Cersei Lannister: "…"
Varys lifted the letter and studied it, then sighed. "Queen Regent, I don't believe Lord Tyrion is deceiving you. Look—"
He turned the parchment toward her, tapping the seal. "Only Lord Tywin uses golden sealing wax. Very considerate of him—it lets us recognize his hand at a glance."
Grand Maester Pycelle craned his trembling neck for a look and gave Cersei a small nod.
Cersei's emerald eyes stayed fixed on the ugly little dwarf, but her hand reached toward the Spider. Varys hurried from his chair and laid the letter, with due reverence, in the Queen Regent's hand.
She glanced at the golden lion, then broke the seal and read.
Tyrion let his gaze drift along the Small Council table, then to the royal seat where his dear sister sat; he'd heard his nephew-king, like Robert before him, seldom bothered to attend council. His eyes slid to the empty chair at Cersei's right—the Hand's chair. Father was, as ever, meticulous. A lonely sister needed a dutiful little brother.
A smile tugged at him. He looked to Lancel Lannister standing by Cersei's side.
His well-behaved cousin's face was haggard, with thick, dark crescents under his eyes—like… like… Tyrion scratched his head—ah yes, much like Tyrion himself looked rolling out of a brothel bed.
Lannisters loved their mirrors. Beauty had little to do with it.
…
"Ho there, cousin—bring me a cup of the Queen Regent's favorite summerwine."
Lancel cut him a scornful glance and ignored him.
Tyrion's mouth crooked. "The Small Council is prudent; in this chamber a deaf man is more reliable than most. My poor cousin."
Varys turned aside to hide a chuckle. Pycelle seemed asleep.
Color flooded Lancel's cheeks. He ground his teeth. "I am no servant—and no deaf man. I am a knight."
Tyrion's smile didn't shift. He nodded agreeably. "Very good—Ser Lancel. Bring me some wine."
Lancel darted a look around the chamber, swallowed his anger, and muttered, "I said I'm not a cup-bearer."
Tyrion turned to Varys' watching face. "Why is Ser Lancel still alive?"
He murmured as if whispering, but his tone carried just fine.
Varys' eyes glinted. "Her Grace is merciful."
Tyrion widened his eyes. "Strange, then, that he looks like a man at his last revel. I mistook it for a final spree—turns out it's a celebration of survival."
Varys and even drowsing Pycelle both turned to stare at Lancel.
Tyrion beamed. "Which brothel, cousin? We should go together next time."
Cersei's parchment nearly tore at the corner. Without looking up: "Lancel. Make him be quiet."
Pale now, Lancel glanced, flustered, from the hilt at his hip to the gilded wine flagon.
Tyrion eyed his sister. Had the letter cowed her? That wasn't the lioness he knew.
Soon enough Lancel stalked over, chin high, and slammed flagon and goblet onto the table before Tyrion.
He turned to go. Tyrion sang out, "Ser Lancel—must I pour for myself?"
Lancel froze, flicked a quick glance at the Queen Regent bent over her page, and—simmering—took up the wine.
…
"Thank you, Ser Lancel."
Tyrion narrowed his eyes and sipped. First blood to him. Not a bad beginning.
"This is impossible!"
Cersei slapped the letter down.
She seized it up again, read still more furiously, then slammed it flat once more.
"Outrageous!"
Varys ventured, "Your Grace, what has happened?"
Cersei leaned back, drew a long breath, and said, "My father orders Tyrion to enter the Red Keep and assume his office—he instructs us to treat him as the true Hand of the King until he himself arrives."
Grand Maester Pycelle twirled his white beard, nodding as if at a lesson he'd set. "If Lord Tywin so arranges it, every detail is foreseen. It seems we must formally welcome Lord Hand Tyrion."
"I do not agree!" Cersei snapped. "Putting a dwarf in the Hand's chair is a jest unfit for mummers."
Tyrion smiled mildly. "Dearest sister, I do so love your welcomes."
Cersei's fist tightened under the table. "If Renly camps beneath our walls or Stannis comes over from Dragonstone, what good are you? I need someone to destroy them, not make them die laughing.
"And," she went on, "the Hand is chosen by the king and confirmed by the council. Joffrey named our father, not you. You have no standing."
Tyrion lifted his goblet. "Our father named me, sweet sister."
"He has no right—unless Joffrey consents."
"You may take it up with our kindly sire," Tyrion shrugged. "He is at Casterly Rock, raising hosts, and will have no time for your petitions."
He set the cup down and smoothed his face. "Grand Maester, Lord Varys—good sirs—might you grant me a few private words with my sister?"
Eyes slid, heads dipped; they waited for the Queen Regent's leave.
"My sister's voice is so sweet," Tyrion said. "I, too, have a fondness for—"
"Enough," Cersei cut him off, disgusted. "Leave us."
