Tyrion rather liked Prince Oberyn, he decided.
It was natural, after all. He was practically obligated to like the man after he risked his life fighting the Mountain for Tyrion. Not that he had done it for Tyrion, but he didn't begrudge him that. He got to keep his head, and that was enough. And though Oberyn had offered him insult after insult, his tone had betrayed his true feelings. There was a touch of hostility at his name, and a little amusement, but no true venom.
Yes, Tyrion decided. I was sad to see him go.
And not a week after he had gone, a new curiosity had arrived at court. His concern in particular, given the man's allegiances.
Noho Dimittis, the Braavosi named himself. An interesting name for an interesting man. And though he was quite the dour and serious character, he had an interesting voice, too. There was that Braavosi tang in his manner of speaking, but there was some hint of something else that Tyrion could not quite discern.
And he had been hearing a lot of that voice, as of late. Noho was incessant in his hectoring.
When he paused for a breath, Tyrion had spoken frankly, "No, Lord Noho, I do not have an answer for you. The King's orders were quite clear. I beg patience. His Grace will meet with you when he can."
"Yet he understands why we cannot approve the bill of sale?"
Tyrion nodded tiredly, "I have informed him, and he has told me he does. It is not in the Iron Bank's interest to let foreign entities control it's vaults. He understands that perfectly well."
Noho had stalked off then, impatient. Two more days passed fruitlessly before Tyrion made his way to the King's solar to finally put the matter to rest. Why Tommen had insisted that Noho had to wait, Tyrion did not know, but he knew better than to question it.
The guards outside Tommen's solar let him in silently, standing to attention, and he came in and hopped up onto one of the chairs in the corner, and sat waiting with his hands in his lap. He looked over to Tommen's desk, and saw a stack of papers half as tall as him. They were rumpled, and the language on them looked... strange.
Possessed by his curiosity, Tyrion pulled one sheet off the heap and read it closely. It was nonsensical. He tried to pronounce the words, only for the sounds to emerge a garbled mess in his throat. Whatever language this was, it was unlike any Tyrion had seen before. He looked over at the rest of the desk, and making quite sure he was alone, flicked through the stack of papers.
They were all like the one he held in his hand. A complete mess of letters assembled in ways that could not possibly be words.
He quickly abandoned his search, however, when the door to the solar again opened. His father strode in, his face set into a frown. "Tyrion," he said, more an acknowledgement than a greeting.
"Father," Tyrion acknowledged him in turn. "I presume His Grace has summoned you here as well?"
"To oversee the negotiation, yes."
"I take it you don't approve," Tyrion deduced.
"It was as I said in the Small Council. One does not negotiate with the Iron Bank."
"And yet, here we are, preparing to negotiate." Tyrion frowned, "Why? If it were Joffrey or Jaime or anyone, you would not have allowed it."
His father turned to look at him. "What were you looking at when I walked in?"
Tyrion saw little harm in telling the truth, and showed his father the sheet of paper, "This."
"Tell me, Tyrion, were you able to understand a word?"
Tyrion shook his head, "No. It's nonsense, anyhow."
"When Tommen arranged to have you freed with that farce of a trial, I was displeased," he said. "I went to confront him, and he told me he knew you were innocent. Not that he suspected, not that he thought or believed, but that he knew you were innocent with the same certainty that I know I am a Lannister."
He isn't a mage, my lord, he's a dreamer. Tyrion listened to his father with rapt attention as he asked, "How?"
"Spies," Tywin said, much to Tyrion's own confusion. "Or so he claimed. A network so vast and powerful that it put the combined efforts of Varys and Baelish to shame. And he did this as a mere boy. The tall tales of a child, or so I thought, but his tales turned true."
"He has spies?" Tyrion asked, though he did not really feel the surprise that laced his tone. He was smiling. "Tommen?"
"I had his rooms searched whilst he was in court," his father said, as though it were the most normal thing in the world to do to a King. "The men found a sheaf of papers, three-dozen pages thick, just like this."
Tyrion stared at the page again, and suddenly saw a method to the madness scrawled onto the page. There were blotches of ink scattered about, and the script was untidy and looked hastily put down. Some of it was almost recognisable, but it's meaning evaded Tyrion. It looked as though a child, or perhaps a commoner, had written it, "And you think they come from his spies?"
"Where else?" Tywin asked. "And why else would the King keep nonsense on his desk?"
"If His Grace can do that..."
"Then what else can he do?" Tywin finished his thought. "What else will he do? Tommen has not proven such a failure as Joffrey. He is no fool. But he must learn. And he can only learn by doing."
Tyrion quirked an eyebrow, "High praise, coming from you."
It was at that moment that Tommen finally strode into the room, a faint smile on his lips. "Uncle! Grandfather! I trust you are both well?"
"Well enough, nephew," Tyrion said as Tommen rounded the desk and sat in his chair, reciprocating Tommen's familiar tone.
Tommen sighted the papers on his desk, and picked one up. "Tell me," he said, the slightest smirk on his face, "have you figured out what they say?"
"No," Tywin said back. And though his father betrayed nothing in his expression, there was a certain curtness in his tone that exposed his irritation.
"Good," Tommen simply responded. "After all, what use would a code be if you could read it?"
"Don't you think," his father said, "that you should tell me your plans? Given I am your hand?"
"I tell you as much as you need to know," Tommen replied as he shuffled through his papers. "And no more."
Tywin raised the sheet in his hand, "And this? Is there nothing I need to know about this?"
Tommen gave an exasperated sigh, and turned to look at Lord Tywin, "What is there to tell? My spies send me reports, and I read them. You've had my rooms searched, I'm sure. You know this."
"Is this why we don't have a Master of Whispers?" Tyrion broke in.
"Partially," Tommen said. "That, and I have yet to find anyone I can truly trust with the task. The last one was a traitor."
"Varys?" Tyrion questioned.
Tommen nodded tiredly, "Yes. A Targaryen loyalist through and through, that one. Such a shame. He and Baelish were at one time the best at their craft in all of Westeros, perhaps even the world. So good, in fact, that I had little choice but to kill him once his true loyalties were revealed to me. A man like that is too dangerous an enemy to leave alive."
Tyrion sat stunned. Did father know? He looked over, and saw just the slightest quirking of a single eyebrow. No, then, he hadn't known. But he didn't seem surprised, either. He suspected it. Tyrion had had his own suspicions, of course, but to hear it said openly was entirely a different matter...
"Aegon," he mumbled, suddenly holding Varys's dying body in his arms again. Blood soaked his palms, the air blew in cold-
"What?" Tommen snapped, frowning. "What did you say?"
Tyrion snapped back to the present, his nephew's eyes locked on his own, his gaze intense. Tyrion shook his head, "Nothing."
Tommen's eyes flashed with suspicion, "No, you said something: 'Aegon.' Where did you hear that name?"
"Varys," Tyrion admitted. "It was one of his last words when he died."
"Any more last words?" his father asked, his manner of speaking suddenly rich with scorn.
"No need," Tommen said. "Let me guess, he mentioned something about the 'one true king,' didn't he?"
Tyrion nodded dumbly. How?
Tommen sighed again, shut his eyes tight, and rubbed his brow as though he were attempting to dispel a headache.
...
If you want to read ahead of the public release, or just want to support me.
you can join my p atreon :
[email protected]/Nolma