Janos Slynt was a butcher’s son, and he laughed like a man
chopping meat. “More wine?” Tyrion asked him.
“I should not object,” Lord Janos said, holding out
his cup. He was built like a keg, and had a similar capacity.
“I should not object at all. That’s a fine red. From
the Arbor?”
“Dornish.” Tyrion gestured, and his serving man
poured. But for the servants, he and Lord Janos were alone in the
Small Hall, at a small candlelit table surrounded by darkness.
“Quite the find. Dornish wines are not often so
rich.”
“Rich,” said the big frog-faced man, taking a
healthy gulp. He was not a man for sipping, Janos Slynt. Tyrion had
made note of that at once. “Yes, rich, that’s the very
word I was searching for, the very word. You have a gift for words,
Lord Tyrion, if I might say so. And you tell a droll tale. Droll,
yes.”
“I’m pleased you think
so . . . but I’m not a lord, as you are.
A simple Tyrion will suffice for me, Lord Janos.”
“As you wish.” He took another swallow, dribbling
wine on the front of his black satin doublet. He was wearing a
cloth-of-gold half cape fastened with a miniature spear, its point
enameled in dark red. And he was well and truly drunk.
Tyrion covered his mouth and belched politely. Unlike Lord Janos
he had gone easy on the wine, but he was very full. The first thing
he had done after taking up residence in the Tower of the Hand was
inquire after the finest cook in the city and take her into his
service. This evening they had supped on oxtail soup, summer greens
tossed with pecans, grapes, red fennel, and crumbled cheese, hot
crab pie, spiced squash, and quails drowned in butter. Each dish
had come with its own wine. Lord Janos allowed that he had never
eaten half so well. “No doubt that will change when you take
your seat in Harrenhal,” Tyrion said.
“For a certainty. Perhaps I should ask this cook of yours
to enter my service, what do you say?”
“Wars have been fought over less,” he said, and they
both had a good long laugh. “You’re a bold man to take
Harrenhal for your seat. Such a grim place, and
huge . . . costly to maintain. And some say
cursed as well.”
“Should I fear a pile of stone?” He hooted at the
notion. “A bold man, you said. You must be bold, to rise. As
I have. To Harrenhal, yes! And why not? You know. You are a bold
man too, I sense. Small, mayhap, but bold.”
“You are too kind. More wine?”
“No. No, truly, I . . . oh, gods be
damned, yes. Why not? A bold man drinks his fill!”
“Truly.” Tyrion filled Lord Slynt’s cup to the
brim. “I have been glancing over the names you put forward to
take your place as Commander of the City Watch.”
“Good men. Fine men. Any of the six will do, but I’d choose
Allar Deem. My right arm. Good good man. Loyal. Pick him and you
won’t be sorry. If he pleases the king.”
“To be sure.” Tyrion took a small sip of his own
wine. “I had been considering Ser Jacelyn Bywater. He’s
been captain on the Mud Gate for three years, and he served with
valor during Balon Greyjoy’s Rebellion. King Robert knighted
him at Pyke. And yet his name does not appear on your
list.”
Lord Janos Slynt took a gulp of wine and sloshed it around in
his mouth for a moment before swallowing. “Bywater. Well.
Brave man, to be sure, yet . . . he’s
rigid, that one. A queer dog. The men don’t like him. A
cripple too, lost his hand at Pyke, that’s what got him
knighted. A poor trade, if you ask me, a hand for a ser.” He
laughed. “Ser Jacelyn thinks overmuch of himself and his
honor, as I see it. You’ll do better leaving that one where
he is, my lor—Tyrion. Allar Deem’s the man for
you.”
“Deem is little loved in the streets, I am
told.”
“He’s feared. That’s better.”
“What was it I heard of him? Some trouble in a
brothel?”
“That. Not his fault, my lor—Tyrion. No. He never meant to
kill the woman, that was her own doing. He warned her to stand
aside and let him do his duty.”
“Still . . . mothers and children, he
might have expected she’d try to save the babe.” Tyrion
smiled. “Have some of this cheese, it goes splendidly with
the wine. Tell me, why did you choose Deem for that unhappy
task?”
“A good commander knows his men, Tyrion. Some are good for
one job, some for another. Doing for a babe, and her still on the
tit, that takes a certain sort. Not every man’d do it. Even
if it was only some whore and her whelp.”
“I suppose that’s so,” said Tyrion, hearing
only some whore and thinking of Shae, and Tysha long ago, and all
the other women who had taken his coin and his seed over the
years.
Slynt went on, oblivious. “A hard man for a hard job, is
Deem. Does as he’s told, and never a word afterward.”
He cut a slice off the cheese. “This is fine. Sharp. Give me
a good sharp knife and a good sharp cheese and I’m a happy
man.”
Tyrion shrugged. “Enjoy it while you can. With the
riverlands in flame and Renly king in Highgarden, good cheese will
soon be hard to come by. So who sent you after the whore’s
bastard?”
Lord Janos gave Tyrion a wary look, then laughed and wagged a
wedge of cheese at him. “You’re a sly one, Tyrion.
Thought you could trick me, did you? it takes more than wine and
cheese to make Janos Slynt tell more than he should. I pride
myself. Never a question, and never a word afterward, not with
me.”
“As with Deem.”
“Just the same. You make him your Commander when I’m
off to Harrenhal, and you won’t regret it.”
Tyrion broke off a nibble of the cheese. It was sharp indeed,
and veined with wine; very choice. “Whoever the king names
will not have an easy time stepping into your armor, I can tell.
Lord Mormont faces the same problem.”
Lord Janos looked puzzled. “I thought she was a lady.
Mormont. Beds down with bears, that’s the one?”
“It was her brother I was speaking of. Jeor Mormont, the
Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch. When I was visiting with
him on the Wall, he mentioned how concerned he was about finding a
good man to take his place. The Watch gets so few good men these
days.” Tyrion grinned. “He’d sleep easier if he
had a man like you, I imagine. Or the valiant Allar
Deem.”
Lord Janos roared. “Small chance of that!”
