Through the door came the soft sound of the high harp, mingled
with a trilling of pipes. The singer’s voice was muffled by
the thick walls, yet Tyrion knew the verse. I loved a maid as fair
as summer, he remembered, with sunlight in her
hair . . .
Ser Meryn Trant guarded the queen’s door this night. His
muttered “My lord” struck Tyrion as a tad grudging, but
he opened the door nonetheless. The song broke off abruptly as he
strode into his sister’s bedchamber.
Cersei was reclining on a pile of cushions. Her feet were bare,
her golden hair artfully tousled, her robe a green-and-gold samite
that caught the light of the candles and shimmered as she looked
up. “Sweet sister,” Tyrion said, “how beautiful
you look tonight.” He turned to the singer. “And you as
well, cousin. I had no notion you had such a lovely
voice.”
The compliment made Ser Lancel sulky; perhaps he thought he was
being mocked. It seemed to Tyrion that the lad had grown three
inches since being knighted. Lancel had thick sandy hair, green
Lannister eyes, and a line of soft blond fuzz on his upper lip. At
sixteen, he was cursed with all the certainty of youth, unleavened
by any trace of humor or self-doubt, and wed to the arrogance that
came so naturally to those born blond and strong and handsome. His
recent elevation had only made him worse. “Did Her Grace send
for you?” the boy demanded.
“Not that I recall,” Tyrion admitted. “It
grieves me to disturb your revels, Lancel, but as it happens, I
have matters of import to discuss with my sister.”
Cersei regarded him suspiciously. “If you are here about
those begging brothers, Tyrion, spare me your reproaches. I
won’t have them spreading their filthy treasons in the
streets. They can preach to each other in the dungeons.”
“And count themselves lucky that they have such a gentle
queen,” added Lancel. “I would have had their tongues
out.”
“One even dared to say that the gods were punishing us
because Jaime murdered the rightful king,” Cersei declared.
“It will not be borne, Tyrion. I gave you ample opportunity
to deal with these lice, but you and your Ser Jacelyn did nothing,
so I commanded Vylarr to attend to the matter.”
“And so he did.” Tyrion had been annoyed when the
red cloaks had dragged a half dozen of the scabrous prophets down
to the dungeons without consulting him, but they were not important
enough to battle over. “No doubt we will all be better off
for a little quiet in the streets. That is not why I came. I have
tidings I know you will be anxious to hear, sweet sister, but they
are best spoken of privily.”
“Very well.” The harpist and the piper bowed and
hurried out, while Cersei kissed her cousin chastely on the cheek.
“Leave us, Lancel. My brother’s harmless when
he’s alone. If he’d brought his pets, we’d smell
them.”
The young knight gave his cousin a baleful glance and pulled the
door shut forcefully behind him. “I’ll have you know I
make Shagga bathe once a fortnight,” Tyrion said when he was
gone.
“You’re very pleased with yourself, aren’t
you? Why?”
“Why not?” Tyrion said. Every day, every night,
hammers rang along the Street of Steel, and the great chain grew
longer. He hopped up onto the great canopied bed. “Is this
the bed where Robert died? I’m surprised you kept
it.”
“It gives me sweet dreams,” she said. “Now
spit out your business and waddle away, Imp.”
Tyrion smiled. “Lord Stannis has sailed from
Dragonstone.”
Cersei bolted to her feet. “And yet you sit there grinning
like a harvest-day pumpkin? Has Bywater called out the City Watch?
We must send a bird to Harrenhal at once.” He was laughing by
then. She seized him by the shoulders and shook him. “Stop
it. Are you mad, or drunk? Stop it!”
It was all he could do to get out the words. “I
can’t,” he gasped. “It’s
too . . . gods, too
funny . . . Stannis . . . ”
“What?”
“He hasn’t sailed against us,” Tyrion managed.
“He’s laid siege to Storm’s End. Renly is riding
to meet him.”
His sister’s nails dug painfully into his arms. For a
moment she stared incredulous, as if he had begun to gibber in an
unknown tongue. “Stannis and Renly are fighting each
other?” When he nodded, Cersei began to chuckle. “Gods
be good,” she gasped, “I’m starting to believe
that Robert was the clever one.”
Tyrion threw back his head and roared. They laughed together.
Cersei pulled him off the bed and whirled him around and even
hugged him, for a moment as giddy as a girl. By the time she let go
of him, Tyrion was breathless and dizzy. He staggered to her
sideboard and put out a hand to steady himself.
“Do you think it will truly come to battle between them?
If they should come to some accord—”
“They won’t,” Tyrion said. “They are too
different and yet too much alike, and neither could ever stomach
the other.”
“And Stannis has always felt he was cheated of
Storm’s End,” Cersei said thoughtfully. “The
ancestral seat of House Baratheon, his by
rights . . . if you knew how many times he came
to Robert singing that same dull song in that gloomy aggrieved tone
he has. When Robert gave the place to Renly, Stannis clenched his
jaw so tight I thought his teeth would shatter.”
“He took it as a slight.”
“It was meant as a slight,” Cersei said.
“Shall we raise a cup to brotherly love?”
“Yes,” she answered, breathless. “Oh, gods,
yes.”
His back was to her as he filled two cups with sweet Arbor red.
It was the easiest thing in the world to sprinkle a pinch of fine
powder into hers. “To Stannis!” he said as he handed
her the wine. Harmless when I’m alone, am I?
“To Renly!” she replied, laughing. “May they
battle long and hard, and the Others take them both!” Is this the Cersei that Jaime sees? When she smiled, you saw how
beautiful she was, truly. I loved a maid as fair as summer, with
sunlight in her hair. He almost felt sorry for poisoning her.
It was the next morning as he broke his fast that her messenger
arrived. The queen was indisposed and would not be able to leave
her chambers. Not able to leave her privy, more like. Tyrion made
the proper sympathetic noises and sent word to Cersei to rest easy,
he would treat with Ser Cleos as they’d planned.
The Iron Throne of Aegon the Conqueror was a tangle of nasty
barbs and jagged metal teeth waiting for any fool who tried to sit
too comfortably, and the steps made his stunted legs cramp as he
climbed up to it, all too aware of what an absurd spectacle he must
be. Yet there was one thing to be said for it. It was high.
Lannister guardsmen stood silent in their crimson cloaks and
lioncrested halfhelms. Ser Jacelyn’s gold cloaks faced them
across the hall. The steps to the throne were flanked by Bronn and
Ser Preston of the Kingsguard. Courtiers filled the gallery while
supplicants clustered near the towering oak-and-bronze doors. Sansa
Stark looked especially lovely this morning, though her face was as
pale as milk. Lord Gyles stood coughing, while poor cousin Tyrek
wore his bridegroom’s mantle of miniver and velvet. Since his
marriage to little Lady Ermesande three days past, the other
squires had taken to calling him “Wet Nurse” and asking
him what sort of swaddling clothes his bride wore on their wedding
night.
