A Clash of Kings by George R. R. Martin

cloaks when they tried to seize him at the Mud Gate.”
    His sister looked very unhappy. “Janos should have sent more men. He is not as competent as might be wished.”
    “Ser Barristan was the Lord Commander of Robert Baratheon’s Kingsguard,” Tyrion reminded her pointedly. “He and Jaime are the only survivors of Aerys Targaryen’s seven. The smallfolk talk of him in the same way they talk of Serwyn of the Mirror Shield and Prince Aemon the Dragonknight. What do you imagine they’ll think when they see Barristan the Bold riding beside Robb Stark or Stannis Baratheon?”
    Cersei glanced away. “I had not considered that.”
    “Father did,” said Tyrion. “ That is why he sent me. To put an end to these follies and bring your son to heel.”
    “Joff will be no more tractable for you than for me.”
    “He might.”
    “Why should he?”
    “He knows you would never hurt him.”
    Cersei’s eyes narrowed. “If you believe I’d ever allow you to harm my son, you’re sick with fever.”
    Tyrion sighed. She’d missed the point, as she did so often. “Joffrey is as safe with me as he is with you,” he assured her, “but so long as the boy feels threatened, he’ll be more inclined to listen.” He took her hand. “I am your brother, you know. You need me, whether you care to admit it or no. Your son needs me, if he’s to have a hope of retaining that ugly iron chair.”
    His sister seemed shocked that he would touch her. “You have always been cunning.”
    “In my own small way.” He grinned.
    “It may be worth the trying . . . but make no mistake, Tyrion. If I accept you, you shall be the King’s Hand in name, but my Hand in truth. You will share all your plans and intentions with me before you act, and you will do nothing without my consent. Do you understand?”
    “Oh, yes.”
    “Do you agree?”
    “Certainly,” he lied. “I am yours, sister.” For as long as I need to be . “So, now that we are of one purpose, we ought have no more secrets between us. You say Joffrey had Lord Eddard killed, Varys dismissed Ser Barristan, and Littlefinger gifted us with Lord Slynt. Who murdered Jon Arryn? “
    Cersei yanked her hand back. “How should I know?”
    “The grieving widow in the Eyrie seems to think it was me. Where did she come by that notion, I wonder?”
    “I’m sure I don’t know. That fool Eddard Stark accused me of the same thing. He hinted that Lord Arryn suspected or . . . well, believed . . . ”
    “That you were fucking our sweet Jaime?”
    She slapped him.
    “Did you think I was as blind as Father?” Tyrion rubbed his cheek. “Who you lie with is no matter to me . . . although it doesn’t seem quite just that you should open your legs for one brother and not the other.”
    She slapped him.
    “Be gentle, Cersei, I’m only jesting with you. If truth be told1, I’d sooner have a nice whore. I never understood what Jaime saw in you, apart from his own reflection.”
    She slapped him.
    His cheeks were red and burning, yet he smiled. “If you keep doing that, I may get angry.”
    That stayed her hand. “Why should I care if you do?”
    “I have some new friends,” Tyrion confessed. “You won’t like them at all. How did you kill Robert?”
    “He did that himself. All we did was help. When Lancel saw that Robert was going after boar, he gave him strongwine. His favorite sour red, but fortified, three times as potent as he was used to. The great stinking fool loved it. He could have stopped swilling it down anytime he cared to, but no, he drained one skin and told Lancel to fetch another. The boar did the rest. You should have been at the feast, Tyrion. There has never been a boar so delicious. They cooked it with mushrooms and apples, and it tasted like triumph.”
    “Truly, sister, you were born to be a widow.” Tyrion had rather liked Robert Baratheon, great blustering oaf that he was . . . doubtless in part because his sister loathed him so. “Now, if you are done