“One would think,” Tyrion said, “but life does
take queer turns. Consider Eddard Stark, my lord. I don’t
suppose he ever imagined his life would end on the steps of
Baelor’s Sept.”
“There were damn few as did,” Lord Janos allowed,
chuckling.
Tyrion chuckled too. “A pity I wasn’t here to see
it. They say even Varys was surprised.”
Lord Janos laughed so hard his gut shook. “The
Spider,” he said. “Knows everything, they say. Well, he
didn’t know that.”
“How could he?” Tyrion put the first hint of a chill
in his tone. “He had helped persuade my sister that Stark
should be pardoned, on the condition that he take the
black.”
“Eh?” Janos Slynt blinked vaguely at Tyrion.
“My sister Cersei,” Tyrion repeated, a shade more
strongly, in case the fool had some doubt who he meant. “The
Queen Regent.”
“Yes.” Slynt took a swallow. “As to that,
well . . . the king commanded it, m’lord.
The king himself.”
“The king is thirteen,” Tyrion reminded him.
“Still. He is the king.” Slynt’s jowls
quivered when he frowned. “The Lord of the Seven
Kingdoms.”
“Well, one or two of them, at least,” Tyrion said
with a sour smile. “Might I have a look at your
spear?”
“My spear?” Lord Janos blinked in confusion.
Tyrion pointed. “The clasp that fastens your
cape.”
Hesitantly, Lord Janos drew out the ornament and handed it to
Tyrion.
“We have goldsmiths in Lannisport who do better work,” he
opined. “The red enamel blood is a shade much, if you
don’t mind my saying. Tell me, my lord, did you drive the
spear into the man’s back yourself, or did you only give the
command?”
“I gave the command, and I’d give it again. Lord
Stark was a traitor.” The bald spot in the middle of
Slynt’s head was beet-red, and his cloth-of-gold cape had
slithered off his shoulders onto the floor. “The man tried to
buy me.”
“Little dreaming that you had already been
sold.”
Slynt slammed down his wine cup. “Are you drunk? If you
think I will sit here and have my honor
questioned . . . ”
“What honor is that? I do admit, you made a better bargain
than Ser Jacelyn. A lordship and a castle for a spear thrust in the
back, and you didn’t even need to thrust the spear.” He
tossed the golden ornament back to Janos Slynt. It bounced off his
chest and clattered to the floor as the man rose.
“I mislike the tone of your voice, my lo—Imp. I am the
Lord of Harrenhal and a member of the king’s council, who
are you to chastise me like this?”
Tyrion cocked his head sideways. “I think you know quite
well who I am. How many sons do you have?”
“What are my sons to you, dwarf?”
“Dwarf?” His anger flashed. “You should have
stopped at Imp. I am Tyrion of House Lannister, and someday, if you
have the sense the gods gave a sea slug, you will drop to your
knees in thanks that it was me you had to deal with, and not my
lord father. Now, how many sons do you have?”
Tyrion could see the sudden fear in Janos Slynt’s eyes.
“Th—three, m’lord. And a daughter. Please,
m’lord—”
“You need not beg.” He slid off his chair.
“You have my word, no harm will come to them. The younger
boys will be fostered out as squires. If they serve well and
loyally, they may be knights in time. Let it never be said that
House Lannister does not reward those who serve it. Your eldest son
will inherit the title Lord Slynt, and this appalling sigil of
yours.” He kicked at the little golden spear and sent it
skittering across the floor. “Lands will be found for him,
and he can build a seat for himself. It will not be Harrenhal, but
it will be sufficient. It will be up to him to make a marriage for
the girl.”
Janos Slynt’s face had gone from red to white.
“Wh-what . . . what do
you . . . ?” His jowls were quivering
like mounds of suet.
“What do I mean to do with you?” Tyrion let the oaf
tremble for a moment before he answered. “The carrack
Summer’s Dream sails on the morning tide. Her master tells me
she will call at Gulltown, the Three Sisters, the isle of Skagos,
and Eastwatch-by-the-Sea. When you see Lord Commander Mormont, give
him my fond regards, and tell him that I have not forgotten the
needs of the Night’s Watch. I wish you long life and good
service, my lord.”
Once Janos Slynt realized he was not to be summarily executed,
color returned to his face. He thrust his jaw out. “We will
see about this, Imp. Dwarf. Perhaps it will be you on that ship,
what do you think of that? Perhaps it will be you on the
Wall.” He gave a bark of anxious laughter. “You and
your threats, well, we will see. I am the king’s friend, you
know. We shall hear what Joffrey has to say about this. And
Littlefinger and the queen, oh, yes. Janos Slynt has a good many
friends. We will see who goes sailing, I promise you. Indeed we
will.”
Slynt spun on his heel like the watchman he’d once been,
and strode the length of the Small Hall, boots ringing on the
stone. He clattered up the steps, threw open the
door . . . and came face-to-face with a tall,
lantern-jawed man in black breastplate and gold cloak. Strapped to
the stump of his right wrist was an iron hand. “Janos,”
he said, deep-set eyes glinting under a prominent brow ridge and a
shock of salt-and-pepper hair. Six gold cloaks moved quietly into
the Small Hall behind him as Janos Slynt backed away.
“Lord Slynt,” Tyrion called out, “I believe
you know Ser Jacelyn Bywater, our new Commander of the City
Watch.”
“We have a litter waiting for you, my lord,” Ser
Jacelyn told Slynt. “The docks are dark and distant, and the
streets are not safe by night. Men.”
As the gold cloaks ushered out their onetime commander, Tyrion
called Ser Jacelyn to his side and handed him a roll of parchment.
“It’s a long voyage, and Lord Slynt will want for
company. See that these six join him on the Summer’s
Dream.”
Bywater glanced over the names and smiled. “As you
will.”
“There’s one,” Tyrion said quietly.
“Deem. Tell the captain it would not be taken amiss if that
one should happen to be swept overboard before they reach
Eastwatch.”
“I’m told those northern waters are very stormy, my
lord.” Ser Jacelyn bowed and took his leave, his cloak
rippling behind him. He trod on Slynt’s cloth-of-gold cape on
his way.
