The meal before him looked rich enough to tempt even a starving sellsword—sausages browned in dripping fat, fried eggs glistening with oil, and a steaming bowl of thick, meaty gruel. But Tyrion Lannister had no appetite. His nerves coiled tighter than a crossbow string, his stomach a twisted knot that felt as though someone had poured crushed lemons and sour bile inside.
He gripped the dagger at his side, stabbed it into one of the sausages, and spun it across the plate. In his imagination, it was not meat he pierced but his elder sister—his dear, deranged Cersei, who wanted him dead.
"Bronn," Tyrion muttered under his breath, though the sellsword was far away by now, "I do hope you managed to deliver the message. My father—no matter how much he despises me—should at least give me a chance to speak."
The plea came out half as a prayer, half as a curse. "Father, just Father, help me," he whispered to the shadows. "If ever there was a time to play the dutiful parent, it is now."
Tyrion had never been particularly devout, but that night he found himself silently calling upon all Seven Gods, begging for a scrap of mercy.
A voice, deep and commanding, interrupted his thoughts.
"What? Not hungry?"
Tyrion nearly jumped, then turned and blinked in surprise.
Outside the cell door stood Lord Tywin Lannister—his father, tall and imperious, clad in a deep purple velvet coat. Around his neck gleamed the golden Hand of the King brooch, a symbol of his authority and unyielding power.
Tyrion forced a crooked smile. "I thought you weren't coming." He shoved the sausage into his mouth and mumbled, "My good father, surely you don't mean to talk to your son through an iron door?"
Tywin's pale green eyes flashed with contempt. "Swallow before you speak. Even a dwarf should understand basic courtesy."
Tyrion hurriedly chewed, swallowed, and bowed in exaggerated politeness. "As you say. My good father, surely you don't mean to talk to your son through a door?"
Tywin didn't answer. Instead, he glanced at the guard, whose trembling hands fumbled for a ring of keys. The cell door creaked open.
"Please, sit," Tyrion offered, wiping dust from a stool with his sleeve.
As he did, his eyes flicked to the doorway. There loomed Ser Ilyn Payne—the royal executioner, mute and terrifying, who had once swung the greatsword Ice to cut down Eddard Stark. Tyrion shivered. If this conversation soured, he had no doubt Payne's rune-etched blade would soon drink his blood.
Tywin entered without ceremony. "Flattery will not save you, Tyrion. Say what you must. My time is valuable."
Tyrion studied his father's cold, expressionless face. He had planned to name the true culprit behind Joffrey's murder, to plead for justice, but in that instant realization struck like a thunderbolt.
"You already know," Tyrion blurted, eyes widening. "You already know who killed Joffrey, don't you?"
Tywin's gaze sharpened. "Lower your voice. At the Red Keep, we speak calmly and steadily. Shouting marks you a fool." His tone betrayed nothing—neither admission nor denial. "If this is all, I'll leave."
"Why?" Tyrion slammed his hand on the table, his voice trembling with outrage. "The Tyrells killed Joffrey! They had the motive, the means, everything to gain. Why should I wear the blame for their crime? What is it you want, Father? What game are you playing?"
Before Tywin could answer, steel rasped outside the cell. A sword flashed, and a scream echoed—a guard's death cry, short and pitiful.
Tyrion's blood turned cold. He knew the voice.
Tywin didn't so much as glance at the commotion. "I warned you to keep steady. That man had a wife, children. After the trial he would have gone home. Now he is dead." His tone was cool, almost bored, as though reciting market tallies.
"Spare me your hypocrisy," Tyrion spat. "You killed him, not I."
The dwarf collapsed back onto his stool. He had prepared countless arguments, but all seemed useless before his father's implacable will. Tywin did not see him as a son, but as a dung-smeared chess piece to be moved or discarded at convenience.
"No matter how much you hate me," Tyrion said hoarsely, "at least explain what you expect of me. Do not throw your decisions at me like the decree of some cruel god."
He rose, fists clenched, voice breaking into a desperate scream. "Even if I am a dwarf, even if I am the shame of House Lannister—I will resist you, Father!"
For a moment, fire burned in his chest. He felt reckless, fearless, almost free. But when Tywin's pale green eyes narrowed, glimmering like molten gold, Tyrion faltered and looked away.
At length, Tywin spoke. "Do you remember Janos Slynt?"
