Chapter 157
"Why… is it worth it?" the dwarf asked, his voice hoarse.
Tywin Lannister merely gave a faint snort, his expression unchanged.
"When you've lost everything… you have no choice."
"Some victories are won with swords and spears," he continued calmly.
"And others… with parchment and ravens."
"And… compromise—born of weighing gains and losses."
Tyrion fell silent.
After a few seconds, staring at the half-lit face beyond the candlelight, he spoke again, voice low and strained:
"I suppose… I'm not the only one."
With his intelligence, how could he not understand?
If Tywin was making a move like this, the Vale alone would never be enough.
Even if Lysa Arryn agreed—
There was no telling what the lords of the Vale would do.
Stand aside?
Join the war?
Or agree today… and betray tomorrow?
And Lysa was no Jon Arryn. She lacked both authority and respect, even if her son was the last heir.
One alliance was never sufficient.
And Tywin—
Was not a man who acted without certainty.
As expected, Tywin gave a slight nod.
"Kevan has already departed for Highgarden."
"He will meet Mace Tyrell… and his mother, the 'Queen of Thorns,' Olenna Tyrell."
At that name, Tyrion's eyes flickered.
Olenna Redwyne—Olenna Tyrell.
Widow of the late Lord of Highgarden, mother of Mace Tyrell.
Born of House Redwyne of the Arbor, and known across the Seven Kingdoms for her razor-sharp tongue—
the "Queen of Thorns."
Unlike her son—privately mocked by his own bannermen as "Lord Puff Fish"—
everyone knew who truly ruled House Tyrell.
A frail old woman nearing sixty…
Yet sharper, wiser, and far more dangerous than any lord in Westeros.
Mace Tyrell, for all his titles, lacked true political acumen.
His only notable achievement—the siege of Storm's End—
had been undone in a single night.
A smuggler had slipped past the Redwyne fleet under cover of darkness, bringing onions and salted fish into the starving castle—
just enough to hold out until Eddard Stark arrived to lift the siege.
After the fall of House Targaryen, the Tyrells had no choice but to lower their banners and surrender.
Even later, at Ashford, when Mace sought to prove his strategic brilliance—
The battle had already been won by Randyll Tarly before he even arrived.
But Olenna?
Cunning. Sharp-witted. Ruthless. Amusingly cruel.
If Tywin wanted her support—
The price would not be small.
Tyrion's mismatched eyes—one green, one black—glinted in the candlelight.
"So then…"
"What gift will you offer them?
Tyrion Lannister was no fool—nor was he as short-sighted as Cersei Lannister.
That realization eased Tywin Lannister slightly.
Yet the moment his gaze fell upon Tyrion's face, and he recalled how this war had been lost in barely two days under Randyll Tarly's assault—without even mounting a proper defense—
His anger surged again.
They had lost the war.
Lost everything.
And what he was doing now… was paying for their failure.
Paying the price for Tyrion and Cersei.
Tywin's expression grew colder.
"Thanks to your squire, the daughter of Mace Tyrell—the so-called 'Rose of Highgarden,' Margaery Tyrell—will become Joffrey's new queen."
"Cersei will wed her brother, Willas Tyrell, heir to Highgarden, and bear children of the purest blood for their house."
"And two seats on the Small Council will be granted to them."
The price… was enormous.
Even Tyrion couldn't help but click his tongue inwardly.
As for the "squire" Tywin mentioned—he chose to pretend he hadn't heard it.
After all, Podrick Payne had done more than enough for House Lannister.
Whatever he chose afterward… Tyrion found no reason, at least privately, to condemn him.
---
He let it pass, and a bitter smile curled at his lips.
"So long as they release Cersei and Joffrey… and acknowledge Joffrey as king, is that it?"
The smile looked worse than a grimace.
With his mismatched eyes—one black, one green—his oversized head, pale hair almost white in the candlelight, and that uneven beard of gold and brown—
The flickering glow cast him like something ghostly.
And yet, suddenly, Tyrion laughed—bright and clear.
"Of course… the terms you offer are simply impossible for them to refuse."
He lifted his head, meeting his father's gaze.
On the surface, House Tyrell was one of the great houses of the Seven Kingdoms—lords of the Reach, masters of Highgarden.
Wealthy beyond measure, second only to the Lannisters.
And thanks to the fertile lands and vast population of the Reach, they could raise armies even larger than the Westerlands.
Their naval strength, bolstered by houses like House Redwyne and the Shield Islands, rivaled even the royal fleet.
And yet…
Despite their power, the Tyrells had always lacked something.
They had never been kings.
Their lineage, though loosely tied through marriage to the legendary Garth Greenhand, was not direct.
Once, they had merely been stewards—servants—to House Gardener.
Only after Aegon's Conquest, when Aegon I Targaryen granted them Highgarden, did they rise to power.
To many ancient houses—especially within the Reach—
The Tyrells were… upstarts.
Resented. Mocked.
Houses like House Florent even claimed superior blood rights and openly questioned Tyrell authority.
Which made Tywin's offer… perfect.
Because what he offered them was exactly what they had always lacked:
Blood. Power. Legitimacy. Prestige.
Margaery as queen—glory.
Royal heirs—legacy.
Cersei marrying Willas—bloodline elevation.
Seats on the Small Council—real political power.
For a house long kept at the edges of true authority…
This was their chance to step onto the center stage of history.
Even Tyrion could feel it—
If he were a Tyrell, he wouldn't refuse.
And if they accepted…
King's Landing would no longer be a weakness—
But a strength.
Yet Tywin did not care for Tyrion's understanding.
He leaned forward again, looming across the desk, the single candle between them casting long shadows.
Under that gaze, Tyrion felt the pressure return.
The brief ease he had felt vanished instantly.
Tywin spoke again.
But this time—not of the Tyrells.
Of Dorne.
"I hear you betrothed Myrcella to the youngest son of Doran Martell—"
"Trystane Martell."
If Tywin hadn't mentioned it, Tyrion might have forgotten.
Under that oppressive stare, he nodded.
"Varys confirmed it. Prince Doran has agreed to the match."
Silence returned.
Outside, faint rain began to fall.
After a long pause, Tywin leaned back into his chair.
"Not bad."
That's not praise… Tyrion thought bitterly.
Using a child as a political pawn—half threat, half bargaining chip—
There was nothing honorable about it.
And yet…
If given the choice again, he would still do the same.
Unwilling to linger on the subject, Tyrion forced a change.
"Highgarden won't refuse your terms. And Joffrey as king… benefits them more, doesn't it?"
His smile was strained.
Tywin's gaze grew colder—but he allowed the shift.
"No one wants Stannis Baratheon on that throne."
"Not even as a possibility."
"So they have no choice."
Tywin's voice dropped, cold as iron:
"The moment the Tyrells kneel to Stannis…"
"He will show them exactly what his 'justice' truly means."