The maester stood beside the bed like a goose about to take flight. “My lord, there, there will most like be a scar...”  “Most like?” His snort of laughter turned into a wince of pain. There would be a scar, to be sure. Nor was it likely that his nose would be growing back anytime soon. It was not as if his face had ever been fit to look at. “Teach me, not to, play with, axes.” His grin felt tight. “Where, are we? What, what place?” It hurt to talk, but Tyrion had been too long in silence.  “Ah, you are in Maegor’s Holdfast, my lord. A chamber over the Queen’s Ballroom. Her Grace wanted you kept close, so she might watch over you herself.”  I’ll wager she did. “Return me,” Tyrion commanded. “Own bed. Own chambers.” Where I will have my own men about me, and my own maester too, if I find one I can trust.  “Your own... my lord, that would not be possible. The King’s Hand has taken up residence in your former chambers.”  “I Am. King’s Hand.” He was growing exhausted by the effort of speaking, and confused by what he was hearing.  Maester Ballabar looked distressed. “No, my lord, I... you were wounded, near death. Your lord father has taken up those duties now. Lord Tywin, he...”  “Here? “  “Since the night of the battle. Lord Tywin saved us all. The smallfolk say it was King Renly’s ghost, but wiser men know better. It was your father and Lord Tyrell, with the Knight of Flowers and Lord Littlefinger. They rode through the ashes and took the usurper Stannis in the rear. It was a great victory, and now Lord Tywin has settled into the Tower of the Hand to help His Grace set the realm to rights, gods be praised.”  “Gods be praised,” Tyrion repeated hollowly. His bloody father and bloody Littlefinger and Renly’s ghost? “I want...” Who do I wa............