King's Landing, the Red Keep.
Tyrion Lannister had imagined this moment many times.
In his mind, he would stride into the Red Keep with confidence, head held high, wearing that familiar crooked smile. He would stand before Cersei, deliver a cutting remark, and watch her flawless composure crack—just for a moment. That alone would have made the entire journey worthwhile.
But reality was rarely so accommodating.
This was no triumphant return.
This was a mission born from necessity—and one that carried the shadow of failure.
Before he left, his father had made that painfully clear.
"If King's Landing cannot be held," Tywin Lannister had said coldly, "then we must at least secure an heir."
Tyrion had understood immediately.
If the capital fell, someone in the royal family must be taken—controlled, protected, or used. It was a contingency plan, one rooted in ruthless pragmatism.
Tyrion had smiled at the time.
But inwardly, he rejected it completely.
I won't let it come to that.
As he approached the council chamber, he glanced sideways at Bronn.
"What do you think my dear sister will do when she sees me?" Tyrion asked lightly. "Arriving with mercenaries and mountain clansmen—surely that deserves some gratitude."
Bronn snorted.
"The Queen Mother? Thank you?" He laughed. "That'll be the day."
Tyrion chuckled.
"You never know."
He cast another glance at his small group.
Bronn, ever relaxed, hand resting near his sword.
Timmy—son of Timmy, as he proudly declared himself—a barbarian from the Mountains of the Moon, now styling himself as General of the Burned Men.
It wasn't much.
A sellsword, a savage, and a dwarf.
Jaime could gather knights willing to die for him.
Tyrion, on the other hand, bought loyalty—with gold, with wit, and with the weight of the Lannister name.
Different methods. Different results.
As they reached the doors of the council chamber, they were stopped.
Ser Mandon Moore of the Kingsguard stood in their path, cloaked in white. His face was pale and empty, like a corpse draped in ceremonial silk.
"The Queen Mother has ordered that she is not to be disturbed during the meeting."
Tyrion sighed faintly and produced a parchment.
"A small matter, Ser. A letter from my father—Tywin Lannister, Hand of the King. His seal is intact, as you can see."
Ser Mandon did not move.
"The Queen Mother does not wish to be disturbed."
His tone didn't change. It didn't need to.
Tyrion studied him carefully.
Jaime had once said that, aside from himself, Mandon Moore was the most dangerous of the Kingsguard—not because of skill alone, but because of his complete lack of expression. A man whose intentions could not be read was a man to be feared.
Tyrion weighed his options.
Force was possible.
Bronn was quick. Timmy was ferocious. Together, they could likely deal with Mandon.
But killing a Kingsguard knight at the door of the Small Council?
That would solve nothing—and create far worse problems.
Still… being turned away like a beggar?
That was equally unacceptable.
Authority had to be asserted.
"Ser Mandon," Tyrion said with a pleasant smile, "I don't believe you've met my companions."
He gestured casually.
"This is Timmy, son of Timmy—General of the Burned Men. And this is Bronn… though he once had another companion."
Bronn grinned.
"Had. He fell ill on the mountain path. Slowed us down. I dealt with it."
Tyrion didn't even blink.
Their journey through the Mountains of the Moon had not been gentle. One man, stricken with fever and unable to continue, had been killed without hesitation.
Cruel.
Efficient.
Necessary.
Ser Mandon remained unmoved.
"Anyway," Tyrion continued cheerfully, "I would very much like to see my dear sister. Would you be so kind as to open the door?"
Silence.
Long enough for irritation to begin creeping in.
Tyrion was just about to push further when—
Ser Mandon stepped aside.
"You may enter. They may not."
Tyrion smiled.
Victory.
Small, but satisfying.
He stepped into the council chamber alone, feeling—for just a fleeting moment—like a giant.
Inside, five figures sat around the table.
The moment Tyrion entered, their discussion halted.
He took them in one by one.
Cersei Lannister—the Queen Mother, seated regally.
Grand Maester Pycelle, ancient and bearded.