Tyrion looked down on them all, and found he liked it.
“Call forth Ser Cleos Frey.” His voice rang off the
stone walls and down the length of the hall. He liked that too. A
pity Shae could not be here to see this, he reflected. She’d
asked to come, but it was impossible.
Ser Cleos made the long walk between the gold cloaks and the
crimson, looking neither right nor left. As he knelt, Tyrion
observed that his cousin was losing his hair.
“Ser Cleos,” Littlefinger said from the council
table, “you have our thanks for bringing us this peace offer
from Lord Stark.”
Grand Maester Pycelle cleared his throat. “The Queen
Regent, the King’s Hand, and the small council have
considered the terms offered by this self-styled King in the North.
Sad to say, they will not do, and you must tell these northmen so,
ser.”
“Here are our terms,” said Tyrion. “Robb Stark
must lay down his sword, swear fealty, and return to Winterfell. He
must free my brother unharmed, and place his host under
Jaime’s command, to march against the rebels Renly and
Stannis Baratheon. Each of Stark’s bannermen must send us a
son as hostage. A daughter will suffice where there is no son. They
shall be treated gently and given high places here at court, so
long as their fathers commit no new treasons.”
Cleos Frey looked ill. “My lord Hand,” he said,
“Lord Stark will never consent to these terms.” We never expected he would, Cleos. “Tell him that we have
raised another great host at Casterly Rock, that soon it will march
on him from the west while my lord father advances from the east.
Tell him that he stands alone, without hope of allies. Stannis and
Renly Baratheon war against each other, and the Prince of Dorne has
consented to wed his son Trystane to the Princess Myrcella.”
Murmurs of delight and consternation alike arose from the gallery
and the back of the hall.
“As to this of my cousins,” Tyrion went on,
“we offer Harrion Karstark and Ser Wylis Manderly for Willem
Lannister, and Lord Cerwyn and Ser Donnel Locke for your brother
Tion. Tell Stark that two Lannisters are worth four northmen in any
season.” He waited for the laughter to die. “His
father’s bones he shall have, as a gesture of Joffrey’s
good faith.”
“Lord Stark asked for his sisters and his father’s
sword as well,” Ser Cleos reminded him.
Ser Ilyn Payne stood mute, the hilt of Eddard Stark’s
greatsword rising over one shoulder. “Ice,” said
Tyrion. “He’ll have that when he makes his peace with
us, not before.”
“As you say. And his sisters?”
Tyrion glanced toward Sansa, and felt a stab of pity as he said,
“Until such time as he frees my brother Jaime, unharmed, they
shall remain here as hostages. How well they are treated depends on
him.” And if the gods are good, Bywater will find Arya alive,
before Robb learns she’s gone missing.
“I shall bring him your message, my lord.”
Tyrion plucked at one of the twisted blades that sprang from the
arm of the throne. And now the thrust. “Vylarr,” he
called.
“My lord.”
“The men Stark sent are sufficient to protect Lord
Eddard’s bones, but a Lannister should have a Lannister
escort,” Tyrion declared. “Ser Cleos is the
queen’s cousin, and mine. We shall sleep more easily if you
would see him safely back to Riverrun.”
“As you command. How many men should I take?”
“Why, all of them.”
Vylarr stood like a man made of stone. It was Grand Maester
Pycelle who rose, gasping, “My lord Hand, that
cannot . . . your father, Lord Tywin himself,
he sent these good men to our city to protect Queen Cersei and her
children . . . ”
“The Kingsguard and the City Watch protect them well
enough. The gods speed you on your way, Vylarr.”
At the council table Varys smiled knowingly, Littlefinger sat
feigning boredom, and Pycelle gaped like a fish, pale and confused.
A herald stepped forward. “If any man has other matters to
set before the King’s Hand, let him speak now or go forth and
hold his silence.”
“I will be heard.” A slender man all in black pushed
his way between the Redwyne twins.
“Ser Alliser!” Tyrion exclaimed. “Why, I had
no notion that you’d come to court. You should have sent me
word.”
“I have, as well you know.” Thorne was as prickly as
his name, a spare, sharp-featured man of fifty, hard-eyed and
hard-handed, his black hair streaked with grey. “I have been
shunned, ignored, and left to wait like some baseborn
servant.”
“Truly? Bronn, this was not well done. Ser Alliser and I
are old friends. We walked the Wall together.”
“Sweet Ser Alliser,” murmured Varys, “you must
not think too harshly of us. So many seek our Joffrey’s
grace, in these troubled and tumultuous times.”
“More troubled than you know, eunuch.”
“To his face we call him Lord Eunuch,” quipped
Littlefinger.
“How may we be of help to you, good brother?” Grand
Maester Pycelle asked in soothing tones.
“The Lord Commander sent me to His Grace the king,”
Thorne answered. “The matter is too grave to be left to
servants.”
“The king is playing with his new crossbow,” Tyrion
said. Ridding himself of Joffrey had required only an ungainly
Myrish crossbow that threw three quarrels at a time, and nothing
would do but that he try it at once. “You can speak to
servants or hold your silence.”
“As you will,” Ser Alliser said, displeasure in
every word. “I am sent to tell you that we found two rangers,
long missing. They were dead, yet when we brought the corpses back
to the Wall they rose again in the night. One slew Ser Jaremy
Rykker, while the second tried to murder the Lord
Commander.”
Distantly, Tyrion heard someone snigger. Does he mean to mock me
with this folly? He shifted uneasily and glanced down at Varys,
Littlefinger, and Pycelle, wondering if one of them had a role in
this. A dwarf enjoyed at best a tenuous hold on dignity. Once the
court and kingdom started to laugh at him, he was doomed. And
yet . . . and
yet . . .
Tyrion remembered a cold night under the stars when he’d
stood beside the boy Jon Snow and a great white wolf atop the Wall
at the end of the world, gazing out at the trackless dark beyond.
He had felt—what?—something, to be sure, a dread that had cut like
that frigid northern wind. A wolf had howled off in the night, and
the sound had sent a shiver through him. Don’t be a fool, he told himself. A wolf, a wind, a dark
forest, it meant nothing. And yet . . . He had
come to have a liking for old Jeor Mormont during his time at
Castle Black. “I trust that the Old Bear survived this
attack?”
“He did.”
“And that your brothers killed these, ah, dead
men?”
“We did.”
“You’re certain that they are dead this time?”
Tyrion asked mildly. When Bronn choked on a snort of laughter, he
knew how he must proceed. “Truly truly dead?”
“They were dead the first time,” Ser Alliser
snapped. “Pale and cold, with black hands and feet. I brought
Jared’s hand, torn from his corpse by the bastard’s
wolf.”
Littlefinger stirred. “And where is this charming
token?”
Ser Alliser frowned uncomfortably.
“It . . . rotted to pieces while I
waited, unheard. There’s naught left to show but
bones.”
Titters echoed through the hall. “Lord Baelish,”
Tyrion called down to Littlefinger, “buy our brave Ser
Alliser a hundred spades to take back to the Wall with
him.”