Varys rose with liquid grace and bowed himself out; Pycelle tottered up, pressed a hand to his breast, and withdrew; Ser Lancel paused only to throw a venomous look at his cousin.
When the white cloaks had gone, only Cersei and Tyrion remained.
…
"Has the old lion lost his wits? Tell me—did you forge this?"
Cersei crushed Tywin's letter in her fist. "I wanted him here. I am Joffrey's Queen Regent. I commanded him by royal writ!"
Tyrion let her storm blow through, then sighed. "Your Grace, be practical. Renly and Stannis will come soon enough. The old lion must command in the field to hold them off."
He grinned. "Truly, you've fetched Father a fine crop of foes. A dutiful daughter indeed—he must be bursting with pride."
Her lips thinned.
"My dear brother," she said softly, "what if I say it's forged—and have you thrown in a dungeon? No one would gainsay me."
Tyrion smiled still, but felt the chill. She would do it; he knew her temper too well.
"Oh, I don't doubt it," he said. "But for Father's hand on this I'd be weeping prettily in some lightless cell already."
Cersei lifted her chin, scorn blooming.
Tyrion's tone sharpened. "You and Joffrey need Father's armies. Do not lightly shake his faith in you."
Her pupils tightened—he'd found the nerve. The earlier council had shown her well enough that enemies hemmed them in on every side.
She did not fear—but she would not lose. And she could not lose Tywin.
"I have Ser Jaime and Lord Gawen," she said carelessly.
"Thank the Seven you did not add Lancel," Tyrion murmured.
She rose in a flash, eyes hard. "What do you mean?"
His heart thumped—why such sudden fury? He scuttled from his chair and trotted to her, the supplicant fool. "Your roar is terrifying, sweet sister. We are all Lannisters; without you I cannot keep the seat Father gave me."
She shook off his hand and sat again. Tyrion hastened to pour her wine, and seeing her color ease, poured himself as well. Then he scrambled up into the Hand's chair beside her.
He sipped, lids half-closed. Comfortable, that chair. Flattery made for a soft cushion.
Cersei set down her cup. "Remember what you said. Without me, you are nothing."
Tyrion nodded, all filial warmth.
Behind the smile, a prickle: twice now she'd flinched at Lancel's name. Interesting. Curiosity could wait. First, tame the lioness.
"About Jaime and Lord Gawen," he said smoothly. "Jaime will serve Father well in the field—our sire is… very fond of him, is he not? And Gawen—he must hold King's Landing. Stannis is rumored to be building ships on Dragonstone; one day he may knock at our gate."
Cersei fancied herself subtle; Tyrion, who had grown up with her, read her face like a favorite book. Anger ebbing, unease rising—she did not know what to do.
Only when she had vented would she think again.
"Cersei," he said at last, "back me—and I will see you and Joffrey safe."
She sneered. "You? Can you even lift a sword? Will you destroy the foes who threaten my son?"
"At least our doddering father chose to believe I can do something," Tyrion said. "Someone must serve you. It costs you little, sweet sister."
…
After a long silence she said, cold as a knife, "I'll give you a chance. Do not disappoint me, dear brother."
Tyrion managed to look both moved and grateful. "You shall have my utmost, Your Grace."
His eyes flicked. The old lion and he thought alike: Cersei and Joffrey bred enemies as fast as other folk bred rabbits. They were Lannister's greatest danger.
He grinned inwardly. Before Father crushed one foe, those two would raise two more. Fortunately, the old man was hale.
So: first task as Hand—strip Cersei and Joffrey of leverage.
He saluted her with his cup. Lord Gawen was a problem; through him Cersei commanded the city. So long as he held the gold cloaks, her grip would be hard to loosen. She was foolish, not stupid; she wouldn't yield Gawen lightly.
Trust was the keystone. How to pry it loose? Or—who would come loose first?
Tyrion drank deep. His eyes lit. The Crabb tradition.
He set down the cup, in excellent humor, and looked over at Cersei. A Queen Regent was no Queen.
…
Cersei, watching her monstrous little brother smile, found herself smiling back.
A dwarf. A twisted monster. A dwarf for Hand. A lightning rod for sin and sorrow. Perfect—set him up, and let the mob vent its rage.
She understood Father's design at last. She was his true heir.
A pity for him that she had no **.
Tyrion blinked at her sudden sweetness; she batted innocent lashes, lovely as summer.
He smiled too. Gods, she was beautiful; for a heartbeat he almost felt guilty for plotting to unseat her.
He cleared his throat. "Tell me of Pycelle and Varys, dear sister."
Her eyes flickered. "What do you mean?"
He spread his hands. "Let's say it plainly—are those two useful?"
.
.
.
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