Vrys stood over the brazier, warming his soft hands. “It
would appear Renly was murdered most fearfully in the very midst of
his army. His throat was opened from ear to ear by a blade that
passed through steel and bone as if they were soft
cheese.”
“Murdered by whose hand?” Cersei demanded.
“Have you ever considered that too many answers are the
same as no answer at all? My informers are not always as highly
placed as we might like. When a king dies, fancies sprout like
mushrooms in the dark. A groom says that Renly was slain by a
knight of his own Rainbow Guard. A washerwoman claims Stannis stole
through the heart of his brother’s army with his magic sword.
Several men-at-arms believe a woman did the fell deed, but cannot
agree on which woman. A maid that Renly had spurned, claims one. A
camp follower brought in to serve his pleasure on the eve of
battle, says a second. The third ventures that it might have been
the Lady Catelyn Stark.”
The queen was not pleased. “Must you waste our time with
every rumor the fools care to tell?”
“You pay me well for these rumors, my gracious
queen.”
“We pay you for the truth, Lord Varys. Remember that, or
this small council may grow smaller still.”
Varys tittered nervously. “You and your noble brother will
leave His Grace with no council at all if you continue.”
“I daresay, the realm could survive a few less
councillors,” said Littlefinger with a smile.
“Dear dear Petyr,” said Varys, “are you not
concerned that yours might be the next name on the Hand’s
little list?”
“Before you, Varys? I should never dream of it.”
“Mayhaps we will be brothers on the Wall together, you and
I.” Varys giggled again.
“Sooner than you’d like, if the next words out of
your mouth are not something useful, eunuch.” From the look
of her eyes, Cersei was prepared to castrate Varys all over
again.
“Might this be some ruse?” asked Littlefinger.
“If so, it is a ruse of surpassing cleverness,” said
Varys. “It has certainly hoodwinked me.”
Tyrion had heard enough. “Joff will be so
disappointed,” he said. “He was saving such a nice
spike for Renly’s head. But whoever did the deed, we must
assume Stannis was behind it. The gain is clearly his.” He
did not like this news; he had counted on the brothers Baratheon
decimating each other in bloody battle. He could feel his elbow
throbbing where the morningstar had laid it open. It did that
sometimes in the damp. He squeezed it uselessly in his hand and
asked, “What of Renly’s host?”
“The greater part of his foot remains at
Bitterbridge.” Varys abandoned the brazier to take his seat
at the table. “Most of the lords who rode with Lord Renly to
Storm’s End have gone over banner-and-blade to Stannis, with
all their chivalry.”
“Led by the Florents, I’d wager,” said
Littlefinger.
Varys gave him a simpering smile. “You would win, my lord.
Lord Alester was indeed the first to bend the knee. Many others
followed.”
“Many,” Tyrion said pointedly, “but not
all?”
“Not all,” agreed the eunuch. “Not Loras
Tyrell, nor Randyll Tarly, nor Mathis Rowan. And Storm’s End
itself has not yielded. Ser Cortnay Penrose holds the castle in
Renly’s name, and will not believe his liege is dead. He
demands to see the mortal remains before he opens his gates, but it
seems that Renly’s corpse has unaccountably vanished. Carried
away, most likely. A fifth of Renly’s knights departed with
Ser Loras rather than bend the knee to Stannis. It’s said the
Knight of Flowers went mad when he saw his king’s body, and
slew three of Renly’s guards in his wrath, among them Emmon
Cuy and Robar Royce.” A pity he stopped at three, thought Tyrion.
“Ser Loras is likely making for Bitterbridge,” Varys
went on. “His sister is there, Renly’s queen, as well
as a great many soldiers who suddenly find themselves kingless.
Which side will they take now? A ticklish question. Many serve the
lords who remained at Storm’s End, and those lords now belong
to Stannis.”
Tyrion leaned forward. “There is a chance here, it seems
to me. Win Loras Tyrell to our cause and Lord Mace Tyrell and his
bannermen might join us as well. They may have sworn their swords
to Stannis for the moment, yet they cannot love the man, or they
would have been his from the start.”
“Is their love for us any greater?” asked
Cersei.
“Scarcely,” said Tyrion. “They loved Renly,
clearly, but Renly is slain. Perhaps we can give them good and
sufficient reasons to prefer Joffrey to
Stannis . . . if we move quickly.”
