A Clash of Kings
Page 46
"Fire!" other voices echoed, but the hoots of derision almost drowned them out. Tyrion took solace from that. He gave the command to continue, and the litter rocked like a ship on a rough sea as the Burned Men cleared a path. Twisted little monkey demon indeed. The wretch did have a point about the High Septon, to be sure. What was it that Moon Boy had said of him the other day? A pious man who worships the Seven so fervently that he eats a meal for each of them whenever he sits to table. The memory of the fool's jape made Tyrion smile.
He was pleased to reach the Red Keep without further incident. As he climbed the steps to his chambers, Tyrion felt a deal more hopeful than he had at dawn. Time, that's all I truly need, time to piece it all together. Once the chain is done . . . He opened the door to his solar.
Cersei turned away from the window, her skirts swirling around her slender hips. "How dare you ignore my summons!"
"Who admitted you to my tower?"
"Your tower? This is my son's royal castle."
"So they tell me." Tyrion was not amused. Crawn would be even less so; his Moon Brothers had the guard today. "I was about to come to you, as it happens."
"Were you?"
He swung the door shut behind him. "You doubt me?"
"Always, and with good reason."
"I'm hurt." Tyrion waddled to the sideboard for a cup of wine. He knew no surer way to work up a thirst than talking with Cersei. "If I've given you offense, I would know how."
"What a disgusting little worm you are. Myrcella is my only daughter. Did you truly imagine that I would allow you to sell her like a bag of oats? "
Myrcella, he thought. Well, that egg has hatched. Let's see what color the chick is. "Hardly a bag of oats. Myrcella is a princess. Some would say this is what she was born for. Or did you plan to marry her to Tommen?"
Her hand lashed out, knocking the wine cup from his hand to spill on the floor. "Brother or no, I should have your tongue out for that. I am Joffrey's regent, not you, and I say that Myrcella will not be shipped off to this Dornishman the way I was shipped to Robert Baratheon."
Tyrion shook wine off his fingers and sighed. "Why not? She'd be a deal safer in Dorne than she is here."
"Are you utterly ignorant or simply perverse? You know as well as I that the Martells have no cause to love us."
"The Martells have every cause to hate us. Nonetheless, I expect them to agree. Prince Doran's grievance against House Lannister goes back only a generation, but the Dornishmen have warred against Storm's End and Highgarden for a thousand years, and Renly has taken Dorne's allegiance for granted. Myrcella is nine, Trystane Martell eleven. I have proposed they wed when she reaches her fourteenth year. Until such time, she would be an honored guest at Sunspear, under Prince Doran's protection."
"A hostage," Cersei said, mouth tightening.
"An honored guest," Tyrion insisted, "and I suspect Martell will treat Myrcella more kindly than Joffrey has treated Sansa Stark. I had in mind to send Ser Arys Oakheart with her. With a knight of the Kingsguard as her sworn shield, no one is like to forget who or what she is."
"Small good Ser Arys will do her if Doran Martell decides that my daughter's death would wash out his sister's."
"Martell is too honorable to murder a nine-year-old girl, particularly one as sweet and innocent as Myrcella. So long as he holds her he can be reasonably certain that we'll keep faith on our side, and the terms are too rich to refuse. Myrcella is the least part of it. I've also offered him his sister's killer, a council seat, some castles on the Marches . . . "
"Too much." Cersei paced away from him, restless as a lioness, skirts swirling. "You've offered too much, and without my authority or consent."
"This is the Prince of Dorne we are speaking of. If I'd offered less, he'd likely spit in my face."
"Too much!" Cersei insisted, whirling back.
"What would you have offered him, that hole between your legs?" Tyrion said, his own anger flaring.
This time he saw the slap coming. His head snapped around with a crack. "Sweet sweet sister," he said, "I promise you, that was the last time you will ever strike me."
His sister laughed. "Don't threaten me, little man. Do you think Father's letter keeps you safe? A piece of paper. Eddard Stark had a piece of paper too, for all the good it did him."
