"I only wish they would fight each other to exhaustion and then be dragged away by the wights," Cersei Lannister said.
There was an unusual sadness in her voice, a stark contrast to the fierce and aggressive woman Tyrion was accustomed to dealing with.
For the first time in a long while, Tyrion and Cersei had reached a fragile understanding. Whatever happened to Tommen, Myrcella had to be sent away from King's Landing. The capital was becoming increasingly dangerous, and neither of them was willing to gamble with her safety.
Was this the woman Jaime loved?
When Cersei smiled, Tyrion could almost understand. In those rare moments, she was breathtakingly beautiful. Her golden hair seemed to catch the sunlight itself, and her emerald eyes sparkled with a warmth that could easily deceive a man.
Yet Tyrion knew there was another side to her.
One moment a graceful lady, the next a reckless and selfish woman, he thought bitterly.
He had already decided to use the secret of her relationship with Lancel to keep the young knight under control. In truth, Tyrion almost felt sorry for the boy. Lancel was young, arrogant, and foolish enough to stumble into a situation far beyond his ability to handle.
Leaving Maegor's Holdfast, Tyrion shivered slightly.
For a brief moment, he almost regretted slipping the laxative into Cersei's wine.
Almost.
Everything he did was for House Lannister. At least, that was what he told himself. If Tywin knew the truth, surely his father would understand the necessity of it.
The next morning, Cersei reported herself ill.
The laxative had done its work perfectly.
Tyrion even sent a polite message wishing her a speedy recovery.
After all, sympathy cost nothing.
With Cersei confined to her chambers and Joffrey distracted by a newly acquired Myrish crossbow, Tyrion found himself free to handle more important matters.
The young king had become completely obsessed with the weapon.
The crossbow could fire three bolts in quick succession, and Joffrey spent hours testing its power. Tyrion could only imagine the unfortunate cats, dogs, and other small creatures that would soon fall victim to the king's experiments.
The city should pray he never turns that curiosity toward people again.
Today, however, Tyrion had business of his own.
He was to receive Cleos Frey, the envoy returning to Riverrun, as well as the bothersome representative from the Night's Watch.
---
The Throne Room had changed dramatically since Robert Baratheon's reign.
The colorful hunting tapestries Robert had loved were gone, leaving bare stone walls behind. The vast chamber felt colder now, more severe and less welcoming.
Dressed in rich crimson robes embroidered with gold thread, Tyrion entered the hall.
Golden lion-head buttons gleamed across his chest.
Pinned proudly to his clothing was the badge of the Hand of the King.
As he walked toward the Iron Throne, a strange thought crossed his mind.
I am the third.
His father, Tywin Lannister, had ruled from this throne as Hand for many years. Jaime had briefly sat upon it after slaying the Mad King.
Now it was Tyrion's turn.
The steps seemed steeper than usual.
His shortened legs ached with every step upward.
Only now did he truly understand the burden of power.
The Iron Throne was even more uncomfortable than it appeared.
Forged from countless twisted swords, it was covered in sharp edges and jagged spikes. There was no comfortable position, no place to lean back and relax.
Aegon the Conqueror had designed it intentionally.
A king, he believed, should never sit comfortably.
Tyrion shifted awkwardly as he settled onto the seat.
Below him, the hall was packed.
Lannister guards in crimson cloaks lined one side of the chamber.
The Gold Cloaks stood opposite them.
Bronn and Ser Preston Greenfield guarded the base of the throne steps.
Courtiers filled the galleries, while petitioners waited near the great oak-and-bronze doors.
For a moment, Tyrion allowed himself to enjoy the sight.
Looking down upon the assembled lords and knights felt surprisingly satisfying.
If not for Lord Gyles Rosby's constant coughing and the absence of several important figures, the moment would have been perfect.
Sansa Stark was gone.
Littlefinger was gone as well.
And the Small Council had become alarmingly small.
"There are far too few councillors left," Tyrion muttered.
Only Grand Maester Pycelle and Lord Varys remained at their usual positions.
Renly Baratheon had been removed from the political stage.
Stannis had submitted.
Littlefinger had departed for the Vale.
Ser Barristan Selmy had crossed the Narrow Sea.
Jaime was still absent.
The kingdom was losing experienced men faster than it could replace them.
Tyrion sighed.
"Bring forth Ser Cleos Frey."
The command echoed through the vast chamber.
A moment later, Cleos Frey stepped forward and dropped to one knee.
Tyrion studied his cousin.
Cleos was the eldest son of Ser Emmon Frey and Genna Lannister. Unfortunately, he had inherited little of the Lannister appearance.
His face was thin, his chin narrow, and his thinning brown hair did him no favors.
His shield displayed both the twin towers of House Frey and the golden lion of House Lannister.
The Freys truly are unfortunate-looking creatures, Tyrion thought.
"My lord," Cleos began nervously, "I request permission to remain in King's Landing."
Tyrion raised an eyebrow.
"Oh?"
"Riverrun has fallen into enemy hands. Many of my relatives are dead or imprisoned. There is nothing waiting for me there. If I cannot remain in the capital, then allow me to return to Casterly Rock and join my parents."
The man looked genuinely terrified.
Tyrion understood why.
Being an envoy in wartime was rarely a pleasant assignment.
"An envoy's duty is not determined by personal preference," Tyrion replied firmly. "You will carry our response."
Cleos visibly deflated.
Grand Maester Pycelle cleared his throat.
"Ser Cleos, we appreciate your service in delivering Lord Stark's proposals. In return, we ask that you carry our response back to the North."
Tyrion nodded.
"While we reject many of Robb Stark's demands, we remain open to peace. If Robb lays down his arms, returns to the North, and swears fealty to the Iron Throne, his crimes may be forgiven."
The offer sounded generous.
In truth, it was born of necessity.
The Lannisters could not afford endless wars on every front.
Cleos looked unconvinced.
"My lord, I do not believe Robb Stark will accept such terms."
"Perhaps not," Tyrion admitted. "But wars have a habit of changing unexpectedly."
A faint smile crossed his face.
"My brother Jaime is rebuilding his strength. New allies are gathering. The future is far from decided."
Murmurs spread through the hall.
The assembled lords clearly found comfort in those words.
Strength was reassuring.
Victory was reassuring.
And above all, people desperately wanted to believe the Lannisters still held both.
"You will also return the remains of the northern dead," Tyrion continued. "Their bones deserve to rest in their homeland."
Cleos nodded.
"And Lord Stark's sword, Ice?" he asked cautiously.
Tyrion glanced toward Ser Ilyn Payne.
The great Valyrian steel sword rested silently across the executioner's back.
"When Robb Stark demonstrates a willingness to negotiate, we may discuss the sword's return."
The answer satisfied no one, but it ended the discussion.
Finally, Tyrion produced a sealed letter.
"Deliver this directly to Robb Stark."
The crimson wax seal bore the roaring lion of House Lannister.
Cleos accepted it carefully.
"I will ensure it reaches him personally."
"See that you do."
Tyrion watched as the letter disappeared into the man's sleeve.
Its contents were known only to a handful of people.
If delivered successfully, it might change everything.
Or nothing at all.
In politics, one never knew.
Advance Chapters avilable on patreon (Obito_uchiha)