The bright moon hung outside the narrow, barred window of the dungeon like a giant, lidless eye.
Tyrion Lannister felt that the eye was watching him, mocking him with its cold, silent light. It seemed to ask why he had bothered to clash with his nephew at the wedding feast, only for the boy-king to die a magnificent, choking death minutes later. It was an extremely absurd joke, and Tyrion was the only one not laughing.
Queen Cersei, had wasted no time. When the Golden Cloaks found no physical evidence at the scene and the investigation threatened to turn into a cold case, she had simply pointed her finger at the most convenient target: the brother she had always loathed.
Tyrion knew Cersei had nothing but her own malice as proof, but in the chaos of a King's murder, malice was often enough. The rest of the court was merely flattering her, or perhaps they were just relieved it wasn't them in the hole. At this moment, if Cersei pointed to a stray dog and named it the murderer, the lords of the Reach and the Crownlands would likely bark in agreement.
And Father...
Damn it all, Tyrion thought, his anger flaring. Why should I let them lock me away? He had brought back the Redwyne Fleet, breaking the blockade and saving the city from starvation. He had arranged for Randyll Tarly to return to the Reach, forcing Stannis to retreat to Summerhall. He had stabilized the grain and the gold. Did he not deserve a shred of credit? Was he to be discarded simply because he was a Lannister "Imp"?
"I am your son too, damn it!" he shouted at the stone walls.
In a fit of pique, he slammed his fist against the rough granite.
"Ah-!"
The cry of pain echoed in the small cell, immediately drawing the attention of the guard. A face full of scarred flesh appeared at the iron slit in the door. Bloodshot grey eyes scanned the interior, and finding the prisoner merely hopping in place and clutching his hand, the guard let out a disinterested grunt.
"Pah." The man spat on the floor and walked away. As long as the dwarf wasn't a corpse, his duty was done.
Tyrion gritted his teeth, his hand throbbing with a dull, white-hot heat. He deeply regretted the impulsiveness. If he had been injured by a Karstark spear or a Baratheon arrow, that would be one thing, but self-harm was beneath him. He looked at his bloodied knuckles, a cold determination settling in his chest. He would not die here. Not for a crime he didn't commit, and certainly not such a ridiculous death.
His uncle, Ser Kevan, had visited him the previous day to deliver the formal notice.
"You are accused of regicide and kinslaying," Kevan had said, his voice flat with a heavy, uncharacteristic sorrow. "To be tried by the Hand. Because he is your father and the boy's grandfather, Lord Tyrell and Prince Oberyn Martell have been invited to sit in judgment. To avoid the appearance of bias."
Tyrion had objected immediately. Mace Tyrell was Joffrey's father-in-law, even if only for an hour; he would want blood to appease his daughter. As for the Red Viper? Oberyn was a man of shadows and poisons, a viper whose mind was as unpredictable as his spear.
The objection had been ignored. Kevan had given him three days to find evidence to prove his innocence, though Tyrion was forbidden from leaving the cell. It was Tywin's way of giving him enough rope to hang himself.
Trial by combat was his only path. But Cersei's champion was Sandor Clegane, the Hound. A man who was a force of nature in plate armor. Tyrion found himself oddly grateful to Eddard Karstark; if the "Winter Wizard" hadn't ended the Mountain on the Red Fork, Tyrion would be facing an even larger, more monstrous Clegane.
The clanging of keys interrupted his thoughts.
"Visitor!" the guard shouted.
The heavy door groaned open. Podrick Payne, Tyrion's loyal, stuttering squire, walked in first, followed by a man who looked far too expensive for a dungeon.
Bronn had changed since Tyrion saw him last. The mercenary-knight wore a silver-studded leather vest and a fine riding cloak embroidered with the motifs of House Stokeworth. A gold chain fastened his shoulders, and a massive silver buckle gleamed at his waist.
"You're doing well with the Stokeworths, I see," Tyrion said, eyeing the finery.
