Tyrion VI

"Drat, frozen again."

Tyrion Lannister took up the inkpot in his stubby fingers and held it over the candle burning off to the side of his writing desk. There was a trick to it, just long enough to get the congealed black liquid flowing again, but not so long that one burned their finger.

"Ouch!" Too long. He almost dropped the scalding inkpot. Autumn had failed at last, long in the lingering. Winter now held King's Landing in its icy grip. There was word of snow in the Vale, he'd heard, but if they were fortunate, it would not reach the Crownlands for some time.

The work of disbursing the necessary coin for Joff's little Rainroad project fell to him. Father would demand every copper accounted for, Tyrion had no doubt. And, Seven preserve us, they'd come in under-budget!

Near on a year's labor they spent, hundreds of men, mayhaps thousands. Every one had to be fed, clothed, and housed, with wages to be paid besides. However did Joff manage it?

It was all here, put to parchment. In columns of figures, he could read about the supply stockpile Joffrey ordered before ever he sat out: iron for tools, wagons, food, fuel, purchased in bulk at a steep discount. Hungry for work in this slow, cold period, the smiths of the Street of Steel had only been too happy to shape his iron into spades, chisels, and the like. Granaries that were already full at season's outset could be found for their flour. Every holdfast and town along the route that had an oven had been set to continuously bake bread to feed the men, who slept in tents or hastily constructed timbered bunkhouses.

They worked speedily, for the prince was cunning. Every process of road construction was divided into simple steps. Each crew had its specialized task, with overseers Joffrey trained himself to ensure that they completed their labors on schedule.

Thus, from naught but woodland and empty coast, they wrought the finest road in the Seven Kingdoms. Wide it was, and mostly straight, save for places where the land did not allow it.

"Hard at work, my lord?" a voice asked softly, almost causing him to overturn his inkpot yet again.

Tyrion looked up from the parchment under his nose. Varys, wonderful. "Just checking everything before I leave for the tourney," he answered steadily, more steadily than he felt, at any rate.

"Indeed?" The Master of Whisperers shamelessly strode behind him and looked over the dwarf's shoulder. "Our prince has been busy, it seems."

Varys truly had a talent for understatement. "Whenever has he not been? As soon as Father started sending him coin..." The spider raised an eyebrow. "Come now, my lord. You knew of it before anyone."

Varys shrugged. "So I did. The Lord of Casterly Rock is inclined to fund his grandson's fancies, no usury, no repayment even. There has been more movement of people and goods than usual in this late season. Much traffic upon the sea as well."

He hummed. "Fortunate for us, Prince Joffrey is less frivolous than some."

"Yes, fortunate." Varys' face was a pale mask, putting Tyrion on edge. "Do be careful on the road, my lord. It shall be terribly crowded at Storm's End."

The eunuch turned his back, those soft slippers he wore making not a sound, and glided from the room.

"Now what in Seven Hells might he have meant by that?" Tyrion wondered.

***

The wedding at the sept of Storm's End proved a grand affair. Lady Asha wore a beautiful gown of golden samite, trimmed with fox fur. Her uncle, Euron Greyjoy, stood in for her dead father, Balon, king for a year. Every principal bannerman sworn to Storm's End or Pyke was in attendance: Harlaw and Penrose, Blacktyde and Dondarrion, Orkmont and Estermont, packing the sanctuary full to bursting. There might have been more fights if the King himself had not been there as well. Ironborn were fools, but they understood what a hammer can do, Tyrion observed.

To mark the occasion, there would be seven days and seven nights of feasting and fighting. This tourney included not just jousting and a melee, but axe-throwing, a queer game where two teams pulled a rope, and other mad customs from those remote rocks, like the "finger dance." More than one finger was lost. It put Tyrion off his lamprey pie. Mayhaps it was for the best, for the melee would begin at dawn the next day. The sun was late to rise, so he managed some fitful sleep and rose to attend the action.

Tyrion had a place of honor, sat just below Lord Renly and Lady Asha, alongside the royal children. The high box erected by the carpenters of Storm's End provided an excellent view of the tourney ground outside the castle. At this hour, the great central drum tower of the castle near blocked out the sun rising in the east, casting a shadow over the festivities.

"Do you think Joff will win?" Tommen asked excitedly.

"He must!" Myrcella declared, her high girlish voice splitting the chilly morning air, and reminding Tyrion that his head was still throbbing from last night's wine.

The warriors were arming and mounting as they spoke, including some of the Iron Islands, such as Ser Harras Harlaw, called the knight, for followers of the Seven were few in those parts, so an actual anointed knight merited special mention. They made a game of recognizing the sigils painted on shields. Most of the men here were from the Stormlands, but there was a generous salting from the Crownlands, Reach, and Dorne. Few traveled from further afield than that.

A short space later, the prince rode up in plain black steel. They were waiting to forge him a set of finer armor until he finished growing. He held out his arm. "My lady, your favor?"

Sansa giggled happily and leaned over the railing to tie a slip of grey silk around the offered arm.

"What about my favor?" Lady Asha complained sulkily.

