Later that evening, a guard arrived to summon Tyrion to a Small Council meeting.
Joffrey's doing? Unlikely. More likely Cersei, using her son as leverage.
Tyrion was not pleased. With Bronn away for the night, he was reluctant to leave the Tower of the Hand. It seemed he'd have to trouble Timett, Shagga, and Chella to watch things in his absence.
The great doors of the Red Keep's council chamber stood like sentinels of Targaryen history and grandeur. Painted in deep red and black, they resembled the open jaws of a dragon.
They were carved from the finest hardwood, every inch a testament to the craftsman's skill. A layer of lacquer gave them a dark sheen, the edges banded in iron. Time had dulled their luster, but that only made them seem older, weightier, more solemn. Under torchlight, the lacquer glimmered faintly.
On either side stood two massive sphinxes—lion bodies with human faces. Their eyes were wide and unblinking, every strand of mane and ripple of muscle carved with precision, as if they might spring to life at any moment to guard the chamber's sanctity.
Bronn leaned against one of them, stone-still, then gave Tyrion a sly wink. "Came up fast. Didn't have time to warn you."
"You came with my cousin?" Tyrion asked.
Bronn nodded. Tyrion gestured for the hill tribesmen to wait outside, then pushed the doors open.
Inside, the councilors sat along both sides of the long table.
Cersei was there, draped in her usual finery. Her eyes were slightly red, which, damnably, only made her look more beautiful.
Grand Maester Pycelle looked as he always did—draped in his robes, ancient and self-satisfied.
At the far end sat Tyrion's cousin, Lancel Lannister—young, strong, with sandy brown hair, pale green eyes, and a face that faintly recalled Jaime's in his youth. Not quite as handsome, of course.
When he saw Tyrion enter, Lancel jumped to his feet, his eyes shining with the kind of worship Tyrion had only ever seen directed at Jaime.
"Cousin…"
Tyrion waved him back down and took a seat at the head of the table.
"Where's our gracious and valiant king? And Lord Varys, for that matter?" he asked, glancing around. Joffrey was nowhere to be seen. A full quarter-hour passed before the boy finally arrived, flanked by the Kingsguard.
Tall, fair-haired, and handsome—typical of Lannister blood. Green eyes, a proud chin, lips that always curved upward.
Takes after his mother, Tyrion thought grimly, though he knew the truth well enough.
"Our gracious and valiant king arrives at last," Tyrion said.
Joffrey cast him a haughty glance but didn't sit. He preferred to loom over his uncle.
"The Lust Demon comes to King's Landing and doesn't rush to see me," he said.
"I had to tend to a few trivial matters for Your Grace."
"You hand out food to the rabble, trying to steal my glory," Joffrey said. "What do you call it? Famine Pills?"
"When the people cheer while eating, I'll tell them it was all the King's generosity," Tyrion replied.
Joffrey's chin lifted slightly, though a flicker of pride betrayed him. He glanced at Cersei, then continued.
"You arrested Ser Janos Slynt. He helped me capture the traitor Eddard Stark. Without my leave, you stripped him of command, gave his post to another, and made him join the City Watch."
He pointed at Lancel, who stiffened.
"Ser Slynt is a traitor," Tyrion said evenly. "His treachery mired us in chaos. I've already proclaimed that Lord Eddard's death was none of your doing—that Slynt deceived you. Surely Your Grace doesn't wish to be associated with such filth."
He glanced at Cersei. This had her fingerprints all over it.
"Lancel served King Robert for years as his squire," Tyrion went on. "He must have learned much of the king's courage and vigor. To learn from such a man is a fine start. Of course, if you follow your own example, Your Grace, you'll conquer every battlefield yourself."
Joffrey nodded more firmly this time. "Yes," he muttered. "My father was a true hero." He walked around the table and clapped Lancel on the shoulder.
"Do well."
Lancel gave a strained smile.
"But you—" Joffrey snapped, turning on Tyrion. "You brought Sansa to the Tower of the Hand! She is my betrothed! You shame my name!"
"Nothing of the sort, Your Grace," Tyrion said calmly. "She is your betrothed, and I treat her as I would my own niece. She's in the Tower for her own safety—she's a valuable hostage, and I mean to keep her unharmed."
"Besides, it prevents anyone from treating her roughly, which would be unworthy of the crown. Beating her, for instance—"
"You mock me, Lust Demon!" Joffrey shouted, his face twisting. "You accuse me! You insolent wretch! I am the King!"
"Indeed, Your Grace—you are the King," Tyrion said, rising to face him. His height barely reached the boy's chest. "A King does as he pleases. The fault lies with those who carry out his commands."
His gaze shifted toward the white-cloaked Kingsguard. Ser Meryn Trant met his eyes.
"Why are you looking at me, Lust Demon?" Trant growled.
"I was just wondering which hand you use to strike little girls," Tyrion said.
"You bastard! You think I'll stand here and let you—"
THUD!
Tyrion kicked the table hard enough to rattle every cup and plate. The entire room jumped. Grand Maester Pycelle nearly slid off his chair, his long beard quivering like a frightened cat's tail.
"Meryn Trant, by the Seven, who in the gods' name thought it wise to put you in the Kingsguard? If I ever find out you've beaten or mistreated Sansa Stark again, I'll have your hand cut off!"
Meryn's fingers had just closed around his sword hilt when the doors slammed open. Bronn, Timett, Shagga, and Chella stormed in, eyes sharp and full of menace.
Joffrey flinched and shrank back behind his mother.
Tyrion fixed his gaze on Meryn Trant, who slowly released his grip on the sword.
"The Lust Demon... how dare you—"
"If Ser Meryn opens his mouth again," Tyrion said evenly, "Bronn, pull out his tongue."
Bronn's hand went straight to the dagger at his belt.
"Shagga will cut off his cock and feed it to the goats!"
"Chella will take his ears—both of them!"
"I'll dig out his eyes and burn them," Timett added. "And chop off the hand that struck the girl."
Meryn Trant's lips quivered, but he stayed silent.
"Seems the good ser knows when to hold his tongue." Tyrion waved a hand, signaling Bronn and the clansmen to stand down.
Just then, another man squeezed into the room.
His bald head didn't gleam in the torchlight—it looked dusted, almost powdered. Lord Varys, dressed in flowing purple silk, the kind whose sheen alone spoke of wealth. Like Littlefinger, he was impeccably groomed, though the eunuch's taste leaned more toward comfort than vanity.
"My lords," he said softly. "Renly Baratheon is dead."