As Oberyn said, King's Landing truly stank.
Live in a cesspit long enough and you stop smelling it, but coming back from the Riverlands into the Crownlands, that sharp, acrid stink hit him with startling clarity.
The Old Gate looked the same as ever. Through the streets moved weary Gold Cloaks and ragged paupers, prostitutes standing bare under the roadside trees to lure in customers. Shouts of extortion, the whine of beggars, and coarse laughter tangled in the air. The only good news was that no one was selling fresh rats today.
The Red Keep remained as grand as ever, with the Tower of the Hand rising beside it. The king and queen's wedding must already be over—thank the gods he didn't have to take part in that farce. A few ribbons still fluttered overhead, but it felt far less warm than Darry Castle.
He found himself missing that straw mattress, and Sansa tending to him.
"Lord Tyrion!" The guards at the entrance recognized him, saluting as they allowed him into the throne room. Podrick waited outside.
Inside, the Small Council was already in session. Familiar chamber, familiar faces.
His dear nephew Joffrey sat at the head, apparently well accustomed now to handling matters of state himself.
"Tyrion." Cersei sat beside him, in their father's former seat, Jaime standing behind her. Her face showed no surprise. "Why have you returned? Father appointed you Warden of the Riverlands."
Tyrion glanced around. Mace Tyrell and Grand Maester Pycelle both looked mildly startled to see him.
Qyburn was there as well. Tyrion immediately understood why he'd stopped sending letters. He worked for whoever could give him bodies for his experiments.
Ser Harys Swyft sat along the long table too. How had he managed a seat here? Cersei must think him too timid to challenge her.
Ser Harys began to rise, but Cersei's look froze him in place.
"Speaking of Father," Tyrion pulled out a chair and sat. "Where is our ever-dutiful Hand of the King?"
"You have no right to—" Mace Tyrell began, but Pycelle immediately rose. "Lord Tyrion arrives at exactly the right moment. We were discussing—"
"I believe the matter at hand is of no concern to my brother," Cersei said. "Tyrion has traveled far. He should rest."
"As Warden of the Riverlands, I see no harm in listening," Tyrion replied, clearly not planning to leave.
"Perhaps Uncle can give us some advice," Joffrey said, rubbing his hands together like a vicious hornet. "And Sansa, Uncle? You missed my wedding. What about yours?"
"It has not yet taken place, Your Grace."
"Then you should have brought her back. As King, I mean to claim my First Night right."
Jaime quickly placed a hand on Joffrey's shoulder. "Your Grace, that is inappropriate."
You should slap him, Tyrion thought. At least his bastard father Robert would have. And certainly his real father should.
"Inappropriate?" Joffrey bared his teeth. "I'm the King! I can say and do whatever I like!"
"Your Grace, Lord Tyrion is still engaged in the Riverlands..." Pycelle quavered, trying to object.
"It's fine, Grand Maester." Tyrion waved him off, unmoved by the provocation. He knew perfectly well this nephew was hopeless. "You likely won't see Sansa again anyway. I'm considering hanging her at Riverrun."
"Good." The king nodded with satisfaction. "That's what a Lannister should do. It seems Uncle deserves a place on our Small Council. Where were we?"
"Bringing Myrcella home," Ser Harys Swyft said.
"Why?" Tyrion asked.
"Because the Dornish are vipers and traitors," Cersei spat. "I want my daughter back. Nothing should keep a mother from her child."
"The Dornish are not to be trusted," Mace Tyrell agreed.
Fools always sounded the same. "The Dornish haven't openly rebelled. Moving now is like blowing fire at straw," Tyrion said. Especially with Father unable to govern. "I suggest we wait until I've cleaned up the Riverlands."
"I've already sent Arys Oakheart to Sunspear," Cersei said. "He'll bring back my daughter, and Trystane Martell as well. They can stay in King's Landing for a year or two, and Dorne's second son will serve as a hostage."
This was shaking the grass to startle the snake. Tyrion shook his head. His sister was beyond saving. "If that's the case, why are we still talking? To praise you?" He rose. "I'm going to see Father."
"I'll take you," Jaime said.
Two sorrowful Lannister brothers left the throne room and hurried toward the Tower of the Hand, Podrick jogging behind.
"Father isn't receiving visitors today," Jaime finally admitted. "I'll take you to the Tower of the Hand to rest. He'll see you tomorrow."
"What's wrong with Father?" Tyrion asked.
"He's ill. Pycelle says it's a stroke. Don't worry, it's not as bad as you think," Jaime said. "Why did you come back? Did Aunt Genna write to you?"
"Yes. Why keep it from me? Cersei's idea?"
"Father's," Jaime said. "Cersei's quite happy he didn't let you return."
"He enjoys having power, and so does Joff," Tyrion said. "They'll ruin the realm. Father should have brought Uncle Kevan back."
"He already has. But it's a long journey from Casterly Rock, and the ironborn are restless."
"At least the wedding was splendid, wasn't it? Seventy-seven dishes, waste piled on waste. Did Harys manage the money?" Tyrion sneered.
"No. Cersei stopped repaying the Iron Bank."
"Utterly foolish." Tyrion shook his head. "And this stroke? I remember warning Pycelle Father might have been poisoned." A black swan event, perhaps.
"Pycelle took precautions. We controlled the Red Keep's kitchen and water. Father's constipation did improve, just very slowly," Jaime recalled. "Then one day he had a stroke while relieving himself. Pycelle says it was caused by straining too hard."
"Nonsense. And you believed him? That old fool only knows how to cover himself." Tyrion ground his teeth.
"Cersei suspected the same thing, so she brought Qyburn into the Small Council as Master of Whisperers," Jaime said. "Qyburn examined him too, and he agrees the stroke came from straining during constipation."
As they talked, the Tower of the Hand came into view.
"This place is cursed. Father moved out after he got sick." Jaime looked up. "Who knows how many Hands have died here?"
"Only two, Jon Arryn and Eddard Stark. I'll be fine." Tyrion laughed. "And their deaths were tied to you, one way or another. So don't get spooky, brother. You're not just a Kingslayer—you're a Hand-killer."
Jaime laughed as well.