“Spades?” Ser Alliser narrowed his eyes
suspiciously.
“If you bury your dead, they won’t come
walking,” Tyrion told him, and the court laughed openly.
“Spades will end your troubles, with some strong backs to
wield them. Ser Jacelyn, see that the good brother has his pick of
the city dungeons.”
Ser Jacelyn Bywater said, “As you will, my lord, but the
cells are near empty. Yoren took all the likely men.”
“Arrest some more, then,” Tyrion told him. “Or
spread the word that there’s bread and turnips on the Wall,
and they’ll go of their own accord.” The city had too
many mouths to feed, and the Night’s Watch a perpetual need
of men. At Tyrion’s signal, the herald cried an end, and the
hall began to empty.
Ser Alliser Thorne was not so easily dismissed. He was waiting
at the foot of the iron Throne when Tyrion descended. “Do you
think I sailed all the way from Eastwatch-by-the-Sea to be mocked
by the likes of you?” he fumed, blocking the way. “This
is no jape. I saw it with my own eyes. I tell you, the dead
walk.”
“You should try to kill them more thoroughly.”
Tyrion pushed past. Ser Alliser made to grab his sleeve, but
Preston Greenfield thrust him back. “No closer,
ser.”
Thorne knew better than to challenge a knight of the Kingsguard.
“You are a fool, Imp,” he shouted at Tyrion’s
back.
The dwarf turned to face him. “Me? Truly? Then why were
they laughing at you, I wonder?” He smiled wanly. “You
came for men, did you not?”
“The cold winds are rising. The Wall must be
held.”
“And to hold it you need men, which I’ve given
you . . . as you might have noted, if your ears
heard anything but insults. Take them, thank me, and begone before
I’m forced to take a crab fork to you again. Give my warm
regards to Lord Mormont . . . and to Jon Snow
as well.” Bronn seized Ser Alliser by the elbow and marched
him forcefully from the hall.
Grand Maester Pycelle had already scuttled off, but Varys and
Littlefinger had watched it all, start to finish. “I grow
ever more admiring of you, my lord,” confessed the eunuch.
“You appease the Stark boy with his father’s bones and
strip your sister of her protectors in one swift stroke. You give
that black brother the men he seeks, rid the city of some hungry
mouths, yet make it all seem mockery so none may say that the dwarf
fears snarks and grumkins. Oh, deftly done.”
Littlefinger stroked his beard. “Do you truly mean to send
away all your guards, Lannister?”
“No, I mean to send away all my sister’s
guards.”
“The queen will never allow that.”
“Oh, I think she may. I am her brother, and when
you’ve known me longer, you’ll learn that I mean
everything I say.”
“Even the lies?”
“Especially the lies. Lord Petyr, I sense that you are
unhappy with me.”
“I love you as much as I ever have, my lord. Though I do
not relish being played for a fool. if Myrcella weds Trystane
Martell, she can scarcely wed Robert Arryn, can she?”
“Not without causing a great scandal,” he admitted.
“I regret my little ruse, Lord Petyr, but when we spoke, I
could not know the Dornishmen would accept my offer.”
Littlefinger was not appeased. “I do not like being lied
to, my lord. Leave me out of your next deception.” Only if you’ll do the same for me, Tyrion thought,
glancing at the dagger sheathed at Littlefinger’s hip.
“If I have given offense, I am deeply sorry. All men know how
much we love you, my lord. And how much we need you.”
“Try and remember that.” With that Littlefinger left
them.
“Walk with me, Varys,” said Tyrion. They left
through the king’s door behind the throne, the eunuch’s
slippers whisking lightly over the stone.
“Lord Baelish has the truth of it, you know. The queen
will never permit you to send away her guard.”
“She will. You’ll see to that.”
A smile flickered across Varys’s plump lips. “Will
I?”
“Oh, for a certainty. You’ll tell her it is part of
my scheme to free Jaime.”
Varys stroked a powdered cheek. “This would doubtless
involve the four men your man Bronn searched for so diligently in
all the low places of King’s Landing. A thief, a poisoner, a
mummer, and a murderer.”
“Put them in crimson cloaks and lion helms, they’ll
look no different from any other guardsmen. I searched for some
time for a ruse that might get them into Riverrun before I thought
to hide them in plain sight. They’ll ride in by the main
gate, flying Lannister banners and escorting Lord Eddard’s
bones.” He smiled crookedly. “Four men alone would be
watched vigilantly. Four among a hundred can lose themselves. So I
must send the true guardsmen as well as the
false . . . as you’ll tell my
sister.”
“And for the sake of her beloved brother, she will
consent, despite her misgivings.” They made their way down a
deserted colonnade. “Still, the loss of her red cloaks will
surely make her uneasy.”
“I like her uneasy,” said Tyrion.
Ser Cleos Frey left that very afternoon, escorted by Vylarr and
a hundred red-cloaked Lannister guardsmen. The men Robb Stark had
sent joined them at the King’s Gate for the long ride
west.
Tyrion found Timett dicing with his Burned Men in the barracks.
“Come to my solar at midnight.” Timett gave him a hard
one-eyed stare, a curt nod. He was not one for long speeches.
That night he feasted with the Stone Crows and Moon Brothers in
the Small Hall, though he shunned the wine for once. He wanted all
his wits about him. “Shagga, what moon is this?”
Shagga’s frown was a fierce thing. “Black, I
think.”
“In the west, they call that a traitor’s moon. Try
not to get too drunk tonight, and see that your axe is
sharp.”
“A Stone Crow’s axe is always sharp, and
Shagga’s axes are sharpest of all. Once I cut off a
man’s head, but he did not know it until he tried to brush
his hair. Then it fell off.”
“Is that why you never brush yours?” The Stone Crows
roared and stamped their feet, Shagga hooting loudest of all.
By midnight, the castle was silent and dark. Doubtless a few
gold cloaks on the walls spied them leaving the Tower of the Hand,
but no one raised a voice. He was the Hand of the King, and where
he went was his own affair.
The thin wooden door split with a thunderous crack beneath the
heel of Shagga’s boot. Pieces went flying inward, and Tyrion
heard a woman’s gasp of fear. Shagga hacked the door apart
with three great blows of his axe and kicked his way through the
ruins. Timett followed, and then Tyrion, stepping gingerly over the
splinters. The fire had burned down a few glowing embers, and
shadows lay thick across the bedchamber. When Timett ripped the
heavy curtains off the bed, the naked serving girl stared up with
wide white eyes. “Please, my lords,” she pleaded,
“don’t hurt me.” She cringed away from Shagga,
flushed and fearful, trying to cover her charms with her hands and
coming up a hand short.
“Go,” Tyrion told her. “It’s not you we
want.”
“Shagga wants this woman.”
“Shagga wants every whore in this city of whores,”
complained Timett son of Timett.
“Yes,” Shagga said, unabashed. “Shagga would
give her a strong child.”
