King's Landing, the Red Keep.
Tyrion yawned as he pushed open the heavy oak doors of the Small Council chamber.
The previous night, he had spent nearly the entire evening auditing expenses, trying to squeeze a few extra gold dragons out of Joffrey's outrageously extravagant wedding plans.
Only near dawn had he finally collapsed into sleep, aided by wine and other pleasures.
Yet early that morning, the Lord Steward had awakened him and informed him that a council meeting had been called.
Standing in the doorway, Tyrion narrowed his sleepy eyes and surveyed the room.
At the head of the table sat Tywin, his face cold and expressionless upon the king's chair.
To his left sat Cersei.
She wore an elegant crimson silk gown and held a goblet of wine in one hand. Her eyes drifted across everyone in the room with a nervous vigilance that bordered on paranoia.
Further down sat Petyr Baelish, whose face never seemed to lose its smile, and Lord Varys, the Master of Whisperers whose true intentions remained forever hidden.
Across from Cersei sat a handsome and graceful young knight—Garlan Tyrell.
He represented the power of Highgarden and was the most important ally present at the meeting.
Beside Garlan sat Kevan Lannister.
Upon noticing Tyrion's arrival, Kevan gave him a slight nod.
As expected, Tyrion's seat had been thoughtfully arranged at the far end of the table.
The position furthest from Tywin Lannister.
The least important position.
"Oh, how considerate."
Tyrion dragged out the words with his usual blend of mockery and self-deprecation.
"You even saved me a chair."
Under everyone's gaze, he ignored the assigned seat.
Instead, he walked to the opposite end of the table and, with a loud scraping noise, dragged the chair all the way across the room.
Then he positioned it directly opposite Tywin.
Climbing onto the seat like a king ascending a throne, Tyrion settled down and stared across the table at his beloved father.
Cersei's lip twitched.
Disgust flashed briefly through her eyes.
Tywin, meanwhile, did not even look up. As though his dwarf son were nothing more than a puff of smoke.
"Now that everyone is here," Tywin said flatly, "let us begin."
His gaze shifted toward Varys.
"My lord."
Varys' soft voice filled the room.
"We have received unfortunate news from Storm's End.
Our former king's bastard son, Edric Storm, suffered a tragic accident. He fell from the castle walls.
The poor child's body was shattered beyond recognition."
A trace of delight appeared on Cersei's face.
"A bastard should have died long ago."
She immediately asked, "And what of Gendry? Have you found him?"
Varys shook his head helplessly.
"My apologies, Your Grace.
My little birds have searched nearly every corner of the Crownlands. We have found no trace of the blacksmith or the Stark girl.
Either they have already left the Crownlands... or they are dead."
The smile on Cersei's face vanished.
She muttered a curse under her breath.
Tywin remained completely unmoved. To him, bastards were little more than flies.
Turning toward Garlan, he asked:
"Ser Garlan, when will Lady Olenna and Lady Margaery arrive?"
"My lord," Garlan replied respectfully, "my grandmother and sister will reach King's Landing in five days."
"The grain and supplies from Highgarden will arrive alongside them."
"Excellent."
Tywin gave a slight nod.
Then he looked toward Tyrion. "Tyrion. How are preparations for the king's wedding proceeding?"
"Oh, Father."
Tyrion sighed dramatically.
"If you mean the feast destined to make the royal treasury weep, then everything is progressing splendidly.
We have hired the finest singers in Westeros.
An army of fools and entertainers. And even a special tournament for His Grace's amusement.
I assure you—it will be unforgettable."
His words dripped with sarcasm.
Tywin ignored it.
Results were all that mattered.
"Good."
"Now, let us discuss the Riverlands."
His fingers tapped lightly against the table. "Varys. Tell them what our northern guest has reported."
Varys withdrew a letter from his sleeve and passed it around the table.
"This came from a messenger sent by Lord Roose Bolton.
Stannis Baratheon has landed at Saltpans with the remnants of his army. He has requested a meeting with Robb Stark, at the crossing of the Trident.
Tyrion leaned back in his chair and laughed.
"A toothless old stag and a wounded young wolf. What a charming performance.
Has Robb Stark gone personally?"
A slight frown appeared on Tywin's face. "Then who remains at Riverrun?"
"According to my little birds," Varys answered, "Brynden Tully, the Blackfish."
"And... Galon Glover."
As he spoke the final name, Varys allowed his eyes to drift subtly toward Tyrion.
He wanted to see the reaction.
Sure enough—The moment Galon Glover's name was spoken, Tyrion straightened in his chair.
The smile vanished from his face.
Almost instinctively, he glanced toward Cersei.
Her complexion had turned noticeably paler. The hand holding her wine goblet trembled ever so slightly.
Tywin missed neither reaction.
'This man...' His eyes moved between Tyrion and Cersei. 'Is there something unusual about him?'
Tyrion cleared his throat and leaned forward.
"Oh, Father. You've spent so many years in the Westerlands that you may not be familiar with the North's rising stars.
