Breakfast.
Breakfast could be a pleasant thing—provided the company at the table was right.
Tywin Lannister sat with his two sons, sharing a meal. The sight alone could make even a White Walker at the door shiver.
"Have you spoken with Cersei?" Tywin asked, spreading butter across his bread.
"Not yet," Tyrion replied, knowing exactly which matter his father referred to—his sister's marriage. "I haven't found the right—"
Tywin cut him off. "Mace Tyrell has refused to let his heir, Willas, wed Cersei."
Jaime's hand froze midway through cutting his meat.
"He refused our lovely Cersei?" Tyrion didn't dare glance at his brother, keeping his eyes fixed on his father's butter knife instead.
"When I first proposed it, Lord Tyrell seemed agreeable," Tywin said. "But by the next day, everything had changed. The doing of that old crone. She used every trick she knew to scare her son out of it. According to Varys, she told the Great Lord that your sister was old and wanton—unworthy of her precious, one-legged grandson."
"Cersei might've liked him," Tyrion said with a hollow smile.
Tywin shot him a glare sharp enough to cut. "She knew nothing of this proposal, and I do not intend for her to. From this moment on, for our house, this matter never happened. Remember that—never happened."
Is that so? Tyrion doubted his father would let the Tyrells go unpaid for this insult someday.
"How goes Joffrey's betrothal feast?" Jaime asked, seemingly trying to change the subject.
"How many days until then? Two?" Tyrion added. "Lord Mace seems delighted to pay for it himself."
"Indeed," Tywin said. "Lord Mace has sworn to make it grand—forty-nine courses for the feast."
"Forty-nine?" Tyrion frowned. "What's the meaning of that?"
"Seven is a sacred number," Tywin said, setting down his knife and fork. "So Lord Mace insists on forty-nine courses."
Forty-nine? Seven times seven.
"Lord Mace is quite the mathematician," Tyrion said dryly. "If forty-nine courses for the engagement, then seventy-seven for the wedding, I suppose?"
"Correct."
"What?" Tyrion blinked. "Seventy-seven courses? Are you serious? Are you and Lord Mace children, competing over dinner menus?"
"The majesty of the royal house must not be questioned," Tywin said coolly. "And extravagance has its uses. It is the perfect chance to show the realm the wealth and strength of Casterly Rock."
"Then the costs should be charged to Casterly Rock," Tyrion said. Don't you shit gold, Father? Find somewhere to relieve yourself, then.
"No," Tywin replied. "The royal treasury will cover it. I intend to appoint you as Master of Coin."
"Well, thank you, dearest Father." Tyrion leaned back in his chair. "A Lannister, young and promising, holding two offices. When have you ever thought so highly of me?"
"Giving you responsibility may earn you greater regard from House Martell," Tywin said. "Considering your past—and Prince Doran's refusal of your betrothal to Arianne."
"How thoughtful of you," Tyrion said. "Perhaps you might stop handing me these hot potatoes in the future. That horse-faced Stark girl gave me quite the tongue-lashing over Sansa's affair."
"Being scolded by a little girl wounds your pride?" Tywin didn't look at him. "You could have given her two slaps..."
"Beating defenseless girls is Meryn Trant's style," Tyrion said. "And our dear Joffrey—" he avoided glancing at Jaime, "someone needs to discipline him."
"Cersei spoiled him," Tywin said. "That's why I intend to find her a husband. Oberyn Martell seems suitable, though I'll need to persuade Lord Tyrell this won't harm Highgarden's interests."
Damn. Tyrion cursed inwardly. He'd just managed to steer the conversation away.
"Oberyn Martell? That man's a notorious scoundrel. Poisoning his sword is the least of his sins. Do you know he's fathered more bastards than Robert—and that he sleeps with boys?" Jaime finally spoke.
"If you have a better candidate, by all means, recommend him," Tywin replied evenly. "Otherwise, you'll follow my decision."
Ha. Prince Oberyn and Jaime? That would turn King's Landing into a river of blood, Tyrion thought.
If it were someone else, my brother and sister would just as gladly pile horns on his head.
And with Littlefinger now helpless, if Margaery and I were to rekindle things...
My brother with the Queen Mother, me with the Queen. What a merry pair of Lannister brothers.
Tyrion shook his head hard, trying to drive the wicked thought away.
With a clatter, Jaime set down his knife and fork and stood. "Enough. I have duties to attend to." He left the room without another word.
Tyrion started to rise as well.
"Stay," Tywin ordered. He rose, took up the wine bottle, and filled Tyrion's cup. "Have you found a way to raise money?"
"Not a clue."
"What's going on? I've seen Littlefinger's ledgers. Under his management, revenues increased tenfold compared to Aerys's reign."
Littlefinger—rotting away now in the dungeons. Perhaps, before he died, Tyrion could dig every last secret out of those ledgers.
"You don't see how much spending has grown. Robert squandered coin as freely as he scattered his 'seed.' And most of Littlefinger's funds were borrowed—you know that better than anyone. He borrowed the most from you. Yes, he had a gift for making money, but every gain was swallowed up by interest on those loans. Would you forgive the crown's debt to House Lannister?"
"Of course not."
"Then, in my view, seven courses at the wedding feast will suffice, and the guest list should be cut to three hundred. We could still hold a fine celebration without dancing bears or so many musicians."
"House Tyrell will think us misers," Tywin said, pouring himself a glass of lemon water. "I hear the Martell girl is fond of you."
"Arianne?" Tyrion asked. "I don't know where you heard that—but it's true."
"When it comes to charming women, you've never disappointed me," Tywin said. "But remember this—the Martells are not the Tyrells."
"What do you mean?" Tyrion took a long swallow of wine.
"What is Oberyn Martell called? The Red Viper. And what do vipers do best? They lie." Tywin's gaze fixed on his son. "Until everything is settled, don't trust them."