“If she wants a strong child, she’ll know whom to
seek,” Tyrion said. “Timett, see her
out . . . gently, if you would.”
The Burned Man pulled the girl from the bed and half marched,
half dragged her across the chamber. Shagga watched them go,
mournful as a puppy. The girl stumbled over the shattered door and
out into the hall, helped along by a firm shove from Timett. Above
their heads, the ravens were screeching.
Tyrion dragged the soft blanket off the bed, uncovering Grand
Maester Pycelle beneath. “Tell me, does the Citadel approve
of you bedding the serving wenches, Maester?”
The old man was as naked as the girl, though he made a markedly
less attractive sight. For once, his heavy-lidded eyes were open
wide. “W-what is the meaning of this? I am an old man, your
loyal servant . . . ”
Tyrion hoisted himself onto the bed. “So loyal that you
sent only one of my letters to Doran Martell. The other you gave to
my sister.”
“N-no,” squealed Pycelle. “No, a falsehood, I
swear it, it was not me. Varys, it was Varys, the Spider, I warned
you—”
“Do all maesters lie so poorly? I told Varys that I was
giving Prince Doran my nephew Tommen to foster. I told
Littlefinger that I planned to wed Myrcella to Lord Robert of the
Eyrie. I told no one that I had offered Myrcella to the
Dornish . . . that truth was only in the letter
I entrusted to you.”
Pycelle clutched for a corner of the blanket. “Birds are
lost, messages stolen or sold . . . it was
Varys, there are things I might tell you of that eunuch that would
chill your blood . . . ”
“My lady prefers my blood hot.”
“Make no mistake, for every secret the eunuch whispers in
your ear, he holds seven back. And Littlefinger, that
one . . . ”
“I know all about Lord Petyr. He’s almost as
untrustworthy as you. Shagga, cut off his manhood and feed it to
the goats.”
Shagga hefted the huge double-bladed axe. “There are no
goats, Halfman.”
“Make do.”
Roaring, Shagga leapt forward. Pycelle shrieked and wet the bed,
urine spraying in all directions as he tried to scramble back out
of reach. The wildling caught him by the end of his billowy white
beard and hacked off three-quarters of it with a single slash of
the axe.
“Timett, do you suppose our friend will be more
forthcoming without those whiskers to hide behind?” Tyrion
used a bit of the sheet to wipe the piss off his boots.
“He will tell the truth soon.” Darkness pooled in
the empty pit of Timett’s burned eye. “I can smell the
stink of his fear.”
Shagga tossed a handful of hair down to the rushes, and seized
what beard was left. “Hold still, Maester,” urged
Tyrion. “When Shagga gets angry, his hands shake.”
“Shagga’s hands never shake,” the huge man
said indignantly, pressing the great crescent blade under
Pycelle’s quivering chin and sawing through another tangle of
beard.
“How long have you been spying for my sister?”
Tyrion asked.
Pycelle’s breathing was rapid and shallow. “All I
did, I did for House Lannister.” A sheen of sweat covered the
broad dome of the old man’s brow, and wisps of white hair
clung to his wrinkled skin.
“Always . . . for
years . . . your lord father, ask him, I was
ever his true servant . . . ’twas I who
bid Aerys open his gates . . . ” That took Tyrion by surprise. He had been no more than an ugly
boy at Casterly Rock when the city fell. “So the Sack of
King’s Landing was your work as well?”
“For the realm! Once Rhaegar died, the war was done. Aerys
was mad, Viserys too young, Prince Aegon a babe at the breast, but
the realm needed a king . . . I prayed it
should be your good father, but Robert was too strong, and Lord
Stark moved too swiftly . . . ”
“How many have you betrayed, I wonder? Aerys, Eddard
Stark, me . . . King Robert as well? Lord
Arryn, Prince Rhaegar? Where does it begin, Pycelle?” He knew
where it ended.
The axe scratched at the apple of Pycelle’s throat and
stroked the soft wobbly skin under his jaw, scraping away the last
hairs. “You . . . were not here,”
he gasped when the blade moved upward to his cheeks.
“Robert . . . his
wounds . . . if you had seen them, smelled
them, you would have no doubt . . . ”
“Oh, I know the boar did your work for
you . . . but if he’d left the job half
done, doubtless you would have finished it.”
“He was a wretched king . . . vain,
drunken, lecherous . . . he would have set your
sister aside, his own
queen . . . please . . . Renly
was plotting to bring the Highgarden maid to court, to entice his
brother . . . it is the gods’ own
truth . . . ”
“And what was Lord Arryn plotting?”
“He knew,” Pycelle said.
“About . . . about . . . ”
“I know what he knew about,” snapped Tyrion, who was
not anxious for Shagga and Timett to know as well.
“He was sending his wife back to the Eyrie, and his son to
be fostered on Dragonstone . . . he meant to
act . . . ”
“So you poisoned him first.”
“No.” Pycelle struggled feebly. Shagga growled and
grabbed his head. The clansman’s hand was so big he could
have crushed the maester’s skull like an eggshell had he
squeezed.
Tyrion tsked at him. “I saw the tears of Lys among your
potions. And you sent away Lord Arryn’s own maester and
tended him yourself, so you could make certain that he
died.”
“A falsehood!”
“Shave him closer,” Tyrion suggested. “The
throat again.”
The axe swept back down, rasping over the skin. A thin film of
spit bubbled on Pycelle’s lips as his mouth trembled.
“I tried to save Lord Arryn. I vow—”
“Careful now, Shagga, you’ve cut him.”
Shagga growled. “Dolf fathered warriors, not
barbers.”
When he felt the blood trickling down his neck and onto his
chest, the old man shuddered, and the last strength went out of
him. He looked shrunken, both smaller and frailer than he had been
when they burst in on him. “Yes,” he wimpered,
“yes, Colemon was purging, so I sent him away. The queen
needed Lord Arryn dead, she did not say so, could not, Varys was
listening, always listening, but when I looked at her I knew. It
was not me who gave him the poison, though, I swear it.” The
old man wept. “Varys will tell you, it was the boy, his
squire, Hugh he was called, he must surely have done it, ask your
sister, ask her.”
Tyrion was disgusted. “Bind him and take him away,”
he commanded. “Throw him down in one of the black
cells.”
They dragged him out the splintered door.
“Lannister,” he moaned, “all I’ve done has
been for Lannister . . . ”
When he was gone, Tyrion made a leisurely search of the quarters
and collected a few more small jars from his shelves. The ravens
muttered above his head as he worked, a strangely peaceful noise.
He would need to find someone to tend the birds until the Citadel
sent a man to replace Pycelle. He was the one I’d hoped to trust. Varys and Littlefinger
were no more loyal, he suspected . . . only
more subtle, and thus more dangerous. Perhaps his father’s
way would have been best: summon Ilyn Payne, mount three heads
above the gates, and have done. And wouldn’t that be a pretty
sight, he thought.
