Tyrion stumbled back to his small room, though it was not from alcohol – would that it were, he thought bitterly to himself, knowing that he had sizable quantity of wine in which he planned to liberally indulge – but more from the shock of what he had seen. The light from the candles which illuminated the corridor had hit his eyes as he had left his father's dimly lit chambers after the visitation of that ungodly machine, and in each flame he saw the death of thousands. Tywin had crushed the goblet he had held in his hand as the machine had flown away serenely over the walls, having with its wind, its terrifyingly alien aspect, and its stark, awful message, shattered the peace of thousands, never to be put together again. With each step back through the shrinking corridors from the Tower of the Hand to his own room, he had felt the weight of the lives of those beneath, knowing that Stannis would slaughter all of them and march across their bloodied corpses to sit the Iron Throne. And never regret a moment. Stannis was a man for self-reflection, he knew, but having done what he perceived to be his duty, he would never regret any atrocity committed in its pursuit.

And his allies apparently had command of the air such as to be envied by Aegon the Conqueror himself. Tyrion had no real basis for knowing this, but he felt it in his bones. Those tubes on either side of the body of the machine terrified him as much as might a dragon's maw as it was about to exhale.

Gods, but he needed a drink.

He opened the door to his room, and stopped. There was something amiss.

'Shae?' he called carefully. 'Bronn? Pod?'

As he closed the door carefully behind him, he reached across to the small table beside it and grabbed a metal jug, empty at the moment, aware of how ridiculous he must have looked to anyone who might be there who would threaten him, the Demon Monkey holding an empty jug as high as he could.

A child emerged diffidently from his small bedroom, wearing odd clothing of a cut he did not recognise, but well-made and form-fitting. She looked to be perhaps nine or ten, with long sandy hair and a pretty face that wore a worried expression. He lowered the jug and replaced it on the table, exhaling slowly. Fears aplenty he had, but he had yet to fear a child.

He smiled as best he could. 'You should not be here, girl,' he told her sternly. 'Where are the other servants?'

She said nothing for a moment, then jerked her head behind her, towards the bedroom. He moved cautiously in that direction, and wished he had not replaced the jug, though he could not understand what difference it would make, given what he could see.

Bronn and Pod were sitting with their backs to the wall, their hands behind them; he assumed that they were tied. They were also gagged, and Bronn had a cut on his forehead above his right eye that dribbled blood slowly down his face, which wore an expression of thunderous fury. Shae was sitting at the table, unbound, though she was looking in terror at the large man who sat in the corner, his back to the wall.

He was big, over six feet in height by the look of him, though he remained seated. His shoulders were broad, though not massive, and he was wearing oddly coloured mottled green clothing, very much similar in colour to the machine which had so recently frightened him. His features were regular and his blonde hair, similar in colour to Tyrion's own, was close cropped, his expression blank as he leaned back on his chair. He is of the people who sent that message, Tyrion realised, his heart beating rapidly. One of Stannis' allies. The dwarf would have feared for his life, but the man had not harmed either of his friends or his lover so, he realised, were homicide his intention, he was making a poor start of it.

The child spoke, waking him from his brief reverie, though not his fear. Her accent was odd, not one with which he was familiar, somewhat guttural and halting, obviously unused to the language of Westeros, though she spoke it well enough.

'You are Tyrion Lannister?' she asked quietly.

He jerked a nod, still rooted in the same position.

'This is Oberstleutnant Muller of the Bundeswehr,' she told him, as though such alien terms should mean something to him. 'He cannot speak your language yet. I am to translate.' She spoke then to the man at the desk, who smiled softly and answered her. Their language was unpleasant to Tyrion's ears, harsh and cruel-sounding. The man rose and removed something from a pouch on his belt, perhaps seven inches wide but shallow in depth, with a glassy black surface that reflected the gentle glow of the candles

'He wants to show you something,' the child informed him. 'And answer any questions you might have.'

