Chapter 32: The Lion's Reply and the Dwarf's Gambit
In the aftermath of the Queen's madness, a new and heavier silence descended upon the Red Keep. The fragile peace King Robert had forged was predicated on the god's indifference, an indifference his own wife had shattered. The judgment he had passed on Cersei—stripping her of her title, confining her to the Maidenvault for life—was a desperate gambit, a sacrifice thrown to a silent, watching storm cloud in the hope that it would appease its wrath. For days, the entire court, from the King himself down to the lowliest kitchen scrub, walked on eggshells, listening for the tell-tale rumble of thunder that would signal their doom.
But the thunder did not come. The god in the gutter remained in his tavern, silent, drinking, seemingly oblivious to the political earthquake his personal judgment had caused. The immediate terror began to recede, replaced by a deep, gnawing uncertainty. The god had not retaliated, but he had not approved, either. He had simply… watched. And the Small Council was left to deal with the shrapnel of a shattered royal marriage and a broken Great House.
The raven from Casterly Rock was an object of immense dread when it arrived. The lords of the council gathered in the throne room, the Iron Throne looming behind Robert's simple chair like a monument to a more complicated age. They expected a roar of fury from the Lion of the West. They expected Tywin Lannister, even in his humbled state, to protest the shame brought upon his daughter, to issue threats, to recall his banners and plunge the West into a bitter, isolated rebellion. Grand Maester Pycelle, his hands trembling, unsealed the scroll, his loyalty to his Lannister patrons at war with his fear of his Baratheon king. Jon Arryn stood beside the King, his face a mask of grim readiness, prepared for the next phase of the crisis.
He read the letter aloud, his voice steady, but as he progressed, a look of profound, stunned disbelief spread across his face, mirrored by every other man in the room.
The letter was not a protest. It was an endorsement.
Written in Tywin Lannister's cold, precise script, it was a masterpiece of political pragmatism and paternal brutality. It began by offering his 'sincerest, deepest regrets' to the King and the realm for the 'shameful and witless actions' of his daughter. It spoke of her 'prideful folly' and the 'grievous insult' her actions had represented to the 'foundations of peace' that King Robert had so wisely established.
Then came the hammer blow.
"In light of her crimes against the Crown and the stability of the Seven Kingdoms," Jon Arryn read, his voice faltering slightly at the sheer ruthlessness of the words, "and in recognition of the King's just and necessary verdict, I, Tywin of House Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock and Warden of the West, do hereby declare the woman formerly known as Cersei Lannister to be disowned from our House. Her name shall be struck from our histories. Her actions are her own. Her debts, both moral and political, are her own. House Lannister casts her out, and she is Lannister no more."
A wave of shock so profound it was almost audible washed through the throne room. Ned Stark, who had believed he understood the coldness of the world, felt a chill that had nothing to do with the stone walls around him. To so utterly and publicly destroy one's own child… it was a horror beyond his reckoning.
But Robert Baratheon… Robert began to laugh.
It was not his usual booming, boisterous laugh. It was a sharp, barking, incredulous sound. "Gods be good," he gasped, wiping a tear of mirth from his eye. "He did it. The old lion actually did it. He cut off his own paw because it was caught in a trap." He looked around at the stunned faces of his council. "Don't you see? We've won! He's broken! Tywin Lannister has folded! He has thrown his own daughter, his own Queen, to the wolves to save his own mangy hide!"
The laughter was cruel, triumphant, and laced with the deep, satisfying relief of a man who had been spared the gallows. Tywin's letter was not just an abdication of responsibility; it was an act of absolute submission. It was Tywin Lannister, on his knees, acknowledging the new power structure of the world. He was terrified of the god, and he was sacrificing his daughter to appease him.
The letter had one final, unexpected addendum.
"To demonstrate the continued loyalty of the Westerlands to the Iron Throne," Jon Arryn read, his expression now one of deep curiosity, "and to serve as my eyes and ears in the King's court, I am sending my son and heir to King's Landing. He will take up residence in the city to represent the interests of our House and to learn at the feet of the King's wisdom. I trust you will welcome Tyrion Lannister to your council."
The name hung in the air, another shocking, bizarre twist. Tyrion. The dwarf. The imp. The twisted, drunken, whoring son that Tywin Lannister famously despised. He was sending him?