Through the door came the soft sound of the high harp, mingled
with a trilling of pipes. The singer’s voice was muffled by
the thick walls, yet Tyrion knew the verse. I loved a maid as fair
as summer, he remembered, with sunlight in her
hair . . .
Ser Meryn Trant guarded the queen’s door this night. His
muttered “My lord” struck Tyrion as a tad grudging, but
he opened the door nonetheless. The song broke off abruptly as he
strode into his sister’s bedchamber.
Cersei was reclining on a pile of cushions. Her feet were bare,
her golden hair artfully tousled, her robe a green-and-gold samite
that caught the light of the candles and shimmered as she looked
up. “Sweet sister,” Tyrion said, “how beautiful
you look tonight.” He turned to the singer. “And you as
well, cousin. I had no notion you had such a lovely
voice.”
The compliment made Ser Lancel sulky; perhaps he thought he was
being mocked. It seemed to Tyrion that the lad had grown three
inches since being knighted. Lancel had thick sandy hair, green
Lannister eyes, and a line of soft blond fuzz on his upper lip. At
sixteen, he was cursed with all the certainty of youth, unleavened
by any trace of humor or self-doubt, and wed to the arrogance that
came so naturally to those born blond and strong and handsome. His
recent elevation had only made him worse. “Did Her Grace send
for you?” the boy demanded.
“Not that I recall,” Tyrion admitted. “It
grieves me to disturb your revels, Lancel, but as it happens, I
have matters of import to discuss with my sister.”
Cersei regarded him suspiciously. “If you are here about
those begging brothers, Tyrion, spare me your reproaches. I
won’t have them spreading their filthy treasons in the
streets. They can preach to each other in the dungeons.”
“And count themselves lucky that they have such a gentle
queen,” added Lancel. “I would have had their tongues
out.”
“One even dared to say that the gods were punishing us
because Jaime murdered the rightful king,” Cersei declared.
“It will not be borne, Tyrion. I gave you ample opportunity
to deal with these lice, but you and your Ser Jacelyn did nothing,
so I commanded Vylarr to attend to the matter.”
“And so he did.” Tyrion had been annoyed when the
red cloaks had dragged a half dozen of the scabrous prophets down
to the dungeons without consulting him, but they were not important
enough to battle over. “No doubt we will all be better off
for a little quiet in the streets. That is not why I came. I have
tidings I know you will be anxious to hear, sweet sister, but they
are best spoken of privily.”
“Very well.” The harpist and the piper bowed and
hurried out, while Cersei kissed her cousin chastely on the cheek.
“Leave us, Lancel. My brother’s harmless when
he’s alone. If he’d brought his pets, we’d smell
them.”
The young knight gave his cousin a baleful glance and pulled the
door shut forcefully behind him. “I’ll have you know I
make Shagga bathe once a fortnight,” Tyrion said when he was
gone.
“You’re very pleased with yourself, aren’t
you? Why?”
“Why not?” Tyrion said. Every day, every night,
hammers rang along the Street of Steel, and the great chain grew
longer. He hopped up onto the great canopied bed. “Is this
the bed where Robert died? I’m surprised you kept
it.”
“It gives me sweet dreams,” she said. “Now
spit out your business and waddle away, Imp.”
Tyrion smiled. “Lord Stannis has sailed from
Dragonstone.”
Cersei bolted to her feet. “And yet you sit there grinning
like a harvest-day pumpkin? Has Bywater called out the City Watch?
We must send a bird to Harrenhal at once.” He was laughing by
then. She seized him by the shoulders and shook him. “Stop
it. Are you mad, or drunk? Stop it!”
It was all he could do to get out the words. “I
can’t,” he gasped. “It’s
too . . . gods, too
funny . . . Stannis . . . ”
“What?”
“He hasn’t sailed against us,” Tyrion managed.
“He’s laid siege to Storm’s End. Renly is riding
to meet him.”
His sister’s nails dug painfully into his arms. For a
moment she stared incredulous, as if he had begun to gibber in an
unknown tongue. “Stannis and Renly are fighting each
other?” When he nodded, Cersei began to chuckle. “Gods
be good,” she gasped, “I’m starting to believe
that Robert was the clever one.”
Tyrion threw back his head and roared. They laughed together.
Cersei pulled him off the bed and whirled him around and even
hugged him, for a moment as giddy as a girl. By the time she let go
of him, Tyrion was breathless and dizzy. He staggered to her
sideboard and put out a hand to steady himself.
“Do you think it will truly come to battle between them?
If they should come to some accord—”
“They won’t,” Tyrion said. “They are too
different and yet too much alike, and neither could ever stomach
the other.”
“And Stannis has always felt he was cheated of
Storm’s End,” Cersei said thoughtfully. “The
ancestral seat of House Baratheon, his by
rights . . . if you knew how many times he came
to Robert singing that same dull song in that gloomy aggrieved tone
he has. When Robert gave the place to Renly, Stannis clenched his
jaw so tight I thought his teeth would shatter.”
“He took it as a slight.”
“It was meant as a slight,” Cersei said.
“Shall we raise a cup to brotherly love?”
“Yes,” she answered, breathless. “Oh, gods,
yes.”
His back was to her as he filled two cups with sweet Arbor red.
It was the easiest thing in the world to sprinkle a pinch of fine
powder into hers. “To Stannis!” he said as he handed
her the wine. Harmless when I’m alone, am I?
“To Renly!” she replied, laughing. “May they
battle long and hard, and the Others take them both!” Is this the Cersei that Jaime sees? When she smiled, you saw how
beautiful she was, truly. I loved a maid as fair as summer, with
sunlight in her hair. He almost felt sorry for poisoning her.
It was the next morning as he broke his fast that her messenger
arrived. The queen was indisposed and would not be able to leave
her chambers. Not able to leave her privy, more like. Tyrion made
the proper sympathetic noises and sent word to Cersei to rest easy,
he would treat with Ser Cleos as they’d planned.
The Iron Throne of Aegon the Conqueror was a tangle of nasty
barbs and jagged metal teeth waiting for any fool who tried to sit
too comfortably, and the steps made his stunted legs cramp as he
climbed up to it, all too aware of what an absurd spectacle he must
be. Yet there was one thing to be said for it. It was high.
Lannister guardsmen stood silent in their crimson cloaks and
lioncrested halfhelms. Ser Jacelyn’s gold cloaks faced them
across the hall. The steps to the throne were flanked by Bronn and
Ser Preston of the Kingsguard. Courtiers filled the gallery while
supplicants clustered near the towering oak-and-bronze doors. Sansa
Stark looked especially lovely this morning, though her face was as
pale as milk. Lord Gyles stood coughing, while poor cousin Tyrek
wore his bridegroom’s mantle of miniver and velvet. Since his
marriage to little Lady Ermesande three days past, the other
squires had taken to calling him “Wet Nurse” and asking
him what sort of swaddling clothes his bride wore on their wedding
night.
