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[b]The Lion’s Den Inn, Lannisport, The Westerlands[/b]

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The Lion’s Den was, unlike many inns, taverns and brothels near the docks of Lannisport, a fairly reputable destination. The food was good, hot and varied, the beds warm and soft and none of the serving girls had crooked jaws or the like, not that the place was a brothel. Guests were simply accorded a certain amount of enjoyment. The ownership of the establishment had changed hands several times over the past two decades. For the man who crossed the threshold into the well lit, pleasingly decorated inn, it was one previous owner that was of interest, a brief but telling ownership at the start of the localised chaos.

Martys Lannister.

A cloak removed from his shoulders, to reveal a head of golden blonde hair. Slightly curled, but only by nature, for those who knew, there was only one man in the Westerlands to quite fit his description. Tybolt, Lord of Casterly Rock. While he did not frequent such establishments, it was clear a number of the staff, and few locals beside, recognised the man, but after he waved away a hurried greetings from one of the serving girls, it became clear he did not plan on being overt. They soon went back to their drinks and tasks at hand. He took a seat in a comfortable, if slightly shady, corner of the inn, eventually paying over the price for a flagon of mead. Not a drink often found up in the castle. He enjoyed it, despite the business he was about to attend to. The amount he paid for the drink made it clear. He did not wish to be disturbed or fawned over further. The discretion of such well respected establishments was well known, and his wishes were taken into account.

He did not stir for some time, simply sipping on his drink as the minutes passed by. After an hour of apparently waiting, he purchased a steak and kidney pie, eating it with the same deliberation. Even still, the remains of his food and drink had long been cleared away before finally the moment arrived. Two finely clad traders entered the establishment, readily accepting the attention Tybolt had looked to avoid, they took their own seats, along with the company of some of the more attractive female staff, bringing forth both considerable food and drink for these new patrons. Or, not quite, the owner and his accomplice. Tybolt watched the rowdy behavior of the pair for a while longer, allowing the familiarity of their own property to seep in, before standing an approaching them.

“Harrys Orlais and Jory Hill I presume.” The Lannister spoke as he took a seat at their table, the apparent audacity of such an action surprising the pair enough to not truly think or register their situation, leading to a blurted response.

“And who the fuck do you think you are.” It was Hill, the bastard, who spoke. While many of the successful traders of the city were refined despite the expectations placed upon them by Westerosi society, many were not. Judging by the glare Tybolt earned from his companion, it was likely Orlais was of similar character.

“My name is Tybolt Lannister, Lord Paramount of the Westerlands and Lord of Casterly Rock.”

A look of shock and dread fell over the faces of those he spoke to, however it was only after his next sentence that the colour truly drained from their faces.

“Husband of Celena Lannister.”

After the initial moment wore off, Hill’s natural instincts forced him from the seat, in a blind dash for the doors. Tybolt’s eyes followed him, almost passively as the panic stricken man leapt into the outside world. Then, with an uneasy slowness, his gaze settled on Orlais, visibly distressed, if not as outwardly as his partner.

“Only guilty men run, and unfortunately that has done little to convince me of your innocence.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I think you do. The previous owner of this inn was murdered in broad daylight twenty years ago. An association of traders great and small to bring down a Lannister during a family crisis. A public statement of untouchability. Well, here I am.” Leaning across the table, with great exaggeration, Tybolt poked the man in the chest, who nearly jumped out of his skin at the contact.

“Of course, you were only a minor party of such a group at the time, just having started doing business, I am not interested in one link. I want the whole chain. When you leave this establishment in an hour, you will be escorted by unmarked guards. You will go, and do, exactly as they say. Or your children will be raised in brothels.” As with the entirety of the conversation, Tybolt’s tone remained even and polite, even if it drew the attention of every man and woman in the room. With a slight nod, the Lannister stood, retracing his steps to where his cloack was hanging before returning it to his shoulders. The light of the sun greeted him, along with the chill of sea winds. When he was some distance from the inn, he looked back. He nodded once more.

The head of a bastard swung in the breeze, pinned to the Lion’s mouth that formed the crest of the inn.