Eddard Stark did not have the City Watch, Tyrion thought, nor my clansmen, nor the sellswords that Bronn has hired. I do. Or so he hoped. Trusting in Varys, in Ser Jacelyn Bywater, in Bronn. Lord Stark had probably had his delusions as well.
Yet he said nothing. A wise man did not pour wildfire on a brazier. Instead he poured a fresh cup of wine. "How safe do you think Myrcella will be if King's Landing falls? Renly and Stannis will mount her head beside yours."
And Cersei began to cry.
Tyrion Lannister could not have been more astonished if Aegon the Conqueror himself had burst into the room, riding on a dragon and juggling lemon pies. He had not seen his sister weep since they were children together at Casterly Rock. Awkwardly, he took a step toward her. When your sister cries, you were supposed to comfort her . . . but this was Cersei! He reached a tentative hand for her shoulder.
"Don't touch me," she said, wrenching away. It should not have hurt, yet it did, more than any slap. Red-faced, as angry as she was grief-stricken, Cersei struggled for breath. "Don't look at me, not . . . not like this . . . not you."
Politely, Tyrion turned his back. "I did not mean to frighten you. I promise you, nothing will happen to Myrcella."
"Liar," she said behind him. "I'm not a child, to be soothed with empty promises. You told me you would free Jaime too. Well, where is he? "
"In Riverrun, I should imagine. Safe and under guard, until I find a way to free him."
Cersei sniffed. "I should have been born a man. I would have no need of any of you then. None of this would have been allowed to happen. How could Jaime let himself be captured by that boy? And Father, I trusted in him, fool that I am, but where is he now that he's wanted? What is he doing?"
"Making war."
"From behind the walls of Harrenhal?" she said scornfully. "A curious way of fighting. It looks suspiciously like hiding."
"Look again."
"What else would you call it? Father sits in one castle, and Robb Stark sits in another, and no one does anything."
"There is sitting and there is sitting," Tyrion suggested. "Each one waits for the other to move, but the lion is still, poised, his tail twitching, while the fawn is frozen by fear, bowels turned to jelly. No matter which way he bounds, the lion will have him, and he knows it."
"And you're quite certain that Father is the lion?"
Tyrion grinned. "It's on all our banners."
She ignored the jest. "If it was Father who'd been taken captive, Jaime would not be sitting by idly, I promise you."
Jaime would be battering his host to bloody bits against the walls of Riverrun, and the Others take their chances. He never did have any patience, no more than you, sweet sister. "Not all of us can be as bold as Jaime, but there are other ways to win wars. Harrenhal is strong and well situated."
"And King's Landing is not, as we both know perfectly well. While Father plays lion and fawn with the Stark boy, Renly marches up the roseroad. He could be at our gates any day now!"
"The city will not fall in a day. From Harrenhal it is a straight, swift march down the kingsroad. Renly will scarce have unlimbered his siege engines before Father takes him in the rear. His host will be the hammer, the city walls the anvil. it makes a lovely picture."
Cersei's green eyes bored into him, wary, yet hungry for the reassurance he was feeding her. "And if Robb Stark marches?"
"Harrenhal is close enough to the fords of the Trident so that Roose Bolton cannot bring the northern foot across to join with the Young Wolf's horse. Stark cannot march on King's Landing without taking Harrenhal first, and even with Bolton he is not strong enough to do that." Tyrion tried his most winning smile. "Meanwhile Father lives off the fat of the riverlands, while our uncle Stafford gathers fresh levies at the Rock."
Cersei regarded him suspiciously. "How could you know all this? Did Father tell you his intentions when he sent you here?"
"No. I glanced at a map."
Her look turned to disdain. "You've conjured up every word of this in that grotesque head of yours, haven't you, Imp?"
Tyrion tsked. "Sweet sister, I ask you, if we weren't winning, would the Starks have sued for peace?" He drew out the letter that Ser Cleos Frey had brought. "The Young Wolf has sent us terms, you see. Unacceptable terms, to be sure, but still, a beginning. Would you care to see them?"