Tyrion looked down on them all, and found he liked it.
“Call forth Ser Cleos Frey.” His voice rang off the
stone walls and down the length of the hall. He liked that too. A
pity Shae could not be here to see this, he reflected. She’d
asked to come, but it was impossible.
Ser Cleos made the long walk between the gold cloaks and the
crimson, looking neither right nor left. As he knelt, Tyrion
observed that his cousin was losing his hair.
“Ser Cleos,” Littlefinger said from the council
table, “you have our thanks for bringing us this peace offer
from Lord Stark.”
Grand Maester Pycelle cleared his throat. “The Queen
Regent, the King’s Hand, and the small council have
considered the terms offered by this self-styled King in the North.
Sad to say, they will not do, and you must tell these northmen so,
ser.”
“Here are our terms,” said Tyrion. “Robb Stark
must lay down his sword, swear fealty, and return to Winterfell. He
must free my brother unharmed, and place his host under
Jaime’s command, to march against the rebels Renly and
Stannis Baratheon. Each of Stark’s bannermen must send us a
son as hostage. A daughter will suffice where there is no son. They
shall be treated gently and given high places here at court, so
long as their fathers commit no new treasons.”
Cleos Frey looked ill. “My lord Hand,” he said,
“Lord Stark will never consent to these terms.” We never expected he would, Cleos. “Tell him that we have
raised another great host at Casterly Rock, that soon it will march
on him from the west while my lord father advances from the east.
Tell him that he stands alone, without hope of allies. Stannis and
Renly Baratheon war against each other, and the Prince of Dorne has
consented to wed his son Trystane to the Princess Myrcella.”
Murmurs of delight and consternation alike arose from the gallery
and the back of the hall.
“As to this of my cousins,” Tyrion went on,
“we offer Harrion Karstark and Ser Wylis Manderly for Willem
Lannister, and Lord Cerwyn and Ser Donnel Locke for your brother
Tion. Tell Stark that two Lannisters are worth four northmen in any
season.” He waited for the laughter to die. “His
father’s bones he shall have, as a gesture of Joffrey’s
good faith.”
“Lord Stark asked for his sisters and his father’s
sword as well,” Ser Cleos reminded him.
Ser Ilyn Payne stood mute, the hilt of Eddard Stark’s
greatsword rising over one shoulder. “Ice,” said
Tyrion. “He’ll have that when he makes his peace with
us, not before.”
“As you say. And his sisters?”
Tyrion glanced toward Sansa, and felt a stab of pity as he said,
“Until such time as he frees my brother Jaime, unharmed, they
shall remain here as hostages. How well they are treated depends on
him.” And if the gods are good, Bywater will find Arya alive,
before Robb learns she’s gone missing.
“I shall bring him your message, my lord.”
Tyrion plucked at one of the twisted blades that sprang from the
arm of the throne. And now the thrust. “Vylarr,” he
called.
“My lord.”
“The men Stark sent are sufficient to protect Lord
Eddard’s bones, but a Lannister should have a Lannister
escort,” Tyrion declared. “Ser Cleos is the
queen’s cousin, and mine. We shall sleep more easily if you
would see him safely back to Riverrun.”
“As you command. How many men should I take?”
“Why, all of them.”
Vylarr stood like a man made of stone. It was Grand Maester
Pycelle who rose, gasping, “My lord Hand, that
cannot . . . your father, Lord Tywin himself,
he sent these good men to our city to protect Queen Cersei and her
children . . . ”
“The Kingsguard and the City Watch protect them well
enough. The gods speed you on your way, Vylarr.”
At the council table Varys smiled knowingly, Littlefinger sat
feigning boredom, and Pycelle gaped like a fish, pale and confused.
A herald stepped forward. “If any man has other matters to
set before the King’s Hand, let him speak now or go forth and
hold his silence.”
“I will be heard.” A slender man all in black pushed
his way between the Redwyne twins.
“Ser Alliser!” Tyrion exclaimed. “Why, I had
no notion that you’d come to court. You should have sent me
word.”
“I have, as well you know.” Thorne was as prickly as
his name, a spare, sharp-featured man of fifty, hard-eyed and
hard-handed, his black hair streaked with grey. “I have been
shunned, ignored, and left to wait like some baseborn
servant.”
“Truly? Bronn, this was not well done. Ser Alliser and I
are old friends. We walked the Wall together.”
“Sweet Ser Alliser,” murmured Varys, “you must
not think too harshly of us. So many seek our Joffrey’s
grace, in these troubled and tumultuous times.”
“More troubled than you know, eunuch.”
“To his face we call him Lord Eunuch,” quipped
Littlefinger.
“How may we be of help to you, good brother?” Grand
Maester Pycelle asked in soothing tones.
“The Lord Commander sent me to His Grace the king,”
Thorne answered. “The matter is too grave to be left to
servants.”
“The king is playing with his new crossbow,” Tyrion
said. Ridding himself of Joffrey had required only an ungainly
Myrish crossbow that threw three quarrels at a time, and nothing
would do but that he try it at once. “You can speak to
servants or hold your silence.”
“As you will,” Ser Alliser said, displeasure in
every word. “I am sent to tell you that we found two rangers,
long missing. They were dead, yet when we brought the corpses back
to the Wall they rose again in the night. One slew Ser Jaremy
Rykker, while the second tried to murder the Lord
Commander.”
Distantly, Tyrion heard someone snigger. Does he mean to mock me
with this folly? He shifted uneasily and glanced down at Varys,
Littlefinger, and Pycelle, wondering if one of them had a role in
this. A dwarf enjoyed at best a tenuous hold on dignity. Once the
court and kingdom started to laugh at him, he was doomed. And
yet . . . and
yet . . .
Tyrion remembered a cold night under the stars when he’d
stood beside the boy Jon Snow and a great white wolf atop the Wall
at the end of the world, gazing out at the trackless dark beyond.
He had felt—what?—something, to be sure, a dread that had cut like
that frigid northern wind. A wolf had howled off in the night, and
the sound had sent a shiver through him. Don’t be a fool, he told himself. A wolf, a wind, a dark
forest, it meant nothing. And yet . . . He had
come to have a liking for old Jeor Mormont during his time at
Castle Black. “I trust that the Old Bear survived this
attack?”
“He did.”
“And that your brothers killed these, ah, dead
men?”
“We did.”
“You’re certain that they are dead this time?”
Tyrion asked mildly. When Bronn choked on a snort of laughter, he
knew how he must proceed. “Truly truly dead?”
“They were dead the first time,” Ser Alliser
snapped. “Pale and cold, with black hands and feet. I brought
Jared’s hand, torn from his corpse by the bastard’s
wolf.”
Littlefinger stirred. “And where is this charming
token?”
Ser Alliser frowned uncomfortably.
“It . . . rotted to pieces while I
waited, unheard. There’s naught left to show but
bones.”
Titters echoed through the hall. “Lord Baelish,”
Tyrion called down to Littlefinger, “buy our brave Ser
Alliser a hundred spades to take back to the Wall with
him.”
