The Tower of the Hand
Tyrion rubbed his small hands over his broad face and forced himself awake. "Jaime, here's the thing…"
As always, Tyrion's tongue was sharp and deft. He laid out the events in brief but vivid strokes, giving Jaime the full picture.
When he finished, Jaime connected it with what Greem had told him earlier—the shadow of a plot aimed at Cersei. His eyes narrowed.
"Tyrion, you're the sharper one between us. Can you guess why Littlefinger would want to drive a wedge between Cersei and Lord Jon?"
He asked the question casually, almost offhandedly. But it was clear he had taken Greem's warning to heart—or perhaps he was simply a man of his word. He had told no one of the conspiracy concerning Cersei.
As for that conspiracy, Jaime would pursue the truth silently, in the shadows.
Tyrion slapped his thigh, suddenly energized. "Honestly, even I hadn't figured out Petyr's endgame at first. But Greem saw it. That boy's far too clever. If I weren't so short, I'd have planted a kiss on him right then and there."
Jaime shook his head with an exasperated smile. "I'd advise against it. From what I know of him, that sort of move would ruin any friendship you hope to keep."
Tyrion burst out laughing.
Jaime gave him a firm pat on the back. "So, what exactly did young Greem say?"
Tyrion cleared his throat and sobered. "Littlefinger's true target is likely the one who trusts him most—Lord Jon Arryn. Everyone knows the old Hand is in poor health."
Jaime's eyes flickered with a hint of doubt.
Tyrion pressed on. "You know Cersei. She's never liked Jon. With King Robert away from the Red Keep, who's left to stop her from causing an uproar?"
Jaime could hardly argue. His sister had always had a talent for raising storms.
"She won't show the old man any mercy," Tyrion added. "She'll goad him, push him to the brink—and with his condition, that could hasten his decline."
By then, Jaime had grasped the crux of it. "Littlefinger's after Jon's seat of power."
Tyrion nodded. "Jon trusts him more than anyone—both are sons of the Vale. But as Jon grows weaker, he can no longer govern as he once did. The less he can do, the more he'll lean on someone who appears loyal and reliable. Someone like our 'Sheep Shit Earl'."
Jaime's expression chilled. "Pathetic. And he dared to strike at Cersei."
Tyrion's voice dropped low. "A Lannister always pays his debts. That's why I didn't hesitate to offer Greem his place. Petyr's clever—he'll know it was me."
Jaime clapped his brother's shoulder. "Well done, Tyrion."
Tyrion leaned in. "Greem meets with Jon Arryn this morning. We need to keep this from Cersei—if she confronts him, it'll spiral fast. We won't be able to hide it from King Robert."
Jaime considered that. "Wouldn't it be safer for Greem to lie low for a while?"
Tyrion shrugged. "He's a knight, like you. He told me the best defense is a good offense. Strange how convincing that sounds when someone else says it."
He grinned. "Something tells me his midnight chat with Littlefinger went splendidly. You can trust him."
Knights fear nothing. Jaime found himself nodding. He agreed.
"Tyrion, leave Cersei to me."
Jaime thought for a moment. "Yes, I've got an idea. Myrcella has been pestering Cersei to teach her some new braids. Cersei's been in decent spirits lately—patient, even. It's good timing."
Tyrion grinned. "Poor girl. Her mother's never had much patience for that. She'll be thrilled."
Jaime chuckled and shook his head. "She'll be busy all morning. Don't worry—I'll keep an eye on her."
Just as Jaime turned to go, he paused. "Tyrion, what are you doing next?"
Tyrion blinked. "Going back to bed, obviously. They're still curled up under the covers. I intend to return to my… tenderness."
Dream on. Jaime's eyes darkened slightly, and his tone turned serious. "I still have a bad feeling. The people of the Crag Claw Peninsula bear no love for Jon Arryn."
His solemn expression startled Tyrion, who nodded after a moment's pause.
"I'll send some Redcloaks with you. Just in case. No matter what happens, your first task is to protect Greem. I'll come as soon as I can."
The Red Keep — Tower of the Hand
Greem presented Lord Jon Arryn's written invitation to the guards at the Tower's entrance.
They examined it carefully, then stepped aside and directed him to the study on the second floor.
Greem left Mandon and Anguy behind, then stepped alone into the Tower.
"Good day, Baron Greem Clegane."
He had just crossed the wide hall and reached the stairs when a soft, unfamiliar voice halted him.
From the side of the staircase emerged a rotund, bald man in flowing robes, hands folded politely before him.
Varys? Greem raised a brow and placed a hand over his chest. "Good day, my lord."
Varys approached with his usual unhurried gait. "The gleam in your eyes tells me you've already guessed who I am."
Greem offered a small nod. "Forgive me—I made a point of learning the names of the Red Keep's key figures. Lord Varys."
Varys beamed. "A wise habit, getting to know unfamiliar surroundings before plunging in."
His tone remained pleasant. "Though I'm flattered you count me among the great names of the Red Keep, I must object. I am but a humble servant. They only look my way when it suits them—otherwise, they keep their distance, cloaked in courtesy."
Greem smiled faintly. "I think I know why."
"Oh?"
Varys's eyes lit with mock curiosity, as though eager to hear the answer.
Greem leaned in slightly and lowered his voice. "They feel guilty. Don't forget your title, Master of Whisperers."
Varys chuckled, genuinely pleased. "A delightfully sharp answer."
Greem said nothing further—just smiled.
Varys gave him a polite once-over. "Baron Greem, I've just come from Lord Jon's study. We were speaking of you."
Before Greem could respond, Varys added, "Lord Petyr, the Master of Coin, had certain… blind spots. I merely fulfilled my duty—filling in the gaps for the Hand of the King."
Greem's eyes sharpened. "Then I thank you, my lord. Your thoroughness may make my meeting with the Hand a far smoother one."
Varys inclined his head. "It should be a most agreeable conversation, my lord."
He added softly, "I regret what Lady Lyanna Clegane has suffered. If you would, pass along my well wishes."
With that, Varys stepped aside and extended a hand toward the stairs. "Go now, my lord. Best not keep Lord Jon waiting. We shall speak again soon, I'm sure."
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