Free A Clash of Kings by George R.R. Martin

may not.”
    A small victory,
he thought,
but sweet.
He had passed his
first test. Tyrion Lannister shouldered through the door, feeling almost tall.
Five members of the king’s small council broke off their discussion suddenly.
“You,” his sister Cersei said in a tone that was equal parts disbelief and
distaste.
    “I can see where Joffrey learned his courtesies.” Tyrion paused to admire the
pair of Valyrian sphinxes that guarded the door, affecting an air of casual
confidence. Cersei could smell weakness the way a dog smells fear.
    “What are you doing here?” His sister’s lovely green eyes studied him without
the least hint of affection.
    “Delivering a letter from our lord father.” He sauntered to the table and
placed the tightly rolled parchment between them.
    The eunuch Varys took the letter and turned it in his delicate powdered hands.
“How kind of Lord Tywin. And his sealing wax is such a lovely shade of gold.”
Varys gave the seal a close inspection. “It gives every appearance of being
genuine.”
    “Of course it’s genuine.” Cersei snatched it out of his hands. She broke the
wax and unrolled the parchment.
    Tyrion watched her read. His sister had taken the king’s seat for
herself—he gathered Joffrey did not often trouble to attend council
meetings, no more than Robert had—so Tyrion climbed up into the Hand’s
chair. It seemed only appropriate.
    “This is absurd,” the queen said at last. “My lord father has sent my
brother to sit in his place in this council. He bids us accept Tyrion as the
Hand of the King, until such time as he himself can join us.”
    Grand Maester Pycelle stroked his flowing white beard and nodded ponderously.
“It would seem that a welcome is in order.”
    “Indeed.” Jowly, balding Janos Slynt looked rather like a frog, a smug frog
who had gotten rather above himself. “We have sore need of you, my lord.
Rebellion everywhere, this grim omen in the sky, rioting in the city
streets . . .”
    “And whose fault is that, Lord Janos?” Cersei lashed out. “Your gold cloaks
are charged with keeping order. As to you, Tyrion, you could better serve us on
the field of battle.”
    He laughed. “No, I’m done with fields of battle, thank you. I sit a chair
better than a horse, and I’d sooner hold a wine goblet than a battle-axe. All
that about the thunder of the drums, sunlight flashing on armor, magnificent
destriers snorting and prancing? Well, the drums gave me headaches, the
sunlight flashing on my armor cooked me up like a harvest day goose, and those
magnificent destriers shit
everywhere.
Not that I am complaining.
Compared to the hospitality I enjoyed in the Vale of Arryn, drums, horseshit,
and fly bites are my favorite things.”
    Littlefinger laughed. “Well said, Lannister. A man after my own
heart.”
    Tyrion smiled at him, remembering a certain dagger with a dragonbone hilt and a
Valyrian steel blade.
We must have a talk about that, and soon.
He
wondered if Lord Petyr would find that subject amusing as well. “Please,” he
told them, “do let me be of service, in whatever
small
way I
can.”
    Cersei read the letter again. “How many men have you brought with
you?”
    “A few hundred. My own men, chiefly. Father was loath to part with any of his.
He
is
fighting a war, after all.”
    “What use will your few hundred men be if Renly marches on the city, or
Stannis sails from Dragonstone? I ask for an army and my father sends me a
dwarf. The
king
names the Hand, with the consent of council. Joffrey
named our lord father.”
    “And our lord father named me.”
    “He cannot do that. Not without Joff’s consent.”
    “Lord Tywin is at Harrenhal with his host, if you’d care to take it up with
him,” Tyrion said politely. “My lords, perchance you would permit me a
private word with my sister?”
    Varys slithered to his feet, smiling in that unctuous way he had. “How you
must have yearned for the