Tyrion sat alone, sipping at what remained of the fine sweet
Dornish wine. Servants came and went, clearing the dishes from the
table. He told them to leave the wine. When they were done, Varys
came gliding into the hall, wearing flowing lavender robes that
matched his smell. “Oh sweetly done, my good lord.”
“Then why do I have this bitter taste in my mouth?”
He pressed his fingers into his temples. “I told them to
throw Allar Deem into the sea. I am sorely tempted to do the same
with you.”
“You might be disappointed by the result,” Varys
replied. “The storms come and go, the waves crash overhead,
the big fish eat the little fish, and I keep on paddling. Might I
trouble you for a taste of the wine that Lord Slynt enjoyed so
much?”
Tyrion waved at the flagon, frowning.
Varys filled a cup. “Ah. Sweet as summer.” He took
another sip. “I hear the grapes singing on my
tongue.”
“I wondered what that noise was. Tell the grapes to keep
still, my head is about to split. It was my sister. That was what
the oh-so-loyal Lord Janos refused to say. Cersei sent the gold
cloaks to that brothel.”
Varys tittered nervously. So he had known all along.
“You left that part out,” Tyrion said
accusingly.
“Your own sweet sister,” Varys said, so
grief-stricken he looked close to tears. “It is a hard thing
to tell a man, my lord. I was fearful how you might take it. Can
you forgive me?”
“No,” Tyrion snapped. “Damn you. Damn
her.” He could not touch Cersei, he knew. Not yet, not even
if he’d wanted to, and he was far from certain that he did.
Yet it rankled, to sit here and make a mummer’s show of
justice by punishing the sorry likes of Janos Slynt and Allar Deem,
while his sister continued on her savage course. “In future,
you will tell me what you know, Lord Varys. All of what you
know.”
The eunuch’s smile was sly. “That might take rather
a long time, my good lord. I know quite a lot.”
“Not enough to save this child, it would seem.”
“Alas, no. There was another bastard, a boy, older. I took
steps to see him removed from harm’s
way . . . but I confess, I never dreamed the
babe would be at risk. A baseborn girl, less than a year old, with
a whore for a mother. What threat could she pose?”
“She was Robert’s,” Tyrion said bitterly.
“That was enough for Cersei, it would seem.”
“Yes. It is grievous sad. I must blame myself for the poor
sweet babe and her mother, who was so young and loved the
king.”
“Did she?” Tyrion had never seen the dead
girl’s face, but in his mind she was Shae and Tysha both.
“Can a whore truly love anyone, I wonder? No, don’t
answer. Some things I would rather not know.” He had settled
Shae in a sprawling stone-and-timber manse, with its own well and
stable and garden; he had given her servants to see to her wants, a
white bird from the Summer Isles to keep her company, silks and
silver and gemstones to adorn her, guards to protect her. And yet
she seemed restive. She wanted to be with him more, she told him;
she wanted to serve him and help him. “You help me most here,
between the sheets,” he told her one night after their loving
as he lay beside her, his head pillowed against her breast, his
groin aching with a sweet soreness. She made no reply, save with
her eyes. He could see there that it was not what she’d
wanted to hear.
Sighing, Tyrion started to reach for the wine again, then
remembered Lord Janos and pushed the flagon away. “It does
seem my sister was telling the truth about Stark’s death. We
have my nephew to thank for that madness.”
“King Joffrey gave the command. Janos Slynt and Ser Ilyn
Payne carried it out, swiftly, without
hesitation . . . ”
“ . . . almost as if they had expected
it. Yes, we have been over this ground before, without profit. A
folly.”
“With the City Watch in hand, my lord, you are well placed
to see to it that His Grace commits no
further . . . follies? To be sure, there is
still the queen’s household guard to
consider . . . ”
“The red cloaks?” Tyrion shrugged.
“Vylarr’s loyalty is to Casterly Rock. He knows I am
here with my father’s authority. Cersei would find it hard to
use his men against me . . . besides, they are
only a hundred. I have half again as many men of my own. And six
thousand gold cloaks, if Bywater is the man you claim.”
“You will find Ser Jacelyn to be courageous, honorable,
obedient . . . and most grateful.”
“To whom, I wonder?” Tyrion did not trust Varys,
though there was no denying his value. He knew things, beyond a
doubt. “Why are you so helpful, my lord Varys?” he
asked, studying the man’s soft hands, the bald powdered face,
the slimy little smile.
“You are the Hand. I serve the realm, the king, and
you.”
“As you served Jon Arryn and Eddard Stark?”
“I served Lord Arryn and Lord Stark as best I could. I was
saddened and horrified by their most untimely deaths.”
“Think how I feel. I’m like to be next.”
“Oh, I think not,” Varys said, swirling the wine in
his cup. “Power is a curious thing, my lord. Perchance you
have considered the riddle I posed you that day in the
inn?”
“It has crossed my mind a time or two,” Tyrion
admitted. “The king, the priest, the rich man—who lives and
who dies? Who will the swordsman obey? It’s a riddle without
an answer, or rather, too many answers. All depends on the man with
the sword.”
“And yet he is no one,” Varys said. “He has
neither crown nor gold nor favor of the gods, only a piece of
pointed steel.”
“That piece of steel is the power of life and
death.”
“Just so . . . yet if it is the
swordsmen who rule us in truth, why do we pretend our kings hold
the power? Why should a strong man with a sword ever obey a child
king like Joffrey, or a wine-sodden oaf like his father?
“
“Because these child kings and drunken oafs can call other
strong men, with other swords.”
“Then these other swordsmen have the true power. Or do
they? Whence came their swords? Why do they obey?” Varys
smiled. “Some say knowledge is power. Some tell us that all
power comes from the gods. Others say it derives from law. Yet that
day on the steps of Baelor’s Sept, our godly High Septon and
the lawful Queen Regent and your ever-so-knowledgeable servant were
as powerless as any cobbler or cooper in the crowd. Who truly
killed Eddard Stark do you think? Joffrey, who gave the command?