"I understand my lady is a woman wed," Joffrey replied diplomatically. Both Sansa and Renly were frowning. Tyrion wondered whose mad notion this match sprang from. Was there no one else the lord of Storm's End might've picked?

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"Take this then." Asha reached under her seat and retrieved an axe. "Grant me this boon upon my wedding day, my prince. I beg thee!"

Tyrion held back a scoff. The fair maiden act played not well at all with the woman he knew her to be.

Joff took the weapon in hand, testing its weight. He banged it against his shield a few times. "It's blunted?"

"But of course," Asha answered.

"Why didn't you bring Ser Loras?" Renly blurted out. "Is he not a knight of the Kingsguard?"

"Ah, well, he and Ser Balon Swann were left to guard my mother. We had thought..." the prince trailed off uncomfortably.

"Thought what?" Renly's voice was far too sharp for a newlywed. Was their first night together too rough for him? Surely he didn't expect Asha Greyjoy to come to him a maid.

"We had thought you two were on bad terms, my lord. It was my notion to leave him behind. I apologize if I've given offense."

Renly sank back into his chair. "Of course," he muttered bitterly.

Asha put a hand over his. "Now, now, my love. There is much left to this tourney. Let us put on a merry face and cheer your kinsmen!"

Sansa was still leaning over the railing, talking softly with the prince. Tyrion thought he spotted them share a chaste kiss before he closed his visor. The full-bodied blush she had and the unsteady way Lady Stark balanced in her seat on her return were all the confirmation Tyrion required.

Good lad, he thought. Joff could be charming when he wanted to be. The Northern match was a better notion by far, which would bind the crown with ties of blood to House Tully, including not only Lord Edmure in Riverrun but little lord Robert Arryn in the Vale.

The king would fight as well, which shocked some of the Ironborn present. He looked terrifying in his antlered helm, sitting atop a huge destrier and brandishing a warhammer with a blunted spike. It was a field of warriors, this melee, the fighting men in plain steel who made a business of killing and disdained the civility of the lists. Their king and prince numbered among them.

The sun was rising over the horizon when the trumpet blew. Tyrion's head pounded with the echo of iron-shod hoofbeats striking the cold, hard ground with fury.

For a while, he could make no sense of it, and the children complained of losing sight of Joffrey. A melee was chaos, after all. Horses danced in and out of range just long enough for their riders to take choice swipes at their rivals with blunted weapons. Hoofbeats, steel on steel, steel on wood, man and horse screaming in pain, it was enough to deafen him.

Once the sun rose a little higher, the field had narrowed enough for them to spy Joffrey. He smashed the axe Lady Asha gifted him into a Cafferen knight, shivering the shield and sending the man reeling in his seat.

Robert, likewise, fought like a black whirlwind, smighting any who came too close.

Melees could last all day, and even into the next, so when the sun rose high, servants brought food and drink to the stands. It was chilly today, but pleasantly so, bundled up under thick furs. Tommen complained not at all, so transfixed he was by his brother's valor. A pity Jaime disdained melees these days.

The longer things went on, the more apparent it became that none could stand against the king and prince. A coalition of all who remained formed and made to face them together.

Joff and Robert signalled one another with raised weapons, and soon were fighting side by side. It was a merry chase!

Rather than a melee, the contest became a hunt, as one Baratheon chased his foes into the other's clutches. Joffrey's axe and Robert's hammer reaped an awful toll, dashing men from their saddles and, in one case, knocking a marcher knight senseless, his mount running around aimlessly carrying the unconscious rider for nearly an hour.

By the afternoon, their last foeman was overthrown, leaving only monarch and heir riding circles around each other. Tyrion wondered if one would yield, but no! Robert pointed at Joffrey, who pointed back. They would fight! A mighty cheer for their prowess went up from the stands.

Joff, clever Joff, knew Robert was tired. He tried baiting Robert into swinging his hammer at the air to tire him faster. It worked for a while, until Robert cornered him near a high fence that bounded the field. The shields of both men were a ruin of splinters, and no help at all. There was nothing to do but exchange blows.

It was the strength of the man against the energy of the youth. Robert could hardly lift his hammer after swinging it all day, but Joffrey's axe was lighter. He could strike the king about the chest and shoulders three times for every hit he received. At last, one well-placed slash sent the hammer flying from the king's grip.

All went quiet.

"Yield," Robert said softly, but the whisper carried. Tommen jumped for joy, and all the stands became a riot.

Soon, they heard the king's voice, booming over the crowd, declaring he would knight his son on the spot. The only person who looked unhappy was Lord Renly.

They both dismounted, and the prince kneeled gingerly while Robert said the words.

***

During the feast that night, Tyrion supposed he must have drunk twenty times to the king's health. Many at table were bruised and battered, their sovereign perhaps most of all. Joffrey thanked Lady Asha for the lucky axe, and it seemed all was well. A band struck up a marcher ballad, and the prince and his lady led the first dance. Soon, everyone was dancing.

Robert complained of feeling tired, so he left them to their revels and returned to his chambers, much earlier than was his usual custom at feasts. It was the last time Tyrion Lannister saw the king alive.