Tyrion felt damn good after slapping the cuffs on Littlefinger. He couldn't wait to run back and brag about it to the king.
He searched the Red Keep for half an hour and came up empty. No sign of Daeron anywhere. In the end, one of the Kingsguard—Ser Barristan, who refused to give his name but clearly enjoyed the gossip—pointed him toward Cersei's chambers with a knowing smirk.
Tyrion stood outside the door, hesitating. Should he knock?
The door opened on its own.
Daeron stepped out, fully dressed and looking relaxed. He spotted the new Hand and gave a small smile. "You need something?"
You'd better.
Tyrion took half a step back and forced a grin. "I arrested Littlefinger."
Daeron barely reacted. He glanced at the time on his panel.
He'd gone in at noon. It was now a little past three.
"Lannister women really are wild," Daeron muttered, more to himself than anyone else. It had taken a few hard rounds to finally wear Cersei out.
Tyrion walked beside him down the corridor, then glanced back at the closed door. He couldn't help himself. "Your Grace… did you really just fuck my sister?"
The words left his mouth before his brain could stop them.
Daeron stopped cold. He looked down at the ugly little face and, for once, found it genuinely repulsive.
"I—wait, I didn't mean—"
Tyrion never finished. Daeron's fist caught him square in the nose. The crack was loud and satisfying.
Daeron's voice stayed calm. "Watch your mouth. That was a warning."
He finally understood why Tywin couldn't stand his own son. Get too familiar and the little bastard forgot his place—crude, disrespectful, and running his mouth without a filter.
"Ow, fuck—ow!" Tyrion clutched his nose. Blood and tears streamed down his face. Breathing hurt.
After a minute he stuffed a handkerchief up one nostril and kept pushing. "Your Grace, are you really going to marry Cersei?"
Daeron kept walking. "Yes."
"Why?"
Tyrion couldn't wrap his head around it. "Look, I'll admit she's beautiful. That long golden hair, skin like milk, body that could stop a war—she's one of the most gorgeous women in the Seven Kingdoms. But—"
He ran out of steam. That didn't sound like an insult.
He tried again. "Did she drug you? She made me buy that kind of stuff for her once."
Daeron stopped and stared at him.
Tyrion shut his mouth fast and tried to look innocent.
"Forget it," Daeron said. "I'm not going to punish you for that. But yes—I'm bringing back the old custom. I'm taking Cersei as my wife. A consort."
Tyrion's eyes went wide. "She's actually going to be queen?"
He couldn't believe it. His sister—sharp-tongued, jealous, cruel, and stupid as a stump—was going to marry the Dragon King?
"Why her?" Tyrion demanded. "Because she's young and pretty?"
Daeron gave him the same look you'd give a slow child.
"Seven hells," Tyrion groaned, smacking his own forehead. "She is beautiful. If I were you I'd probably fall for it too."
"Don't make jokes about fucking your own sister," Daeron said dryly.
"Your Grace's wisdom is overwhelming," Tyrion muttered, looking thoroughly depressed.
If Cersei became queen, his life was about to get a lot worse.
Daeron wasn't in the mood to watch him sulk. He left Tyrion standing there and kept walking.
Tyrion stared at the door to Cersei's room, then shook his head hard. No way was he going in there now. She'd just gotten laid by the king. She'd be insufferable.
He sighed. "Look on the bright side. Maybe her kids will be dragonriders. As their uncle I might get to ride one someday."
The thought cheered him up immediately. He loved dragons. Always had. But he wasn't a Targaryen, and no dragon was going to let a dwarf anywhere near it.
"Better idea," he said to himself. "Go squeeze Littlefinger. See what he knows."
He needed a distraction, and the little weasel owed him answers.
---
Red Keep dungeons.
Bronn had already worked Littlefinger over pretty good. The man hung from a wooden cross, face swollen, body covered in bruises. Every time Bronn's fist connected, Petyr's head snapped sideways.
"Guy's got the thickest skin I've ever punched," Bronn said, shaking out his hand.
Tyrion stood in the shadows. "Step back. I'll take it from here."
"Remember the bonus," Bronn said as he left.
Tyrion tossed him a gold dragon. Bronn caught it and tucked it straight into his breeches.
Tyrion stepped closer to the cross. "Well? Ready to tell the truth yet, Lord Baelish?"
Petyr's head lolled. Blood and spit dripped from his split lip. "Lord Hand… I don't know anything. Please…"
Tyrion looked over his shoulder and gestured.
Ser Ilyn Payne walked out of the dark corner, silent as a ghost. In one hand he held a pair of iron tongs. In the other, a dagger already glowing red from the brazier.
Tyrion introduced him cheerfully. "This is Ser Ilyn Payne, the king's headsman. Plenty of experience getting people to talk. My father always said he was the cruelest tool in his box."
Ilyn Payne didn't speak. He just held the hot blade up and watched it glow.
"See?" Tyrion said. "Professional."
Petyr's eyes went wide. He started thrashing against the ropes.
"No—no, I'll talk! It was me! I paid the whore's killer. I timed it so you'd be found with the body. I even sent the Gold Cloaks that night!"
Tyrion's face went cold. "You murdered an innocent girl just to frame me?"
"She was a whore," Petyr spat, desperate. "And she wasn't innocent. She told me everything about you—your habits, your questions, everything!"
Tyrion stared at him for a long second. Then his voice dropped. "What did you get out of it?"
Petyr swallowed. "I wanted your seat. Lord Tywin was already digging into you. If I helped bring you down, I could take your place on the Small Council."
Tyrion felt something cold settle in his chest. Pieces clicked into place.
That was why Genna had been rushed out of the city.
That was why Tywin had gone from cold dislike to murderous rage overnight.
All because Tyrion had started asking questions about his mother. About the night of Tywin's wedding.
"Father really is a petty bastard," Tyrion muttered. "All these years later and he still can't let it go."
Petyr stayed very still, watching Tyrion's face.
Tyrion looked up again. "That's not all. The Brave Companions. They tried to kill Lord Lucerys and pretended to be working for my father. That was you too, wasn't it?"
Petyr's eyes flicked sideways for half a second—too fast for most people to catch, but Tyrion had been watching liars his whole life.
Tyrion smiled without warmth. "Ser Ilyn. He's still holding back."
Ilyn Payne stepped forward again, tongs and glowing blade ready.
Petyr broke instantly. "It was me! I hired them! I told them to pose as Lannister men so it would look like Lord Tywin ordered the hit. I wanted the king to turn on your father, remove him from the council—clear the biggest obstacle in my way!"
Tyrion touched the golden Hand badge on his chest. "And you really thought you could sit here instead?"
Petyr looked down. For once he had nothing clever to say.
Tyrion wasn't interested in the man's tragic backstory anyway. "The Brave Companions got away. Their captain, Vargo Hoat—he's from Qohor. So tell me, Lord Baelish… what exactly do you have going on with Qohor?"