"Of course! Lady Tanda and Lady Falyse treat me like a favorite son," Bronn beamed, his eyes full of a predatory light. "They gave me a house on Hook Street and a pouch of gold dragons just for looking after my pregnant lady."
Tyrion felt a chill. He knew Bronn's "care" for the Stokeworth women was likely a death sentence for their inheritance, but he didn't have the luxury of moralizing.
"So you came to mock me, my friend?"
"What else?" Bronn grinned, looking like a wolf in a sheepfold. "I wanted to see the look on the smartest head in the world when he realizes he's been outplayed by a whore."
"Shae?" Tyrion's voice went tight. "Tell me everything."
Bronn signaled Podrick, who brought in a tray of roasted beef, fish soup, and a bottle of expensive-looking wine. "A man can't tell a tragedy on an empty stomach," Bronn said, pouring a cup.
"Get to the point, Bronn."
"Fine, fine," Bronn said, draining his own cup first. "Cersei has been screaming for your head, that's no secret. But the city... the city is singing a different song. There are three stories flying through the taverns."
"The first?"
"The 'Poison Rose,'" Bronn chuckled. "People are saying the Tyrells did it. They say the Queen of Thorns realized Joffrey was a mad dog and decided to swap him for Tommen, a puppy they could leash. They've even got a song about it, Tyrion. Queen Margaery's tears are being called 'water from a stone.'"
Tyrion paused, his wine cup halfway to his lips. The Tyrells? He remembered the Karstark agents in the city. Did Eddard plant this? The detail was too perfect, too logical. It was exactly the kind of wedge that would shatter the Lannister-Tyrell alliance.
"The second story points to the Martells," Bronn continued. "They say the Red Viper did it for Elia. A slow-acting vengeance at a wedding feast."
"And the third?"
"Stannis and his fire-witch," Bronn shrugged. "Magic and shadows. But nobody believes that one except the idiots."
Tyrion's mind was racing. If the "Tyrell" rumor was taking root, it gave him a lever. Tywin would be more concerned with the Reach's betrayal than a dwarf's execution. But then Bronn delivered the killing blow.
"But Cersei has an ace, Tyrion. Shae has stepped forward. She stood before the lords and swore she saw you preparing the Strangler. She said you forced her to help you, that you were a monster in private."
The wine cup slipped from Tyrion's fingers, shattering against the floor. He felt the world tilt. His heart felt as if it had been dunked in the freezing waters of the North. For a long moment, his face was a map of agony and disbelief.
"She... she said that?"
"I told you she wasn't a docile bird," Bronn said, helpfully tearing into the beef. "She's a witness now. A fair trial for a King's murderer."
Tyrion closed his eyes. He didn't feel anger toward Shae—he felt a soul-crushing weight of guilt. He had kept her here. He had invited the Lion's wrath into her bed. He convinced himself she was forced, that Tywin had given her a choice between a gallows and a lie.
But as he recovered, he realized Bronn's news about the rumors was the most important thing. If he could get Tywin to look at the "Poison Rose" theory, he might live.
"Bronn," Tyrion said, his appetite returning with a fierce intensity. "I need a message delivered to the Hand's Tower. Podrick can't get past the guards, but a knight of House Stokeworth can."
"I don't do jailbreaks," Bronn warned, pointing a drumstick at him.
"No jailbreak. Just a message. Tell my father I have something to say about Joffrey's death. Tell him a Lannister should not die so ignominiously in a hole without being heard. And Bronn?"
"Yeah?"
"If you get him to see me, I'll give you a suit of plate from the finest smith in the West. Two warhorses. And enough barding to make you look like a King. Deal?"
Bronn's eyes sparkled with greed. "Done, my friend. I'll see the old man tonight."
As Bronn left, the silence of the dungeon returned, but Tyrion no longer felt mocked by the moon. He had a thread to pull, and he intended to unravel the whole world if he had to.
[Narrative Link: Eddard's disinformation campaign has reached Tyrion.]
[Tyrion's Status: Calculating Survival.]
[Reputation with Bronn: High (Greed).]
Drop Some Power Stones Plz.
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