Ser Ilyn Payne, who swung the sword?
Or . . . another? “
Tyrion cocked his head sideways. “Did you mean to answer
your damned riddle, or only to make my head ache worse?”
Varys smiled. “Here, then. Power resides where men believe
it resides. No more and no less.”
“So power is a mummer’s trick?”
“A shadow on the wall,” Varys murmured, “yet
shadows can kill. And ofttimes a very small man can cast a very
large shadow.”
Tyrion smiled. “Lord Varys, I am growing strangely fond of
you. I may kill you yet, but I think I’d feel sad about
it.”
“I will take that as high praise.”
“What are you, Varys?” Tyrion found he truly wanted
to know. “A spider, they say.”
“Spies and informers are seldom loved, my lord. I am but a
loyal servant of the realm.”
“And a eunuch. Let us not forget that.”
“I seldom do.”
“People have called me a halfman too, yet I think the gods
have been kinder to me. I am small, my legs are twisted, and women
do not look upon me with any great
yearning . . . yet I’m still a man. Shae
is not the first to grace my bed, and one day I may take a wife and
sire a son. If the gods are good, he’ll look like his uncle
and think like his father. You have no such hope to sustain you.
Dwarfs are a jape of the gods . . . but men
make eunuchs. Who cut you, Varys? When and why? Who are you, truly?”
The eunuch’s smile never flickered, but his eyes glittered
with something that was not laughter. “You are kind to ask,
my lord, but my tale is long and sad, and we have treasons to
discuss.” He drew a parchment from the sleeve of his robe.
“The master of the King’s Galley White Hart plots to
slip anchor three days hence to offer his sword and ship to Lord
Stannis.”
Tyrion sighed. “I suppose we must make some sort of bloody
lesson out of the man?”
“Ser Jacelyn could arrange for him to vanish, but a trial
before the king would help assure the continued loyalty of the
other captains.” And keep my royal nephew occupied as well. “As you say.
Put him down for a dose of Joffrey’s justice.”
Varys made a mark on the parchment. “Ser Horas and Ser
Hobber Redwyne have bribed a guard to let them out a postern gate,
the night after next. Arrangements have been made for them to sail
on the Pentoshi galley Moonrunner, disguised as oarsmen.”
“Can we keep them on those oars for a few years, see how
they fancy it?” He smiled. “No, my sister would be
distraught to lose such treasured guests. Inform Ser Jacelyn. Seize
the man they bribed and explain what an honor it is to serve as a
brother of the Night’s Watch. And have men posted around the
Moonrunner, in case the Redwynes find a second guard short of
coin.”
“As you will.” Another mark on the parchment.
“Your man Timett slew a wineseller’s son this evening,
at a gambling den on the Street of Silver. He accused him of
cheating at tiles.”
“Was it true?”
“Oh, beyond a doubt.”
“Then the honest men of the city owe Timett a debt of
gratitude. I shall see that he has the king’s
thanks.”
The eunuch gave a nervous giggle and made another mark.
“We also have a sudden plague of holy men. The comet has
brought forth all manner of queer priests, preachers, and prophets,
it would seem. They beg in the winesinks and pot-shops and foretell
doom and destruction to anyone who stops to listen.”
Tyrion shrugged. “We are close on the three hundredth year
since Aegon’s Landing, I suppose it is only to be expected.
Let them rant.”
“They are spreading fear, my lord.”
“I thought that was your job.”
Varys covered his mouth with his hand. “You are very cruel
to say so. One last matter. Lady Tanda gave a small supper last
night. I have the menu and the guest list for your inspection. When
the wine was poured, Lord Gyles rose to lift a cup to the king, and
Ser Balon Swann was heard to remark, ‘We’ll need three
cups for that.’ Many
laughed . . . ”
Tyrion raised a hand. “Enough. Ser Balon made a jest. I am
not interested in treasonous table talk, Lord Varys.”
“You are as wise as you are gentle, my lord.” The
parchment vanished up the eunuch’s sleeve. “We both
have much to do. I shall leave you.”
When the eunuch had departed, Tyrion sat for a long time
watching the candle and wondering how his sister would take the
news of Janos Slynt’s dismissal. Not happily, if he was any
judge, but beyond sending an angry protest to Lord Tywin in
Harrenhal, he did not see what Cersei could hope to do about it.
Tyrion had the City Watch now, plus a hundred-and-a-half fierce
clansmen and a growing force of sellswords recruited by Bronn. He
would seem well protected. Doubtless Eddard Stark thought the same.
The Red Keep was dark and still when Tyrion left the Small Hall.
Bronn was waiting in his solar. “Slynt?” he asked.
“Lord Janos will be sailing for the Wall on the morning
tide. Varys would have me believe that I have replaced one of
Joffrey’s men with one of my own. More likely, I have
replaced Littlefinger’s man with one belonging to Varys, but
so be it.”
“You’d best know, Timett killed a
man—”
“Varys told me.”
The sellsword seemed unsurprised. “The fool figured a
one-eyed man would be easier to cheat. Timett pinned his wrist to
the table with a dagger and ripped out his throat barehanded. He
has this trick where he stiffens his fingers—”
“Spare me the grisly details, my supper is sitting badly
in my belly,” Tyrion said. “How goes your
recruiting?”
“Well enough. Three new men tonight.”
“How do you know which ones to hire?”
“I look them over. I question them, to learn where
they’ve fought and how well they lie.” Bronn smiled.
“And then I give them a chance to kill me, while I do the
same for them.”
“Have you killed any?”
“No one we could have used.”
“And if one of them kills you?”
“He’ll be one you’ll want to hire.”
Tyrion was a little drunk, and very tired. “Tell me,
Bronn. If I told you to kill a babe . . . an
infant girl, say, still at her mother’s
breast . . . would you do it? Without
question?”
“Without question? No.” The sellsword rubbed thumb
and forefinger together. “I’d ask how much.” And why would I ever need your Allar Deem, Lord Slynt? Tyrion
thought. I have a hundred of my own. He wanted to laugh; he wanted
to weep; most of all, he wanted Shae.
