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King's Landing. The Red Keep. Inside the King's bedchamber.
The air in the royal suite was thick with the scent of cloying incense and the metallic tang of fresh blood. With a sharp, ringing crack, the gold crown, inlaid with rubies and shaped like jagged flames flew across the room. It bounced off a velvet-draped chair and landed on the bed, where two young maidservants lay motionless. Their pale skin was a map of bruises and thin, weeping cuts, their eyes squeezed shut in a silent prayer for death. Only the shallow, jagged rise and fall of their chests proved they were still among the living.
"You hit me! You hit the King!" Joffrey Baratheon, the boy with the golden hair and the emerald eyes of a lion, clutched his throbbing face. His handsome features were twisted into a mask of pure, unadulterated hatred. "Just wait until I tell Mother! Wait until Grandfather hears! They'll have your head on a spike outside the Traitor's Gate!"
Tyrion Lannister, the man who stood barely waist-high to the boy, shook his right hand. His palm was stinging, a dull throb that made him regret not wearing a leather glove. He looked at his nephew with a disgust that transcended family ties.
"It was your grandfather who told me to educate you, Joffrey," Tyrion rasped. "Since you seem to have forgotten the lessons of your tutors, I thought a more... physical approach was required."
He glanced at the broken girls on the bed. "You are about to marry Margaery Tyrell. You are about to tie the Reach to the Iron Throne with a knot of silk and gold. And yet, you spend your afternoons tormenting the help. If Highgarden hears of your 'hobbies,' that knot will turn into a noose. Do you understand the precariousness of your position, or has the crown squeezed your brain into a pulp?"
Beside the door, Ser Mandon Moore of the Kingsguard stood like a statue carved from salt. His eyes were flat, dead things, showing no reaction to the King's humiliation. He had received his orders from the Hand: do not interfere in family 'corrections.'
Joffrey's voice cracked with puberty and rage. "I am the King! I can do what I want! That pig-faced Tyrell will send his daughter to my bed because he wants the power, and she will do as she's told!"
SLAP.
Tyrion's hand moved faster this time. Joffrey's head snapped back, a fresh welt blooming on his other cheek.
"I told you once before," Tyrion whispered, leaning in so close he could smell the wine on Joffrey's breath. "A King's neck is as fragile as any other man's. It cannot withstand a sword, and it certainly cannot withstand the weight of its own stupidity. You are alive because your grandfather is a genius, not because you are a god. Remember that."
Joffrey cowered, his hand hovering over his face, the defiance in his eyes flickering out as he saw his uncle's hand rise again. He let out a choked sob of frustration.
"Behave like a human being, Joffrey," Tyrion commanded, his voice dropping to a low, cold warning. "Stay in the Keep. Don't touch another girl. And for the love of the Seven, stay away from the girl you've already broken."
Tyrion turned his back on the King, his mismatched eyes falling upon a young woman standing in the shadows of the doorway. Sansa Stark's body was trembling so violently her silk gown rustled like dry leaves.
"Miss Sansa," Tyrion said, his voice softening. "Your engagement with this... charming boy has been dissolved. From now on, he is not to speak to you, look at you, or touch you. If he tries, you tell me. Or you tell your guards."
"I am the King!" Joffrey screamed from the floor, having collapsed in a fit of pique. "I can teach a traitor's sister a lesson whenever I please!"
Tyrion didn't even look back. He delivered a sharp, bruising kick to the King's shin. "I asked if you understood, Joffrey!"
"UNDERSTOOD! STOP! UNDERSTOOD!" Joffrey shrieked, rolling away and clutching his leg.
Ser Mandon Moore finally stepped forward, placing his body between the panting dwarf and the sobbing King. Tyrion offered the knight a mocking bow.
"Help the King to his feet, Ser Mandon. He seems to have lost his footing."
Joffrey scrambled up, his eyes red and leaking tears of fury. He pushed past the Kingsguard and stumbled out of the room, heading straight for the Queen Regent's chambers to wail into his mother's skirts.
Watching him go, Tyrion turned back to Sansa. Her clear blue eyes were brimming with tears, yet her face was a frozen mask of courtly politeness. It was the only armor the girl had left.