Two hours later, Tyrion turned to Pod who, with Bronn, had been released to stand beside his Lord and witness all the wonders which had been demonstrated, the dreadful horrors these people had inflicted on themselves, and the frightful inevitability of defeat as a consequence of either inaction or what would be his father's characteristic obstinacy. He turned to Podrick. 'Bring Varys here, now,' he ordered. 'I don't care if you have to drag him from his bed. We have little time and fewer choices. He is the only one Olenna will listen to.'

The wind whistled through the battlements, blowing against the white flag Tyrion had hastily ordered raised as his father remained kneeling on the stone with Tarly's dagger at his throat. The Lannister soldiers on the walls had all been disarmed and bound by the Tyrell men; the Roses of Highgarden had fewer soldiers in the city than the Lions of the Rock, though they were concentrated at the defensive strongpoints and the wall. This coup would not last long under ordinary circumstances, but Tyrion could not think of any aspect of this situation which could be so described.

'You treacherous wretch,' his father snarled at him, black murder in his eyes to the extent that Tyrion's shiver had nothing to do with the cold. 'I will see you dead slowly for this! You turn against your own family?'

'I am trying to protect my family,' the dwarf replied sadly as Tarly released Tywin to the attention of one of his other soldiers. 'You just can't see it because your conception of family is so twisted it turns on itself like the snake eating its tail. Maybe my concept of family was always more elevated than yours.' He smiled his crooked, cynical smile, with a glance towards his sister, who also shot daggers at him, though he was more used to those. 'Or maybe I am simply yielding King's Landing to the legitimate King of the Seven Kingdoms.' He turned back to his father. 'Because I know for a fact that Joffrey is not, his father is not in the Royal Crypts but rather currently a prisoner of Robb Stark. And I have informed the Tyrells of this. Caught between an incest born bastard who has no more claim to the throne than he has the temperament or the brains to sit on it, and Stannis Baratheon, it seems they have chosen Stannis. Which should tell you something about your grandson. Lord Tarly,' he spoke to the Lord of Horn Hill. 'I think it is time we met our King,' Tarly nodded grimly. Cersei was screaming incoherent threats and abuse at her brother which, in the moment though he was nervous and apprehensive of Stannis and his unknown allies, was music to Tyrion's ears.

'I meant what I said, Tyrion,' his father called after him as he was roughly dragged to his feet and bound to the rear. 'You are no son of mine, and I will see you dead, if it takes me the rest of my life.'

Tyrion stopped briefly, and turned. 'I am your son,' he replied softly. 'I have always been your son.'

Stannis stood beside Davos and Shireen, Leclerc and DuPris slightly behind, flanked on either side by five hundred fully armed French soldiers, the APCs with their cannon trained and the Tigers ready at a moment's notice to take to the air. The wind blew gently across the plain against the banners of the Lannisters, Tyrell and Stormland hosts as they faced each other, though none moved. The Lannister line, which had milled initially in confusion as the surrender order was given from the walls of King's Landing, had stabilised when the gates had opened behind them, and the line had parted, though they had placed no foot forward. That, they knew, would be suicide against the cannon of the APCs, at which some of the Lannister soldiers stared as though they had seen the face of the Stranger himself.

Stannis knew better than to believe such nonsense. The only God he worshipped was duty, and she was a harder mistress than any shade preached by the Septons and believed in by their delusional followers.

Tyrion Lannister walked through the small gap in the lines, the Spider beside him, followed by Randyl Tarly and Kevan Lannister. A litter was being borne slightly farther behind, which Stannis assumed contained Olenna Tyrell. He wondered about the absence of Mace, but realised quickly that they knew better than to antagonise him, and they were few easier ways of so doing than to force him to speak to the Fat Fool of Highgarden. Tarly he at least respected, and he knew that Olenna had disapproved of her son's actions during the rebellion. He had never met Kevan Lannister, though he knew the man to be the loyal servant of his brother who had done Tywin's bidding in all things, so wondered to himself where was the old Lion, that he would send his brother and his despised son in his stead. He had little time for Tywin, but he had never believed him to be a coward. Interesting.

