Tyrion sat at the very center of the council table, the seat his father had once occupied, with the Iron Throne at his back and the main doors directly before him. Thank the gods Joffrey could no longer sit here. If that boy had tried one of his grand speeches about royal fearlessness, Tyrion wouldn't have been able to lecture him the way his father did. He would have simply slapped him twice.
His brother stood at his side, cloaked in white. Lady Forlorn rested in its scabbard, the finest ever made in Gulltown. On the very night they returned to King's Landing, Jaime had sent the scabbard to the city's best armorer, who inlaid it with gold thread and set rubies into the fittings.
"I thought you'd stay with our sister," Tyrion said. "You're supposed to be her most loyal knight."
"She was displeased that I left without a word, so she found herself a new one," Jaime replied. "Tall, broad, wrapped in heavy armor, and never speaks. Boros Blount claims the man neither eats nor drinks. Balon Swann says he's never once seen him relieve himself."
"Hardly surprising. Cersei always finds a way to astonish," Tyrion said. "Still, I thought you were her knight forever."
"I was."
The doors to the Great Hall opened. Grand Maester Pycelle entered first. His clouded eyes froze when he saw Tyrion, and his beard and hair quivered together.
"Lord Tyrion!" he said, forcing a smile. "I didn't know you… when did you return?"
"Because you never write to me, Maester," Tyrion replied. "If you kept in closer contact, I might have brought you a small gift. Don't forget, I am Tywin's son."
He put deliberate weight on the name.
The Grand Maester nodded repeatedly and tried to take the seat beside him, but Tyrion pointed to the far end of the table instead. Pycelle sat down, visibly unwilling.
Next came Kevan Lannister and Harys Swyft, uncle and uncle's good-father, one an advisor and the other Master of Coin. Of course, Kevan was the advisor. He regarded any post short of Hand of the King as an insult.
"Tyrion!" Kevan said with genuine delight, sitting close beside him. Then, at once, "Why are you back? You should be at Harrenhal."
"The Riverlands are settled," Tyrion said. "Aunt Genna now holds the Twins. Edmure Tully is my goodbrother. I told you long ago, the Freys were unreliable. Allying with them only cheapened us."
"Then you should be heading north, not returning here," Kevan said. "Did the Bay of Carlin bar your passage? Did House Bolton defy your orders?"
"I had no intention of reaching the North through the Bay of Carlin. I have other allies there," Tyrion said. "And I didn't come back from the Riverlands. I came from Gulltown."
"Gulltown?" Kevan frowned, but Tyrion cut him off.
"We'll discuss it later, Uncle."
The last to enter were Queen Cersei and Qyburn, her Master of Whisperers. Behind them stood a towering Kingsguard knight, fully eight feet tall. His immense plate armor looked thicker than a man's palm, the sort that required several people to put on. Two, perhaps. If it were Pod and Edd, likely three.
So this was Cersei's new Kingsguard, Robert Strong.
Tyrion noted it silently. A product of Qyburn's black arts. He had no idea how formidable the thing truly was, but it was clearly not something to be taken lightly.
Cersei took the seat opposite Kevan, on Tyrion's other side, with Qyburn beside her. The Kingsguard stood behind the Queen like a bronze statue.
Tyrion studied the hollow helm and asked Jaime, "Brother, your new sworn brother? What's his name?"
"He's never spoken to me."
"Ser Robb Strong, my lord," Qyburn answered. "The knight has sworn a vow of silence until all of the Queen Mother's enemies are destroyed, and the demons of the Seven Kingdoms are purged."
"Robert Strong," Tyrion said with a nod. "Though I don't recall asking you, Qyburn."
He had long since lost any fondness for the mad maester who prized corpses above all else.
"Are you getting old, little brother? Is your hearing failing you?" Cersei laughed lightly. "Robb Strong, not Robert. Surely you're not still mourning your dead goodbrother?"
She let out a sharp, brittle laugh.
Robert Strong?
Tyrion fixed his gaze on the knight encased in plate. For a brief instant, icy blue eyes flashed within the empty helm.
This thing has a head.
Tyrion felt a jolt of shock. He clearly remembered Gregor Clegane's head being cut off by Oberyn Martell.
"The Hand of the King is weary, and his hearing has suffered," Cersei said calmly. Though she did not sit at the center, she directed the council with effortless authority. "Grand Maester Pycelle?"
"Yes, Your Grace," Pycelle rose, trembling. "Loras Tyrell has taken Dragonstone. He turned what should have been a bloodless victory into a massacre. A thousand men dead or grievously wounded, most of them ours. Not only common soldiers, but knights and young lords, the finest and bravest among us."
"And Ser Loras himself?" the Queen asked.
"He was the thousand and first. After the fighting ended, they carried him into the castle. His wounds are severe. He lost so much blood that the maesters dared not perform bloodletting to save him."
"Oh, how tragic," Cersei said softly. "Margaery must be beside herself. They were very close, those sisters."
"And the common folk," Qyburn added. "If Loras dies, maidens across the realm will weep until the rivers run dry."
In the Great Hall, every Lannister man fell silent. Only Pycelle's persistent coughing and Harys Swyft's blinking eyes broke the stillness.
What followed were minor matters. A letter from Roose Bolton, promising to deal with the usurper Stannis on behalf of the Queen Mother. Amusing, really. All three brothers had become usurpers in the end.
An envoy from the Iron Bank of Braavos demanded to know why the Iron Throne had failed to pay its interest on time. Cersei instructed Pycelle to respond with contemptuous excuses, which amounted to outright refusal. This would surely anger the Braavosi across the Narrow Sea, but Tyrion did not mind. He would handle it. Only Kevan spoke out in protest.
The final matter concerned the Stormlands. Mace Tyrell had written to say he was still besieging Storm's End, but many lesser castles in the region had fallen silent, and messengers sent to investigate had not returned.
The Golden Company has landed, Tyrion thought. They just don't know it yet.
At last, the meeting ended. The Grand Maester rose first, only to find that no one else moved.
"The remaining business is a Lannister family council," Tyrion said, tapping the table. "Grand Maester, Master of Whisperers, Master of Coin. We'll see you tomorrow."