“What sort of reasons do you mean to give them?”
“Gold reasons,” Littlefinger suggested at once.
Varys made a tsking sound. “Sweet Petyr, surely you do not
mean to suggest that these puissant lords and noble knights could
be bought like so many chickens in the market.”
“Have you been to our markets of late, Lord Varys?”
asked Littlefinger. “You’d find it easier to buy a lord
than a chicken, I daresay. Of course, lords cluck prouder than
chickens, and take it ill if you offer them coin like a tradesman,
but they are seldom adverse to taking
gifts . . . honors, lands,
castles . . . ”
“Bribes might sway some of the lesser lords,” Tyrion
said, “but never Highgarden.”
“True,” Littlefinger admitted. “The Knight of
Flowers is the key there. Mace Tyrell has two older sons, but Loras
has always been his favorite. Win him, and Highgarden will be
yours.” Yes, Tyrion thought. “It seems to me we should take a
lesson from the late Lord Renly. We can win the Tyrell alliance as
he did. With a marriage.”
Varys understood the quickest. “You think to wed King
Joffrey to Margaery Tyrell.”
“I do.” Renly’s young queen was no more than
fifteen, sixteen, he seemed to
recall . . . older than Joffrey, but a few
years were nothing, it was so neat and sweet he could taste it.
“Joffrey is betrothed to Sansa Stark,” Cersei
objected.
“Marriage contracts can be broken. What advantage is there
in wedding the king to the daughter of a dead traitor?”
Littlefinger spoke up. “You might point out to His Grace
that the Tyrells are much wealthier than the Starks, and that
Margaery is said to be lovely . . . and
beddable besides.”
“Yes,” said Tyrion, “Joff ought to like that
well enough.”
“My son is too young to care about such things.”
“You think so?” asked Tyrion. “He’s
thirteen, Cersei. The same age at which I married.”
“You shamed us all with that sorry episode. Joffrey is
made of finer stuff.”
“So fine that he had Ser Boros rip off Sansa’s
gown.”
“He was angry with the girl.”
“He was angry with that cook’s boy who spilled the
soup last night as well, but he didn’t strip him
naked.”
“This was not a matter of some spilled
soup—” No, it was a matter of some pretty teats. After that business in
the yard, Tyrion had spoken with Varys about how they might arrange
for Joffrey to visit Chataya’s. A taste of honey might
sweeten the boy, he hoped. He might even be grateful, gods forbid,
and Tyrion could do with a shade more gratitude from his sovereign.
It would need to be done secretly, of course. The tricky bit would
be parting him from the Hound. “The dog is never far from his
master’s heels,” he’d observed to Varys,
“but all men sleep. And some gamble and whore and visit
winesinks as well.”
“The Hound does all these things, if that is your
question.”
“No,” said Tyrion. “My question is
when.”
Varys had laid a finger on his cheek, smiling enigmatically.
“My lord, a suspicious man might think you wished to find a
time when Sandor Clegane was not protecting King Joffrey, the
better to do the boy some harm.”
“Surely you know me better than that, Lord Varys,”
Tyrion said. “Why, all I want is for Joffrey to love
me.”
The eunuch had promised to look into the matter. The war made
its own demands, though; Joffrey’s initiation into manhood
would need to wait. “Doubtless you know your son better than
I do,” he made himself tell Cersei, “but regardless,
there’s still much to be said for a Tyrell marriage. It may
be the only way that Joffrey lives long enough to reach his wedding
night.”
Littlefinger agreed. “The Stark girl brings Joffrey
nothing but her body, sweet as that may be. Margaery Tyrell brings
fifty thousand swords and all the strength of
Highgarden.”
“Indeed.” Varys laid a soft hand on the
queen’s sleeve. “You have a mother’s heart, and I
know His Grace loves his little sweetling. Yet kings must learn to
put the needs of the realm before their own desires. I say this
offer must be made.”
The queen pulled free of the eunuch’s touch. “You
would not speak so if you were women. Say what you will, my lords,
but Joffrey is too proud to settle for Renly’s leavings. He
will never consent.”
Tyrion shrugged. “When the king comes of age in three
years, he may give or withhold his consent as he pleases. Until
then, you are his regent and I am his Hand, and he will marry
whomever we tell him to marry. Leavings or no.”
Cersei’s quiver was empty. “Make your offer then,
but gods save you all if Joff does not like this girl.”