Varys, the eunuch, with his soft, perfumed presence.
Petyr Baelish—Littlefinger, smiling as always.
And Janos Slynt, Commander of the Gold Cloaks… newly elevated, and already swollen with pride.
Tyrion exhaled slowly.
No wonder Father is uneasy.
This was not a council.
It was a nest of vipers.
"It's you," Cersei said.
Her voice carried disbelief—and disgust.
Tyrion stopped near the entrance, glancing at the Valyrian sphinx statues beside the door.
"I see now where Joffrey gets his manners."
Cersei's green eyes narrowed.
Despite being siblings, they could not have been more different.
She—beautiful, radiant, commanding.
He—short, twisted, and forever underestimated.
Their relationship had never been anything but hostile.
"Why are you here?" she demanded.
"Delivering a letter," Tyrion said smoothly.
He approached the table and placed the parchment before her.
"From our dear father."
Varys stepped forward first, examining the letter with delicate fingers.
The seal was genuine.
The wax—perfect.
The script—unmistakable.
"Of course it's real," Cersei muttered, snatching it and breaking the seal.
Tyrion watched closely.
Her expression changed as she read.
Surprise.
Displeasure.
Then anger.
Meanwhile, Tyrion casually moved to the Hand's seat—and sat down.
No one stopped him.
"This is outrageous!" Cersei snapped.
She read aloud.
Tywin Lannister had appointed Tyrion to act as Hand of the King in his absence. All officials were to obey him until Tywin returned.
A bold move.
Perhaps even an overreach.
But these were desperate times.
War left little room for formalities.
Pycelle said nothing.
Varys only smiled.
Even Janos Slynt nodded eagerly.
"My lord, we need you," Slynt said. "Rebellions are rising everywhere. The streets are unstable—"
Cersei cut him off sharply.
"Maintaining order is your responsibility, Lord Slynt."
Then she turned her gaze back to Tyrion.
"As for you—fighting on the battlefield would be far more useful."
Tyrion leaned back comfortably.
"My lords," he said, "I find chairs far more stable than horses. And wine far preferable to axes."
"War drums give me headaches. Armor chafes. Horses… relieve themselves far too often."
A faint smile tugged at his lips.
"And besides, I am small. Large chairs do not suit me, nor does too much wine."
He paused.
"I was nearly killed once by a Stark woman. I doubt things could get much worse than that."
Littlefinger smiled.
"Lord Lannister, your reasoning is impeccable."
Tyrion returned the smile—but his eyes remained cold.
And yet you're still a liar.
The memory of a dagger lingered in his mind.
Dragonbone hilt.
Valyrian steel blade.
Littlefinger knew more than he admitted.
Tyrion never forgot such things.
"So," Tyrion said, "I ask you all to serve me."
"Even if only for the time it takes to finish a fine bottle of wine."
Cersei ignored the remark.
"How many men did you bring?"
Now that—finally—was the real question.
"A few hundred," Tyrion said. "Mostly my own."
"And Father?"
"Still fighting. Riverrun. The North. You've heard."
Varys stepped closer.
"I am deeply concerned for Ser Jaime," he said softly. "I pray for him daily."
Tyrion nodded.
"Your kindness is noted."
Cersei slammed her hand on the table.
"The North is chaos. Renly and Stannis are negotiating alliances. If they unite—if either marches or sails here—what use are your few hundred men?"
Her voice hardened.
"I needed an army."
"And Father sent… you."
Tyrion met her gaze calmly.
"The storm hasn't broken yet."
"And as for my position—Father appointed me."
"He had no right!" Cersei snapped. "Only the King can appoint the Hand!"
Tyrion tilted his head slightly.
Power had changed her.
She now challenged even Tywin's authority.
But Tyrion had no time for sibling rivalry.
War was coming.
And King's Landing was unprepared.
For now, there was only one thing left to do.
He needed to speak with Cersei.
Alone.
Because whatever came next… would decide the fate of the city.
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