On the Red Keep's outer wall, two figures—one tall, one short—stood looking down at the bustling construction site below.
Several workmen hammered away around the half-finished frame of an enormous wheeled palace.
They called it that because it wasn't just a carriage; it was a miniature palace on wheels.
The oak base was thick and glossy, reinforced with gold-trimmed metal struts. The whole thing stretched over thirty feet long and wide enough to take up the full breadth of the King's Road.
"My dear sweet sister really plans to ride this golden monster all the way to the North, creaking and groaning the whole trip?"
Tyrion Lannister—the Imp—tilted his oversized head. His mismatched black-and-green eyes sparkled with open amusement.
He stood on an oak stool so he could just see over the crenellations.
"Seven gods be good, and our beloved king actually agreed to it." His voice carried its usual rasp of mockery.
Joffrey leaned on the cold stone parapet and slipped into a perfect imitation.
"It is a necessary display of royal and Lannister prestige," he said, nailing Cersei's haughty tone.
Tyrion doubled over laughing so hard he nearly fell off the stool.
He had only ridden in yesterday along the Gold Road with two retainers, specifically for this journey.
When the Imp kept chuckling, Joffrey shrugged. "Mother's making the Lannisters foot the bill anyway. Not one copper from the royal treasury."
"Father just nods along."
"You Lannisters?" Tyrion stopped laughing. "My dear nephew, that sounds awfully distant."
"Lord Tywin is far warmer with you than he ever is with his actual son."
"Anyone watching would think you're the heir he's pinning all his hopes on."
Then his tone shifted. "Though that warmth might have cooled a bit lately."
"Your little speech in the small council got back to Casterly Rock word for word—courtesy of that old crow Pycelle."
"First time in my life I've seen Father… well, that openly emotional."
Below them, workers hauled over some pre-made sections and set them beside the massive carriage.
Joffrey looked away from the scene and tilted his head.
"Grandfather was angry?"
"Angry?" Tyrion grinned wide. "He was goddamn furious!"
"He's dreamed for years of coming back to King's Landing so everyone would remember who really keeps the realm running."
"The second old Jon died he packed his trunks, just waiting for the royal summons."
"And what did he get instead?"
"His favorite grandson stood up in open council and calmly ripped that dream to shreds with three airtight reasons."
"Hahahaha!"
Tyrion rocked with laughter, almost toppling off his stool again.
Joffrey stayed quiet.
Once the Imp caught his breath, he stretched up and gave Joffrey a pat on the back.
"Still… you weren't entirely wrong."
"Otherwise why the hell would I have come all the way from Casterly Rock?"
Joffrey was silent for a moment.
Down below, the craftsmen kept hammering. The golden framework stood out sharply against the lead-gray sky.
He glanced past the Mud Gate toward the busy harbor and spoke with quiet certainty.
"Grandfather sent you."
"More accurately, he suggested I come," Tyrion said, rubbing his fingers together. "He figured even a very mature twelve-year-old might need an adult around who actually understands family interests—someone to give the occasional nudge."
"Instead of letting my idiot sister spoil you rotten."
Joffrey turned, leaning back against the parapet, and met Tyrion's appraising stare.
The Imp lowered his voice.
"Father's angry, sure, but he also sees that at least part of what you did was to keep the Lannisters from becoming targets too soon."
"But I know Tywin Lannister better than anyone."
"He hates it when people make decisions for him."
"Especially when the golden child he's grooming starts thinking for himself."
Tyrion chuckled again.
"Your eldest uncle already caused him plenty of headaches. Pull another stunt like that and I'm worried the old lion's heart might give out from all the stress."
Joffrey's feelings were mixed. He had expected Tywin's rage.
But this whole arrangement felt like both a warning and an investment.
The main Lannister line had sent all three of its second-generation members to King's Landing.
Or two and a half, if you counted the dwarf.
And that half had been dispatched specifically to keep an eye on him.
Just then a servant came hurrying up the wall steps.
He bowed first to Joffrey, then to Tyrion.
"Your Grace, Master Tobho Mott sent word. The item you commissioned is finished."
Joffrey's brow lifted.
Faster than expected. Paying extra really did speed things up.
Tyrion's ears perked up instantly. "Oho, what secret treasure has our little prince been ordering behind everyone's back?"
"Just a sword," Joffrey said casually, waving the servant off to fetch it.
Moments later the man returned, panting, carrying a long wooden box covered in dark velvet.
Joffrey dismissed him again, then lifted the lid.
A finely made hand-and-a-half sword lay nestled in gray wool.
The blade was a dull deep-gray steel with a clear, deep fuller. The crossguard was simple, the hilt wrapped in dark brown leather.
The most striking detail was the pommel: a cleverly wrought wolf's head weighted for balance. Two tiny garnets formed the eyes—subtle, not flashy, yet carrying a wild, dangerous edge.
Tyrion leaned in and ran a finger along it.
"Wow…" He let out a low whistle and looked up at Joffrey. "This doesn't feel like your style at all."
"Let me guess—a little welcome gift for that Stark wolf pup?"
Joffrey didn't answer right away. He gripped the hilt, gave the blade a couple of practice swings, and listened to the low whistle of air.
Tyrion took two careful steps back.
"Easy there—that's not a training blade. You'll kill someone with that."
After testing it, Joffrey slid the sword back into the box and closed the lid.
Winterfell was a thousand miles away in a poor, frozen corner of the realm. He had zero interest in the place himself.
But winning over one more ally could save a lot of future headaches.
"I hear the Starks prefer useful, honest gifts over gaudy gold."
"Besides, one more friend is always better than one more enemy—especially up North. Don't you think, Uncle?"
Tyrion stared at him for several long seconds, then burst out laughing.
"If Father had come himself instead of turning back halfway to Casterly Rock, he might have been a little less pissed off."
He kicked the oak stool toward Joffrey, inviting him to sit.
"Looks like you've had plans for this northern trip for a while."
"And since your dear uncle is now your advisor… care to let me in on a few details?"