“I’m so pleased we can agree,” Tyrion said.
“Now, which of us shall go to Bitterbridge? We must reach Ser
Loras with our offer before his blood can cool.”
“You mean to send one of the council?”
“I can scarcely expect the Knight of Flowers to treat with
Bronn or Shagga, can I? The Tyrells are proud.”
His sister wasted no time trying to twist the situation to her
advantage. “Ser Jacelyn Bywater is nobly born. Send
him.”
Tyrion shook his head. “We need someone who can do more
than repeat our words and fetch back a reply. Our envoy must speak
for king and council and settle the matter quickly.”
“The Hand speaks with the king’s voice.”
Candlelight gleamed green as wildfire in Cersei’s eyes.
“If we send you, Tyrion, it will be as if Joffrey went
himself. And who better, You wield words as skillfully as Jaime
wields a sword.” Are you that eager to get me out of the city, Cersei? “You
are too kind, sister, but it seems to me that a boy’s mother
is better fitted to arrange his marriage than any uncle. And you
have a gift for winning friends that I could never hope to
match.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Joff needs me at his side.”
“Your Grace, my lord Hand,” said Littlefinger,
“the king needs both of you here. Let me go in your
stead.”
“You?” What gain does he see in this? Tyrion
wondered.
“I am of the king’s council, yet not the
king’s blood, so I would make a poor hostage. I knew Ser
Loras passing well when he was here at court, and gave him no cause
to mislike me. Mace Tyrell bears me no enmity that I know of, and I
flatter myself that I am not unskilled in negotiation.” He has us. Tyrion did not trust Petyr Baelish, nor did he want
the man out of his sight, yet what other choice was left him? It
must be Littlefinger or Tyrion himself, and he knew full well that
if he left King’s Landing for any length of time, all that he
had managed to accomplish would be undone. “There is fighting
between here and Bitterbridge,” he said cautiously.
“And you can be past certain that Lord Stannis will be
dispatching his own shepherds to gather in his brother’s
wayward lambs.”
“I’ve never been frightened of shepherds. It’s
the sheep who trouble me. Still, I suppose an escort might be in
order.”
“I can spare a hundred gold cloaks,” Tyrion
said.
“Five hundred.”
“Three hundred.”
“And forty more—twenty knights with as many squires. If I
arrive without a knightly tail, the Tyrells will think me of small
account.”
That was true enough. “Agreed.”
“I’ll include Horror and Slobber in my party, and
send them on to their lord father afterward. A gesture of goodwill.
We need Paxter Redwyne, he’s Mace Tyrell’s oldest
friend, and a great power in his own right.”
“And a traitor,” the queen said, balking. “The
Arbor would have declared for Renly with all the rest, except that
Redwyne knew full well his whelps would suffer for it.”
“Renly is dead, Your Grace,” Littlefinger pointed
out, “and neither Stannis nor Lord Paxter will have forgotten
how Redwyne galleys closed the sea during the siege of
Storm’s End. Restore the twins and perchance we may win
Redwyne’s love.”
Cersei remained unconvinced. “The Others can keep his
love, I want his swords and sails. Holding tight to those twins is
the best way to make certain that we’ll have them.”
Tyrion had the answer. “Then let us send Ser Hobber back
to the Arbor and keep Ser Horas here. Lord Paxter ought to be
clever enough to riddle out the meaning of that, I should
think.”
The suggestion was carried without protest, but Littlefinger was
not done. “We’ll want horses. Swift and strong. The
fighting will make remounts hard to come by. A goodly supply of
gold will also be needed, for those gifts we spoke of
earlier.”
“Take as much as you require. If the city falls, Stannis
will steal it all anyway.”
“I’ll want my commission in writing. A document that
will leave Mace Tyrell in no doubt as to my authority, granting me
full power to treat with him concerning this match and any other
arrangements that might be required, and to make binding pledges in
the king’s name. It should be signed by Joffrey and every
member of this council, and bear all our seals.”
Tyrion shifted uncomfortably. “Done. Will that be all? I
remind you, there’s a long road between here and
Bitterbridge.”
“I’ll be riding it before dawn breaks.”
Littlefinger rose. “I trust that on my return, the king will
see that I am suitably rewarded for my valiant efforts in his
cause?”
Varys giggled. “Joffrey is such a grateful sovereign,
I’m certain you will have no cause to complain, my good brave
lord.”