"It's an insult!" Lord Stannis declared, his face a mask of disapproval. "He sends us his monstrosity to mock us."
"No," Varys said, speaking for the first time, his voice a soft counterpoint to the lords' confusion. "It is not an insult, Lord Stannis. It is the cleverest move Lord Tywin has left to play."
All eyes turned to the Spider.
"Lord Tywin cannot send a warrior, for we know his armies are ash," Varys explained, his tone that of a lecturer. "He cannot send a great lord, for his power is broken and would be seen as a threat. He cannot send a loyal son like Ser Kevan, for that would imply he is still trying to wield influence. So he sends the son he is famous for hating. He sends a dwarf. A creature the court will mock and underestimate. He sends a message of his own weakness. 'See how humbled I am,' he is saying. 'I send you my least and lowest.' But we all know the tales of the dwarf's mind. He does not send a sword. He sends a dagger, hidden in a fool's motley. A very, very sharp one."
Ned Stark felt a grudging respect for the cold, terrible cunning of Tywin Lannister. Even in his defeat, the man was still playing the game, still moving his pieces. And he was sacrificing not one, but two of his children to do so—Cersei to the Maidenvault, and now Tyrion to the viper's nest of King's Landing.
"Let him come," Robert finally said, his good humour restored. "What harm can a dwarf do? It will be amusing to have a new fool for the court." He slapped his knee. "The matter is settled. The Lions have been neutered. Now, about the price of grain in the Reach…"
The council moved on, the crisis averted. But Ned Stark could not shake a deep sense of unease. A new piece was being placed on the board, a piece whose nature no one truly understood. And he was being sent directly into the shadow of the god.
The conversation between Tywin and Tyrion Lannister was brief, brutal, and devoid of all paternal affection. It took place in the cold, echoing silence of the Hall of Heroes at Casterly Rock.
"You are going to King's Landing," Tywin stated, his back to his son as he stared up at the towering statue of Lann the Clever.
"Am I?" Tyrion replied, swirling a cup of wine he had poured for himself. "I thought the capital was rather unhealthy for our family as of late. I hear the weather is dreadful."
Tywin turned, his pale green eyes fixing on his son with a gaze as cold as a winter sea. "Your sister, in her infinite and spectacular stupidity, has managed to achieve what the Reynes, the Tarbecks, and the combined armies of the rebellion could not. She has brought this House to its knees. She is a disgraced prisoner, and I have disowned her."
Tyrion raised an eyebrow, his cynical mask firmly in place, though inside he felt a flicker of genuine shock. Disowned. The old man had actually done it.
"Her foolishness has left a vacuum," Tywin continued. "The King needs to believe that the Westerlands are no threat. The court needs a Lannister to mock, to feel superior to. You fit that role perfectly."
"How kind of you to say so, Father," Tyrion said, giving a small, mocking bow. "I am, as always, here to serve the family's needs. Particularly when it involves public humiliation."
"Do not be deliberately obtuse," Tywin snapped. "Your role is not to be a fool. Your role is to be seen as a fool. You will go to King's Landing. You will drink. You will whore. You will make crude jokes. You will be the Imp they all expect you to be. And while you are doing so, you will listen. You will watch. You will learn everything there is to know about this new king and his court. You will assess the true loyalties of every lord. You will be my eyes and ears."
He paused, his gaze intensifying. "And you will learn about the god."
Tyrion stopped swirling his wine. "Ah," he said softly. "There it is. The heart of the matter."
"He is the only thing that matters," Tywin said, his voice dropping to a low, intense whisper. "He is the only power in this world. I tried to understand him through the lens of politics and power. It was a mistake. He is not a king. He is not a general. He is something… other. I need to know what he is. You have a mind for books, for puzzles, for things others overlook. You will go to that city, and you will study him. From a safe distance. You will learn his habits, his moods, his weaknesses. For everything that lives has a weakness, Tyrion. Your task is to find his."
Tyrion took a long sip of wine, his mind racing. It was a suicide mission. A post as an observer at the foot of a volcano. But it was also the first time in his life his father had ever acknowledged the value of his mind. The first time he had been given a task worthy of his intelligence. It was a poisoned chalice, but it was a chalice nonetheless.
