King's Landing, The Red Keep.
Tyrion Lannister had envisioned the occasion of reuniting with Cersei many times in his mind. For him, appearing before Cersei with an air of arrogance and watching her jaw drop would truly be a delightful thing.
But coming to King's Landing was not a good mission; his father had already told him the worst possible outcome.
"If King's Landing truly cannot be defended, then we should at least hold an heir in our hands," Tywin instructed his son.
"I won't let that happen," Tyrion thought.
"What do you think my sister will do when she sees me, with Mercenaries and a group of free companions?" Tyrion asked Bronn.
"The Queen Mother can't possibly thank you, can she?" Bronn laughed.
"You never know," Tyrion said with a chuckle.
Tyrion glanced at his companions again, Bronn the Mercenary, Timmy the barbarian, but this was his small group.
Tyrion didn't have the same magnetism and charm as Jaime; his brother Jaime always found a way to inspire loyal followers, even to the point of sacrificing their lives. But Tyrion, he only bought loyalty and obedience with gold and his surname.
When he arrived before the council chamber, Ser Mandon Moore of the Kingsguard, clad in a snow-white cloak, immediately stopped Tyrion. This man looked like a corpse draped in a shroud. "The Queen Mother has decreed: no interruptions during the meeting."
Tyrion took out a parchment from his sleeve. "This is just a small matter, Ser. This is a letter from my father, Tywin Lannister, the current hand of the king, with his seal upon it."
"The Queen Mother does not wish to be disturbed," Ser Mandon insisted, slowly repeating his point.
Tyrion looked at Ser Mandon, weighing how to enter the meeting. Jaime once said that, apart from himself, Mandon was the most dangerous of the White Knights because he always wore a blank expression, like a poker face, making it impossible to discern his intentions.
Tyrion looked up at Ser Mandon, but could not read his thoughts; the man's face was expressionless, calm as an ancient well. Tyrion began to consider using force; this man was certainly no match for Bronn plus Timmy. Bronn was agile, and Timmy fought like a madman. But he had come to King's Landing to assist in the larger situation; if he killed Joffrey's guard right away, what then? But if he was directly blocked at the door, where would his authority come from?
"Ser Mandon, I don't think you've met my companions. This is Timmy, son of Timmy; he is General Red Hand of the Burned Men Tribe from the Mountains of the Moon. And this is Bronn; he actually had a companion originally," Tyrion introduced with a smile.
"Our companion was taken care of by my own hand; he's no longer with us. He fell ill on the mountain path and slowed us down," Bronn corrected with a grin.
For Tyrion's wild idea, they had gone to the Mountains of the Moon to recruit soldiers after leaving King's Landing. That unfortunate Chegan, unable to walk the mountain path due to a high fever, was directly dispatched by Bronn. But the result was good; they got lucky and recruited a group of people.
Ser Mandon was deaf to their words, standing motionless.
"Anyway," Tyrion said cheerfully, "I really want to see my dear sister, and pass this letter in. Ser, would you be so kind as to open the door for us?"
Silence once again dominated everything. Just as Tyrion's patience was slowly running out and he was preparing to resort to force, Ser Mandon finally relented, stepping aside. "You may enter; they may not."
Tyrion entered the door, laughing. At that moment, he truly felt like a Lannister giant; this was his first victory of the day.
Inside the council chamber, five high-ranking officials were discussing state affairs, but they all stopped when they saw Tyrion enter.
Tyrion looked at the five people before him, no wonder his father Tywin was uneasy about them: Queen Mother Cersei, the old Grand Maester Pycelle, Varys the eunuch, Littlefinger the master of coin, and that upstart, the lord of Harrenhal, Janos Slynt, commander of the gold cloaks.
Just like the White Knights, the Small Council was a structure severely understaffed. Barristan, the lord commander of the kingsguard, had defected, and Ser Jaime had lost a hand; now it was a shambles.
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