Janos Slynt was a butcher’s son, and he laughed like a man
chopping meat. “More wine?” Tyrion asked him.
“I should not object,” Lord Janos said, holding out
his cup. He was built like a keg, and had a similar capacity.
“I should not object at all. That’s a fine red. From
the Arbor?”
“Dornish.” Tyrion gestured, and his serving man
poured. But for the servants, he and Lord Janos were alone in the
Small Hall, at a small candlelit table surrounded by darkness.
“Quite the find. Dornish wines are not often so
rich.”
“Rich,” said the big frog-faced man, taking a
healthy gulp. He was not a man for sipping, Janos Slynt. Tyrion had
made note of that at once. “Yes, rich, that’s the very
word I was searching for, the very word. You have a gift for words,
Lord Tyrion, if I might say so. And you tell a droll tale. Droll,
yes.”
“I’m pleased you think
so . . . but I’m not a lord, as you are.
A simple Tyrion will suffice for me, Lord Janos.”
“As you wish.” He took another swallow, dribbling
wine on the front of his black satin doublet. He was wearing a
cloth-of-gold half cape fastened with a miniature spear, its point
enameled in dark red. And he was well and truly drunk.
Tyrion covered his mouth and belched politely. Unlike Lord Janos
he had gone easy on the wine, but he was very full. The first thing
he had done after taking up residence in the Tower of the Hand was
inquire after the finest cook in the city and take her into his
service. This evening they had supped on oxtail soup, summer greens
tossed with pecans, grapes, red fennel, and crumbled cheese, hot
crab pie, spiced squash, and quails drowned in butter. Each dish
had come with its own wine. Lord Janos allowed that he had never
eaten half so well. “No doubt that will change when you take
your seat in Harrenhal,” Tyrion said.
“For a certainty. Perhaps I should ask this cook of yours
to enter my service, what do you say?”
“Wars have been fought over less,” he said, and they
both had a good long laugh. “You’re a bold man to take
Harrenhal for your seat. Such a grim place, and
huge . . . costly to maintain. And some say
cursed as well.”
“Should I fear a pile of stone?” He hooted at the
notion. “A bold man, you said. You must be bold, to rise. As
I have. To Harrenhal, yes! And why not? You know. You are a bold
man too, I sense. Small, mayhap, but bold.”
“You are too kind. More wine?”
“No. No, truly, I . . . oh, gods be
damned, yes. Why not? A bold man drinks his fill!”
“Truly.” Tyrion filled Lord Slynt’s cup to the
brim. “I have been glancing over the names you put forward to
take your place as Commander of the City Watch.”
“Good men. Fine men. Any of the six will do, but I’d choose
Allar Deem. My right arm. Good good man. Loyal. Pick him and you
won’t be sorry. If he pleases the king.”
“To be sure.” Tyrion took a small sip of his own
wine. “I had been considering Ser Jacelyn Bywater. He’s
been captain on the Mud Gate for three years, and he served with
valor during Balon Greyjoy’s Rebellion. King Robert knighted
him at Pyke. And yet his name does not appear on your
list.”
Lord Janos Slynt took a gulp of wine and sloshed it around in
his mouth for a moment before swallowing. “Bywater. Well.
Brave man, to be sure, yet . . . he’s
rigid, that one. A queer dog. The men don’t like him. A
cripple too, lost his hand at Pyke, that’s what got him
knighted. A poor trade, if you ask me, a hand for a ser.” He
laughed. “Ser Jacelyn thinks overmuch of himself and his
honor, as I see it. You’ll do better leaving that one where
he is, my lor—Tyrion. Allar Deem’s the man for
you.”
“Deem is little loved in the streets, I am
told.”
“He’s feared. That’s better.”
“What was it I heard of him? Some trouble in a
brothel?”
“That. Not his fault, my lor—Tyrion. No. He never meant to
kill the woman, that was her own doing. He warned her to stand
aside and let him do his duty.”
“Still . . . mothers and children, he
might have expected she’d try to save the babe.” Tyrion
smiled. “Have some of this cheese, it goes splendidly with
the wine. Tell me, why did you choose Deem for that unhappy
task?”
“A good commander knows his men, Tyrion. Some are good for
one job, some for another. Doing for a babe, and her still on the
tit, that takes a certain sort. Not every man’d do it. Even
if it was only some whore and her whelp.”
“I suppose that’s so,” said Tyrion, hearing
only some whore and thinking of Shae, and Tysha long ago, and all
the other women who had taken his coin and his seed over the
years.
Slynt went on, oblivious. “A hard man for a hard job, is
Deem. Does as he’s told, and never a word afterward.”
He cut a slice off the cheese. “This is fine. Sharp. Give me
a good sharp knife and a good sharp cheese and I’m a happy
man.”
Tyrion shrugged. “Enjoy it while you can. With the
riverlands in flame and Renly king in Highgarden, good cheese will
soon be hard to come by. So who sent you after the whore’s
bastard?”
Lord Janos gave Tyrion a wary look, then laughed and wagged a
wedge of cheese at him. “You’re a sly one, Tyrion.
Thought you could trick me, did you? it takes more than wine and
cheese to make Janos Slynt tell more than he should. I pride
myself. Never a question, and never a word afterward, not with
me.”
“As with Deem.”
“Just the same. You make him your Commander when I’m
off to Harrenhal, and you won’t regret it.”
Tyrion broke off a nibble of the cheese. It was sharp indeed,
and veined with wine; very choice. “Whoever the king names
will not have an easy time stepping into your armor, I can tell.
Lord Mormont faces the same problem.”
Lord Janos looked puzzled. “I thought she was a lady.
Mormont. Beds down with bears, that’s the one?”
“It was her brother I was speaking of. Jeor Mormont, the
Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch. When I was visiting with
him on the Wall, he mentioned how concerned he was about finding a
good man to take his place. The Watch gets so few good men these
days.” Tyrion grinned. “He’d sleep easier if he
had a man like you, I imagine. Or the valiant Allar
Deem.”
Lord Janos roared. “Small chance of that!”