"Of course. The butcher's son. Once Commander of the City Watch, now Lord of Harrenhal. I'm the one who sent him to the Wall."
Tywin's lips curved faintly. "A raven arrived from him days ago. It claims that Eddard Karstark, in league with Jon Snow—who has been named Lord Commander of the Night's Watch—stirred a civil war among the wildlings. In the chaos, he led the remnants through the Wall. Sixty thousand of them, Tyrion. Along with three hundred giants and one hundred mammoths."
Tyrion gaped. "Jon Snow, Commander? Impossible! And the Watch letting wildlings through? They've fought for thousands of years!"
"Eddard Karstark marched north with three thousand soldiers," Tywin replied. "More than enough to force a vote. He bought support with grain and recruits. The Watch accepted."
Tyrion exhaled a low whistle. "Iron in one hand, honey in the other. That Karstark is more cunning than I thought. And Jon Snow… well, even bastards can be useful when their siblings hold power."
Tywin's expression hardened. "Do not mistake loyalty. The Night's Watch may claim neutrality, but what matters is those sixty thousand wildlings. If absorbed by the Starks, they become a sword at our throats."
Tyrion chuckled bitterly. "Ah, I see your game. You mean to throw me north, dressed in black, to tame these wildlings before they can be turned against you."
His father's silence was answer enough.
"I will give you three hundred Lannister men," Tywin said at last. "They'll don black cloaks and serve at the Wall with you. The Redwyne fleet will supply the Watch in the king's name. Win influence, control those savages, and prevent them marching south."
Tyrion narrowed his eyes, for a heartbeat resembling his father more than he wished. He considered the plan's merit, then shook his head. "The Wall is Stark territory. Sending me there is a death sentence. And Karstark may already have scattered those wildlings across the North."
"Winter is coming," Tywin countered. "He lacks grain to feed them all. He'll take some, leave many. Those who remain are your opportunity."
Tyrion grunted. "And the prisoner exchange? We already promised the North grain to ransom their lords."
"I will delay it." Tywin's voice was steel. "Confess your guilt at the trial, and this charade ends. Tommen will wed Margaery Tyrell, then I'll send them both to Casterly Rock. A true king cannot grow in King's Landing, among vipers."
For once, Tyrion laughed. "On that point, Father, I agree with both hands and feet."
"Do not flatter me."
Unmoved, Tywin pressed on, outlining plans: Randyll Tarly to feign an attack on Harrenhal, Davos and Loras to strike Golden Tooth, a feint to distract the Tullys and Boltons.
"And Stannis?" Tyrion interjected. "He still holds twenty thousand men and the fleet of Dragonstone. He won't stand idle."
"Littlefinger." Tywin's eyes glinted cold. "Evidence ties him to Joffrey's murder. I sent a raven—he must return to prove innocence, or bring the Vale's knights against Stannis. If he refuses, I'll unleash the Redwyne fleet at Gulltown. The Vale's loyalty is to House Arryn, not a jumped-up Baelish."
At last, Tywin stood, towering over his son. "You know my design. Now give me your answer."
Tyrion rose, hands spread in surrender. "Very well. I'll plead guilty. Lord Commander Mormont once told me I belonged at the Wall. Seems he was right. Damn him."
"Good." Tywin turned to leave. "After the trial, you'll depart at once."
Tyrion followed, only to see his squire, Podrick Payne, pinned to the ground by Ilyn Payne. The greatsword Ice gleamed ominously nearby.
Tywin's gaze was cold—one more witness to a dangerous secret.
"Podrick Payne is the most loyal squire I've ever had," Tyrion said quickly. "Cersei herself offered him knighthood to betray me, and he refused. Father, I need him."
For a long moment, Tywin considered. Then he said, "Loyalty deserves reward. Podrick, tomorrow you'll be knighted. But when Tyrion dons the black, you will go with him. Do you accept?"
Terrified, the boy stammered, "Y-yes, my lord. I will."
"Good."
Tywin swept away, Ilyn Payne at his side.
Tyrion clapped Podrick on the shoulder. "Well then, Ser Podrick Payne. Best steel yourself. We're bound for the Wall."
The boy nodded, pale but resolute. "Wherever you go, my lord, I'll follow."
Tyrion managed a weary smile. "That's the spirit."
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