Stannis, in his plain armour, stepped forward past the line of the French, who held their weapons ready but had not unslung them from their shoulders. King's Landings' high, and now completely ineffectual and impotent, walls loomed in the background, the objective against which he had dashed the better part of his army, only to be saved by providence. He would have smiled to himself were he capable; the never forgotten slight that his brother had made, of giving him Dragonstone instead of Storm's End, had been his salvation, for he knew not what he would have done had the French not arrived.

But they had, and he would make good use of his good fortune.

'Speak your piece, Lannister,' he said bluntly, acknowledging Tyrion with the barest nod of his head. Unlike many, he was not so stupid as to hold the man's deformity against him, and he had never understood how such an intelligent man as Tywin had clung to such irrational dislike for so long. He had no affection for his wife, but he had never blamed her for his lack of male heir. Such things were beyond the control of men, and so had been the dwarf's birth and Joanna's sad death. 'If it is less than surrender, then you may return to your lines and see how long your gates hold against my armies.'

'Yes, your new armies,' Tyrion replied, his hair blowing in the breeze, almost shielding the vicious scar across his face, which had not been there the last time they had met. Maybe, Stannis thought to himself, he had received it at the Blackwater, which was far less than he deserved after his trick with the Wildfire, though Stannis did not hold it against him. War was war, he knew better than anyone. 'The French. Odd, that none of us here have never heard of them, that you could magic them from nowhere to raise machines and fire from nothing. Odder still that they seem reluctant to kill, for soldiers. I wonder would they let you storm the walls. Or deploy against our forces.'

There was a crack from behind Stannis, and one of the Lannister soldiers fell groaning, clutching his upper arm tightly with a stream of curses. Tyrion nearly jumped at the sudden noise, and both Kevan Lannister and Randyl Tarly turned their heads so quickly to the soldier, as the litter was nearly dropped as it approached, that Stannis thought their necks might break. He turned, and saw Shireen replacing her pistol – Stannis had been fully educated about the different terminologies – beside Leclerc and DuPris, who looked at her with respective expressions of shock and pride. Stannis' reactions were a mixture of both, though verging towards the latter than the former. She would not have had the confidence to do that mere months before, and it shamed him that he had contributed to her introversion previously, though he had not been aware at the time that he had been doing so; it was only her recently found confidence that had so allowed her to confide in him. She was his only heir and, if she continued as she was, with training from both himself and the French, she would be a Queen such as the Seven Kingdoms had never had in a King. She was soft-hearted, which was not a fatal flaw in and of itself, but it had to be tempered with a certain ruthlessness, which she had just demonstrated, so slightly yet so effectively. No, in that moment he felt nothing but pride.

Stannis replied to Tyrion's gambit. 'Not all of my army are so limited, even if you were to think that my allies are,' he replied calmly. 'If my daughter of thirteen can use these weapons proficiently, imagine what my trained soldiers can do.'

'I believe you have proved part of your point, Baratheon,' Olenna wheezed as she stepped shakily from the litter; he believed it was more infirmity than fear than governed her tremulous movements. He knew Olenna of old, as had his father, and Stefffon Baratheon had had nothing but respect for the Queen of Thorns, the true ruler of the Reach. 'Or your newly lovely daughter has. These allies of yours have great powers to make a whole girl of a half girl.'

Stannis merely stared at her for a moment, but it was Tyrion who spoke, irritably. 'They say I am half a man, Lady Olenna,' he replied shortly. 'The Lady Shireen is considerably more. As I think she has just proved.' He turned back to Stannis. 'To terms, then.'

Stannis did not relish his triumph; he would not have done so, even had his assault on the city previously have proved successful. The Iron Throne was his, by right, and it would not do to gloat upon victory, so much more was there to do. Dorne had remained aloof, as it had done under the ineffectual rule of his brother, the North was in open rebellion, and the Vale remained under the control of a cretin in Lysa Arryn. There was too much to be done to be smug.