This Lord Galon Glover can practically be called an old friend of House Lannister."
He paused deliberately.
Enjoying the scrutiny in Tywin's eyes.
"When King Robert traveled north, our beloved King Joffrey became obsessed with Sansa Stark and insisted upon a trial by combat against a northern boy.
Well, Lord Glover killed the Kingsguard knight fighting on Joffrey's behalf in front of everyone. Quite effortlessly, too.
The sight was truly inspiring."
Cersei's expression darkened even further.
"And that wasn't all." Tyrion continued. "Later, my dear brother Jaime had a small misunderstanding with him."
"If Jaime hadn't thrown down his sword quickly enough, the crown might have lost another loyal Kingsguard."
He looked at Tywin, intending to further emphasize Galon's danger.
Before he could continue, however—
Bang!
The chamber doors burst open.
Joffrey stormed into the room.
"Why wasn't I informed about this council meeting?"
"I am the king!"
Charging behind Cersei's chair, he glared at everyone present. "You are all ignoring the authority of your king!"
"Joffrey." Cersei rose hurriedly, noticing Tywin's expression. "My sweet boy, you are still young—"
"Mother, mind your words!" Joffrey interrupted furiously. "You are speaking to your king!"
Gesturing wildly, he practically vibrated with indignation.
Tywin finally lifted his eyes.
His gaze was cold.
"We are discussing war. This is not a place for children's games. Return to your chambers."
"No!" Joffrey's face turned crimson. "I am staying here! I am the king!"
"I command you to send the army at once and kill that wolf and my traitorous uncle!"
Tywin remained unmoved.
His voice carried a chilling edge. "Any man who must constantly say 'I am the king' is no true king."
"I will say this once more..."
"Leave."
Joffrey froze.
Looking into Tywin's utterly emotionless eyes, he experienced something unfamiliar.
Fear. Real fear.
It overwhelmed his anger. His arrogance. His pride.
He opened his mouth, but no words emerged. Finally, he stamped his foot and stormed from the room like a whirlwind.
Bang!
The doors slammed shut behind him.
Tywin acted as though nothing had happened.
"Continue."
"Father," Tyrion said with a dismissive shrug, "Galon possesses not only tremendous martial skill, but considerable military talent as well."
"He destroyed every Ironborn force invading the North. Even Victarion Greyjoy, commander of the Iron Fleet, died by his hand."
And since the man originally responsible for defending the North now stands in the Riverlands, it can only mean one thing.
The Iron Islands have already admitted defeat."
As Tyrion spoke, Tywin's eyes darkened slightly.
The name Galon Glover left a mark in his mind.
Not a deep one.
But enough to remember.
Outwardly, however, he remained indifferent.
"Even Bolton has recognized the reality of the situation. One Glover cannot alter the larger picture."
Yet despite his words, Tywin immediately turned to Kevan.
"Kevan.
You will take five thousand Westerlands troops and several mercenary companies.
Occupy Harrenhal immediately.
It is the throat of the Riverlands. It cannot be allowed to fall into enemy hands.
As for Roose Bolton—if his loyalty proves genuine, cooperate with his plans."
A cruel smile touched Tywin's lips.
"Tell the messenger to inform his master. I care nothing for the process. Only the result.
If he delivers Robb Stark's head. And ensures my son returns alive to Casterly Rock.
I will recommend that the king name him the new Warden of the North."
Kevan nodded.
"I'll depart this afternoon."
"Lord Hand." At last, Petyr Baelish spoke. "If the northern situation has become so complicated, perhaps we should secure support elsewhere."
"For example... the Vale."
Everyone looked toward him.
"Lady Lysa Arryn has always harbored... deep feelings for certain individuals."
His gaze shifted meaningfully toward Cersei.
She immediately understood.
Baelish was collecting on the promise she had once made him during their conspiracy against Ned Stark.
"If you permit it," he continued smoothly, "I would gladly travel to the Eyrie and persuade Lady Arryn to bring the knights of the Vale into allegiance with the Iron Throne."
Cersei honored her side of the bargain.
"I support Lord Baelish's proposal."
"The Vale commands tens of thousands of elite knights. If they join us, our victory will become unquestionable."
Tywin's eyes narrowed slightly.
He recognized the arrangement between Cersei and Baelish. But he saw no reason to object.
"Very well."
"Lord Baelish, go. If you can secure the Vale's allegiance, the king will not be stingy with his rewards."
"My honor, Lord Hand."
Baelish rose elegantly from his seat. The smile in his eyes deepened.
Tywin stood.
"The meeting is concluded. Attend to your duties."
"Before Lady Margaery arrives, I expect every matter in King's Landing to be in order."
Without another word, he departed the chamber. The others exchanged glances before dispersing to their own responsibilities.
"Galon..."
Tyrion quietly repeated the name.
A faint sense of unease lingered in his heart.
Meanwhile, far from King's Landing, Robb Stark and his army had arrived at the crossing of the Trident.
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