"Yes." That fast, she was all queen again. "How do you come to have them? They should have come to me."
"What else is a Hand for, if not to hand you things?" Tyrion handed her the letter. His cheek still throbbed where Cersei's hand had left its mark. Let her flay half my face, it will be a small price to pay for her consent to the Dornish marriage. He would have that now, he could sense it.
And certain knowledge of an informer too . . . well, that was the plum in his pudding.
Chapter Twenty-one
BRAN
Dancer was draped in bardings of snowy white wool emblazoned with the grey direwolf of House Stark, while Bran wore grey breeches and white doublet, his sleeves and collar trimmed with vair. Over his heart was his wolf's-head brooch of silver and polished jet. He would sooner have had Summer than a silver wolf on his breast, but Ser Rodrik had been unyielding.
The low stone steps balked Dancer only for a moment. When Bran urged her on, she took them easily. Beyond the wide oak-and-iron doors, eight long rows of trestle tables filled Winterfell's Great Hall, four on each side of the center aisle. Men crowded shoulder to shoulder on the benches. "Stark!" they called as Bran trotted past, rising to their feet. "Winterfell! Winterfell!"
He was old enough to know that it was not truly him they shouted for - it was the harvest they cheered, it was Robb and his victories, it was his lord father and his grandfather and all the Starks going back eight thousand years. Still, it made him swell with pride. For so long as it took him to ride the length of that hall he forgot that he was broken. Yet when he reached the dais, with every eye upon him, Osha and Hodor undid his straps and buckles, lifted him off Dancer's back, and carried him to the high seat of his fathers.
Ser Rodrik was seated to Bran's left, his daughter Beth beside him. Rickon was to his right, his mop of shaggy auburn hair grown so long that it brushed his ermine mantle. He had refused to let anyone cut it since their mother had gone. The last girl to try had been bitten for her efforts. "I wanted to ride too," he said as Hodor led Dancer away. "I ride better than you."
"You don't, so hush up," he told his brother. Ser Rodrik bellowed for quiet. Bran raised his voice. He bid them welcome in the name of his brother, the King in the North, and asked them to thank the gods old and new for Robb's victories and the bounty of the harvest. "May there be a hundred more," he finished, raising his father's silver goblet.
He was pleased to reach the Red Keep without further incident. As he climbed the steps to his chambers, Tyrion felt a deal more hopeful than he had at dawn. Time, that's all I truly need, time to piece it all together. Once the chain is done . . . He opened the door to his solar.
Cersei turned away from the window, her skirts swirling around her slender hips. "How dare you ignore my summons!"
"Who admitted you to my tower?"
"Your tower? This is my son's royal castle."
"So they tell me." Tyrion was not amused. Crawn would be even less so; his Moon Brothers had the guard today. "I was about to come to you, as it happens."
"Were you?"
He swung the door shut behind him. "You doubt me?"
"Always, and with good reason."
"I'm hurt." Tyrion waddled to the sideboard for a cup of wine. He knew no surer way to work up a thirst than talking with Cersei. "If I've given you offense, I would know how."
"What a disgusting little worm you are. Myrcella is my only daughter. Did you truly imagine that I would allow you to sell her like a bag of oats? "
Myrcella, he thought. Well, that egg has hatched. Let's see what color the chick is. "Hardly a bag of oats. Myrcella is a princess. Some would say this is what she was born for. Or did you plan to marry her to Tommen?"
Her hand lashed out, knocking the wine cup from his hand to spill on the floor. "Brother or no, I should have your tongue out for that. I am Joffrey's regent, not you, and I say that Myrcella will not be shipped off to this Dornishman the way I was shipped to Robert Baratheon."
Tyrion shook wine off his fingers and sighed. "Why not? She'd be a deal safer in Dorne than she is here."
"Are you utterly ignorant or simply perverse? You know as well as I that the Martells have no cause to love us."