The queen was more direct. “What do you want,
Petyr?”
Littlefinger glanced at Tyrion with a sly smile. “I shall
need to give that some consideration. No doubt I’ll think of
something.” He sketched an airy bow and took his leave, as
casual as if he were off to one of his brothels.
Tyrion glanced out the window. The fog was so thick that he
could not even see the curtain wall across the yard. A few dim
lights shone indistinct through that greyness. A foul day for
travel, he thought. He did not envy Petyr Baelish. “We had
best see to drawing up those documents. Lord Varys, send for
parchment and quill. And someone will need to wake
Joffrey.”
It was still grey and dark when the meeting finally ended. Varys
scurried off alone, his soft slippers whisking along the floor. The
Lannisters lingered a moment by the door. “How comes your
chain, brother?” the queen asked as Ser Preston fastened a
vair-lined cloth-of-silver cloak about her shoulders.
“Link by link, it grows longer. We should thank the gods
that Ser Cortnay Penrose is as stubborn as he is. Stannis will
never march north with Storm’s End untaken in his
rear.”
“Tyrion, I know we do not always agree on policy, but it
seems to me that I was wrong about you. You are not so big a fool
as I imagined. In truth, I realize now that you have been a great
help. For that I thank you. You must forgive me if I have spoken to
you harshly in the past.”
“Must I?” He gave her a shrug, a smile. “Sweet
sister, you have said nothing that requires forgiveness.”
“Today, you mean?” They both
laughed . . . and Cersei leaned over and
planted a quick, soft kiss on his brow.
Too astonished for words, Tyrion could only watch her stride off
down the hall, Ser Preston at her side. “Have I lost my wits,
or did my sister just kiss me?” he asked Bronn when she was
gone.
“Was it so sweet?”
“It was . . . unanticipated.”
Cersei had been behaving queerly of late. Tyrion found it very
unsettling. “I am trying to recall the last time she kissed
me. I could not have been more than six or seven. Jaime had dared
her to do it.”
“The woman’s finally taken note of your
charms.”
“No,” Tyrion said. “No, the woman is hatching
something. Best find out what, Bronn. You know I hate
surprises.”
Vrys stood over the brazier, warming his soft hands. “It
would appear Renly was murdered most fearfully in the very midst of
his army. His throat was opened from ear to ear by a blade that
passed through steel and bone as if they were soft
cheese.”
“Murdered by whose hand?” Cersei demanded.
“Have you ever considered that too many answers are the
same as no answer at all? My informers are not always as highly
placed as we might like. When a king dies, fancies sprout like
mushrooms in the dark. A groom says that Renly was slain by a
knight of his own Rainbow Guard. A washerwoman claims Stannis stole
through the heart of his brother’s army with his magic sword.
Several men-at-arms believe a woman did the fell deed, but cannot
agree on which woman. A maid that Renly had spurned, claims one. A
camp follower brought in to serve his pleasure on the eve of
battle, says a second. The third ventures that it might have been
the Lady Catelyn Stark.”
The queen was not pleased. “Must you waste our time with
every rumor the fools care to tell?”
“You pay me well for these rumors, my gracious
queen.”
“We pay you for the truth, Lord Varys. Remember that, or
this small council may grow smaller still.”
Varys tittered nervously. “You and your noble brother will
leave His Grace with no council at all if you continue.”
“I daresay, the realm could survive a few less
councillors,” said Littlefinger with a smile.
“Dear dear Petyr,” said Varys, “are you not
concerned that yours might be the next name on the Hand’s
little list?”
“Before you, Varys? I should never dream of it.”
“Mayhaps we will be brothers on the Wall together, you and
I.” Varys giggled again.
“Sooner than you’d like, if the next words out of
your mouth are not something useful, eunuch.” From the look
of her eyes, Cersei was prepared to castrate Varys all over
again.
“Might this be some ruse?” asked Littlefinger.
“If so, it is a ruse of surpassing cleverness,” said
Varys. “It has certainly hoodwinked me.”
Tyrion had heard enough. “Joff will be so
disappointed,” he said. “He was saving such a nice
spike for Renly’s head. But whoever did the deed, we must
assume Stannis was behind it. The gain is clearly his.” He
did not like this news; he had counted on the brothers Baratheon
decimating each other in bloody battle. He could feel his elbow
throbbing where the morningstar had laid it open. It did that
sometimes in the damp. He squeezed it uselessly in his hand and
asked, “What of Renly’s host?”
