Cersei Lannister swirled the wine in her cup and didn't answer Tyrion's question. Eyes lowered, she seemed to be weighing her reply.
Tyrion tried again. "Cersei, do you find them dependable? I mean—do you trust them?"
Her hand paused. She took a graceful sip of summerwine. "Why do you ask?"
Her green eyes flicked up. "Has Father made… other arrangements?"
Tyrion pointed at the crumpled letter she'd mauled. "You must have skimmed it. Our amiable father doesn't favor subtle hints…"
He suspected his dear sister had been so fixated on the line naming him Hand that she'd ignored the rest.
Cersei glanced at his earnest face, set down her cup, and picked up the letter.
She smoothed the wrinkles and read, frowning.
…
Tyrion rocked his wine gently. Lord Gawen wasn't as… simple as Cersei; a silver tongue alone would not shake him. If the House Crabb "tradition" didn't cut in his favor—well, by the Father's bald pate, Gawen would invent a fine-sounding new version on the spot.
He drank. His eyes brightened. The Starks might be the weak seam. If Gawen still kept a knight's heart, he'd be hurting now… A talk at Chataya's would serve—he could comfort the little lord while he was at it.
A lewd grin crept up before he caught himself and buried it in his cup.
"This is all the old lion's conjecture!"
Cersei's voice snapped his thoughts.
"What makes him think everyone around me harbors ill intent? Does he take me for a fool?"
Tyrion's gaze sharpened. "Sister, would you hear my reading of it?"
She leaned back, shot him a cool, measuring look, and gave the faintest nod.
"He knows your son's reign is young—and already he's made a legion of messes. From that, Father infers someone has been… schooling our Joffrey poorly."
His nephew-king sat the high, hard throne and judged petitions as the mood took him. If bored, he fobbed them off on the council; if amused—no man could stay his absurd decrees, not even Cersei the Willful.
There'd been the thief whose hand Joff commanded struck off there in the throne room; two knights disputing an acre, ordered to trial by combat, "to the death"; a weeping woman begging for her lover's head so he might be buried whole—"those who love traitors are traitors," Joff had said, and the gold cloaks hauled her to the cells; a fat inn singer accused of mocking King Robert—Joff laughed at the song and magnanimously let the man choose between his fingers… or his tongue.
Tyrion blinked. The hall of kings had become a boy's playpen.
After a stretch of silence, Cersei said, "Tyrion, Joffrey doesn't lack for counsel. But you know his nature—stubborn to begin with. Now he's king, he thinks a king should do as he pleases and not be managed."
"The Iron Throne is a marvelous chair," Tyrion sighed. "Set a crown on any head and sense leaks out the ears—more so in a boy."
He tapped the crumpled letter. "Our dear, kindly father is watching your performance, sister. You are the Queen Regent."
Cersei studied him. "Pycelle and Varys are both foolish cowards—yet they obey."
Tyrion nodded slightly. Good. He'd take one; let Cersei keep the other. Fair, fraternal, and very loving.
He mused, "About Eddard Stark—clapping him in black would have spared us a host of foes, and yet Joff had to kill him. Without that twist, the riot likely never happens."
Cersei's eyes flickered. She frowned. "I warned Joffrey carefully. The plan was clemency—black for Stark and the Wall for his old age. That would have ended it—and left talk of terms with Winterfell. But Joff decided the crowd deserved a show. What could I do? And Ser Ilyn couldn't wait to swing—glad enough to do it and never once ask me! Thank the gods the mob kept Stark from dying under our headsman."
Tyrion nodded sweetly. Yes, yes—always someone else's fault, dear sister. "And there's still no trace… of Lord Eddard?"
Cersei shook her head.
"Winterfell will lay it at our door nonetheless," Tyrion said.
"Why?" Cersei flared. "We didn't lift the sword! It was those wretched smallfolk!"
Tyrion shrugged and let it pass. "Then let me ask—"
"—Sansa is missing as well," Cersei cut in.
Tyrion blinked. "The Stark girl?"
A faint nod.
"Ha!" He tossed back his wine and grinned. "Lions and wolves—only room for one in the den. Dear sister, we are Father's dutiful children; each day we must pray the Seven keep the old man hearty—at least until he tidies up what we've spilt."
He added, "Truly—he's the reliable sort, a stout roof for wayward offspring. I might bend to kiss his slipper this minute… if he'd let me."
Cersei's look was all disdain. "I can roof the Lannisters. The lioness devours her foes."
