With ten Lannister redcloaks in lion-crested half-helms and deep crimson capes escorting him, Tyrion Lannister rode out of the Red Keep.
He glanced sideways at his new squire, a quiet, shy boy.
Tyrion liked to tease him when there was nothing else to do. "Pod, chin up. Look fierce. You're the squire to a Lannister lion."
The new squire came from a Lannister vassal house. His name was Podrick Payne, a distant cousin of the late Ser Ilyn Payne.
Podrick was twelve, slight of build, with brown hair and blue eyes.
He hastily lifted his head and puffed out his not-so-sturdy chest, which made Tyrion burst out laughing.
The laughter left Podrick flustered; he could only freeze in his "fierce" pose.
Tyrion stifled his mirth and put on a stern face. "That will do. Show some spirit, my squire."
Podrick stammered when he spoke. "Y-yes, m'lord."
Tyrion flicked a look at the redcloaks riding behind and said, "Closer, Pod."
"Yes, m'lord." Podrick nudged his mount up until he rode abreast of Tyrion.
Lowering his voice a touch, Tyrion said, "Well? Have you found me some good sword hands?"
Podrick dutifully whispered back, "M-my lord, I've found a few. One of them is very skilled… but I don't quite trust him."
"How so?" Tyrion dipped his voice again.
"I… I think he only cares about gold dragons. He… he… he has no sense of honor."
Tyrion had been teasing the boy on purpose; he cackled. "Don't whisper so small, my squire."
He meant to clap the dazed lad on the shoulder in encouragement, but… he couldn't quite reach. So he snapped his fingers instead.
"Pod, well done. I like practical men. Gold dragons are a fine thing. I do love my father. Praise House Lannister."
He had deliberately brought along the ten guards Jaime left him. The new Hand meant to make a circuit of King's Landing today.
…
After the last riot, Gold Cloaks patrolled two by two everywhere—black mail shirts in every alley and lane, iron cudgels never leaving their hands.
King's Landing streets were usually a press of bodies and a roar of hoof and wheel; now they felt desolate.
The market teemed with rag-clad folk selling off what they owned—anything for a price—yet almost no farmers brought meat or greens, and the few stalls with food asked triple last year's coin.
Tyrion led squire and redcloaks through his tour, his face growing ever darker. The new Hand saw how grave the food crisis was. If it wasn't solved soon, the next riot wouldn't be far off—and it would only be bigger.
"Hot rats! Hot rats!" a hawker cried, parading spits of roasted vermin.
On Flour Street, every shop kept a guard at the door. In King's Landing now, a sellsword cost less than bread.
Tyrion shifted uneasily in his saddle. The crisis must be eased quickly—or Lannisters would be torn apart by a starving city.
…
Before a small wineshop stood Varys with hands demurely folded, a gentle smile resting on his lips.
Tyrion drew rein and, with his squire's help, hopped down.
"Lord Varys…"
He eyed the modest little place. "Didn't expect you here. Waiting for me?"
Varys nodded. "Dear Hand, how good to see you. Forgive the imposition."
Tyrion grinned. "Join me for a cup?"
"An honor," said Varys.
…
Inside, Tyrion climbed onto a chair; Varys dipped a courteous bow before sitting.
"Have you brought good news, Lord Varys?" Tyrion swirled his wine as he spoke.
He smiled, but kept a wary eye on the Spider who had tracked his steps.
"For some time now, my little birds bring me only ill news. Alas!" Varys sighed softly. "It saddens me. It has become hard to win the Queen Regent's favor, which leaves me… uneasy."
"Perhaps you've chosen the wrong method," Tyrion said.
Varys blinked, then smiled even wider. "You and Her Grace are siblings; naturally you understand each other better than I. I am but a timid servant. To guess at the great ones' likes and dislikes… that in itself is a sin."
"A sin?" Tyrion studied that smiling face and sipped.
"I have wished in my heart that my kindly father would die—and had the same thought about my sister, our lovely Queen Regent. Tell me, Lord Varys, is that a sin?"
Varys, aghast, darted looks left and right; seeing no one else, he exhaled.
Tyrion laughed. "Too cautious by half, my lord. I jest. The Lannisters are a loving family—that's common knowledge."
He kept jesting, but he watched the eunuch's color. Varys remained pale. "My lord Hand, pray do not jest with me so…"
He patted his powdered chest. "I served the Mad King and Robert both, and after long years I learned: small folk must not reason with great men. Caution keeps a man alive."
"Mmm. My little chick tells me that's kindly counsel," Tyrion quipped.
Varys sighed. "Do take care when you go abroad, my lord Hand. Times are disorderly. King's Landing is not safe of late. Outlaws wander with cold steel in colder hearts."
Tyrion took his meaning: harmless Varys had come today; others might come with blades.
He winked. "My sister loves me. I am, after all, her Hand… well—her errand-running Hand."
Varys grew grave. "My birds say that after you left yesterday, Her Grace summoned Lord Gawen Crabb."