'My terms are simple,' he informed Tyrion, and Olenna, who had seated herself upon a stool which had been hastily provided by one of the Tyrell bannermen. 'Surrender the city. Surrender the Iron Throne, and acknowledge my right to sit upon it. Reject the false claims of Joffrey Waters – he will not be named Lannister or Baratheon – and surrender to me with the city he, his siblings and his mother. Tywin Lannister will face a trial to account for his crimes in supporting his grandson as king.'

Tyrion remained impassive, as did Olenna, and Stannis pressed on; he had had too much time to think about what he would demand to pull back now. 'An area to be determined – by negotiation between myself as King, and Highgarden – will be surrendered to my allies, though to assuage any doubts it will not be significantly large. The food and provender of the Reach will be placed at the disposal of the Crown, myself, though again it will be through negotiation that such amounts will be determined. They will not be onerous to the point of rejection. When I sit the Throne, I will be King; acknowledged by all Seven Kingdoms; the Reach and the Westerlands will supply what troops and provisions I require. There will be no retaliatory confiscations; though it pains me, I will not seek revenge on any Lord or Knight who has supported those who heretofore have supported my enemies, including you.'

Leclerc cleared his throat, and Stannis remembered their odd demand, to which he had no objection. 'In each of the constituent kingdoms, you will establish schools to teach those who so desire their letters and numbers, including the Stormlands and Crownlands,' he looked at Tyrion, 'and the Westerlands. When the North and the Vale come into the Fold, I will make the same demand and insist on the same conditions. The smallfolk – the common people – have too long been excluded from deliberations of import. That ends now.' He remembered an expression he had been taught by DuPris. You either allow reform from above, or face revolution from below. He also remembered what he had seen on Corsica, the remnants of an entire civilisation based on a system which had left nobility behind, and what wonders they had thus achieved. He would have the same for the Seven Kingdoms if it took twenty generations, as long as it was under the rule of twenty generations of Baratheons.

Tyrion looked at Kevan and Olenna; the former seemed unsure, as ever he had without his brother present, but the latter nodded; she had expected far worse from the unyielding Lord of Dragonstone, such was his reputation, and what he proposed did not unduly burden the Reach or House Tyrell, her primary concern.

Tyrion had other concerns. 'I can agree to most of that,' he replied. 'I will yield Joffrey and Cersei, but not Tommen or Myrcella, who in any case is betrothed to Trystane of Dorne, at least for the moment. They are innocent children; born of incest, yes, but they have committed no crimes. You may take from them the name Baratheon, which they do not merit, but I ask you allow them the name of House Lannister, under the protection of Casterly Rock, though I promise you they will be excluded from any succession or title.'

'No,' Stannis told him immediately. 'I will allow them to live, if it is so important, but they must not be allowed a Name, they take the name of bastards, which is what they are, and the Dornish betrothal will be broken. I will deal with Dorne myself, absent Lannister interference. Additionally, the Redwyne Fleet will be at the disposal of the Crown upon my taking it, without limitation.'

'So be it,' Tyrion replied reluctantly 'But my father will be allowed the option of taking the Black upon the outcome of a trial which we all know will have but one verdict.'

Stannis thought quickly to himself – he held no personal animosity against Tywin, in the same way he very much did against Mace Tyrell, who with agreement now would be beyond his vengeance for his behaviour at Storm's End, and such a general as the Old Lion was at the disposal of the Watch was a bargain for both. He nodded. 'I agree.' He looked then at Tyrion. 'You want nothing for yourself for this action?'

'I am the Imp,' Tyrion replied sardonically. 'My father has always made it clear that to even survive is more than I deserve.'

Shireen moved to a position beside her father. She was dressed in black, as ever, but rather than dresses she was wearing soft breeches beneath a short, armoured skirt; the others looked at her in surprise, both at her attire and the sword at her side, and her willingness to move into the middle of such delicacy. She pulled at her father's arm, and he reached down to listen to her. 'He deserves better than mere survival, father,' she told him earnestly. 'He has given you the throne.'

'The French have given me the throne, girl,' he told her gruffly, but quietly so the others could not hear.

'But he could give you the Westerlands without conquest,' she told him.

He considered her words, and stood straight. 'Tyrion Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock, Warden of the West, take me to the Iron Throne.'