Tyrion very much wished to ask, With what? Petulance and pride? He settled for a worshipful nod—he wasn't that fine an actor.
He smiled lightly and changed tack. "Stripping Ser Barristan from the Kingsguard—Joffrey's notion as well?"
Her eyes twitched. She sighed. "Joff wanted a neck to hang Robert on. Varys suggested Barristan. It served two ends—Jaime could take the white cloak and a seat on the council, and Sandor Clegane gets a bone to gnaw. We meant to grant Selmy a castle for his service, but the useless old man took affront—so we drove him out."
Tyrion kept his face smooth and spared a crumb of pity for Tywin—just a crumb.
"Barristan the Bold," he said soberly, "captain to Robert, and one of only two to survive Aerys's Seven—him and Jaime. Men speak his name with the Mirror Shield Serwyn and Prince Aemon the Dragonknight. If they should see the Bold standing with Stannis Baratheon—or Renly—what then?"
Cersei's face went stiff. She turned away, gazing rather hard at a porcelain vase.
"I didn't think of that," she said airily.
"Lord Tywin did," Tyrion said, gentle and grave. "Hence me. To end these farces—and make your son mind."
Cersei looked back, voice edged with scorn. "Joff won't heed me—he'll heed you?"
"Not so certain as that," Tyrion smiled.
"Why should he?" she pressed. "He dislikes you."
"Detests, more like," Tyrion agreed cheerfully. "Since I never let him have his way as a boy."
He leaned forward. "Why does he dare defy you? Because he knows his mother will never truly harm him."
"If you think I'll stand by while you bully my son, you're beyond cure," she warned.
Tyrion sighed. Cersei always missed the point. "I'm his uncle. With me, he's as safe as with you."
He clambered down, took her hand. "I mean this: a sense of danger makes obedience easier. I've no wish to hurt him. We're siblings in a shambles; whether you'll say it or not—you need me. If the boy means to keep that ugly throne, he needs me."
Cersei glanced at their joined hands. "I said you'll have a chance. I trust Jaime's eye—he says you've always been clever."
"Only a little," Tyrion said, grinning. "Mostly we Lannisters are reliable because we love one another so well."
She thought, then: "Very well—worth a try. On one condition: you do not harm my son."
"Of course. I love him—differently than you do, but no less."
"And…" She fixed him with a cool stare. "Remember: I may admit you, but you are Hand in name only. In truth, you are my Hand. Before you act, you will tell me your plans and your aims. Nothing without my leave. Is that clear?"
Tyrion bowed his head. "Crystal, Your Grace."
She searched his face. "Do you agree, brother?"
Hand on heart, he said, "At your command, dear sister."
Only when it suits me, he added inwardly.
He smiled, all sincerity. A little kindly falsehood kept families close.
Cersei withdrew her hand at last, faintly pleased. "Good. Since we share a goal, there should be no secrets. The Queen Regent's Hand must not be blind."
Impatient now: "What do you want to know?"
Tyrion's eyes flashed. "You say Joff swung for Lord Eddard on his own, and Varys slandered Barristan out of white. Then tell me—was Jon Arryn truly poisoned by his wife Lysa Tully and Littlefinger together?"
Cersei frowned. "That was Stark's conclusion."
"I've been looking into other matters," Tyrion said, "such as one of the riot's better rumors."
Her gaze went cold. "You care for the smallfolk's drivel? I am already disappointed in you, my Hand."
Tyrion leaned in until their eyes struck sparks. "Drivel is not disproved by stopping your ears. For instance—your tender affection for Jaime—"
Smack! Her palm cracked his cheek.
Tyrion rubbed the heat away and grinned. "Whom you bed is no affair of mine. But opening your legs for one brother while denying the other—hardly fair…"
Smack! Another blow.
"Ah—gentler, Cersei. I jest. Truth be told, I prefer a pretty whore. Beyond his mirror, what does Jaime even see in you?"
Smack! A third.
His cheeks burned—but he kept smiling.
"Keep at it," he said sweetly, "and I might grow cross."
"And do what?"
"Tell Father," Tyrion sang.
That landed. She held her hand. He eased a breath—and, unbidden, pitied Jaime a little.
"Dearest sister," he said soft, "I'm your Hand. I'm yours. For Jaime's sake I'd keep my tongue. And the old man has burdens enough; a good son should spare him where he can."
He soothed the lioness with all the sincerity he could muster; corner a cat, even a queen-cat, and you risk the throat.
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