“The greater part of his foot remains at
Bitterbridge.” Varys abandoned the brazier to take his seat
at the table. “Most of the lords who rode with Lord Renly to
Storm’s End have gone over banner-and-blade to Stannis, with
all their chivalry.”
“Led by the Florents, I’d wager,” said
Littlefinger.
Varys gave him a simpering smile. “You would win, my lord.
Lord Alester was indeed the first to bend the knee. Many others
followed.”
“Many,” Tyrion said pointedly, “but not
all?”
“Not all,” agreed the eunuch. “Not Loras
Tyrell, nor Randyll Tarly, nor Mathis Rowan. And Storm’s End
itself has not yielded. Ser Cortnay Penrose holds the castle in
Renly’s name, and will not believe his liege is dead. He
demands to see the mortal remains before he opens his gates, but it
seems that Renly’s corpse has unaccountably vanished. Carried
away, most likely. A fifth of Renly’s knights departed with
Ser Loras rather than bend the knee to Stannis. It’s said the
Knight of Flowers went mad when he saw his king’s body, and
slew three of Renly’s guards in his wrath, among them Emmon
Cuy and Robar Royce.” A pity he stopped at three, thought Tyrion.
“Ser Loras is likely making for Bitterbridge,” Varys
went on. “His sister is there, Renly’s queen, as well
as a great many soldiers who suddenly find themselves kingless.
Which side will they take now? A ticklish question. Many serve the
lords who remained at Storm’s End, and those lords now belong
to Stannis.”
Tyrion leaned forward. “There is a chance here, it seems
to me. Win Loras Tyrell to our cause and Lord Mace Tyrell and his
bannermen might join us as well. They may have sworn their swords
to Stannis for the moment, yet they cannot love the man, or they
would have been his from the start.”
“Is their love for us any greater?” asked
Cersei.
“Scarcely,” said Tyrion. “They loved Renly,
clearly, but Renly is slain. Perhaps we can give them good and
sufficient reasons to prefer Joffrey to
Stannis . . . if we move quickly.”
“What sort of reasons do you mean to give them?”
“Gold reasons,” Littlefinger suggested at once.
Varys made a tsking sound. “Sweet Petyr, surely you do not
mean to suggest that these puissant lords and noble knights could
be bought like so many chickens in the market.”
“Have you been to our markets of late, Lord Varys?”
asked Littlefinger. “You’d find it easier to buy a lord
than a chicken, I daresay. Of course, lords cluck prouder than
chickens, and take it ill if you offer them coin like a tradesman,
but they are seldom adverse to taking
gifts . . . honors, lands,
castles . . . ”
“Bribes might sway some of the lesser lords,” Tyrion
said, “but never Highgarden.”
“True,” Littlefinger admitted. “The Knight of
Flowers is the key there. Mace Tyrell has two older sons, but Loras
has always been his favorite. Win him, and Highgarden will be
yours.” Yes, Tyrion thought. “It seems to me we should take a
lesson from the late Lord Renly. We can win the Tyrell alliance as
he did. With a marriage.”
Varys understood the quickest. “You think to wed King
Joffrey to Margaery Tyrell.”
“I do.” Renly’s young queen was no more than
fifteen, sixteen, he seemed to
recall . . . older than Joffrey, but a few
years were nothing, it was so neat and sweet he could taste it.
“Joffrey is betrothed to Sansa Stark,” Cersei
objected.
“Marriage contracts can be broken. What advantage is there
in wedding the king to the daughter of a dead traitor?”
Littlefinger spoke up. “You might point out to His Grace
that the Tyrells are much wealthier than the Starks, and that
Margaery is said to be lovely . . . and
beddable besides.”
“Yes,” said Tyrion, “Joff ought to like that
well enough.”
“My son is too young to care about such things.”
“You think so?” asked Tyrion. “He’s
thirteen, Cersei. The same age at which I married.”
“You shamed us all with that sorry episode. Joffrey is
made of finer stuff.”
“So fine that he had Ser Boros rip off Sansa’s
gown.”
“He was angry with the girl.”
“He was angry with that cook’s boy who spilled the
soup last night as well, but he didn’t strip him
naked.”
