An interesting detail was that there was no master-at-arms on the current council. The previous one, Ser Aron Santagar, had been killed by a raging mob during a hunger riot after Princess Myrcella's departure for Dorne. Since then, no new master had been appointed. This opened up interesting prospects for me — I could try to push my own man into this position. Ah, where else could I find him?
Tyrion and I walked back together. The numerous steps and passages of the Red Keep clearly did not lift his spirits. I noticed that Bronn, who accompanied him to the Tower of the Hand, and Herald pointedly ignored one another.
Looking at their faces, I sighed. It seemed that people here could not live without problems. No doubt, while the Council was in session, Bronn had not resisted the urge to pick at my bodyguard. I wondered whether this could turn into a serious headache — or whether I should simply ignore such trifles?
"Well, nephew, did you enjoy the Council?" Tyrion asked.
"I liked it very much."
"Strange… I thought the first Council would also be your last, and you'd return to playing with your crossbows."
"That can wait," I frowned involuntarily. I didn't like Bronn's meaningful chuckle. My uncle was clearly hinting at something. What else had Joffrey done with those crossbows? My stomach even turned cold as I dug into Joffrey memory and saw how that idiot had used his deadly toys.
"Really? But those councils are so boring… and they only decide trivial matters. Wouldn't it be better to torture or torment someone instead?"
"That's debatable… Do you mind if we came at your chambers?" I asked Tyrion, pretending not to notice another dig and trying to steer the conversation toward something less sensitive and unpleasant.
"Why?"
"We agreed to discuss the Lives of Four Kings."
"Have you already read it?" My uncle's voice sounded incredulous.
"From cover to cover," I couldn't resist bragging. In fact, reading such a huge book in such a short time turned out not to be such a feat.
The thing is, the process of making paper in Westeros is quite primitive, and there isn't much paper here at all. Very often people use parchment, which is thinly tanned rawhide.
And even when paper is used, the sheets are usually very thick and roughly bleached with chalk. A book bound or glued of such paper appears large, but does not actually contain that many pages.
In addition, there are no printing presses in this world, and all books are written by hand. This means that the script is quite large, and the books contain many drawings and illustrations meant to make them beautiful. Large indents and frames, spaces, and capital letters at the beginning of chapters — decorated solemnly and brightly with various ornaments and colors — also "eat up" a lot of useful space.
Reading such books is incredibly interesting, but a little unusual — it's like picking up a children's book. Impressive in size and weight, but far more modest in terms of the information it contains.
Tyrion lived in spacious quarters consisting of several richly furnished rooms. I didn't see Sansa or Shae, but Podrick Payne was present. He was sitting at a table, polishing his sword, and straightened awkwardly when we appeared, blushing like a poppy.
"I think I'll go about my business," Bronn said rather bluntly.
"Won't you even have a drink?" Tyrion turned to his squire. "Pod, wine for everyone."
"Yes, my lord," the boy rushed to the decanter.
"Not today." Bronn turned on his heel, glanced briefly in my direction, and depicted a bow. "Your Majesty."
"Goodbye, Ser Bronn," I replied diplomatically, deciding to ignore him for now.
Bronn headed for the exit.
"Don't be so uptight, kid," I heard his last words to Herald.
Orm only clenched his jaw but said nothing.
"Take a seat, Herald," I gestured toward an empty chair.
"Here," Tyrion approached and handed me a glass of wine.
"Not bad," I stated, taking a sip. "I see, Uncle, you don't deny yourself anything."
"Why should I, when life offers such opportunities?"
We then spent an hour discussing the book.
At first Tyrion was cautious, constantly expecting me to provoke him. However, his comments and thoughts were ironic and unusually precise. I enjoyed talking to him.
"Daeron is, of course, a good king. He started a war with Dorne and completely screwed up there — ruined his army and died himself. Yet the people remember him as a great commander. Damn, what justice!" Tyrion ranted, waving his wine glass. "Or take Aegon the Unworthy. At least they gave him a fitting nickname… He loved to get drunk and fuck noble wenches. Left behind a whole brood of bastards and sons of bitches." My uncle glanced quickly in my direction, and this time I understood his hint. "And then he legitimized some of them — a very clever move, no doubt. That's how the Blackfyres appeared and flooded Westeros with blood. Don't you find it absurd to praise such kings and write books about them?"
"History is full of paradoxes."
"They're not paradoxes, they're idiocy," he snorted contemptuously. "What do you think of King Viserys II?"
"He's not mentioned in the book."
"Yes, but he was the Hand in three of them. And I think Maester Kaeth made a mistake by not including him in his work."
"Then it would have been called The Lives of Five Kings."
"Exactly… Perhaps it is thanks to that man that the Targaryens managed to preserve Westeros as we see it today. But history is full of farce, not paradoxes. The one who truly deserves to be written about remains in the shadows, while pompous fools whose only merit was wiping the Iron Throne with their asses stand in the spotlight!"
"Ha-ha," I laughed. "I get the hint. I hoped that if someone ever wrote a book about me, I would be in it not because of flattery or the Iron Throne, but because of something genuinely worthwhile."
"We'll see, we'll see," my uncle's voice sounded irritated that I hadn't reacted to his taunt the way he expected.
I glanced at my bodyguard — Pod and Herald seemed to have found common ground at a separate table and were discussing something, occasionally looking in our direction and listening to our conversation.