“Spades?” Ser Alliser narrowed his eyes
suspiciously.
“If you bury your dead, they won’t come
walking,” Tyrion told him, and the court laughed openly.
“Spades will end your troubles, with some strong backs to
wield them. Ser Jacelyn, see that the good brother has his pick of
the city dungeons.”
Ser Jacelyn Bywater said, “As you will, my lord, but the
cells are near empty. Yoren took all the likely men.”
“Arrest some more, then,” Tyrion told him. “Or
spread the word that there’s bread and turnips on the Wall,
and they’ll go of their own accord.” The city had too
many mouths to feed, and the Night’s Watch a perpetual need
of men. At Tyrion’s signal, the herald cried an end, and the
hall began to empty.
Ser Alliser Thorne was not so easily dismissed. He was waiting
at the foot of the iron Throne when Tyrion descended. “Do you
think I sailed all the way from Eastwatch-by-the-Sea to be mocked
by the likes of you?” he fumed, blocking the way. “This
is no jape. I saw it with my own eyes. I tell you, the dead
walk.”
“You should try to kill them more thoroughly.”
Tyrion pushed past. Ser Alliser made to grab his sleeve, but
Preston Greenfield thrust him back. “No closer,
ser.”
Thorne knew better than to challenge a knight of the Kingsguard.
“You are a fool, Imp,” he shouted at Tyrion’s
back.
The dwarf turned to face him. “Me? Truly? Then why were
they laughing at you, I wonder?” He smiled wanly. “You
came for men, did you not?”
“The cold winds are rising. The Wall must be
held.”
“And to hold it you need men, which I’ve given
you . . . as you might have noted, if your ears
heard anything but insults. Take them, thank me, and begone before
I’m forced to take a crab fork to you again. Give my warm
regards to Lord Mormont . . . and to Jon Snow
as well.” Bronn seized Ser Alliser by the elbow and marched
him forcefully from the hall.
Grand Maester Pycelle had already scuttled off, but Varys and
Littlefinger had watched it all, start to finish. “I grow
ever more admiring of you, my lord,” confessed the eunuch.
“You appease the Stark boy with his father’s bones and
strip your sister of her protectors in one swift stroke. You give
that black brother the men he seeks, rid the city of some hungry
mouths, yet make it all seem mockery so none may say that the dwarf
fears snarks and grumkins. Oh, deftly done.”
Littlefinger stroked his beard. “Do you truly mean to send
away all your guards, Lannister?”
“No, I mean to send away all my sister’s
guards.”
“The queen will never allow that.”
“Oh, I think she may. I am her brother, and when
you’ve known me longer, you’ll learn that I mean
everything I say.”
“Even the lies?”
“Especially the lies. Lord Petyr, I sense that you are
unhappy with me.”
“I love you as much as I ever have, my lord. Though I do
not relish being played for a fool. if Myrcella weds Trystane
Martell, she can scarcely wed Robert Arryn, can she?”
“Not without causing a great scandal,” he admitted.
“I regret my little ruse, Lord Petyr, but when we spoke, I
could not know the Dornishmen would accept my offer.”
Littlefinger was not appeased. “I do not like being lied
to, my lord. Leave me out of your next deception.” Only if you’ll do the same for me, Tyrion thought,
glancing at the dagger sheathed at Littlefinger’s hip.
“If I have given offense, I am deeply sorry. All men know how
much we love you, my lord. And how much we need you.”
“Try and remember that.” With that Littlefinger left
them.
“Walk with me, Varys,” said Tyrion. They left
through the king’s door behind the throne, the eunuch’s
slippers whisking lightly over the stone.
“Lord Baelish has the truth of it, you know. The queen
will never permit you to send away her guard.”
“She will. You’ll see to that.”
A smile flickered across Varys’s plump lips. “Will
I?”
“Oh, for a certainty. You’ll tell her it is part of
my scheme to free Jaime.”
Varys stroked a powdered cheek. “This would doubtless
involve the four men your man Bronn searched for so diligently in
all the low places of King’s Landing. A thief, a poisoner, a
mummer, and a murderer.”
“Put them in crimson cloaks and lion helms, they’ll
look no different from any other guardsmen. I searched for some
time for a ruse that might get them into Riverrun before I thought
to hide them in plain sight. They’ll ride in by the main
gate, flying Lannister banners and escorting Lord Eddard’s
bones.” He smiled crookedly. “Four men alone would be
watched vigilantly. Four among a hundred can lose themselves. So I
must send the true guardsmen as well as the
false . . . as you’ll tell my
sister.”
“And for the sake of her beloved brother, she will
consent, despite her misgivings.” They made their way down a
deserted colonnade. “Still, the loss of her red cloaks will
surely make her uneasy.”
“I like her uneasy,” said Tyrion.
Ser Cleos Frey left that very afternoon, escorted by Vylarr and
a hundred red-cloaked Lannister guardsmen. The men Robb Stark had
sent joined them at the King’s Gate for the long ride
west.
Tyrion found Timett dicing with his Burned Men in the barracks.
“Come to my solar at midnight.” Timett gave him a hard
one-eyed stare, a curt nod. He was not one for long speeches.
That night he feasted with the Stone Crows and Moon Brothers in
the Small Hall, though he shunned the wine for once. He wanted all
his wits about him. “Shagga, what moon is this?”
Shagga’s frown was a fierce thing. “Black, I
think.”
“In the west, they call that a traitor’s moon. Try
not to get too drunk tonight, and see that your axe is
sharp.”
“A Stone Crow’s axe is always sharp, and
Shagga’s axes are sharpest of all. Once I cut off a
man’s head, but he did not know it until he tried to brush
his hair. Then it fell off.”
“Is that why you never brush yours?” The Stone Crows
roared and stamped their feet, Shagga hooting loudest of all.
By midnight, the castle was silent and dark. Doubtless a few
gold cloaks on the walls spied them leaving the Tower of the Hand,
but no one raised a voice. He was the Hand of the King, and where
he went was his own affair.
The thin wooden door split with a thunderous crack beneath the
heel of Shagga’s boot. Pieces went flying inward, and Tyrion
heard a woman’s gasp of fear. Shagga hacked the door apart
with three great blows of his axe and kicked his way through the
ruins. Timett followed, and then Tyrion, stepping gingerly over the
splinters. The fire had burned down a few glowing embers, and
shadows lay thick across the bedchamber. When Timett ripped the
heavy curtains off the bed, the naked serving girl stared up with
wide white eyes. “Please, my lords,” she pleaded,
“don’t hurt me.” She cringed away from Shagga,
flushed and fearful, trying to cover her charms with her hands and
coming up a hand short.
“Go,” Tyrion told her. “It’s not you we
want.”
“Shagga wants this woman.”
“Shagga wants every whore in this city of whores,”
complained Timett son of Timett.
“Yes,” Shagga said, unabashed. “Shagga would
give her a strong child.”