"And what if this god decides he does not like being studied?" Tyrion asked.
"Then he will kill you," Tywin said, with no hint of emotion. "And I will have lost nothing of value."
The words were as cruel as a slap in the face, but Tyrion had built a lifetime of calluses against them. He simply smiled his crooked smile. "Very well, Father. I accept this great honour. I shall be your loyal spy in the court of the Stag King, right next door to the tavern of the Storm God. What could possibly go wrong?"
He drained his cup. "I shall leave on the morrow. The sooner I get there, the sooner I can begin my important work at the local brothels."
He turned and walked away, his uneven gait echoing in the great hall, leaving his father alone with the statues of their glorious ancestors. It was a fool's errand, a dangerous game. But Tyrion Lannister, for all his cynicism, felt a thrill he had not felt in years. The world was broken, chaotic, and terrifying. And he, the reviled dwarf, was being sent to the very center of it. He was finally being let into the game.
Tyrion's arrival in King's Landing was met with a mixture of scorn, pity, and intense curiosity. He rode through the gates in a small, modest litter, his guards bearing a chastened Lannister banner. He was summoned to the Red Keep, where he endured the mocking gaze of King Robert and the wary scrutiny of the Small Council. He played his part perfectly. He was deferential, witty, self-deprecating. He made jokes about his height and his family's sudden reversal of fortune. He assured them he was there only to drink their wine and enjoy the capital's many pleasures. He was dismissed as a harmless, amusing grotesque, just as his father had intended.
But after the official welcome was over, Tyrion did not retire to the lavish manse that had been assigned to him. He dismissed his guards and, dressed in a simple, hooded cloak, he walked out of the Red Keep alone. He made his way down Aegon's High Hill, his sharp eyes taking in everything. He saw the fear in the city, the strange, reverent quiet. He saw the Gods' Tree in the plaza, its presence a silent, powerful testament.
And he walked into Flea Bottom.
The district was a revelation. It was still a slum, but it was a slum with a soul. There was a strange sense of community here, of order amidst the chaos. He saw the pilgrims, the preachers, the shrines. He saw the way the Gold Cloaks patrolled the edge of the district but dared not enter. This was a nation within a nation.
His destination was The Grinning Pig. He did not go inside. He found a rival establishment across the street, a dingy alehouse whose only virtue was a grimy window with a direct view of the temple's entrance. He ordered a cup of sour wine, took a seat in a dark corner, and he began his true work.
He began to watch.
He watched the comings and goings of the faithful. He listened to the sermons of the Storm-Crier. He saw the quiet acts of charity and the swift, silent justice that kept the peace. And he watched the door of the tavern, waiting for a glimpse of the being who had broken his father's mind and his family's power.
For hours he sat, nursing his wine, his mind alive with speculation. What kind of being was this? A creature of immense, world-breaking power who chose to live in a hovel and drink himself into a stupor. A being who had executed a king and slaughtered an army, and now spent his days in silent, drunken contemplation. It was the greatest puzzle, the most fascinating paradox he had ever encountered.
As dusk fell, the door to The Grinning Pig opened. And Tyrion Lannister, the Imp, the cleverest dwarf in Westeros, got his first look at the god.
He was immense. A giant of a man who had to duck to get through the doorway. He was drunk, swaying slightly on his feet, his eyes unfocused. He looked like nothing more than a broken-hearted sellsword at the end of a long, hard life. He stood there for a moment, blinking in the fading light, then turned and shuffled back into the darkness of the tavern.
Tyrion let out a breath he didn't realize he had been holding. He looked at the hulking, pathetic figure, and he did not feel fear. He felt a profound, electrifying curiosity. The lords of the realm saw a monster, a threat, a natural disaster to be avoided. Robert saw a rival. Ned saw a tragedy. The smallfolk saw a saviour.
Tyrion Lannister looked at the drunken god in the gutter and saw a riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma, all soaked in cheap ale. And he smiled, a true, genuine smile of intellectual delight.
"This," he murmured to himself, taking a long, satisfying sip of his sour wine, "is going to be interesting." The dwarf had come to court, and his game was not the game of thrones. It was the game of gods. And it had just begun.