“This was not a matter of some spilled
soup—” No, it was a matter of some pretty teats. After that business in
the yard, Tyrion had spoken with Varys about how they might arrange
for Joffrey to visit Chataya’s. A taste of honey might
sweeten the boy, he hoped. He might even be grateful, gods forbid,
and Tyrion could do with a shade more gratitude from his sovereign.
It would need to be done secretly, of course. The tricky bit would
be parting him from the Hound. “The dog is never far from his
master’s heels,” he’d observed to Varys,
“but all men sleep. And some gamble and whore and visit
winesinks as well.”
“The Hound does all these things, if that is your
question.”
“No,” said Tyrion. “My question is
when.”
Varys had laid a finger on his cheek, smiling enigmatically.
“My lord, a suspicious man might think you wished to find a
time when Sandor Clegane was not protecting King Joffrey, the
better to do the boy some harm.”
“Surely you know me better than that, Lord Varys,”
Tyrion said. “Why, all I want is for Joffrey to love
me.”
The eunuch had promised to look into the matter. The war made
its own demands, though; Joffrey’s initiation into manhood
would need to wait. “Doubtless you know your son better than
I do,” he made himself tell Cersei, “but regardless,
there’s still much to be said for a Tyrell marriage. It may
be the only way that Joffrey lives long enough to reach his wedding
night.”
Littlefinger agreed. “The Stark girl brings Joffrey
nothing but her body, sweet as that may be. Margaery Tyrell brings
fifty thousand swords and all the strength of
Highgarden.”
“Indeed.” Varys laid a soft hand on the
queen’s sleeve. “You have a mother’s heart, and I
know His Grace loves his little sweetling. Yet kings must learn to
put the needs of the realm before their own desires. I say this
offer must be made.”
The queen pulled free of the eunuch’s touch. “You
would not speak so if you were women. Say what you will, my lords,
but Joffrey is too proud to settle for Renly’s leavings. He
will never consent.”
Tyrion shrugged. “When the king comes of age in three
years, he may give or withhold his consent as he pleases. Until
then, you are his regent and I am his Hand, and he will marry
whomever we tell him to marry. Leavings or no.”
Cersei’s quiver was empty. “Make your offer then,
but gods save you all if Joff does not like this girl.”
“I’m so pleased we can agree,” Tyrion said.
“Now, which of us shall go to Bitterbridge? We must reach Ser
Loras with our offer before his blood can cool.”
“You mean to send one of the council?”
“I can scarcely expect the Knight of Flowers to treat with
Bronn or Shagga, can I? The Tyrells are proud.”
His sister wasted no time trying to twist the situation to her
advantage. “Ser Jacelyn Bywater is nobly born. Send
him.”
Tyrion shook his head. “We need someone who can do more
than repeat our words and fetch back a reply. Our envoy must speak
for king and council and settle the matter quickly.”
“The Hand speaks with the king’s voice.”
Candlelight gleamed green as wildfire in Cersei’s eyes.
“If we send you, Tyrion, it will be as if Joffrey went
himself. And who better, You wield words as skillfully as Jaime
wields a sword.” Are you that eager to get me out of the city, Cersei? “You
are too kind, sister, but it seems to me that a boy’s mother
is better fitted to arrange his marriage than any uncle. And you
have a gift for winning friends that I could never hope to
match.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Joff needs me at his side.”
“Your Grace, my lord Hand,” said Littlefinger,
“the king needs both of you here. Let me go in your
stead.”
“You?” What gain does he see in this? Tyrion
wondered.
“I am of the king’s council, yet not the
king’s blood, so I would make a poor hostage. I knew Ser
Loras passing well when he was here at court, and gave him no cause
to mislike me. Mace Tyrell bears me no enmity that I know of, and I
flatter myself that I am not unskilled in negotiation.” He has us. Tyrion did not trust Petyr Baelish, nor did he want
the man out of his sight, yet what other choice was left him? It
must be Littlefinger or Tyrion himself, and he knew full well that
if he left King’s Landing for any length of time, all that he
had managed to accomplish would be undone. “There is fighting
between here and Bitterbridge,” he said cautiously.
“And you can be past certain that Lord Stannis will be
dispatching his own shepherds to gather in his brother’s
wayward lambs.”
“I’ve never been frightened of shepherds. It’s
the sheep who trouble me. Still, I suppose an escort might be in
order.”
“I can spare a hundred gold cloaks,” Tyrion
said.
