Chapter 9: Spite

Tyrion knew that the annual Charity Gala was fast approaching, and he knew instinctively that his father did not want him there. Thus, the real question became-by what method should he have his revenge?

There were two options in his mind. Showing up to the Gala and circling around his father the entire evening, talking to every shareholder in the Lannister Corporation. Or throwing his own lavish party later that night. Both options were tempting. One was less expensive, but the other involved actually associating with the shareholders who called him 'imp' behind his back.

A party of his own sounded much more exciting. He wouldn't even have to see his father that way. He could feel his anger from miles away, but never lay eyes on him. It was the ideal scenario.

This had been their game for many years. Tywin looked down on Tyrion and told him he was a lecherous drunk with no sense of responsibility. And instead of striving to prove him wrong, as he had when he was younger, Tyrion embraced the titles and became the most skilled lecherous drunk in King's Landing. In response, his father had cut him off from the family fortune two years ago. Now, Tyrion was the professional family disappointment.

His father was sure that Tyrion would eventually spend all his money. He didn't think highly of Tyrion's wits. But beneath the parties and drinking, Tyrion had a keen eye for the stock market and for good investments, just like his father. He would have amassed a great deal more wealth by now if it was not for his expensive habit of pissing off the Old Lion. But he didn't want to give that up.

Besides, he wanted his father to keep thinking he was a worthless imp. It would make it sweeter one day when Tyrion showed him just how much money he had gained, even despite his spending. He dreamed sometimes of seeing the look on his face. How shocked his father would be. How furious.

For now, it was a distant fantasy. And this bit of acting out would have to sate him for now.

"You should come," he told Jaime over the phone. "Really. Imagine how angry father will be if two of his sons skip out on the Charity Gala."

"Tempting," Jaime said. "But I'm living on father's dime at the moment, Tyrion. I can't afford to piss him off. Not like you."

"You could live on my dime for a bit," Tyrion said. "I don't mind."

"I wouldn't want to break your bank," Jaime said. "Your drinking habit alone must bring you close to poverty."

"Father wishes it was," Tyrion said. "Don't worry, Jaime; I'm handling myself just fine. And I think you need a bit of fun. You don't come out of that apartment enough."

"I'm out right now," Jaime said.

"Wonderful. And you can come out to my party on Saturday."

"No, I can't, Tyrion." Jaime sighed. "I've already promised Cersei I would go to the Charity Gala."

Tyrion groaned, kicking a wine bottle out of his way and watching it roll across his kitchen floor. "You're choosing her over me? Really?"

"I'm not choosing."

"Yes, you are. And worse, you're choosing father over me. You know he sent her to convince you," Tyrion said.

"Yes, I'm aware," Jaime said. "And I'm accepting the olive branch. If he cuts me off, I can't play the stock market like you can. I'll be destitute."

"Oh, he would never cut you off, Jaime," Tyrion said. " You're the golden son. He'll extend a whole tree of olive branches to you before he cuts you off."

"Have you been drinking this morning?" Jaime asked.

"Don't change the subject," Tyrion said. "You know why I do this, don't you? Because he will never extend me an olive branch. He wants me to come back to him on my knees, begging for forgiveness. Well, he won't get it. I refuse."

"Yes, you've said," Jaime said. "Believe me, your party sounds much more enjoyable and I support you in your game to piss off father. It's admirable, truly. But I've already said I'd go, and if I go back on my word now, I'll never hear the end of it."

Tyrion sighed, flopping back on his couch. "Fine then. I'll never forgive you for it."

"Never?"

"Oh, all right. I'll forgive you in two days, but only if you promise to come out drinking with me soon."

"I promise," Jaime said with a laugh. "I wanted to talk about your drinking habit-"

"Mm hmm, I'm sure you would. Goodbye!"

Tyrion hung up before his brother could pursue that line of questioning any further. His drinking wasn't so much of a problem. Even when buzzed, his wits remained sharp. It was just a little something to help him get through the day.

His phone rang again, and he checked the screen. A smile broke over his face. His lovely niece. She didn't call him often. He answered the call.

"Cella! How are you this morning?"

"I'm well, Uncle Tyrion," Myrcella said. "So… listen. I hear your throwing a party Saturday night after the gala."

"And during," Tyrion said. "I want to give people an exciting alternative."

"Grandfather wants us to go to the gala," Myrcella said. "But I doubt I'll stay the whole time. I was wondering… when I left… could I maybe come to your party?"

"I'm not sure," Tyrion said. "Aren't you a bit young?"

"No, I'm eighteen now!"

"Eighteen? Gods, the time really flies," Tyrion said with a grin. "All right then. You can come, but don't tell your mother. She'll be very cross with me."

"She's always cross with you," Myrcella said.