“One would think,” Tyrion said, “but life does
take queer turns. Consider Eddard Stark, my lord. I don’t
suppose he ever imagined his life would end on the steps of
Baelor’s Sept.”
“There were damn few as did,” Lord Janos allowed,
chuckling.
Tyrion chuckled too. “A pity I wasn’t here to see
it. They say even Varys was surprised.”
Lord Janos laughed so hard his gut shook. “The
Spider,” he said. “Knows everything, they say. Well, he
didn’t know that.”
“How could he?” Tyrion put the first hint of a chill
in his tone. “He had helped persuade my sister that Stark
should be pardoned, on the condition that he take the
black.”
“Eh?” Janos Slynt blinked vaguely at Tyrion.
“My sister Cersei,” Tyrion repeated, a shade more
strongly, in case the fool had some doubt who he meant. “The
Queen Regent.”
“Yes.” Slynt took a swallow. “As to that,
well . . . the king commanded it, m’lord.
The king himself.”
“The king is thirteen,” Tyrion reminded him.
“Still. He is the king.” Slynt’s jowls
quivered when he frowned. “The Lord of the Seven
Kingdoms.”
“Well, one or two of them, at least,” Tyrion said
with a sour smile. “Might I have a look at your
spear?”
“My spear?” Lord Janos blinked in confusion.
Tyrion pointed. “The clasp that fastens your
cape.”
Hesitantly, Lord Janos drew out the ornament and handed it to
Tyrion.
“We have goldsmiths in Lannisport who do better work,” he
opined. “The red enamel blood is a shade much, if you
don’t mind my saying. Tell me, my lord, did you drive the
spear into the man’s back yourself, or did you only give the
command?”
“I gave the command, and I’d give it again. Lord
Stark was a traitor.” The bald spot in the middle of
Slynt’s head was beet-red, and his cloth-of-gold cape had
slithered off his shoulders onto the floor. “The man tried to
buy me.”
“Little dreaming that you had already been
sold.”
Slynt slammed down his wine cup. “Are you drunk? If you
think I will sit here and have my honor
questioned . . . ”
“What honor is that? I do admit, you made a better bargain
than Ser Jacelyn. A lordship and a castle for a spear thrust in the
back, and you didn’t even need to thrust the spear.” He
tossed the golden ornament back to Janos Slynt. It bounced off his
chest and clattered to the floor as the man rose.
“I mislike the tone of your voice, my lo—Imp. I am the
Lord of Harrenhal and a member of the king’s council, who
are you to chastise me like this?”
Tyrion cocked his head sideways. “I think you know quite
well who I am. How many sons do you have?”
“What are my sons to you, dwarf?”
“Dwarf?” His anger flashed. “You should have
stopped at Imp. I am Tyrion of House Lannister, and someday, if you
have the sense the gods gave a sea slug, you will drop to your
knees in thanks that it was me you had to deal with, and not my
lord father. Now, how many sons do you have?”
Tyrion could see the sudden fear in Janos Slynt’s eyes.
“Th—three, m’lord. And a daughter. Please,
m’lord—”
“You need not beg.” He slid off his chair.
“You have my word, no harm will come to them. The younger
boys will be fostered out as squires. If they serve well and
loyally, they may be knights in time. Let it never be said that
House Lannister does not reward those who serve it. Your eldest son
will inherit the title Lord Slynt, and this appalling sigil of
yours.” He kicked at the little golden spear and sent it
skittering across the floor. “Lands will be found for him,
and he can build a seat for himself. It will not be Harrenhal, but
it will be sufficient. It will be up to him to make a marriage for
the girl.”
Janos Slynt’s face had gone from red to white.
“Wh-what . . . what do
you . . . ?” His jowls were quivering
like mounds of suet.
“What do I mean to do with you?” Tyrion let the oaf
tremble for a moment before he answered. “The carrack
Summer’s Dream sails on the morning tide. Her master tells me
she will call at Gulltown, the Three Sisters, the isle of Skagos,
and Eastwatch-by-the-Sea. When you see Lord Commander Mormont, give
him my fond regards, and tell him that I have not forgotten the
needs of the Night’s Watch. I wish you long life and good
service, my lord.”
Once Janos Slynt realized he was not to be summarily executed,
color returned to his face. He thrust his jaw out. “We will
see about this, Imp. Dwarf. Perhaps it will be you on that ship,
what do you think of that? Perhaps it will be you on the
Wall.” He gave a bark of anxious laughter. “You and
your threats, well, we will see. I am the king’s friend, you
know. We shall hear what Joffrey has to say about this. And
Littlefinger and the queen, oh, yes. Janos Slynt has a good many
friends. We will see who goes sailing, I promise you. Indeed we
will.”
Slynt spun on his heel like the watchman he’d once been,
and strode the length of the Small Hall, boots ringing on the
stone. He clattered up the steps, threw open the
door . . . and came face-to-face with a tall,
lantern-jawed man in black breastplate and gold cloak. Strapped to
the stump of his right wrist was an iron hand. “Janos,”
he said, deep-set eyes glinting under a prominent brow ridge and a
shock of salt-and-pepper hair. Six gold cloaks moved quietly into
the Small Hall behind him as Janos Slynt backed away.
“Lord Slynt,” Tyrion called out, “I believe
you know Ser Jacelyn Bywater, our new Commander of the City
Watch.”
“We have a litter waiting for you, my lord,” Ser
Jacelyn told Slynt. “The docks are dark and distant, and the
streets are not safe by night. Men.”
As the gold cloaks ushered out their onetime commander, Tyrion
called Ser Jacelyn to his side and handed him a roll of parchment.
“It’s a long voyage, and Lord Slynt will want for
company. See that these six join him on the Summer’s
Dream.”
Bywater glanced over the names and smiled. “As you
will.”
“There’s one,” Tyrion said quietly.
“Deem. Tell the captain it would not be taken amiss if that
one should happen to be swept overboard before they reach
Eastwatch.”
“I’m told those northern waters are very stormy, my
lord.” Ser Jacelyn bowed and took his leave, his cloak
rippling behind him. He trod on Slynt’s cloth-of-gold cape on
his way.
