The dining room assigned to Tyrion Lannister was filled with the rich fragrance of food.
Tyrion sat at the head of the table, surveying the spread with clear satisfaction. When it came to food, he could confidently call himself a gourmand. Life had already denied him many pleasures—he refused to let meals be one of them.
On the long table were blackberry-and-nut honey cakes, thick slices of cured ham, crisp bacon, breaded and fried starfish meat, ripe autumn pears, and a skillet of onion cheese and eggs prepared in the Dornish style, generously seasoned with pepper. Beside the food stood a large pot of dark black beer and a jug of low-alcohol golden sweet wine.
"My dwarf friend," Bronn said with a grin as he looked over the feast, "you really do know how to enjoy yourself."
"This is a celebration," Tyrion replied lightly. "After all, we've been through life and death together. It would be ungrateful not to eat well."
He was referring to his small entourage: two attendants and two mercenaries. Not much of a retinue for a Lannister, perhaps—but enough to keep him alive.
Among them, Tyrion valued Bronn the most. The sellsword was cunning, quick, and strong. Though his loyalty was bought with gold rather than blood, Tyrion had always believed that honest greed was far more reliable than false honor.
"Come," Bronn said, lifting his cup. "A toast—to our great Lannister giant."
"Cheers," Tyrion echoed.
The black beer was rich and bitter, far superior to anything he had tasted in the North. Tyrion laughed softly at the word giant. How he wished it were true. If he had been born a giant, his life might not have been an endless struggle against mockery and disdain.
"But we're still missing someone," Tyrion said after a moment. "A pity I couldn't invite him."
"Let me guess," Bronn smirked. "A whore?"
"No," Tyrion said, shaking his head. "Someone… special."
The person he meant was Jon.
The situation in King's Landing was far too complex now. The political currents were shifting daily, and a meeting between them would raise too many questions. Tyrion could not afford awkwardness—or suspicion.
The capital felt suffocating.
He couldn't explain it clearly, but something was wrong. Perhaps it was the sudden reshuffling of power: Jon Arryn dead, Stannis Baratheon fled to Dragonstone, and Eddard Stark stepping into the game. The pieces at the table kept changing, and no one could see the full board.
"When we leave," Tyrion asked casually, "where do you think that foolish woman will go?"
"Anywhere she pleases," Bronn replied. "The Eyrie. Riverrun. Winterfell. But wherever she goes, she'll bring trouble. Especially to the Riverlands."
Tyrion nodded slowly. "I value my honor," he said quietly, "but it will never match my father's."
Tywin Lannister's obsession with family honor bordered on cruelty. Tyrion suspected it stemmed from wounds too old and too deep to heal.
"Perhaps I should write to him," Tyrion continued. "Even if it changes nothing."
After a long moment of thought, he finally did. He wrote a letter to Tywin Lannister at Casterly Rock. Even as a half-man, even as a dwarf, he was still a Lannister.
He did not believe the letter would alter the course of events—but writing it was a statement.
Tywin had been waiting for an excuse to intervene in the Riverlands. Now he had one. Ravage the lands, provoke Eddard Stark, draw House Tully into open conflict, and crush them while they were weak—one move, many gains.
"It doesn't hurt to write," Bronn said. "Word of that incident has already spread. Especially to that old fox Frey. Twenty men at his bridge, and not one lifted a finger to help Lady Catelyn."
Bronn snorted. "I hear the old man likes young girls. A coward like that values his life more than honor. He's probably already written to your father."
"And those hedge knights in the inns," he added. "They'll smell gold soon enough."
"Still," Tyrion said, sealing the letter, "it must be done. Jak—see that this is delivered."
"Yes, my lord."
"Lord Eddard probably doesn't know what his wife did," Bronn said. "He always looks like someone owes him money."
"He might know already," Tyrion replied. "Don't forget the man in black who traveled with us."
Chegan chuckled. "You know, my lord, you really should hire a monster to guard you. Someone like Ser Gregor. An eight-foot giant—who would dare touch you then?"
"Mad dogs still have masters," Tyrion said dryly. "Ser Gregor only answers to my father."
And Tyrion knew the truth well: men of true skill and knightly pride did not flock to him. Gold alone could not buy honor—or loyalty.
"Tell me honestly," Tyrion asked Bronn. "If you faced Ser Gregor, how long would you last?"
Bronn stared at him. "Are you fucking mad, Little Monkey?"
"That thing isn't human. He's not fast—but for his size, he's terrifying. Long reach. Endless strength. And pain barely slows him."
Chegan nodded. "Bronn's only chance would be to exhaust him, trip him, and pray he falls. One mistake, and he'd be dead."
Tyrion sighed. "I suppose that's the truth."
The Lannisters had countless warriors—but none truly his.
"Still," Bronn said after draining his wine, "it's not impossible. A knight fast enough and strong enough could beat him."
"They're rare," Tyrion murmured. "Perhaps one across the Narrow Sea… or in Dorne."
Then a thought struck him.
"Wildlings?" Tyrion murmured.
At the top of the Tower of the Hand, Eddard Stark paced restlessly.
The morning air was cool. From the window, he could see the Red Keep's courtyard—and even Littlefinger's chambers.
His daughters were still dreaming. Sansa dreamed of being a lady. Arya dreamed of being a hero. Arya returned from her water dancing bruised and battered, yet smiling.
They were still too young to understand the cruelty of the world.
After the tourney, Varys had visited him—disguised, as always. The eunuch's information filled Ned with unease.
The Lannisters had planned to assassinate the king.
King's Landing was firmly in their grasp. Robert's brothers hated both the king and the queen. The Kingsguard was compromised—Barristan old, Boros and Meryn loyal to Cersei.
Then there was Jon Arryn.
Poisoned. Tears of Lys. A knight of the Vale.
Too much information. Too many sources. Littlefinger. Varys. Half-truths and lies tangled together.
Lysa Arryn hid in the Eyrie. Stannis fled to Dragonstone.
Books. Bastards. A hidden brothel.
Why had Jon Arryn and Stannis searched so desperately for Robert's bastard children?
Eddard inhaled sharply.
Then there was the dwarf.
Catelyn's impulsiveness had worsened everything. Tywin Lannister would not forgive this insult.
If everyone lies, Eddard thought, then who can I trust?
He had never felt so alone.
The Small Council convened.
"The whore is pregnant!" Robert roared. "I want them dead—mother and child!"
Eddard's blood burned.
"This is kinslaying," he said. "You will be remembered for it."
Varys spoke smoothly. "If the Hand gives the order, the King bears no stain."
Every eye turned to Ned.
Rage filled his chest.
If this is politics, Eddard thought, then I should never have come to King's Landing.
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