ASOIAF: King of Winter

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Chapter 44

Tyrion Lannister

It was barely two days later that Tyrion was forced to leave his diminutive quarters, apparently, his father had been wroth with his previous actions.

That developed in two simple actions, one, his "allowance" has stymied, no longer does he have access to the unending river of gold called his father's purse.

Now, he is simply as rich as any of his common cousins(A son of his, no matter how wretched he is, cannot be seen as a pauper), the fact that his own father has run out of enough ways to punish him, enough to resort to such petty actions, is proof enough of the state of his previous treatment.

The second measure, was thankfully avoided due to the help of one of his few remaining friends.

A friend who smiled awkwardly as he and Shae smushed lips like two savages.

"I have a strong stomach, my friend." Varys comments, staring at their intertwined forms like one would a gruesome death, with disgust yet an inability to look away. "So it is with utmost respect that I ask you to… cease your fornication."

Tyrion reluctantly pulls himself away.

"Is there a matter, Lord Varys?" He jokes. "Does the love of a wretched Imp disgust you so?"

Varys waves a hand mindlessly. "If that is love, I do not know what lust is." He answers. "But to be serious, Tyrion, what you did that day, to your father, it was heard, and the Lord Hand will do what he must to regain his pride."

Shae gently held his cheeks. "Do not worry him so." She says. "Rumors speak of Tyrion's spat with his father, aye, but I heard some are favorable toward him, and are secretly supportive of his words."

Tyrion's brows rose to their peak. "Truly?" He exclaims, turning to Varys. "Do your little birds corroborate that story?"

Varys bows slightly in assent. "In some ways, indeed." He admits. "Your actions during your tenure as hand are remembered, and many thank you for their protection, as they all remember your actions during the Battle against Stannis Baratheon."

"The people of Kingslanding are miserable creatures, much like you, so they share a sense of kinship with someone they see sharing their suffering. Do not forget that many have some grudge against your father, for what happened during the Sack some twenty years ago." He explains. "But their memories are also fickle, they'll turn on you as soon as someone better comes along, like, say, a Tyrell to-be-queen, who is to fill their bellies and soothe their aches."

"I see…" The gears begin to move in Tyrion's mind, this smelled of opportunity, and most importantly, a way to entrench himself before he is discarded for good.

He needs to think of a plan, and gather allies, quickly. Or else he'd be forgotten for good, and to be forgotten is worse than being hated.

He needed to see with his own eyes, to gather information.

"Say, Varys." Tyrion asks. "Where and when is the victory feast to be held?"

Varys' smile stretched to his ears.

*-*-*

'Well, what is to be seen is done.' Tyrion thinks.

He held a goblet filled with watered down wine, another one of his father's punishments, and stared as every single person in this banquet made a valiant effort to ignore him.

Although, he did get to see some mummery.

"I am already betrothed, my lady." Joffrey pretended to be chagrined as he stared at the sad, comely form of Margaery Tyrell. "I cannot accept your proposition!"

"Your grace!" The girl spoke. "Sansa Stark is a traitor, and a heathen besides. She does not deserve your hand!"

His uncle Kevan coughed from the side, half to hide a chuckle, and half to gather attention to his direction.

"His grace is merely betrothed to the girl." He says. "With the blessing of the High Septon, it would not be without precedent to annul such a procedure."

The fat man in white garbs smiles vainly. "Of course, there was no marriage, and the faith does not stand in opposition to true love."

A fake smile was plastered in Joffrey's face, he stood from his throne and walked gracefully to Margaery, holding her hand.

"It would be my honor, my Lady, to have you as my queen." He says. "Do you accept?"

Margaery nods, laughing ecstatically, the minx even managed to eke out a couple of tears!

"Yes!" She shouts.

And then you can imagine the rest, the bards began plying their trade, people drank and ate and danced, while he stood in the corner.

Until he felt a hand over his shoulder.

He turned around, only to find his uncle Kevan at his side.

"This is what you get." He said. "Disrespecting your father like that."

Tyrion turned to his uncle, a snarl to his face. "Look me in the eye, nuncle." He challenges. "And tell me that my words were wrong."

"Wrong? Far from that!" Kevan huffs. "That was stupid, what you did. The way you disrespected Tywin? And at such a vulnerable juncture?" He shakes his head. "Now he is going to do his best to make your life miserable."

A calculating gleam reflects off Tyrion's eyes. "Not if you were to unruffle some feathers."

Kevan scoffs. "That's far-fetched." His eyes turn somewhere else. "Besides, I have my own fires to deal with."

"Issues of your own?" He jokes. "And here I thought you to be nothing other than a living extension of father's will."

