Game of Thrones: Nero King of Knight
Game of Thrones: King of River
Game of Thrones: Lord of the Deep Forest
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"Arrest?"
Jaime blinked, confusion plain on his face.
What the hell did Tywin mean, House Velaryon colluding with foreign powers and leaking the secret wind-rider sails formula? And now he wanted Monford Velaryon dragged in?
Lord Lucerys was Master of Ships and fleet commander. The man was out at sea right now.
"Something wrong?"
Tywin lifted his eyes, voice flat and final.
Jaime held the arrest warrant, hesitating. "Does the king know about this?"
Tywin rose slowly, staring down his thick-headed eldest son. "I am the Hand."
There was an old saying in the Seven Kingdoms: the king shits and the Hand wipes his ass. Change a few words and it still fit. The king was gone. The Hand ran the realm.
"Now. Get moving."
Tywin wasn't joking. He jabbed a thick finger toward the door.
"Yes, my lord."
Jaime didn't argue. He turned and strode out.
At the Red Keep gates the Lannister brothers crossed paths.
"Hey, big brother. Where you rushing off to?"
Tyrion swaggered up, watching Jaime hurry past.
Jaime swung into the saddle, face tight. He kept his mouth shut—orders were orders—and rode out with a column of Lannister men behind him.
"Strange."
Tyrion frowned. His gut said something was off, but he had work to do. He still had to meet Ser Monford Velaryon about shipping supplies across the Narrow Sea for the Myr campaign. No time to chase shadows.
"After this I'm finding some good wine," he muttered, already tasting it. "Reward myself."
While Jaime rode, Tywin sat behind his desk and sent for his two favorite hounds.
"My lord?"
Sandor stood tall in full Clegane plate. Ilyn Payne just stared, tongue long gone, hands twitching like he wanted to speak but couldn't.
Tywin didn't waste breath. "Tyrion's been hard to find lately. Either of you know what he's up to?"
"Don't know," Sandor said at once.
Ilyn shot him a cold sideways look and made quick gestures with his hands.
Tywin understood the message: the Hound was protecting the dwarf.
"Fuck's sake," Sandor muttered under his breath.
"Speak plain, Sandor."
Tywin's voice could cut steel.
Sandor gave in. "Young Master Tyrion's been visiting Lady Genna every day. Pops in on Lady Cersei now and then. The rest of the time he's in the brothels."
"Has he said anything? Done anything worth noting?"
"Don't know."
Sandor wasn't lying. He really didn't.
Tywin's frown deepened.
"My lord, ask Littlefinger," Sandor offered. "He runs the biggest whorehouse in the city. Those girls talk to him."
Petyr Baelish was dragged in a few minutes later, wearing his usual oily smile.
"My lord. You wanted to see me?"
Tywin didn't bother with pleasantries. "Everything you have on Tyrion. Now."
Petyr knew which way the wind blew. He spilled it all—every visit to Genna, every night in the brothels, every question about the late King Aerys and the late Lady Joanna.
Tywin listened in silence, face growing darker by the second.
When Petyr finished he leaned in and dropped his voice. "Lord Tyrion's been digging into old King Aerys's private business. And he keeps asking old servants about Lady Joanna. Every little detail."
The quill in Tywin's hand snapped clean in two.
His voice came out low and shaking with rage he could barely leash. "Bring that little bastard to me. Throw him in the Red Keep dungeons."
Noon, 11:30.
Tyrion finished his paperwork, grabbed a decent bottle of red, and headed for Littlefinger's place with a spring in his step. The girls there were top quality—different flavors from every corner of the realm. He had a favorite waiting.
The young madam greeted him with a big fake smile. "Tyrion, my lord. Always a pleasure."
"Send Asha up," he said and climbed the stairs.
He pushed open the door to the usual room and stopped cold.
Asha lay naked on the bed, a dagger buried in her throat. Blood soaked the sheets and pooled on the floor.
The wine bottle slipped from his fingers and shattered.
"What the fuck—?"
Heavy boots thundered up the stairs. Gold Cloaks burst in, swords drawn.
"On the floor! Now!"
Tyrion raised his hands. "It wasn't me. She was already dead when I got here."
The captain didn't care. He backhanded Tyrion hard enough to knock him down, then the rest swarmed in and tied him like a hog for market.
"I'm being framed—"
Nobody listened.
At the Mud Gate, Ser Monford Velaryon was checking cargo manifests when Jaime rode up with a squad of Lannister men.
Monford looked up, already scowling at the golden hair. "Lannister. What do you want?"
Jaime dismounted, pulled the warrant from his cloak, and held it out. "You're coming with me, Velaryon."
Monford read the charges—collusion, leaking the secret sail formula—and his face went red. "You've lost your fucking mind. I'm the king's customs officer. You don't get to arrest me."
"Wrong," Jaime said calmly. "The Hand is arresting you. That's the king's authority while he's gone."
Monford drew his sword. "Try it."
Jaime drew his own blade—Valyrian steel, pale and deadly. "You first."
Monford attacked fast and hard. Jaime blocked every swing without breaking a sweat, then countered. Steel rang. Monford's sword snapped in half. Jaime's next cut opened the back of Monford's leg. The Velaryon heir dropped to one knee, cursing through the pain.
Jaime punched him in the face for good measure. "Lock him up."
By mid-afternoon the Red Keep was buzzing.
House Velaryon accused of treason. Ser Monford arrested and thrown in the black cells. Tyrion Lannister, Minister of Justice, arrested for murdering a whore in a brothel.
At the Small Council table Lord Corlton leaned forward. "My lord Hand, House Velaryon committing treason? That doesn't make sense."
Lord Mace, Lord Owen, and Davos all nodded. They could believe corruption. Treason was another thing entirely.
Tywin's face stayed stone. He tossed a sheaf of papers onto the table. "Transaction records between House Velaryon and Qohor. Qohor supplied mithril and blood sacrifices. Velaryon paid in gold and intelligence from the Seven Kingdoms. Read it. Then tell me I'm wrong."