The heavy wooden doors of the council chamber closed behind him, shutting out the faint murmur of discussion in the corridor.
Tyrion strode forward on his short legs, his gaze sweeping toward the far end of the long table. His sister had claimed the king's seat. Joffrey was probably on some terrace again, practicing his crossbow on living targets.
The place beside the king, which belonged to the Hand of the King, stood empty.
The high-backed chair had been deliberately removed.
Tyrion merely gave a barely audible snort, showing neither surprise nor annoyance.
He did not even pause, heading straight for the spare chairs lined against one wall.
He chose an ordinary oak chair and dragged it over.
Its wooden legs scraped across the stone floor with a piercing noise, painfully clear in the silent chamber.
Ignoring everyone else, he dragged the chair to the opposite end of the enormous council table, directly across from Cersei's seat, then clambered into it using both hands and feet.
At this height, he could just see over the edge of the thick tabletop and make out every face opposite him, especially Cersei's.
"You certainly know how to pick your place." Cersei's eyes stabbed at Tyrion like poisoned needles, her hostility undisguised and her voice sharp.
Tyrion shifted in the oversized chair to make himself more comfortable, then spread his hands. His expression was relaxed, with an almost deliberately infuriating smugness.
"What else should I do, my dear sister? Stand? Without a chair..." His gaze swept over the ministers seated stiffly along both sides of the table, some deliberately avoiding his eyes.
"Once you towering fellows sit down, who could possibly see me through this damned tabletop? Must I leap onto the table every time I speak? That would hardly show this antique the