After the feast, Tyrion and Sansa walked back from the Maidenvault to the Tower of the Hand.
"I'm sorry, my lord," Sansa said, holding a basket filled with leftovers from the feast. "I didn't mean to keep it from you."
"I told you, you don't need to apologize to me," Tyrion said as they walked side by side. The girl kept her eyes down. "What are you carrying?" He already knew but asked anyway to ease the silence.
"Food," Sansa replied. "Lady Margaery insisted I bring it, my lord. I thought... perhaps Arya might like some."
"I didn't think you still cared for your sister," Tyrion remarked. "You two always seemed at odds. And don't call me 'lord.'"
"Yes." Sansa nodded. "Mother said that when winter comes, the pack must stay together for warmth."
"Ah, Catelyn Stark. I remember her well. She made things rather unpleasant for me in the Eyrie."
"I'm sorry, my lord."
"I told you—not to apologize, and not to call me that," Tyrion said, taking the basket from her hands. "I'll carry it. So, what did Lady Margaery talk to you about?"
"Nothing much. Just small talk between girls."
"Such as?" Tyrion asked. "What do girls talk about when they're together? Men, I'd wager. Did Lady Margaery mention me?"
"No, my—" Sansa caught herself. "She seemed afraid of you. She didn't even dare meet your eyes."
"My eyes are that frightening?" Tyrion asked. "She didn't praise my looks?"
"Your looks need no praise," Sansa replied politely.
"Is that so? And what do you think? To a northerner, am I handsome?"
"You are brave and heroic—not only handsome, but you turned back Stannis's rebel army."
"Enough." Tyrion cut her off. "Lady Margaery asked you about King Joffrey."
He saw Sansa flinch slightly.
"What did she ask? Whether His Grace Joffrey is kind? Charming?" Tyrion pressed. "Or whether he performs well?"
Sansa Stark lowered her head. "No, my lord. I'm still a maiden. Lady Margaery only asked what kind of man the king is."
"And what did you tell her?" Tyrion asked. "Did you mention how he stripped you in front of everyone, or how that bastard Meryn Trant struck you?"
Sansa trembled. "No, my lord. Never. I'm a good girl. I remember what you said—to be a lady."
Tyrion sighed. They had reached the Tower of the Hand and were climbing the spiral staircase.
"You don't have to be so stiff around me. I'm not one of those bastards." At the bedroom door, Tyrion handed her the basket. "Go now. Get some sleep. Things will get better."
Sansa knocked on the door. Shae opened it, letting the girl in, and shot Tyrion a glance. He pretended not to notice and went back to his study.
At least the Tower of the Hand was still his.
He lay down on his narrow bed and soon drifted into sleep...
He didn't know how long he'd slept before a light, hurried knocking woke him.
"Who's there?" He rubbed his eyes. The sky outside was still gray.
"My lord." The voice was familiar.
Varys? Tyrion got out of bed. "I should be the one asking—what are you doing here, at this hour?" He opened the door to find three people standing outside.
A eunuch and two girls. No men.
"Let's go inside to talk," Varys said.
Tyrion let the three of them into his study. The two girls sat on his narrow bed while Varys took a chair. Tyrion lit a candle.
The dim light fell across the girls' faces. One was young and beautiful, her figure graceful, her clothes not shabby. Her eyes were red from crying, and she couldn't stop sniffling. The other was older, heavily painted, with a curvier body. She sat upright and silent, her expression unreadable.
"My lord," Tyrion glanced between them. "Who are these?"
"The ones you asked me to find, my lord," Varys said with a polite smile.
"Oh. Right." Tyrion squinted at him. "My memory must be slipping—but yours isn't perfect either, my lord. When did I ask you to bring them here?"
"I remember clearly, my lord," Varys replied, his smile unwavering. "The task is done."
"What?" Tyrion blinked in surprise. "That quickly? Our king... my lord, such remarkable efficiency." He almost laughed inwardly at the thought of his nephew. "Is he that quick with a blade?"
"Let the girls speak," Varys said, gesturing to them.
"My lord..." The younger girl sobbed softly. "I am..."
"Hush," Tyrion cut her off. "No introductions. We don't use names here. Just tell us what happened."
"Yes, my lord..." the young girl whispered. "This gentleman brought us through a long, dark passage into a splendid room, where we met that lord."
"The lord was happy to see us. We talked, ate, and drank together."
"Later, I tried to touch him—my sister taught me how." She glanced at the older woman beside her. "I only wanted to please him. I swear I did."
"But... but he grew angry." She rolled up her sleeve, showing Tyrion the marks on her arm—thin, red welts left by a whip. Her voice broke as she tried to continue.
"So, before anything even began... he started beating you?" Tyrion frowned.
"Yes..." The girl's crying deepened. The older woman turned her around, unfastened her coat, and pulled it down. Her pale back was covered in bruises and livid red stripes.
Tyrion looked at Varys. The eunuch only shrugged, as if to say, What can we do about the King?
"And then?" Tyrion asked. "Did you lie with him? Was it done?" The girls' suffering could be compensated with gold, but the king's coming-of-age ceremony was another matter entirely.
Both shook their heads.
"The young lord may have... certain peculiarities," Tyrion said carefully, his conscience protesting every word. "Unpleasant to speak of, perhaps, but not impossible to manage. Would you consider returning to complete the ceremony? You can see I hold some power. Payment is no issue."
The younger girl shook her head again. Tyrion turned to the elder.
"Madam, you seem experienced—the instructor, perhaps. Could you try once more? Think of it as helping a clumsy boy."
No reply.
"You know," Tyrion went on, "some only find pleasure through pain—through whipping or cruelty. Perhaps..."
"My lord," the older woman interrupted with a weary sigh, "we didn't come because we couldn't do it. We came because he couldn't."
...
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