"It is Lancel." Kevan says, desponded. "He'd befell a wound on his arm in the battle of the Blackwater, one that wouldn't fester. When it seemed like Stannis would be able to breach the Mud Gate, Lancel was at the Red Keep, and has objected overmuch to Cersei's order to sequester Joffrey to Maegor's Holdfast. Good thinking, if the men saw their king fleeing with the women and children…" He shakes his head. "Anyhow, Cersei stupidly struck his wound, exasperating it, which the Maester says might be the reason for his infection."

"His wound does not heal, and he is weak and frail, unable to even feed himself." Kevan's eyes go sad. "A son at the hand of Robb Stark, another behind a siege in Lannisport, and my oldest, sick because of the folly of his own cousin."

"Lancel acquitted himself admirably during the battle, he is young, and his body is full of vigor." Tyrion consoles. "That boy is a survivor."

"Such is all our hope." Kevan answers. "Your sister had her son name him the new lord of Darry in the riverlands. A castle that she does not own, that we cannot reach, as if that is enough to make us even."

"Not to belittle your situation, but it seems to me that there might be a way to showcase your disapproval without angering father." At Kevan's nonplussed look, Tyrion elaborates. "While I cannot convince you to act against my father for my behalf, I believe it would be a simple matter to have you hinder any of my sister's schemes, with my father's anger, I'd wager she'll start to work against me in her own, rough way."

Kevan thinks for a moment.

"Lancel does speak well of your actions in the Blackwater, and I suppose it is your wittiness that ensured our victory." He nods. "I will help you."

Tyrion nods, satisfied with the outcome, while Kevan is pulled away for his duties.

Once it became socially acceptable for him to do so, Tyrion made to leave, only to be stopped by a large man.

He was seven feet tall, well-muscled, with broad shoulders and a narrow waist. The man had a strong jaw, blue eyes, and a thick red mustache, and wore a gilded halfhelm and a green cloak edged in gold satin, with the golden rose of Highgarden sewn on his chest.

"Tyrion Lannister?" He says. "The Lady Olenna wishes to speak with you."

Tyrion raises an eyebrow. "The Queen of Thorns?" He answers. "I'd be glad to, but I do not see her here, where is she?"

"She felt uncomforted by the noise, and has sequestered herself to the gardens." The man promptly responds. "If you will follow me?"

Tyrion glances at him for a while, before finally acquiescing.

"Very well."

*-*-*

He was led by the large man to an isolated part of the gardens, where he found Olenna Tyrell, another young man who he knew to be her grandson Garlan Tyrell, and another man, a complete replica of the one who led him to his destination.

"Good job escorting the Imp, Erryk. Or was it Arryk? Ah, I do not care either way." The man simply bowed and stood next to his brother at the older woman's back, next to his brother.

Lady Olenna was a small woman, the size of a child. The white-haired lady appeared wrinkled and wizened. She had soft, spotted hands with gaunt, thin fingers.

She looked Tyrion in the eye.

"Forgive me, did your moniker offend you? In my old age I tend to forget my manners." She smelled of rosewater, but she also had an old woman's sour breath and toothless smiles. "Sit, if you will, or climb, whatever stops you from hiding behind my table."

Tyrion, speechless, unconsciously pulls himself up the chair opposite hers.

"It is no wonder you have no friends, grandmother." Garlan to her right smiled at him, he looked much like his brother Loras, except taller, more broadly built, and with a beard. "Do not mind her, Lord Tyrion. 'Tis but many of her wretched japes."

Rumors, and what Tyrion suspects to be truth, is that Garlan "the Gallant" as they call him, is his younger brother's better version. Recently, he was especially famous for his actions during the Battle of The Blackwater, where he wore Renly's old armor.

Lit up by the otherworldly light of wildfyre, he led the Tyrell Vanguard, seeming to Stannis' ignorant men-at-arms as "Renly's Ghost", and slayed his opposite number, Ser Guyard Morrigen, in single combat.

Olenna huffs. "The man is a dwarf, Garlan, not a mute." She chides. "He can defend himself."

Finally, Tyrion finds his bearings.

"With so many large, intimidating men around?" He smirks. "I'm afraid I need all the help I need."

"Looking at that scar, I'd say there is more to your childlike frame than it seems." Olenna leans forward, an ornate cane at her hand supporting her weight. "I also heard of that spat of yours, the one you had with your father."

Tyrion's smile turns brittle. "It is quite unfortunate, but our family isn't quite as homogenous as yours."

"Ha!" She laughs, holding onto her grandson's hand. "Our family? Homogenous? Your spat, compared to my oaf of a son's childish tantrums, seem downright delightful."

"Grandmother!" Garlan hisses out.

"Oh, spare me the doddering, you know how your father is, to this day I still wonder about which one of his wet nurses dropped him as a child." She snarks. "I thank the gods every day that his foolishness skipped a generation, although Loras still brings me doubt."

"I doubt your views will survive a meeting with my sister." Tyrion attempts to divert the subject.