“If she wants a strong child, she’ll know whom to
seek,” Tyrion said. “Timett, see her
out . . . gently, if you would.”
The Burned Man pulled the girl from the bed and half marched,
half dragged her across the chamber. Shagga watched them go,
mournful as a puppy. The girl stumbled over the shattered door and
out into the hall, helped along by a firm shove from Timett. Above
their heads, the ravens were screeching.
Tyrion dragged the soft blanket off the bed, uncovering Grand
Maester Pycelle beneath. “Tell me, does the Citadel approve
of you bedding the serving wenches, Maester?”
The old man was as naked as the girl, though he made a markedly
less attractive sight. For once, his heavy-lidded eyes were open
wide. “W-what is the meaning of this? I am an old man, your
loyal servant . . . ”
Tyrion hoisted himself onto the bed. “So loyal that you
sent only one of my letters to Doran Martell. The other you gave to
my sister.”
“N-no,” squealed Pycelle. “No, a falsehood, I
swear it, it was not me. Varys, it was Varys, the Spider, I warned
you—”
“Do all maesters lie so poorly? I told Varys that I was
giving Prince Doran my nephew Tommen to foster. I told
Littlefinger that I planned to wed Myrcella to Lord Robert of the
Eyrie. I told no one that I had offered Myrcella to the
Dornish . . . that truth was only in the letter
I entrusted to you.”
Pycelle clutched for a corner of the blanket. “Birds are
lost, messages stolen or sold . . . it was
Varys, there are things I might tell you of that eunuch that would
chill your blood . . . ”
“My lady prefers my blood hot.”
“Make no mistake, for every secret the eunuch whispers in
your ear, he holds seven back. And Littlefinger, that
one . . . ”
“I know all about Lord Petyr. He’s almost as
untrustworthy as you. Shagga, cut off his manhood and feed it to
the goats.”
Shagga hefted the huge double-bladed axe. “There are no
goats, Halfman.”
“Make do.”
Roaring, Shagga leapt forward. Pycelle shrieked and wet the bed,
urine spraying in all directions as he tried to scramble back out
of reach. The wildling caught him by the end of his billowy white
beard and hacked off three-quarters of it with a single slash of
the axe.
“Timett, do you suppose our friend will be more
forthcoming without those whiskers to hide behind?” Tyrion
used a bit of the sheet to wipe the piss off his boots.
“He will tell the truth soon.” Darkness pooled in
the empty pit of Timett’s burned eye. “I can smell the
stink of his fear.”
Shagga tossed a handful of hair down to the rushes, and seized
what beard was left. “Hold still, Maester,” urged
Tyrion. “When Shagga gets angry, his hands shake.”
“Shagga’s hands never shake,” the huge man
said indignantly, pressing the great crescent blade under
Pycelle’s quivering chin and sawing through another tangle of
beard.
“How long have you been spying for my sister?”
Tyrion asked.
Pycelle’s breathing was rapid and shallow. “All I
did, I did for House Lannister.” A sheen of sweat covered the
broad dome of the old man’s brow, and wisps of white hair
clung to his wrinkled skin.
“Always . . . for
years . . . your lord father, ask him, I was
ever his true servant . . . ’twas I who
bid Aerys open his gates . . . ” That took Tyrion by surprise. He had been no more than an ugly
boy at Casterly Rock when the city fell. “So the Sack of
King’s Landing was your work as well?”
“For the realm! Once Rhaegar died, the war was done. Aerys
was mad, Viserys too young, Prince Aegon a babe at the breast, but
the realm needed a king . . . I prayed it
should be your good father, but Robert was too strong, and Lord
Stark moved too swiftly . . . ”
“How many have you betrayed, I wonder? Aerys, Eddard
Stark, me . . . King Robert as well? Lord
Arryn, Prince Rhaegar? Where does it begin, Pycelle?” He knew
where it ended.
The axe scratched at the apple of Pycelle’s throat and
stroked the soft wobbly skin under his jaw, scraping away the last
hairs. “You . . . were not here,”
he gasped when the blade moved upward to his cheeks.
“Robert . . . his
wounds . . . if you had seen them, smelled
them, you would have no doubt . . . ”
“Oh, I know the boar did your work for
you . . . but if he’d left the job half
done, doubtless you would have finished it.”
“He was a wretched king . . . vain,
drunken, lecherous . . . he would have set your
sister aside, his own
queen . . . please . . . Renly
was plotting to bring the Highgarden maid to court, to entice his
brother . . . it is the gods’ own
truth . . . ”
“And what was Lord Arryn plotting?”
“He knew,” Pycelle said.
“About . . . about . . . ”
“I know what he knew about,” snapped Tyrion, who was
not anxious for Shagga and Timett to know as well.
“He was sending his wife back to the Eyrie, and his son to
be fostered on Dragonstone . . . he meant to
act . . . ”
“So you poisoned him first.”
“No.” Pycelle struggled feebly. Shagga growled and
grabbed his head. The clansman’s hand was so big he could
have crushed the maester’s skull like an eggshell had he
squeezed.
Tyrion tsked at him. “I saw the tears of Lys among your
potions. And you sent away Lord Arryn’s own maester and
tended him yourself, so you could make certain that he
died.”
“A falsehood!”
“Shave him closer,” Tyrion suggested. “The
throat again.”
The axe swept back down, rasping over the skin. A thin film of
spit bubbled on Pycelle’s lips as his mouth trembled.
“I tried to save Lord Arryn. I vow—”
“Careful now, Shagga, you’ve cut him.”
Shagga growled. “Dolf fathered warriors, not
barbers.”
When he felt the blood trickling down his neck and onto his
chest, the old man shuddered, and the last strength went out of
him. He looked shrunken, both smaller and frailer than he had been
when they burst in on him. “Yes,” he wimpered,
“yes, Colemon was purging, so I sent him away. The queen
needed Lord Arryn dead, she did not say so, could not, Varys was
listening, always listening, but when I looked at her I knew. It
was not me who gave him the poison, though, I swear it.” The
old man wept. “Varys will tell you, it was the boy, his
squire, Hugh he was called, he must surely have done it, ask your
sister, ask her.”
Tyrion was disgusted. “Bind him and take him away,”
he commanded. “Throw him down in one of the black
cells.”
They dragged him out the splintered door.
“Lannister,” he moaned, “all I’ve done has
been for Lannister . . . ”
When he was gone, Tyrion made a leisurely search of the quarters
and collected a few more small jars from his shelves. The ravens
muttered above his head as he worked, a strangely peaceful noise.
He would need to find someone to tend the birds until the Citadel
sent a man to replace Pycelle. He was the one I’d hoped to trust. Varys and Littlefinger
were no more loyal, he suspected . . . only
more subtle, and thus more dangerous. Perhaps his father’s
way would have been best: summon Ilyn Payne, mount three heads
above the gates, and have done. And wouldn’t that be a pretty
sight, he thought.