Two pale green eyes flickered like ghostly flames, swaying over Tyrion's vision.
How had he made it home last night? Was it Arianne or Sansa who had helped him back? Someone must have carried him upstairs—most likely Brienne.
Pity the Myrish carpet in the Hand's solar; he'd vomited all over it. Whoever had to clean that up, gods help them.
And who said the wine from the Arbor tasted like watered-down paint? To him, it felt more like a sleeping draught brewed from sweet-sleep flowers.
At last, Tyrion managed to focus on those pale green eyes. They weren't ghostly fires at all. They were his father's eyes—and they burned with rage.
Tywin Lannister. Alongside him sat his brother and sister, Joffrey, Mace Tyrell, Oberyn Martell, Kevan Lannister, and Pycelle. Too many faces, too much judgment. It made his stomach turn.
"You cut off Ser Meryn Trant's hand," Tywin said. His tone was calm, but it carried an edge of quiet menace. "He is a Kingsguard."
I saved my brother's hand; I had to give one back… to the god of a thousand hands.
"He committed a crime. As Master of Laws, I have the authority to punish him," Tyrion said, clearing his throat.
"Hmph. You see, Father? He's always been this arrogant and insolent." Cersei was actually present at today's Small Council.
"Only because you raised your precious son so well," Tyrion shot back.
"Regardless, the punishment of hand-cutting is too severe and cruel," said Mace Tyrell.
"By the laws set by House Targaryen, anyone who lays hands upon the royal blood shall lose his own," Oberyn Martell remarked coolly.
"The Stark girl wasn't royal," Cersei sneered. Her expression was venomous—matching the Red Viper's in malice.
"She was Joffrey's betrothed at the time," Tyrion said, his hangover slowly lifting. "Ser Meryn struck a royal. I was merciful not to take his head."
"In some places, killing or beating women and children is no crime at all," Oberyn said with a dry laugh.
"Regardless, members of the Kingsguard deserve proper respect," Jaime said quietly.
"Oh, should I reward Ser Meryn with a fief and a tower? That useless brute deserves nothing," Tyrion spat.
"Enough," Tywin said, his patience worn thin. "Tyrion, you are hereby relieved of your position as Master of Laws."
"Thank the gods," Tyrion muttered. "At least I did one good deed while in office."
The Red Viper burst into laughter.
"This meeting is over," Tywin declared. The lords rose and filed out in silence. "Kevan, Jaime, Tyrion, Cersei, Pycelle—stay."
A family meeting, then, Tyrion thought grimly.
Tywin handed him a neatly flattened piece of parchment—clearly passed through many hands.
"Roslin has caught herself a fine fat trout," the letter read, "and her brothers have presented two wolf pelts as gifts for the wedding."
Tyrion turned the parchment over, noting the seal in gray wax—the twin towers of House Frey. "What sort of riddle is Lord Frey playing at? What does it mean?"
He gave a dry laugh. The wedding must already be over. "The trout must be Edmure Tully. The wolf pelts..."
"He's dead!" Joffrey exclaimed gleefully, puffed up with pride, as if he'd personally flayed Robb Stark himself. Twisted little bastard—just like Bolton's bastard son.
"And what was the cost, Father?" Tyrion asked, setting the letter aside. How much Lannister honor had been spent to buy this victory?
"There is no victory without war, Tyrion," Cersei said sweetly, venom dripping from every word. "This is all Father's triumph."
"Some victories are won with swords and spears," Lord Tywin said, his voice measured. "Others—with quills and ravens. But do not celebrate yet. The enemy is not gone, and the game is not done."
"The lords of the Riverlands aren't fools," the Queen Mother argued. "Without the North's support, standing alone against the alliance of Highgarden, Casterly Rock, and Dorne is suicide. They'll yield soon enough."
"Tyrion's betrothal is not yet sealed, so the Dornish alliance isn't formal," Tywin said. "But most will fall in line. Riverrun won't—but as long as Walder Frey keeps Edmure Tully tightly bound, the Blackfish poses no threat. Jason Mallister and Tytos Blackwood will fight for honor, but House Frey has enough men to pin Mallister at Seagard. With the right persuasion, Jonos Bracken will turn against Blackwood. In time, they'll all bend the knee. I intend to offer generous terms—any lord who surrenders and swears fealty to the Crown shall keep his lands and titles."
"They all deserve punishment!" Joffrey declared. "The Mallisters, the Blackwoods, the Brackens—all traitors! I'll kill them all, Grandfather. No generous terms."
The boy turned to Grand Maester Pycelle. "And I want Robb Stark's head. Write to Lord Walder at once—by the king's command! I'll give it to Sansa myself on our wedding day!"
"Behold our beloved king," Tyrion said dryly. "Meryn Trant's finest pupil."
"Send him back to Casterly Rock, Father," Cersei snapped. "I don't want to see his face again."
The chill in Tywin's politeness could have frozen the room. "Ser Kevan, the king grows weary. Escort him to his chambers. Pycelle, perhaps a draught to ease His Grace's sleep?"
"Would a sleep potion suffice, my lord?"
"I don't want a sleep potion!" Joffrey barked.
Tywin ignored him entirely, as though he were a squeaking rat in the corner. "A sleep potion, then. Tyrion, you stay."
Ser Kevan gripped Joffrey's arm firmly and led the king out of the study. Jaime followed close behind, two Kingsguard waiting outside to take over their duty. Grand Maester Pycelle hobbled along on trembling legs, struggling to keep up. Cersei was the last to leave, throwing Tyrion a murderous glare as she passed.
"My congratulations. How long have you and Walder Frey been conspiring?"
"Conspiring? I dislike that word," said Great Lord Tywin stiffly.
"I can picture it clearly—a cheerful wedding, everyone breaking bread and sharing salt, then cut down by crossbows beneath their host's own roof. A victory for the moment, yet condemned by all? I don't care that they're dead. I was never close to Robb, and that foolish woman made my teeth grind. But to spend the Lannisters' honor and credit so recklessly..."
"Indeed. He was shot at Edmure Tully's wedding feast. The boy was cautious, his army well-organized, his attendants and guards always close," Tywin said, sounding mildly surprised. "You're clever, Tyrion. But guest-rights don't win wars. Those who break them are cursed by the gods? Mere old tales."
"By the gods, old tales? We are the greatest nobles in the Seven Kingdoms. We're the ones most in need of guest-rights' protection," Tyrion said firmly. "Lord Walder murdered guests under his own roof, at his own table. The Freys must answer for it."
"Enough. They are our allies now," his father replied. "I intend to wed the elder Stark girl to Lancel."
Sansa.
"The younger one will be sent to the Dreadfort."
"And you think Sansa and Arya will meekly comply?" Tyrion sneered. "After I tell them we murdered their mother and brother?"
"They still live in the Tower of the Hand," Tywin said, closing the narrow window, frowning. "See to your own matters. Don't chase foolish ideas of justice—like Ser Meryn's hand. The Dornish are not as simple as you imagine."