Daeron stayed at Dragon-Tongue Farm for a few days before slipping away under cover of darkness on Caraxes. He flew back to his own domain—the Prince's Hold.
After years of work, the Great Hall there had grown into something like a second capital. He planned to rest for a couple of days, harvest what was ready, gather some fresh flowers, maybe fish along the eastern shore. By the time he returned to King's Landing, the mess Tywin and the Velaryons were making of each other should be finished.
King's Landing.
Tyrion sat curled against the damp wall of his cell, one arm under his head. His mismatched eyes stayed open in the dark.
The heavy door slammed open.
"Tyrion. I came to see you again."
Jaime strode in, torchlight behind him.
"Brother—" Tyrion started to smile, then stopped. "You brought company?"
Several armed men followed Jaime inside. Sellswords, by the look of them. Hard faces, mixed gear.
"They're here to keep you alive," Jaime said. He explained the arrangement with Olenna Tyrell and how these men were the best protection he could scrape together on short notice.
Tyrion looked them over. One tall, lean man with a cocky stance caught his eye.
"We've met before, haven't we?"
Bronn gave a lazy nod. "Myr. I kept you breathing. You paid me in gold dragons afterward."
Tyrion's face lit up with recognition. "You. Good. You already saved me once. You can do it again. You're hired."
"Just him?" Jaime asked.
Tyrion shook his head. "Too many bodies in here will only draw attention. One is enough."
Jaime didn't argue. He promised he was still working on a way to get Tyrion out, then left with the rest of the sellswords.
Bronn dropped onto the bench outside the cell and started eating a green apple he'd pulled from somewhere.
"Fallen on hard times, have you, Lannister?"
Tyrion gave him a thin smile. "Get me out of here and I'll double whatever she's paying you."
Bronn raised an eyebrow, then shrugged and went back to his apple. "You're the genius. I'll just sit here and guard the genius."
Once Jaime was gone, Tyrion paced the filthy straw, turning over everything his brother had told him.
Olenna Tyrell wanted to save him.
Why?
She wasn't the type to help out of kindness. If she was moving while the king was away, she was doing it to gain something. And the only thing worth gaining right now was leverage against Tywin Lannister.
Tywin's real target wasn't Tyrion. It was House Velaryon.
If Tyrion stayed locked up, he couldn't use his position as Minister of Justice to slow Tywin down. But if he got out…
Tyrion stopped pacing and turned toward the neighboring cell.
"Ser Monford. Wake up."
Monford lay on the straw, pretending to sleep.
Tyrion tried a few more times. Nothing.
From outside the cell, Bronn spoke around a mouthful of apple. "Want me to wake him?"
"You have a method?"
"Not pretty. Works every time."
Tyrion sighed. "Fine. Double it."
Bronn stood, walked to the bars, and started untying his breeches. "I'm counting to three. If you're still asleep when I'm done, I'm pissing right here."
Monford sat up fast. "What the hell do you want, Lannister?"
Tyrion leaned against the bars. "I want to get you out of here. Or at least keep you alive long enough for the king to come back."
Monford gave a short, ugly laugh. "You're in the cell next to mine. How exactly are you going to save anyone?"
"Listen," Tyrion said. "My father isn't after me. He's after your house. I'm just convenient collateral. If you're convicted first, I go down with you. But if I get out, I can use my position to drag this out until the king returns. That's your only real chance."
Monford was impulsive, not stupid. He thought it through, then moved closer. "What do you need from me?"
Tyrion grinned. "Just stand there."
Before Monford could react, Tyrion grabbed him by the collar through the bars and slammed his face into the iron. His other fist followed, catching Monford square in the eye.
Bronn let out a low whistle.
Tyrion jumped back and started shouting. "Guards! Guards! Ser Monford's gone mad!"
Monford clutched his swelling eye, stunned and furious. "You little—"
The guards arrived quickly. Given that Tyrion was still technically the Minister of Justice, they took Monford's "attack" seriously and moved him to another cell, then reported the incident straight to the Hand.
Tywin listened to the report without expression.
"So the dwarf wants a full investigation. Claims he's innocent and demands to prove it."
He already knew Tyrion hadn't killed the whore. Someone else had done it and left the dagger behind. But the timing suited Tywin perfectly. While the king was gone, he had no intention of letting his second son walk free.
Tyrion was a stain on the Lannister name. Having him sit on the Small Council every day had been an insult Tywin had endured for the sake of appearances. Now he had the perfect excuse to remove him.
He gave the order. "Send someone to make him confess. Tell him if he cooperates, I'll let him take the black instead of swinging. Otherwise…"
The messenger left.
Tyrion received the offer in his cell. He didn't rage. He was quiet for a moment, then agreed.
With one condition.
He looked the messenger in the eye and said, "I'll confess. But I want my father to stand in front of everyone and declare me guilty himself."
Tywin received the message while stirring a fresh cup of coffee from the Prince's Hold. He took a slow sip of the bitter brew, then nodded.
"Very well. Let him have his audience."
The next morning, the throne room was packed.
Tywin sat on the Iron Throne in full authority. Olenna Tyrell and Prince Doran were present as jurors. Most of the Small Council and several great lords had been summoned.
"Bring in the prisoner," Tywin commanded.
Tyrion was led in between two guards. His clothes were rumpled, his hair a mess, but his eyes were clear.
Tywin looked down at him with open disgust. "Tyrion Lannister. You stand accused of murdering a whore in a brothel. Do you confess?"
The room went still.
Tyrion lifted his chin and met his father's gaze for the first time in public without flinching.
"Yes, my lord," he said. "I confess."
A ripple of surprise moved through the hall. Even Tywin's eyebrows rose slightly.
Tyrion didn't stop.
"I confess to many things," he continued, voice carrying. "When I was seven, I stole a maid's robe while she bathed and made her walk back to the Red Keep naked. When I was ten, I filled my uncle's boots with sheep dung and blamed a servant. At twelve, I—"
"Enough."
Tywin's voice cracked like a whip.
Tyrion kept going. "At thirteen I—"
"I said enough!"
Tywin rose from the Iron Throne, face dark with fury.
"You twisted, spiteful little creature. You have been a disgrace to this family since the day you were born. The only reason you still carry the Lannister name is because I cannot prove otherwise. Every day you wear our sigil is an insult to my father and his father before him."
Tyrion stared up at him, breathing hard.
"And yet here I stand," he said quietly. "Still breathing. Still wearing the lion. Still your son."
Tywin's hands tightened on the arms of the throne.
Tyrion's voice rose. "So tell me, Father. Who really wrote this little play? Was it me… or was it you?"