Tyrion sat back in his chair, feet propped on the table.
Sunlight poured through a round, gold-framed window, catching the tapestry on the wall, woven with the names and sigils of past Hands of the King. Tyrion had no love for the design and had sent Podrick into the city to find some bright golden lions to replace it.
The floor was covered with thick carpets, their patterns intricate and finely wrought—luxury goods from Myr. Such things couldn't be bought in King's Landing, so even if the colors displeased him, he made do.
This private audience chamber was far smaller than the King's, but no less richly furnished. Just around the corner lay the bedchamber.
He had Arya Stark and Shae wait there, while Bronn and Qyburn lingered in the hall. The mountain clansmen had been quartered in the barracks at the foot of the Tower of the Hand.
Soon, footsteps approached, and the door swung open.
"What are you doing here?" Cersei Lannister fixed him with her beautiful green eyes, cold and emotionless.
"At last I know where Joffrey learned his manners." Tyrion didn't rise. He felt sure of himself. Cersei was quick to scent weakness, as a hound scents fear.
The next to enter was the eunuch Varys, round and plump, his bald head gleaming, his perfume cloying.
"Lord Tyrion Lannister, welcome to King's Landing. I had meant to knock..."
Tyrion relished it—the feeling of not being the dwarf, but the man at the center of the room, the one all eyes turned to. He glanced at Cersei. In her gaze, fear outweighed disgust.
"I trust you've read the letter I sent with Lord Slynt," Tyrion said.
"I did. And it has been shared among us," came Janos Slynt's voice from outside, barred entry by Cersei and the eunuch at the doorway.
Varys slipped delicately past her, planting himself beneath the tapestry. "Lord Tywin is most thorough. Even the wax seal gleams like gold." He raised the letter in his hand. "In every way, it looks genuine."
"Then it must be genuine." Cersei stepped forward, stopping at the desk. Tyrion lowered his legs, and only then did she take a seat.
The others filed in after her.
Petyr Baelish, "Littlefinger," Master of Coin. He was short, of ordinary build, yet strikingly handsome, with gray-green eyes, a pointed beard on his chin, and dark hair streaked with silver.
Grand Maester Pycelle, his bald scalp blotched with age spots, a few thin white strands dangling at his brow. Around his neck hung the heavy maester's chain of twenty-four different metals, drooping across his chest like medals earned in service to five kings, blending with his long, snowy beard.
Last came Janos Slynt, captain of the City Watch, commander of the Gold Cloaks.
That such men could sit the Small Council was, as Father had said, nothing less than a disgrace, Tyrion thought.
"This is outrageous!" the Queen Mother finally burst out. "I can understand Father sending you to King's Landing. But he ordered us to treat Tyrion as Hand of the King until he himself could sit the council!"
Grand Maester Pycelle stroked his long white beard, nodding sagely. "In that case, we must give Lord Tyrion a proper welcome."
"I've already welcomed him," Janos Slynt boasted, puffed up like a frog that had just been crowned prince. "My lord, we need you. Rebellions are breaking out, riots in every street and alley..."
"With Lord Tyrion here in the capital, I'm sure these troubles will soon be settled," Littlefinger chimed in, eager to flatter.
Tyrion smiled faintly, his thoughts straying to a dagger with a dragonbone hilt and a Valyrian steel blade, the humiliation he'd endured at the Eyrie, and the secrets he'd pried loose with the Sight. Petyr Baelish was the most dangerous of them all—the highest player in this game of thrones.
When the reckoning came, Tyrion wondered, would Petyr still think it amusing?
"So," Tyrion said, turning to the room, "we can all agree, then, that I am Acting Hand of the King?"
"How many men did you bring?" Cersei asked sharply.
"Two, three hundred—veterans all," Tyrion said, leaving out that they were wild clansmen. "Father is marching back as quickly as he can. He'll be here soon."
"And if Renly marches on the city? If Stannis crosses from Dragonstone? What use are a few hundred men then? I asked Father for an army, and he sends me a wastrel. The Hand is named by the King. Joffrey named our father."
"And Father sent me."
"Only Joffrey can appoint the Hand."
"If you'd like to ask him yourself, Lord Tywin is encamped at Harrenhal this very moment," Tyrion said smoothly. "My lords, might I ask a moment alone with my sister?"
Varys rose at once, smiling his silken smile. "I'm sure your sister's sweet voice is a comfort to you, my lord. Shall we let them have a word in private? The kingdom's troubles will still be waiting."
Janos Slynt and Pycelle moved quickly to leave—quicker than one would expect, especially from the old maester, who showed none of the frailty of his years.
Littlefinger was the last to rise.
When the room was empty, Cersei rounded on him. "Has Father gone mad? Or did you forge that letter?"
She read it again, each line stoking her fury. "Why send you to me? I want him here. Himself!" She clenched her fist, crumpling Lord Tywin's letter. "I am Joffrey's regent queen! I gave him a royal command!"
"He holds the army, so he has little to fear. He's not the first to defy you, either," Tyrion pointed out. "But Father knows how to choose his men—you and I both know that. I can take charge here, ease your troubles. But the price is simple: you'll have to listen."
"My troubles? What I need is an army!"
"No," Tyrion said. "What you need is Jaime."
Cersei liked to think herself shrewd, but to Tyrion her every thought was plain as a book he knew by heart. Right now her face showed anger, fear, and despair.
And with him in the room, fear would never leave her.
"Jaime," Tyrion said softly. "My dear big brother. Support me, and I promise you—I'll find a way to bring Jaime back, safe and whole."