne before the words are out of your mouth. The queen . . . if you can find proof, and if you can make Robert listen, then perhaps . . . " "We have proof," Ned said. "We have the dagger." "This?" Littlefinger flipped the knife casually end over end. "A sweet piece of steel, but it cuts two ways, my lord. The Imp will no doubt swear the blade was lost or stolen while he was at Winterfell, and with his hireling dead, who is there to give him the lie?" He tossed the knife lightly to Ned. "My counsel is to drop that in the river and forget that it was ever forged." Ned regarded him coldly. "Lord Baelish, I am a Stark of Winterfell. My son lies crippled, perhaps dying. He would be dead, and Catelyn with him, but for a wolf pup we found in the snow. If you truly believe I could forget that, you are as big a fool now as when you took up sword against my brother." "A fool I may be, Stark . . . yet I'm still here, while your brother has been moldering in his frozen grave for some fourteen years now. If you are so eager to molder beside him, far be it from me to dissuade you, but I would rather not be included in the party, thank you very much." "You would be the last man I would willingly include in any party, Lord Baelish." "You wound me deeply." Littlefinger placed a hand over his heart. "For my part, I always found you Starks a tiresome lot, but Cat seems to have become attached to you, for reasons I cannot comprehend. I shall try to keep you alive for her sake. A fool's task, admittedly, but I could never refuse your wife anything." "I told Petyr our suspicions about Jon Arryn's death," Catelyn said. "He has promised to help you find the truth." That was not news that Eddard Stark welcomed, but it was true enough that they needed help, and Littlefinger had been almost a brother to Cat once. It would not be the first time that Ned had been forced to make common cause with a man he despised. "Very well," he said, thrusting the dagger into his belt. "You spoke of Varys. Does the eunuch know all of it?" "Not from my lips," Catelyn said. "You did not wed a fool, Eddard Stark. But Varys has ways of learning things that no man could know. He has some dark art, Ned, I swear it." "He has spies, that is well known," Ned said, dismissive. "It is more than that," Catelyn insisted. "Ser Rodrik spoke to Ser Aron Santagar in all secrecy, yet somehow the Spider knew of their conversation. I fear that man." Littlefinger smiled. "Leave Lord Varys to me, sweet lady. If you will permit me a small obscenity—and where better for it—I hold the man's balls in the palm of my hand." He cupped his fingers, smiling. "Or would, if he were a man, or had any balls. You see, if the pie is opened, the birds begin to sing, and Varys would not like that. Were I you, I would worry more about the Lannisters and less about the eunuch." Ned did not need Littlefinger to tell him that. He was thinking back to the day Arya had been found, to the look on the queen's face when she said, We have a wolf, so soft and quiet. He was thinking of the boy Mycah, of Jon Arryn's sudden death, of Bran's fall, of old mad Aerys Targaryen dying on the floor of his throne room while his life's blood dried on a golden blade. "My lady," he said, turning to Catelyn, "there is nothing more you can do here. I want you to return to Winterfell at once. If there was one assassin, there could be others. Whoever ordered Bran's death will learn soon enough that the boy still lives." "I had hoped to see the girls . . . " Catelyn said. "That would be most unwise," Littlefinger put in. "The Red Keep is full of curious eyes, and children talk." "He speaks truly, my love," Ned told her. He embraced her. "Take Ser Rodrik and ride for Winterfell. I will watch over the girls. Go home to our sons and keep them safe." "As you say, my lord." Catelyn lifted her face, and Ned kissed her. Her maimed fingers clutched against his back with a desperate strength, as if to hold him safe forever in the shelter of her arms. "Would the lord and lady like the use of a bedchamber?" asked Littlefinger. "I should warn you, Stark, we usually charge for that sort of thing around here." "A moment alone, that's all I ask," Catelyn said. "Very well." Littlefinger strolled to the door. "Don't be too long. It is past time the Hand and I returned to the castle, before our absence is noted." Catelyn went to him and took his hands in her own. "I will not forget the help you gave me, Petyr. When your men came for me, I did not know whether they were taking me to a friend or an enemy. I have found you more than a friend. I have found a brother I'd thought lost." Petyr Baelish smiled. "I am desperately sentimental, sweet lady. Best not tell anyone. I have spent years convincing the court that I am wicked and cruel, and I should hate to see all that hard work go for naught." Ned believed not a word of that, but he kept his voice polite as he said, "You have my thanks as well, Lord Baelish." "Oh, now there's a treasure," Littlefinger said, exiting. When the door had closed behind him, Ned turned back to his wife. "Once you are home, send word to Helman Tallhart and Galbart Glover under my seal. They are to raise a hundred bowmen each and fortify Moat Cailin. Two hundred determined archers can hold the Neck against an army. Instruct Lord Manderly that he is to strengthen and repair all his defenses at WhiteHarbor, and see that they are well manned. And from this day on, I want a careful watch kept over Theon Greyjoy. If there is war, we shall have sore need of his father's fleet." "War?" The fear was plain on Catelyn's face. "It will not come to that," Ned promised her, praying it was true. He took her in his arms again. "The Lannisters are merciless in the face of weakness, as Aerys Targaryen learned to his sorrow, but they would not dare attack the north without all the power of the realm behind them, and that they shall not have. I must play out this fool's masquerade as if nothing is amiss. Remember why I came here, my love. If I find proof that the Lannisters murdered Jon Arryn . . . " He felt Catelyn tremble in his arms. Her scarred hands clung to him. "If," she said, "what then, my love?" That was the most dangerous part, Ned knew. "All justice flows from the king," he told her. "When I know the truth, I must go to Robert." And pray that he is the man I think he is, he finished silently, and not the man I fear he has become.