“Five hundred.”
“Three hundred.”
“And forty more—twenty knights with as many squires. If I
arrive without a knightly tail, the Tyrells will think me of small
account.”
That was true enough. “Agreed.”
“I’ll include Horror and Slobber in my party, and
send them on to their lord father afterward. A gesture of goodwill.
We need Paxter Redwyne, he’s Mace Tyrell’s oldest
friend, and a great power in his own right.”
“And a traitor,” the queen said, balking. “The
Arbor would have declared for Renly with all the rest, except that
Redwyne knew full well his whelps would suffer for it.”
“Renly is dead, Your Grace,” Littlefinger pointed
out, “and neither Stannis nor Lord Paxter will have forgotten
how Redwyne galleys closed the sea during the siege of
Storm’s End. Restore the twins and perchance we may win
Redwyne’s love.”
Cersei remained unconvinced. “The Others can keep his
love, I want his swords and sails. Holding tight to those twins is
the best way to make certain that we’ll have them.”
Tyrion had the answer. “Then let us send Ser Hobber back
to the Arbor and keep Ser Horas here. Lord Paxter ought to be
clever enough to riddle out the meaning of that, I should
think.”
The suggestion was carried without protest, but Littlefinger was
not done. “We’ll want horses. Swift and strong. The
fighting will make remounts hard to come by. A goodly supply of
gold will also be needed, for those gifts we spoke of
earlier.”
“Take as much as you require. If the city falls, Stannis
will steal it all anyway.”
“I’ll want my commission in writing. A document that
will leave Mace Tyrell in no doubt as to my authority, granting me
full power to treat with him concerning this match and any other
arrangements that might be required, and to make binding pledges in
the king’s name. It should be signed by Joffrey and every
member of this council, and bear all our seals.”
Tyrion shifted uncomfortably. “Done. Will that be all? I
remind you, there’s a long road between here and
Bitterbridge.”
“I’ll be riding it before dawn breaks.”
Littlefinger rose. “I trust that on my return, the king will
see that I am suitably rewarded for my valiant efforts in his
cause?”
Varys giggled. “Joffrey is such a grateful sovereign,
I’m certain you will have no cause to complain, my good brave
lord.”
The queen was more direct. “What do you want,
Petyr?”
Littlefinger glanced at Tyrion with a sly smile. “I shall
need to give that some consideration. No doubt I’ll think of
something.” He sketched an airy bow and took his leave, as
casual as if he were off to one of his brothels.
Tyrion glanced out the window. The fog was so thick that he
could not even see the curtain wall across the yard. A few dim
lights shone indistinct through that greyness. A foul day for
travel, he thought. He did not envy Petyr Baelish. “We had
best see to drawing up those documents. Lord Varys, send for
parchment and quill. And someone will need to wake
Joffrey.”
It was still grey and dark when the meeting finally ended. Varys
scurried off alone, his soft slippers whisking along the floor. The
Lannisters lingered a moment by the door. “How comes your
chain, brother?” the queen asked as Ser Preston fastened a
vair-lined cloth-of-silver cloak about her shoulders.
“Link by link, it grows longer. We should thank the gods
that Ser Cortnay Penrose is as stubborn as he is. Stannis will
never march north with Storm’s End untaken in his
rear.”
“Tyrion, I know we do not always agree on policy, but it
seems to me that I was wrong about you. You are not so big a fool
as I imagined. In truth, I realize now that you have been a great
help. For that I thank you. You must forgive me if I have spoken to
you harshly in the past.”
“Must I?” He gave her a shrug, a smile. “Sweet
sister, you have said nothing that requires forgiveness.”
“Today, you mean?” They both
laughed . . . and Cersei leaned over and
planted a quick, soft kiss on his brow.
Too astonished for words, Tyrion could only watch her stride off
down the hall, Ser Preston at her side. “Have I lost my wits,
or did my sister just kiss me?” he asked Bronn when she was
gone.
“Was it so sweet?”
“It was . . . unanticipated.”
Cersei had been behaving queerly of late. Tyrion found it very
unsettling. “I am trying to recall the last time she kissed
me. I could not have been more than six or seven. Jaime had dared
her to do it.”
“The woman’s finally taken note of your
charms.”
“No,” Tyrion said. “No, the woman is hatching
something. Best find out what, Bronn. You know I hate
surprises.”