King's Landing, Red Keep, the Throne Room, after the Small Council.
"So why keep me behind?" Tyrion asked, sitting back in his chair. Only he and his father remained. Moments ago, Tywin had appointed him Master of Laws and confirmed his right to remain in the Tower of the Hand.
Then they discussed the war.
Robb Stark was still in the Westerlands, but another northern host, commanded by Helman Tallhart and Robett Glover, was marching toward the Dusklands. Tywin had sent Lord Tarly to meet them head-on while ordering Ser Gregor to march along the Kingsroad to cut off their retreat. Tallhart and Glover would be trapped between them. One-third of the Stark host was already doomed.
"The petty business of the Small Council needn't trouble you or me," Tywin said. "Let those who are careful with numbers manage the stores. Let those who are careless but good at killing charge into battle. But someone must sit at the table."
"Ha," Tyrion chuckled. "I thought being useless would spare me from being used. Seems Father's talent lies in making use of the useless."
"Jaime has left Harrenhal unharmed. Roose Bolton sent him off as a gesture of goodwill," Tywin said. "Ser Amory Lorch is also safe."
So killing Vargo Hoat hadn't only saved Jaime—it had unexpectedly spared Ser Lorch as well.
"Good news," Tyrion said, smiling. "Pity my dear sister skipped today's meeting. She'd be delighted."
"She's refused my summons more than once," Tywin said. "She fears I'll announce her marriage at the council."
"Running from it won't help," Tyrion said. "So, what sort of husband do you have in mind for her?"
"I'm glad you understand that much." Tywin nodded. "Balon Greyjoy's wife is old and frail. Through marriage, we could win the Iron Islands' allegiance. Though they've already begun raiding the North, I still question whether such a match is wise."
"Ha!" Tyrion could barely contain his glee at the image of his sister being sent off to the desolate Iron Islands. The gods were real after all—they had heard his prayers.
"Oberyn Martell could be considered, but that would offend the Tyrells. They already grumbled about your betrothal to Arianne. Sending your sister to him would only shake their loyalty further."
"The Red Viper? He's had more lovers than Pycelle's shriveled cock has hairs. Men, women—you name it. I doubt my sister would fancy a man whose lust could rival Robert's," Tyrion said. "Though, of course, Robert outdid him in bastards."
"I've considered younger men. But truthfully, it was our alliance with the Tyrells that defeated Stannis and secured the throne. It must be strengthened. Ser Loras now wears the white cloak, Ser Garlan has wed into House Fossoway. Only one option remains—the eldest son they meant for Sansa Stark."
"Willas Tyrell," Tyrion said. "He's a cripple." If he remembered right, courtesy of the Red Viper himself.
"Willas is the heir to Highgarden—a gentle, courteous young man, fond of books and stargazing. Even crippled, House Tyrell's esteem for him hasn't waned. The Queen of Thorns dotes on him beyond measure."
"So? Why tell me this?" Tyrion asked. "Surely I'm not the one to decide my sister's marriage."
"Jaime will reach King's Landing soon. You and Cersei will, of course, go to greet him," Tywin said. "Since she refuses to see me, you'll deliver my message."
"Me?" Tyrion's heart lifted. To be the one to tell his sister this news—it would wound her more deeply than having the Old Squid, the Red Viper, and that crippled pup all at once.
"For Jaime's return, both your sister and I owe you thanks," his father said, though even his gratitude sounded cold. "But that brings another matter."
"What matter?"
"We must keep our promise to House Stark. Now that Jaime is coming home, the two girls must be sent."
"Then send them," Tyrion said. "A Lannister always pays his debts."
"Impossible," Tywin said. "Those two girls are valuable bargaining chips. Sending them back would be like tossing jewels into a dung heap."
"You'd break your word?" Tyrion asked. "The promise was mine to make. You wouldn't want one son called the Kingslayer and the other the Oathbreaker, would you?"
"Robb Stark is finished. There's a bit of news I didn't share at the Small Council, though the lords will hear soon enough—the Young Wolf has married Gawen Westerling's eldest daughter."
I already knew that, Tyrion thought. So what if we send them back? They're worthless now. My brother's life and Lannister honor are worth a hundred times more than that miserable patch of land.
"No need to break your word," Tywin said. "Use that little brain of yours. Delay a few days. Once the Starks fall, those two girls won't be going anywhere."
"Perhaps… let them stay for Joffrey's wedding. That would be a fair excuse to keep them," Tyrion suggested.
"Sounds reasonable, but too long," Tywin objected. "The wedding's on New Year's Day. That's months away. To delay that long is no different from breaking an oath."
"Then host an engagement feast," Tyrion said quickly. "Have Joffrey and Margaery formally betrothed. His engagement to Sansa Stark must be annulled first. It could be done in a week or two. It's a matter of Stark honor—a proper and fitting reason."
"An engagement feast? Too costly. We still owe the Iron Bank."
"Let Lord Mace pay," Tyrion said. "He's vain and thick as a brick. He'd love nothing more than to have all Westeros talking about his daughter's betrothal to the king. A bit of flattery, and he'll happily foot the bill."
Tywin nodded. "You've always had a sharp mind. The Young Wolf may win battles as you have, but he's still a boy of sixteen—breaking vows, disgracing his bannermen, spitting on a sacred betrothal. He takes a maiden's virginity and thinks himself above the gods."
"I'm glad you haven't lost your head like he did," Tywin continued. "I hear you've spoken with the Queen of Thorns."
That was to seek her favor for you, Father, Tyrion thought.
"It was nothing of importance," he said aloud. "You think I'd gossip with an old woman about Margaery Tyrell's trivial affairs?"
Tywin gave a satisfied nod. "Then go and settle matters with Cersei, Sansa Stark, and Arianne Martell."
"Thank you, Father, for throwing me into a nest of women—just like old times." Tyrion rose from his chair.
"There are enough men at Casterly Rock for you to deal with," Tywin said coldly. "See to what's before you. Don't overreach."
Tyrion nodded and left the Great Hall. He felt like a donkey chasing a carrot tied before its nose.
But why, he wondered, had he called Willas a bastard in his mind? The thought had come unbidden.
Was it jealousy?
...
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