"She is," Tyrion said. "But I don't want to add any fuel to the fire. You understand, don't you, sweetling?"

"Of course," Myrcella said. "I'll see you Saturday then? Oh, I'm excited!"

She hung up the phone and Tyrion smiled, tossing it beside him on the couch. This would make Cersei furious and the prospect delighted him. It was just too fun to push his sister's buttons. Not as fun as pushing his father's buttons, but still very entertaining.

In any case, he liked his niece. She and Tommen were both a delight to be around and he did not understand where they had gotten that from. And they still thought the world of him despite the family situation. He had them and he had Jaime. He didn't have Joffrey, but he didn't want him. And Cersei and father? Well, he didn't really want them either.

"Tyrion?"

He looked up to Shae hovering in the bedroom doorway, wrapped up in a sheet. Her dark curls hung off to one side as she tilted her head and she had a very sweet smile.

"Are you coming back to bed with me?"

"In a minute," he said with a smile. She returned the gesture, spinning on toes and trotting back into the bedroom. He couldn't help but admire her as she walked away.

She was a call girl. Not someone who actually loved him. He had given up hope of that a long time ago. But so long as he had money, she would pretend to love him. Like with everything else in his life, his father wouldn't approve. Not one bit.

Tyrion sighed, finishing his drink and slamming his glass down on the table. Perhaps he needed to come up with some new reasons to do things. It annoyed him that he even cared what his father thought. He did though. Of course he did. It was hard not to crave a father's approval, even when that man had hated him since he was born.

So until he learned not to care, it would satisfy him to irritate his father and pretend that was enough.

Jaime was beginning to worry about Tyrion-mostly because of the drinking. Over the past few years, he had been watching his siblings' alcohol consumption rise and rise and rise. It made his own increased drinking look tame by comparison.

It was becoming a problem, he knew, but neither of them would listen to him talk about it. If he did, they would just bring up his state of living as a counter. That was how the Lannister family worked. They never took advice. They just gave it. And then they all remained stuck in their ways. Their father had taught them that lovely life skill.

He wanted to go to Tyrion's party. It seemed much better than the Charity Gala, and there would be fewer people asking him about his future. But then again, he worried about angering their father and Cersei more than Tyrion.

He envied his little brother's penchant for spite sometimes.

He also envied the fact that his brother was not about to walk into a very awkward conversation with Brienne Tarth.

She was already sitting in the coffee shop looking over some notes. He could see her in the window before he even crossed the street. She was hard to miss, admittedly. He had never met a taller woman, and she had broader shoulders than most of the other officers in their division. No one could call her pretty. In fact, many of the officers had thrown around a variety of cruel words around the station. Jaime's word for her had been 'wench', which wasn't the worst insult but wasn't a compliment either.

She would not want to see him. But even so, he wanted to feel as if all the hours spent looking over old cases in his room meant something.

He swallowed his nervousness and walked through the door, sitting down across from her. He placed the file between them.

"Brienne. Thanks for meeting me."

She looked up at him, raising an eyebrow. "So you do know my name? I could have sworn you didn't."

"Ah… yes, I know your name," he said, running a hand through his hair. Hopefully she wouldn't see her name in his phone. He should change that, actually. "I won't take up too much of your time. The woman that was found this morning. It said that she had a tattoo on her wrist?"

"Yes. Of wings," Brienne said.

"That's what I read," Jaime said, pulling a photo from the file and handing it over. "I was wondering if it might look like this?"

Brienne's brow furrowed as she saw the picture. Her expression changed from irritation to surprise. "Yes. Yes, it looks exactly like this." She looked up at him. "This tattoo. Who had it?"

"Her name was Ros," Jaime said. "She was another call girl who was murdered two years ago. We never found the one responsible. But I was looking it over again and… well, I wondered about the tattoos."

Brienne went back to studying the picture, chewing on the inside of her cheek as she did.

"Do you think there's a connection?" he asked.

"It could be a mark from their pimp," Brienne said. "With call girls… a lot of them end up killed by their own employer. But… pimping is illegal in King's Landing now, so most of them keep as anonymous as possible." She shrugged. "But I can at least see what I can find about the guy."

"So it helps?" Jaime asked, trying not to sound too eager. But he was. Gods, he was. What a thing it would be… to be useful.

"Yes. It could help," Brienne said. "Thank you, Lannister. No one else has given me much help. No one else at the station cares about another dead prostitute." She glared at him. "Not that I think you care. You're just trying to get back on the force."

"Somehow, I don't think that will happen," Jaime said. "I'm useless to them now… without my hand."

Brienne's jaw clenched, and she looked away.

"By the way," he said. "I'm not sure I thanked you for that."