"The Martells have every cause to hate us. Nonetheless, I expect them to agree. Prince Doran's grievance against House Lannister goes back only a generation, but the Dornishmen have warred against Storm's End and Highgarden for a thousand years, and Renly has taken Dorne's allegiance for granted. Myrcella is nine, Trystane Martell eleven. I have proposed they wed when she reaches her fourteenth year. Until such time, she would be an honored guest at Sunspear, under Prince Doran's protection."
"A hostage," Cersei said, mouth tightening.
"An honored guest," Tyrion insisted, "and I suspect Martell will treat Myrcella more kindly than Joffrey has treated Sansa Stark. I had in mind to send Ser Arys Oakheart with her. With a knight of the Kingsguard as her sworn shield, no one is like to forget who or what she is."
"Small good Ser Arys will do her if Doran Martell decides that my daughter's death would wash out his sister's."
"Martell is too honorable to murder a nine-year-old girl, particularly one as sweet and innocent as Myrcella. So long as he holds her he can be reasonably certain that we'll keep faith on our side, and the terms are too rich to refuse. Myrcella is the least part of it. I've also offered him his sister's killer, a council seat, some castles on the Marches . . . "
"Too much." Cersei paced away from him, restless as a lioness, skirts swirling. "You've offered too much, and without my authority or consent."
"This is the Prince of Dorne we are speaking of. If I'd offered less, he'd likely spit in my face."
"Too much!" Cersei insisted, whirling back.
"What would you have offered him, that hole between your legs?" Tyrion said, his own anger flaring.
This time he saw the slap coming. His head snapped around with a crack. "Sweet sweet sister," he said, "I promise you, that was the last time you will ever strike me."
His sister laughed. "Don't threaten me, little man. Do you think Father's letter keeps you safe? A piece of paper. Eddard Stark had a piece of paper too, for all the good it did him."
Eddard Stark did not have the City Watch, Tyrion thought, nor my clansmen, nor the sellswords that Bronn has hired. I do. Or so he hoped. Trusting in Varys, in Ser Jacelyn Bywater, in Bronn. Lord Stark had probably had his delusions as well.
Yet he said nothing. A wise man did not pour wildfire on a brazier. Instead he poured a fresh cup of wine. "How safe do you think Myrcella will be if King's Landing falls? Renly and Stannis will mount her head beside yours."
And Cersei began to cry.
Tyrion Lannister could not have been more astonished if Aegon the Conqueror himself had burst into the room, riding on a dragon and juggling lemon pies. He had not seen his sister weep since they were children together at Casterly Rock. Awkwardly, he took a step toward her. When your sister cries, you were supposed to comfort her . . . but this was Cersei! He reached a tentative hand for her shoulder.
"Don't touch me," she said, wrenching away. It should not have hurt, yet it did, more than any slap. Red-faced, as angry as she was grief-stricken, Cersei struggled for breath. "Don't look at me, not . . . not like this . . . not you."
Politely, Tyrion turned his back. "I did not mean to frighten you. I promise you, nothing will happen to Myrcella."
"Liar," she said behind him. "I'm not a child, to be soothed with empty promises. You told me you would free Jaime too. Well, where is he? "
"In Riverrun, I should imagine. Safe and under guard, until I find a way to free him."
Cersei sniffed. "I should have been born a man. I would have no need of any of you then. None of this would have been allowed to happen. How could Jaime let himself be captured by that boy? And Father, I trusted in him, fool that I am, but where is he now that he's wanted? What is he doing?"
"Making war."
"From behind the walls of Harrenhal?" she said scornfully. "A curious way of fighting. It looks suspiciously like hiding."
"Look again."
"What else would you call it? Father sits in one castle, and Robb Stark sits in another, and no one does anything."
"There is sitting and there is sitting," Tyrion suggested. "Each one waits for the other to move, but the lion is still, poised, his tail twitching, while the fawn is frozen by fear, bowels turned to jelly. No matter which way he bounds, the lion will have him, and he knows it."
"And you're quite certain that Father is the lion?"
Tyrion grinned. "It's on all our banners."
