The gates of King's Landing creaked open as the Lannister banners fluttered above the walls, crimson and gold gleaming under the afternoon sun. Through the bustling crowd rode a short man on a sturdy brown horse, his fine doublet embroidered with lions, his mismatched eyes gleaming with mischief and exhaustion alike. Tyrion Lannister had returned to the capital, much to his own dismay.
He looked around at the chaos that had swallowed the city since his last stay—the hungry faces, the filth in the streets, the shouts of merchants and soldiers alike. "Ah," Tyrion muttered, pulling at his collar, "home sweet cesspit."
He really wouldn't have come if not for his father insisting. And Tywin Lannister doesn't insist; he orders. Especially his children.
The crowd barely noticed him. He refused to believe that his height was the reason for that, but he knew better. And after as long as he had lived in a world like that, he had learned how to use it to his favor.
However, it was hard to stay low-key when the Gold Cloaks escorted someone. They pushed their way toward the Red Keep, and before long, Tyrion found himself standing in the grand throne room. The Iron Throne loomed above, sharper and colder than ever, and on it sat a small figure—a mere boy—who was now the King of the Seven Kingdoms.
First of his name and King of the Andals and the First Men, Tommen Baratheon—dressed in fine robes too big for his frame. His crown gleamed, but his face was uncertain, timid even.
As anyone would have expected, he was only eight or so. He wasn't supposed to be the king at this age; he was supposed to be a boy—a prince—but still a boy who played with kids his age and dreamed about strange things like the existence of dinosaurs.
Did they have Dinosaurs in this world ?
Whatever, fate wouldn't have it that way in the first place, so here he was—an eight-year-old kid—being the king of the entire continent, somehow trying not to get stabbed by one of the pointy ends of his new chair.
Cersei stood proudly beside him, either intentionally or genuinely unaware of her youngest's trouble, draped in a gown of crimson silk. Her expression darkened the instant her eyes fell on her brother.
"Sister," Tyrion greeted cheerfully, bowing low before the throne. "Your Grace," he added, flashing Tommen a polite smile. "Might I say, the crown suits you far better than it ever did your late brother. Then again, a horse would've worn it better than Joffrey."
Cersei's lips tightened. "Watch your tongue, dwarf."
"I only speak truths, dear sister," Tyrion said with a mocking shrug. "You should try it sometime. It's rather freeing."
Tommen shifted nervously, glancing between them. He liked this uncle of his; however, the tension between him and his mother had always been there, and he couldn't seem to do anything about it.
"Uncle Tyrion… did Grandfather send you?"
"He did indeed," Tyrion said with a sigh. "I am to serve as your humble Hand of the King until he says otherwise—a duty I accept with all the grace of a man condemned to his own hanging." He smiled, though his tone carried a hint of weariness. "Still, I shall do my utmost to keep this city from burning itself to ash while you grow into your crown."
Cersei's eyes narrowed. "Father sent you? To rule me? To rule my son?"
Tyrion raised an eyebrow. "No, sweet sister. Father sent me to rule the realm, which, by unfortunate chance, currently includes both you and your son."
Cersei's face turned red. "You have no right—"
"Oh, I have plenty of rights," Tyrion interrupted. "Including the one stamped with Father's seal, carried by a raven that nearly froze to death just to make sure I'd ruin your day."
For a moment, silence filled the hall—save for the faint clatter of the guards' armor. Tommen looked lost, as if the words were swords flying over his head.
He was more worried about when this court session would be over so that he could go and have some time for himself—to play like he used to with his sister.
Tyrion seemed to see the child's worries and softened his tone, stepping closer to the throne. "Your Grace, my condolences for your losses. Both King Robert and your brother Joffrey… the gods were not kind to this family. I am sorry, truly. I would've spared Joffrey a gentler fate if I could."
Cersei's glare hardened. "You always hated him."
"I hated his cruelty," Tyrion replied quietly. "But he was still my nephew. And your grief, though it often smells of arrogance, is still grief."
For a fleeting moment, Cersei looked away, her lips trembling before she steadied herself. Because no matter whatever she was and whatever others may say, Cersei Lannister, at her core, was an incestuous bitch—an incestuous bitch who genuinely loved her children. That might be her most redeeming quality outside that pretty face, perky tits, and round ass of hers.
Tyrion cleared his throat. "Now, as for this city—half-starved, overtaxed, and likely ready to riot again—I'd best start earning my keep. But first, I had thought of visiting a certain fine establishment near the Street of Silk to… reacquaint myself with the capital's finer comforts."
Cersei snorted to herself and was very open about her discontent as she crossed her arms. "You'll do no such thing. War is coming, fool. Both Stannis and Renly have declared against us, calling Tommen a bastard and claiming the throne for themselves."
Tyrion groaned. "Of course they have. How else are they to have a claim on this ugly monstrosity of a chair to make more holes behind than if the real person who had the right claim was to say? Nothing says family unity like brothers killing brothers over a chair made of swords." He glanced at Tommen, who looked even more frightened now. "Don't worry, Your Grace. I'll make sure you keep your head alongside your crown."
Cersei's scowl deepened. "Father made a mistake sending you."
Tyrion smirked. "Dear sister, the day father start making mistake, house Lannister will cease to exist, seven knows he had made enough enemies for that."
He turned toward the door, his cloak sweeping the floor behind him. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I've a kingdom to save and a whorehouse to not visit. Seven hells, I already miss the latter. Can you believe it? A real whorehouse, not a dung-mite-infested rat nest with women more manly than Uncle Kevan."
Tommen blinked, unsure whether to laugh or not—half of it he didn't understand either—but it sounded funny when his uncle said it, while Cersei glared daggers at his back.
Tyrion only smiled to himself as he walked out of the throne room. "War, bastards, and a city on the edge of madness," he muttered. "Father always did know how to pick my holidays."
...
A/N : I like writing Tyrion's Character. The best part of this fix outside when Thor get to Aura Farm.
And of, I have some Aura far coming.
xxx
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