Chapter 16

Switched to present tense to test it out (temporarily).

Blood sprays the crowd near where the duel ends, and I uncomfortably shift atop the deformed pile of metal that is my seat. The senseless violence dressed up as divine justice, and the dying wails of Ser Meryn Trant aren’t nearly as disagreeable as actually sitting on the Iron Throne, so cold and sharp the thing is.

The people in the great hall of the Red Keep watch it all in bewildered silence as ol’ Meryn’s horrendous display of bedside manners comes to an end with a pathetic whimper, his white-pommeled sword finally falling from his grasp to clatter against the ground.

Death is very much a foreign concept for most of these well-to-do and noble folk, despite this world’s circumstances. It’s something that happens outside the walls of their mansions to the unwashed masses, or to the brave knights of the stories fighting for their king or for a maiden’s hand. Up until you get a double serving of gore and guts right in your lap, like the group of ladies in the first row of the stands. Then the shrieking starts, women swoon off their seats and men holler their approval or their frustration.

Ignoring the pandemonium that descends on the room with the death of a kingsguard, I look to the faces of the people around me feeling vindicated: from Oberyn’s languid amusement, Varys’ theatrical horror, Margaery’s syrupy sympathy, Tyrion’s overwhelming relief, and finally Tywin Lannister’s blood-chilling rage. I could almost smell the anger wafting off him like a heady spice.

All is as it should be. I did tell him Trant still had his uses.

After an appropriately melodramatic time, I stand from the throne. With the chaos around the room, few turn to me. Until Ser Balon smacks his armored glove on the marble pillar like a gong repeatedly, the loud clangs echoing off the tall arching ceiling of the great hall.

The voices slowly die out and I clear my throat. “Good people of King’s Landing. Noble lords and ladies of the Seven Kingdoms. We stood here today, in sight of gods and men, to judge Tyrion Lannister for the most vile of crimes—kinslaying. As men, fallible and weak and human as we are, we judged him guilty. Despite his pleas, despite the lack of direct evidence of his wrong doing, we had no choice but to point our sword of justice in his direction, based on circumstantial evidence alone.”

I clench my fists white, my head bowing for a solemn moment. Then I look up with a genial smile on my lips. “But we are not alone,” I announce grandly. My arms go out wide, as a father welcoming his children would. “The Gods look down upon us, and the Father metes out justice as he sees fit. And he saw fit to grace us with his judgement today, to the joy of the righteous... and the terror of the wicked.” I turn to my uncle, still sitting on his little stage like a puppy. “Tyrion of the House Lannister, I hereby clear you of all charges. Walk away as an innocent man this day, and may the Gods bless your path.”

The room explodes in chatter again. Bronn gives me a perfect bow from where he stands near Trant’s body, sword still bloodied. I told him the new Lord of Stokeworth needed to know proper manners not a week ago, and look at him go. I glimpse Jamie rushing to Tyrion’s side, a smile on his face for the first time in weeks. I almost feel like a decent man for a change; a man doing good unto others.

The thought is absurd enough it almost makes me laugh.

Before I can be swarmed by supplicants and sycophants, I sweep down the stairs of the throne and turn to leave the great hall by a side entrance. As I pass by the great nobles sitting on the dais beside the throne, Margaery gives me a meaningful look, and I gesture to the door I was heading. That was a supplicant I don’t much mind entertaining.

Before I even cross the door to the side corridor to wait for her, Ser Balon catches up behind me, and I hear the rest of my much diminished Kingsguard—Blount and Kettleblack (Jaime notwithstanding), scrambling in their heavy armor after us like clumsy ducklings.

I walk further down the corridor until I come to an airy alcove ringed by hanging flower pots. Outside the weather is warm and bright and cloudless as a midsummer’s day, as if an apocalyptic winter wasn’t just around the corner. The open windows look down onto a well-manicured garden of fruit trees and flowerbeds. A breeze rich with the smell of fresh earth and lilacs sends my blonde hair blowing along my forehead, and I allow myself a moment of relaxation. My eyes close and I sink down on the padded bench, enjoying the warmth of the sun against my skin.

A king’s business is unending. A good king, at least. There’s no nine to five here, and I can’t mentally check out like Robert did figuratively, or Aerys literally—not if I want to rule as I intend to. Not if I want to survive glacial armageddon, fiery gods, and dragon queens. But I am used to it. This is where I thrive, under pressure, challenged, with my life on the line. I will break before I would bend to this shit world.