She ignored the jest. "If it was Father who'd been taken captive, Jaime would not be sitting by idly, I promise you."
Jaime would be battering his host to bloody bits against the walls of Riverrun, and the Others take their chances. He never did have any patience, no more than you, sweet sister. "Not all of us can be as bold as Jaime, but there are other ways to win wars. Harrenhal is strong and well situated."
"And King's Landing is not, as we both know perfectly well. While Father plays lion and fawn with the Stark boy, Renly marches up the roseroad. He could be at our gates any day now!"
"The city will not fall in a day. From Harrenhal it is a straight, swift march down the kingsroad. Renly will scarce have unlimbered his siege engines before Father takes him in the rear. His host will be the hammer, the city walls the anvil. it makes a lovely picture."
Cersei's green eyes bored into him, wary, yet hungry for the reassurance he was feeding her. "And if Robb Stark marches?"
"Harrenhal is close enough to the fords of the Trident so that Roose Bolton cannot bring the northern foot across to join with the Young Wolf's horse. Stark cannot march on King's Landing without taking Harrenhal first, and even with Bolton he is not strong enough to do that." Tyrion tried his most winning smile. "Meanwhile Father lives off the fat of the riverlands, while our uncle Stafford gathers fresh levies at the Rock."
Cersei regarded him suspiciously. "How could you know all this? Did Father tell you his intentions when he sent you here?"
"No. I glanced at a map."
Her look turned to disdain. "You've conjured up every word of this in that grotesque head of yours, haven't you, Imp?"
Tyrion tsked. "Sweet sister, I ask you, if we weren't winning, would the Starks have sued for peace?" He drew out the letter that Ser Cleos Frey had brought. "The Young Wolf has sent us terms, you see. Unacceptable terms, to be sure, but still, a beginning. Would you care to see them?"
"Yes." That fast, she was all queen again. "How do you come to have them? They should have come to me."
"What else is a Hand for, if not to hand you things?" Tyrion handed her the letter. His cheek still throbbed where Cersei's hand had left its mark. Let her flay half my face, it will be a small price to pay for her consent to the Dornish marriage. He would have that now, he could sense it.
And certain knowledge of an informer too . . . well, that was the plum in his pudding.
Chapter Twenty-one
BRAN
Dancer was draped in bardings of snowy white wool emblazoned with the grey direwolf of House Stark, while Bran wore grey breeches and white doublet, his sleeves and collar trimmed with vair. Over his heart was his wolf's-head brooch of silver and polished jet. He would sooner have had Summer than a silver wolf on his breast, but Ser Rodrik had been unyielding.
The low stone steps balked Dancer only for a moment. When Bran urged her on, she took them easily. Beyond the wide oak-and-iron doors, eight long rows of trestle tables filled Winterfell's Great Hall, four on each side of the center aisle. Men crowded shoulder to shoulder on the benches. "Stark!" they called as Bran trotted past, rising to their feet. "Winterfell! Winterfell!"
He was old enough to know that it was not truly him they shouted for - it was the harvest they cheered, it was Robb and his victories, it was his lord father and his grandfather and all the Starks going back eight thousand years. Still, it made him swell with pride. For so long as it took him to ride the length of that hall he forgot that he was broken. Yet when he reached the dais, with every eye upon him, Osha and Hodor undid his straps and buckles, lifted him off Dancer's back, and carried him to the high seat of his fathers.
Ser Rodrik was seated to Bran's left, his daughter Beth beside him. Rickon was to his right, his mop of shaggy auburn hair grown so long that it brushed his ermine mantle. He had refused to let anyone cut it since their mother had gone. The last girl to try had been bitten for her efforts. "I wanted to ride too," he said as Hodor led Dancer away. "I ride better than you."
"You don't, so hush up," he told his brother. Ser Rodrik bellowed for quiet. Bran raised his voice. He bid them welcome in the name of his brother, the King in the North, and asked them to thank the gods old and new for Robb's victories and the bounty of the harvest. "May there be a hundred more," he finished, raising his father's silver goblet.