"I apologize for the scene, Miss Stark," Tyrion said, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket. "In truth, I am usually considered the 'gentle' Lannister. A frightening thought, I know."
"You have always been kind to me, my Lord," Sansa whispered, her voice a thin, brittle thread.
She had been brought here by the Gold Cloaks only an hour ago. She had been forced to watch as Joffrey practiced his "target shooting" with a crossbow on the maidservants, a psychological torture meant to show her what happened to those without protectors. The arrival of Tyrion had been her only salvation.
"My father wishes to see you, Sansa," Tyrion said, his tone turning serious. "Please, follow me to the Hand's Tower."
"The Hand?" Sansa's fear flared. To her, Tywin Lannister was the Great Lion, the man who had destroyed her family's peace. "May I know why, my Lord?"
"Because your brother has won again," Tyrion said, leading her out into the corridor. "Robb is in Riverrun, and my father is here, but their dance continues. It seems the Young Wolf has a new partner, one with a very sharp axe."
Sansa's heart leaped. Robb won? But the hope was immediately dampened by the memory of what happened the last time Robb won. Joffrey had had her beaten in front of the entire court. She began to sob silently, the pearl-like tears rolling down her cheeks.
Tyrion stopped and handed her the handkerchief. "Don't cry, child. I believe... I believe you might be going home very soon."
Sansa froze. "Home? To Winterfell?"
"Perhaps. The situation is changing," Tyrion said cryptically. "Keep your head up, Miss Stark. You'll be out of this lion's den soon enough."
They reached the Hand's Tower, where Shagga of the Stone Crows and Chella of the Black Ears stood guard. The sight of the wildlings, with their necklaces of ears and savage axes, made Sansa recoil.
"Shagga, Chella, watch our guest," Tyrion instructed. "I will be in my father's study."
Tyrion climbed the winding stairs of the tower, his short legs protesting every step. By the time he reached the heavy oak doors of Tywin's solar, he was panting. He didn't knock. He pushed the door open to find Varys, the Master of Whisperers, standing by the window.
"...Count Matthus was utterly loyal, My Lord," Varys was saying, his voice a melodic purr. "He led the final charge, but he was mown down. And Ser Maldor... shot through the throat at the Ruby Ford. The Reach army is a memory. Annihilated to a man."
Tyrion walked in, his eyes bright with a sharp, cynical intelligence. "What of the Tarlys? Did the Hunter find a ditch to die in?"
Tywin Lannister was seated at his desk, wearing a crimson robe embroidered with gold lions. He looked up, his brow furrowed with a cold, simmering irritation. "Knocking is a custom for a reason, Tyrion. It separates the civilized from the beasts."
"Ah, Father, I heard the 'sad' news and simply couldn't restrain myself," Tyrion grinned.
Tywin ignored the jab. He looked at Varys. "Continue."
"Lord Randyll Tarly was ambushed before the battle even began," Varys said, dabbing at his powdered face with a silk cloth. "He was captured by a man the Northmen are calling the 'Winter Wizard.' The boy, Dickon, was forced to surrender when the enemy threatened to hang his father from the walls of the Twins."
Tyrion's eyes widened. "The Twins? Walder Frey turned?"
"Walder Frey is dead," Tywin said, his voice sounding like two stones grinding together. "Executed by the Stark boy. The Twins is now held by Eddard Karstark, the second son of Karhold. He is the one who took Tarly. He is the one who destroyed our vanguard."
"Eddard Karstark?" Tyrion muttered, thinking back. "I don't recall the name from the tournaments."
"You wouldn't," Tywin said, standing up. "He doesn't joust. He kills. He is the man who slew the Mountain at the Red Fork. And now, he sits on our bridge, holding our finest general in a cage."
Tywin looked at his son, his expression unreadable. "Dismiss Varys. We have family business."
Varys bowed and vanished like a shadow, leaving the two Lannisters alone in the silence of the tower. Tyrion felt a thrill of genuine excitement. The game had just changed, and for the first time, the Great Lion looked like he was being hunted.
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