Tyrion sat alone, sipping at what remained of the fine sweet
Dornish wine. Servants came and went, clearing the dishes from the
table. He told them to leave the wine. When they were done, Varys
came gliding into the hall, wearing flowing lavender robes that
matched his smell. “Oh sweetly done, my good lord.”
“Then why do I have this bitter taste in my mouth?”
He pressed his fingers into his temples. “I told them to
throw Allar Deem into the sea. I am sorely tempted to do the same
with you.”
“You might be disappointed by the result,” Varys
replied. “The storms come and go, the waves crash overhead,
the big fish eat the little fish, and I keep on paddling. Might I
trouble you for a taste of the wine that Lord Slynt enjoyed so
much?”
Tyrion waved at the flagon, frowning.
Varys filled a cup. “Ah. Sweet as summer.” He took
another sip. “I hear the grapes singing on my
tongue.”
“I wondered what that noise was. Tell the grapes to keep
still, my head is about to split. It was my sister. That was what
the oh-so-loyal Lord Janos refused to say. Cersei sent the gold
cloaks to that brothel.”
Varys tittered nervously. So he had known all along.
“You left that part out,” Tyrion said
accusingly.
“Your own sweet sister,” Varys said, so
grief-stricken he looked close to tears. “It is a hard thing
to tell a man, my lord. I was fearful how you might take it. Can
you forgive me?”
“No,” Tyrion snapped. “Damn you. Damn
her.” He could not touch Cersei, he knew. Not yet, not even
if he’d wanted to, and he was far from certain that he did.
Yet it rankled, to sit here and make a mummer’s show of
justice by punishing the sorry likes of Janos Slynt and Allar Deem,
while his sister continued on her savage course. “In future,
you will tell me what you know, Lord Varys. All of what you
know.”
The eunuch’s smile was sly. “That might take rather
a long time, my good lord. I know quite a lot.”
“Not enough to save this child, it would seem.”
“Alas, no. There was another bastard, a boy, older. I took
steps to see him removed from harm’s
way . . . but I confess, I never dreamed the
babe would be at risk. A baseborn girl, less than a year old, with
a whore for a mother. What threat could she pose?”
“She was Robert’s,” Tyrion said bitterly.
“That was enough for Cersei, it would seem.”
“Yes. It is grievous sad. I must blame myself for the poor
sweet babe and her mother, who was so young and loved the
king.”
“Did she?” Tyrion had never seen the dead
girl’s face, but in his mind she was Shae and Tysha both.
“Can a whore truly love anyone, I wonder? No, don’t
answer. Some things I would rather not know.” He had settled
Shae in a sprawling stone-and-timber manse, with its own well and
stable and garden; he had given her servants to see to her wants, a
white bird from the Summer Isles to keep her company, silks and
silver and gemstones to adorn her, guards to protect her. And yet
she seemed restive. She wanted to be with him more, she told him;
she wanted to serve him and help him. “You help me most here,
between the sheets,” he told her one night after their loving
as he lay beside her, his head pillowed against her breast, his
groin aching with a sweet soreness. She made no reply, save with
her eyes. He could see there that it was not what she’d
wanted to hear.
Sighing, Tyrion started to reach for the wine again, then
remembered Lord Janos and pushed the flagon away. “It does
seem my sister was telling the truth about Stark’s death. We
have my nephew to thank for that madness.”
“King Joffrey gave the command. Janos Slynt and Ser Ilyn
Payne carried it out, swiftly, without
hesitation . . . ”
“ . . . almost as if they had expected
it. Yes, we have been over this ground before, without profit. A
folly.”
“With the City Watch in hand, my lord, you are well placed
to see to it that His Grace commits no
further . . . follies? To be sure, there is
still the queen’s household guard to
consider . . . ”
“The red cloaks?” Tyrion shrugged.
“Vylarr’s loyalty is to Casterly Rock. He knows I am
here with my father’s authority. Cersei would find it hard to
use his men against me . . . besides, they are
only a hundred. I have half again as many men of my own. And six
thousand gold cloaks, if Bywater is the man you claim.”
“You will find Ser Jacelyn to be courageous, honorable,
obedient . . . and most grateful.”
“To whom, I wonder?” Tyrion did not trust Varys,
though there was no denying his value. He knew things, beyond a
doubt. “Why are you so helpful, my lord Varys?” he
asked, studying the man’s soft hands, the bald powdered face,
the slimy little smile.
“You are the Hand. I serve the realm, the king, and
you.”
“As you served Jon Arryn and Eddard Stark?”
“I served Lord Arryn and Lord Stark as best I could. I was
saddened and horrified by their most untimely deaths.”
“Think how I feel. I’m like to be next.”
“Oh, I think not,” Varys said, swirling the wine in
his cup. “Power is a curious thing, my lord. Perchance you
have considered the riddle I posed you that day in the
inn?”
“It has crossed my mind a time or two,” Tyrion
admitted. “The king, the priest, the rich man—who lives and
who dies? Who will the swordsman obey? It’s a riddle without
an answer, or rather, too many answers. All depends on the man with
the sword.”
“And yet he is no one,” Varys said. “He has
neither crown nor gold nor favor of the gods, only a piece of
pointed steel.”
“That piece of steel is the power of life and
death.”
“Just so . . . yet if it is the
swordsmen who rule us in truth, why do we pretend our kings hold
the power? Why should a strong man with a sword ever obey a child
king like Joffrey, or a wine-sodden oaf like his father?
“
“Because these child kings and drunken oafs can call other
strong men, with other swords.”
“Then these other swordsmen have the true power. Or do
they? Whence came their swords? Why do they obey?” Varys
smiled. “Some say knowledge is power. Some tell us that all
power comes from the gods. Others say it derives from law. Yet that
day on the steps of Baelor’s Sept, our godly High Septon and
the lawful Queen Regent and your ever-so-knowledgeable servant were
as powerless as any cobbler or cooper in the crowd. Who truly
killed Eddard Stark do you think? Joffrey, who gave the command?