"I did. Meet your sister, I mean." Olenna answers. "Beautiful, unpleasant woman. I don't blame you for your feelings, if I had to spend even one day under the same roof with that crazy wretch, I'd have thrown myself off the ramparts. A lifetime of that? Tsk tsk, I do so pity you."

"Yes… We all hate Cersei." Tyrion steeple his fingers. "But I tire myself of small talk -however delightful it may be- and so I ask, why do you wish to speak with me?"

Olenna and Garlan shared a discreet glance.

"Lord Tyrion, unlike you, I am terribly fond of my sister." Garlan begins. "And so it becomes my duty to be assured of her safety and well being-"

"That boy, Joffrey." Olenna interrupts. "We want to know if the rumors are true."

Olenna shrugs as her grandson glares at her. "What? The man clearly said he is tired of small talk; I'd rather get done with it and let him leave."

Tyrion sighs. "What rumors do you speak of?" He says. "Is it the fact that he is an unfeeling monster who enjoys the suffering of others? Is it about his… questionable sexual desires, whence he received two whores and sent one of them back with a bolt lodged in her chest?"

"There are many rumors about my nephew, some bad, some good." He says. "Let me be clear, if you were to hear any rumor about my nephew that includes even the slightest implication of misbehavior, then know that without a shadow of a doubt that they are more than likely true."

"My sister has spoiled that boy rotten, made him believe that he has the right to do whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted. Ned Stark was supposed to be banished to the wall, ending this conflict in its infancy, but the dolt was the one responsible for his death."

"I see…" Olenna answers. "That is concerning…"

"Of course, my father has knowledge of these matters themselves, so the brunt of the power has been taken away from Joffrey, and to truly hold influence, you need a seat at the table, the small council's, to be specific." He explains. "Which seat were you promised in exchange of your support? It cannot be more than one, my father will not accept anything but."

Olenna and Garlan share a glance, but they stay silent.

"No answer? That is fine, I can speak enough for the three of us." Tyrion says. "My father is Hand of the King of course, so it cannot be that, Varys is Master of Whisperers, and his allegiance is practically unknown. Pycelle is grandmaester, and he's my father's creature through and through, that leaves Master of Laws, Master of Ships and Master of coin."

"The Master of Laws chooses the Commander of the City Watch, so father will choose someone he trusts, uncle Kevan perhaps, so that's not it. Master of Coin is certainly possible, but I cannot see Mace Tyrell or even yourself accepting a position that has to do with counting coppers, the court certainly looks down on such activities anyway." He muses. "That leaves Master of ships, which could work, certainly, neither the crown nor the westerlands have a particularly formidable fleet, and the Redwynes boast of the largest fleet in Westeros, it seems like the logical choice, seeing as you were born to their house." Tyrion smirks in victory.

Olenna scoffs. "So you have a measure of logical thought, congratulations, you are above average. What do you want? A lemon tart for a hardworking boy?"

"I am just painting a picture." He answers. "You have managed to entrench yourself to the court by getting a queen, but your granddaughter, clever she may be, will not be able to gather you much influence, as a queen's power lays in her proximity to the king, and our king is not only deranged, but defanged."

"All you have now is a seat on the small council, while my father holds three. It seems to me like you are outnumbered, and the only way to change this dynamic is simple, the last seat, the master of coin, needs to be held by someone favorable to your interests, or at least neutral to some degree."

"Ha! And you think you're the one, is that it?"

Tyrion nods. "Indeed, you know of my situation, not only that, but you know of my father's temperament, to him, the thing you call a spat consists of something graver, a stain on his reputation, and-"

"Tywin Lannister values his reputation more than his life." Olenna waved her hand mindlessly. "I have to admit, this is the first time someone used their desperation as a bargaining chip, you no longer hold your father's favor, and therefore are in dire need of backing, I get it."

He smirks. "You truly do deserve your reputation. Indeed, I need a way to keep me relevant, and my relationship with my father goes beyond strained. I have a reputation for being smart and bookish, things most people would consider right for the position, and I have a favorable reputation in Kingslanding, I did hold the fort and keep everyone alive, after all." He explains. "I imagine, if you were to put forth my name as a candidate, and with some maneuvering from my side, my father will have no choice but to accept."

"Why would Tywin Lannister refuse his own son's candidacy into the small council?" Garlan interjects. "Especially if it was brought forth by his political enemies..."

Tyrion bows his head in agreement. "Precisely, we just have to phrase it as a placating gesture from you, as you did force a lot of concessions out of my father, and a humiliating gesture for me, I was Hand of the King, even if temporarily, and a demotion from such a position to the least appealing seat on the table will be considered an insult by many."

Olenna stays silent, breathing heavily into her cane. She squints her eyes toward him, as if attempting to see through him, before finally letting out a sigh.

"The people have deemed you Imp for the wrong reasons it seems." She japes. "Very well, I agree."

Tyrion held the side of his chair tightly, resisting the urge to jump up and down in elation.

"To a fruitful friendship."