Brienne's eyes widened. She had astonishingly blue eyes. It was one part of her he could call pretty. "Thanked me for what?"

"Well, I was delirious after it happened, but I seem to remember you were the one who stopped the bleeding," Jaime said. "And called for backup."

"That was nothing," she murmured. Her pale cheeks flushed from embarrassment. "Besides you wouldn't have… you wouldn't have lost the hand if not for me."

His brow furrowed. "What are you talking about?"

"I was too hasty," she said. "I provoked the man before enough people arrived. If I hadn't then it… wouldn't have led to that."

Jaime hadn't really thought about it that way. But thinking about it, he couldn't really blame her for the incident. "Hoat was a loose cannon. I think he would have attacked with or without you being hasty. You don't need to blame yourself for that." He sighed. "Besides, I helped with provoking him. My tongue gets me into trouble sometimes."

"It is on the rude side," Brienne agreed.

"There, you see? You can blame me for the whole thing," Jaime said. "Besides… it could have been worse. We both made it out alive, didn't we?"

"Yes," she murmured. "We did."

He tilted his head to the side. For a moment her expression was not so harsh and her shoulders not so tense. Usually she was always on guard around him and certainly never guilty or apologetic.

It was gone in a flash though. She shook her head and stood, taking the file with her. "Thank you again. I'll put it to use."

"Will you let me know if it leads to something?" he called after her as she hurried toward the door.

She paused in the door as if debating the answer. If she was smart, she would say no. Selmy wouldn't approve of this and she was a bit of a stickler for authority. But after a moment of silence, she nodded once.

"I'll text you."

And then she left Jaime alone in the coffee shop. He sighed, leaning back in his chair. The tattoos had been a match and Brienne had taken the pictures. For the first time in a few months it actually felt as if he had done something useful . It was a relief.

He rubbed his fingers over his chin, feeling the bristle. The beard really had gotten out of hand. And even if he still felt sorry for himself, he shouldn't wear it on his face.

Besides, if he was going to that damn gala, he had to at least look the part.

Catelyn Stark hated this time of year. It was full of too many awful memories, and every time the summer drew to a close and the autumn swept in, she felt them press against her heart, mind and soul. Every terrible thing for her, it seemed, happened in the autumn. Ned's car accident. Arya's disappearance. The death of Sansa's beloved dog, Lady.

The discovery of Arya's body.

All in the fall. All right around the same time.

And then there was the Charity Gala.

Before three years ago, it had simply been an annual event which she and Ned attended each year, sometimes with their children and sometimes not. It was expected of all the major families of King's Landing. Naturally, it meant a massive clash of egos between people who did not like each other but knew to smile through it. Starks, Lannisters, Baratheons, Tyrells, Greyjoys, Martells. They all danced around each other in splendid outfits, all under the guise of being charitable.

Still, Catelyn hadn't minded the gala. It was entertaining to watch the world of the wealthy elite. Catelyn had always been well off as a Tully, but the press never followed her family around. Thank the gods for that. And anyway, she had Ned to hold on to. He didn't like the event very much either and she had enjoyed sitting off to the side with him, making comments under their breaths about the many guests.

And then one year… she didn't have Ned. He was dead and gone and her daughter was missing.

The next year… the Gala occurred only a week after her daughter's body was discovered and laid in the ground.

The next year, nothing at all happened. Yet. But Catelyn was paranoid that something worse would happen. These things did come in threes, didn't they? Why not a third year of misery? So even though nothing had happened, she hated the Gala all the same.

And now? A fourth year of an event that had become poison to her. A poison she was expected to choke down. She had not slept well in the past few weeks but she covered the dark circles with makeup. She pinned up her hair so it would not fall out of place. She dressed as if she did not want to lock herself in her house and mourn.

With the press already running stories about her dead daughter, she refused to give them any other weakness.

She walked down the stairs and found Robb pacing the hall, answering emails on his phone. He never stopped working it seemed, but he had to work twice as hard as most CEOs. Because he was so young, many people thought they could take advantage of him.

He heard her and looked up from his phone, giving her a sad smile. "You look nice, mother."

"Thank you," Catelyn said, joining him at the foot of the stairs. "And you look very handsome." She looked around. "Sansa?"

"Other plans," Robb said.

"I don't blame her. The press seems to hound her the most." Catelyn sighed. Especially after that stint she had with Joffrey which came to a tumultuous end a year ago. Catelyn knew she had just been acting out after her father's death, but she wished that she didn't hurt herself so much in the process. "What about Jon?"

"Work," Robb said. "I wish I could use work as an excuse."

"Unfortunately, tonight is the work," Catelyn said.

"The press has been insufferable the past few days about Arya," Robb said. "They'll be watching us tonight."

"They always do." She looped an arm through his. "Let's get this over with."