The raven from Karhold took Tyrion by surprise, for it was from none other than the lord Nestor Royce.

"The Lord Royce? Truly?" Sansa was very much surprised when he told her. "What is he doing in the north?"

"He has come to marry his widowed daughter to the young Ser Rickard, heir to Karhold," said Tyrion. "You know Myranda Royce, I believe?"

"I do. She is a pretty enough girl, fond of gossip, clever in her own way but not a companion I ever felt entirely comfortable around. I can only hope her new husband is to her satisfaction. Otherwise she will never reconcile to being moved to the north from the warm Vale."

"It is not so warm now even there," Tyrion pointed out.

"I know, but still – Karhold is even farther to the north than Winterfell, and company will be even sparser there. For a girl like Myranda Royce, this is cruel punishment."

However, Myranda Royce didn't look like someone suffering under a cruel punishment when Sansa next saw her. In the merriment of the wedding feast, she was the jolliest of all. Her new husband, Ser Rickard, was a good-looking young man, grey-eyed, tall, broad-shouldered and quiet. His countenance was pleasant, and it was clear he was shy rather than sullen.

When Sansa approached the bride to offer her congratulations, Myranda Royce hugged her with all the ardor of girlish giddiness.

"I wish you long years of joy, my lady," said Sansa courteously.

"Randa," the other woman replied, laughing, "or have you forgotten what is due to old friends?"

"Randa, then," Sansa smiled, even though she never grew quite comfortable with this familiarity. "Your new husband seems to be a pleasing and gallant young man."

"Oh, aye, that he does. Still, I wouldn't be shipped off so far if it weren't for the reputation I gained at the Vale. Some way or other, my little indulgences with that Marillion and some other pretty boys got out, and evil tongues took care to blow it all out of proportion and made me look like a dreadful slut. So my poor father had to go as far as Karhold to seek a husband for me. I don't mind, though. Ser Rickard looks like a proper man, or so at least the bedding should prove soon. I hope this time I really will feel like a woman wed, not some greybeard's nursemaid."

When Tyrion and Sansa found themselves face to face with Lord Nestor, he assumed an expression of incredulous delight which was very much like his daughter's and completely at odds with his behavior towards Tyrion while he was a captive of Lady Lysa at the Vale.

"My lord and lady of Lannister," he said, "it is my greatest delight to see you here, at my daughter's wedding."

"The pleasure is all ours, my lord," said Sansa, while Tyrion merely inclined his head.

"And to be sure, I must congratulate you on your son's marriage, my lord," Nestor Royce turned to Tyrion with a sweet smile, "a most splendid conquest, stunning news indeed, something for singers to make verses about for years to come. I have always thought this boy would go far, bright and clever as he was, only I didn't imagine how far, and how soon…"

Lickspittle, Tyrion thought savagely, but then he remembered Lord Nestor could be a source of important information.

"I understand you had the charge of my son for many years, my lord," he said.

"Oh, yes. Obscure as his parentage was, I had my guesses – well, the look of him! I knew one day his ancestry would be revealed, and that he would live like a noble man, albeit a bastard. So I made sure the boy would know his letters, and also took care that he would be taught to ride, joust and perform a squire's duties. Of course, I never dreamt he would be acknowledged as a trueborn son of a Lannister. His mother, Tysha, was a good woman, a faithful servant, and a good-looking girl, yet she was simple, humble, and of common birth. I well remember how she first turned up, weak and pale and with a newborn babe at her breast…"

"Are you not mistaken, my lord?" Sansa said mildly. "Daven was a year old when his mother brought him to the Vale."

"Mistaken?" Lord Nestor looked to be taken aback. "No, not I, my lady. I remember it well."

Tyrion and Sansa exchanged a quick glance. "Had Tysha ever told you where she came from, before she reached your household?" asked Tyrion.

"To be sure," Lord Nestor gave him the name of a minor river lord. Tyrion's face darkened, yet he kept his expression blank and managed to sound pleasant as asked Royce a few more questions, then bade him good night, and drew Sansa off to one of the emptying tables. His wife looked puzzled.

"What does this mean, Tyrion?"

"I'll tell you what this means. It means Daven is younger than he told me," said Tyrion, "and therefore, cannot be my son. He is a fraud, and I could have seen through him easily if only I weren't too smothered by guilt to ask the right questions from the start," he finished through gritted teeth.

"Perhaps there is some mistake," Sansa spoke so quietly she could hardly be heard, as the bedding has begun by then, and the bride's squeals of mirth nearly drowned out the men's drunken laughter and randy japes. "Perhaps you should seek out that river lord Nestor Royce mentioned. I'm pretty sure I heard his name before, he's sworn to Riverrun…"

"There will be hardly any need of that," Tyrion said bitterly. "I believe I can figure out what happened here. It was a place my father used once as a six-month camp for him and his host, trespassing upon the hospitality of that poor lordling, shortly after the dissolution of my first marriage. Once I'd believe he would have balked to take his guardsmen's leavings, but after finding Shae in his bed my eyes have been opened to a lot of things about Lord Tywin. Daven isn't my son, Sansa," he added after a brooding pause, "he is my brother."