Tyrion's eyes flicked; he scrubbed his hair in annoyance. "My sister is a very simple soul…"
He reflected. Too often his mouth outran his wits—especially before dear Cersei. That habit needed fixing.
A faint smile touched Varys's powdered cheeks. "Her Grace trusts Lord Crabb greatly. The Gold Cloaks rest easiest in his hands."
Tyrion seized the wine-jug and, nearly sprawling across the table, poured for Varys.
"Lord Varys—have you a remedy?"
Varys shook his head, smiling deeper. "Do you believe the Queen rules King's Landing by six thousand swords alone?"
Tyrion propped himself with one hand, jug in the other, and clambered back onto his chair.
He let wine splash into his own cup, lashes lowered.
"You see it differently?" he asked, all smiles.
"Swords beyond those six thousand," Varys sipped. "There are also two thousand Crabb bluecloaks in this city."
He breathed out. "The lioness has uncommon courage. It inspires admiration."
Tyrion's belly clenched, though he kept his easy air. "Then I've been tugging in the wrong direction."
"With respect," Varys said kindly, "Lord Crabb is merciful as a knight should be—but more to be praised for his loyalty. And now that you are the Hand—the envy of all—permit me a warning toward caution. You are the Queen Regent's brother. I trust she will not press you too hard."
Tyrion shrugged. He had indeed thought of merely muddling through the Hand's office—but his fingers itched: to prove himself to Father; to be a dwarf who saved a realm; to make mockers choke on their scorn… Many reasons.
Or perhaps he simply wanted the taste of power.
He rolled his wine and spoke more solemnly. "My thanks, Lord Varys. A Lannister pays his debts."
"I've done nothing," Varys murmured. "Nor dare I do much. I only wish that a few rare good men might fare a little better."
He sighed, rose, and smoothed his powdered hands. "My lord Hand, before I go—may I leave you a riddle?"
Without waiting: "Three great men sit together: a king, a priest, a rich man. A sellsword stands between them—low-born and of middling talent. Each great man commands him to kill the other two. The king says, 'I am your lawful sovereign; I command you.' The priest says, 'By the gods above, I charge you.' The rich man says, 'Kill them and all my gold is yours.' Tell me—who dies, and who lives?"
He bowed and padded away on soft soles.
Tyrion leaned back and took a sip. The riddle was easy: the man with the sword kills whom he pleases. Any of the great could die; the swordsman would not.
He stared into the cup. Varys's sudden "kindness" was gentle, noiseless—and suspect.
What game did the eunuch play? Was he saying, We might be on the same side?
Tyrion did not believe Varys as timid as he seemed. He had survived Aerys and Robert both and sat now at the table of a new king. Not a simple creature.
But none of that mattered. Tyrion was thin on allies and needed men to stand with him.
He drank. He was in no position to be choosy—only to decide who was worth courting, and who could be won.
…
Bang, bang, bang!
The sudden sound broke his reverie—and made him start. A shutter? Tyrion clutched his chair-back and stood atop the seat.
Candlelight guttered; the room dimmed. Only now did Tyrion realize he was alone.
No hesitation. His guards were just outside—if he could rejoin them quickly.
Tap… tap… tap… A tall shape took form out of the wavering light.
Tyrion's eyes widened. "Gawen?"
He sat back down. The man across from him—Varys a moment ago—was now Gawen Crabb.
Gawen spread his hands. "Lord Hand—does it not feel as if Varys lured you here on purpose?"
Tyrion's face hardened. "My squire and my guards?"
Gawen slowly lifted a hand and drew it across his throat.
Tyrion's gaze sharpened. He stared. Gawen's expression did not change. The silence grew heavy.
After a beat, Tyrion narrowed his eyes and enunciated, "Tell me, Gawen—has Cersei slept with you?"
The gloom shattered; Gawen threw back his head and laughed.
Tyrion grinned. "If you don't mind—give me every detail. One by one."
Gawen scrubbed his black hair, helpless. "No wonder the Queen would love to see your head spiked on the gate."
Tyrion barked a laugh, then sobered. "My apologies, Gawen. My mouth does like to run ahead of my wits—especially around my dear sister."
Gawen's long fingers tapped the tabletop. "Tyrion—in the name of the Queen Regent, I have questions."
Tyrion smiled. "Hey now. I've done nothing to wrong my sister. I'm a good, obedient brother. She is a very lucky woman."
Gawen prompted, "The Mountain's head."
Tyrion's smile froze. He thought a moment. "So you guessed?"
Gawen dipped his chin.
Tyrion raked his hair. "I hate your cleverness."
He paused. "How far did you guess?"
Gawen's eyes laughed. "To a marriage."
Tyrion couldn't help the note of hope. "Cersei doesn't know… does she?"
Gawen shrugged. "In the name of the Queen Regent, I'm asking nicely."
Tyrion sagged back and rubbed his brow. "I can explain… my most beloved sister… I was only…"
He snapped upright, gripping the table with both hands. "What else did you tell my beautiful, charming, gentle, kind sister Cersei?"
.
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