Ser Ilyn Payne, who swung the sword?
Or . . . another? “
Tyrion cocked his head sideways. “Did you mean to answer
your damned riddle, or only to make my head ache worse?”
Varys smiled. “Here, then. Power resides where men believe
it resides. No more and no less.”
“So power is a mummer’s trick?”
“A shadow on the wall,” Varys murmured, “yet
shadows can kill. And ofttimes a very small man can cast a very
large shadow.”
Tyrion smiled. “Lord Varys, I am growing strangely fond of
you. I may kill you yet, but I think I’d feel sad about
it.”
“I will take that as high praise.”
“What are you, Varys?” Tyrion found he truly wanted
to know. “A spider, they say.”
“Spies and informers are seldom loved, my lord. I am but a
loyal servant of the realm.”
“And a eunuch. Let us not forget that.”
“I seldom do.”
“People have called me a halfman too, yet I think the gods
have been kinder to me. I am small, my legs are twisted, and women
do not look upon me with any great
yearning . . . yet I’m still a man. Shae
is not the first to grace my bed, and one day I may take a wife and
sire a son. If the gods are good, he’ll look like his uncle
and think like his father. You have no such hope to sustain you.
Dwarfs are a jape of the gods . . . but men
make eunuchs. Who cut you, Varys? When and why? Who are you, truly?”
The eunuch’s smile never flickered, but his eyes glittered
with something that was not laughter. “You are kind to ask,
my lord, but my tale is long and sad, and we have treasons to
discuss.” He drew a parchment from the sleeve of his robe.
“The master of the King’s Galley White Hart plots to
slip anchor three days hence to offer his sword and ship to Lord
Stannis.”
Tyrion sighed. “I suppose we must make some sort of bloody
lesson out of the man?”
“Ser Jacelyn could arrange for him to vanish, but a trial
before the king would help assure the continued loyalty of the
other captains.” And keep my royal nephew occupied as well. “As you say.
Put him down for a dose of Joffrey’s justice.”
Varys made a mark on the parchment. “Ser Horas and Ser
Hobber Redwyne have bribed a guard to let them out a postern gate,
the night after next. Arrangements have been made for them to sail
on the Pentoshi galley Moonrunner, disguised as oarsmen.”
“Can we keep them on those oars for a few years, see how
they fancy it?” He smiled. “No, my sister would be
distraught to lose such treasured guests. Inform Ser Jacelyn. Seize
the man they bribed and explain what an honor it is to serve as a
brother of the Night’s Watch. And have men posted around the
Moonrunner, in case the Redwynes find a second guard short of
coin.”
“As you will.” Another mark on the parchment.
“Your man Timett slew a wineseller’s son this evening,
at a gambling den on the Street of Silver. He accused him of
cheating at tiles.”
“Was it true?”
“Oh, beyond a doubt.”
“Then the honest men of the city owe Timett a debt of
gratitude. I shall see that he has the king’s
thanks.”
The eunuch gave a nervous giggle and made another mark.
“We also have a sudden plague of holy men. The comet has
brought forth all manner of queer priests, preachers, and prophets,
it would seem. They beg in the winesinks and pot-shops and foretell
doom and destruction to anyone who stops to listen.”
Tyrion shrugged. “We are close on the three hundredth year
since Aegon’s Landing, I suppose it is only to be expected.
Let them rant.”
“They are spreading fear, my lord.”
“I thought that was your job.”
Varys covered his mouth with his hand. “You are very cruel
to say so. One last matter. Lady Tanda gave a small supper last
night. I have the menu and the guest list for your inspection. When
the wine was poured, Lord Gyles rose to lift a cup to the king, and
Ser Balon Swann was heard to remark, ‘We’ll need three
cups for that.’ Many
laughed . . . ”
Tyrion raised a hand. “Enough. Ser Balon made a jest. I am
not interested in treasonous table talk, Lord Varys.”
“You are as wise as you are gentle, my lord.” The
parchment vanished up the eunuch’s sleeve. “We both
have much to do. I shall leave you.”
When the eunuch had departed, Tyrion sat for a long time
watching the candle and wondering how his sister would take the
news of Janos Slynt’s dismissal. Not happily, if he was any
judge, but beyond sending an angry protest to Lord Tywin in
Harrenhal, he did not see what Cersei could hope to do about it.
Tyrion had the City Watch now, plus a hundred-and-a-half fierce
clansmen and a growing force of sellswords recruited by Bronn. He
would seem well protected. Doubtless Eddard Stark thought the same.
The Red Keep was dark and still when Tyrion left the Small Hall.
Bronn was waiting in his solar. “Slynt?” he asked.
“Lord Janos will be sailing for the Wall on the morning
tide. Varys would have me believe that I have replaced one of
Joffrey’s men with one of my own. More likely, I have
replaced Littlefinger’s man with one belonging to Varys, but
so be it.”
“You’d best know, Timett killed a
man—”
“Varys told me.”
The sellsword seemed unsurprised. “The fool figured a
one-eyed man would be easier to cheat. Timett pinned his wrist to
the table with a dagger and ripped out his throat barehanded. He
has this trick where he stiffens his fingers—”
“Spare me the grisly details, my supper is sitting badly
in my belly,” Tyrion said. “How goes your
recruiting?”
“Well enough. Three new men tonight.”
“How do you know which ones to hire?”
“I look them over. I question them, to learn where
they’ve fought and how well they lie.” Bronn smiled.
“And then I give them a chance to kill me, while I do the
same for them.”
“Have you killed any?”
“No one we could have used.”
“And if one of them kills you?”
“He’ll be one you’ll want to hire.”
Tyrion was a little drunk, and very tired. “Tell me,
Bronn. If I told you to kill a babe . . . an
infant girl, say, still at her mother’s
breast . . . would you do it? Without
question?”
“Without question? No.” The sellsword rubbed thumb
and forefinger together. “I’d ask how much.” And why would I ever need your Allar Deem, Lord Slynt? Tyrion
thought. I have a hundred of my own. He wanted to laugh; he wanted
to weep; most of all, he wanted Shae.