TYRION
The sky was that of a moonlit morning, studded with stars, and the ocean wind was clear and cold. Not even the first tendrils of sunlight had crept over the horizon. Tyrion was thankful that he had chosen to dress warmly. On his face, uncovered by furs, the chill was biting. If there was aught that could be said of it, at least it took away the smell. King's Landing's waterfront facing the sea, beyond the Iron Gate, was full of the stink of dead and rotting fish. In better times, with the fish being cooked, the scent was pleasant, but not now that the city was starving. The nearby waters of the river and Blackwater Bay had been scoured by hungry fishermen devoid of their usual prudence, and now men had little choice but to subsist on the scraps.
Maiden Dancer, the impounded merchant ship that would carry him to Dragonstone, was anchored in a good berth at the quay with the two galleys of King Joffrey's fleet escorting her, while the small party of fewer than two-hundred men awaited at the waterfront. She was a squat, fat-bellied ship with a prettily painted hull and, when set, big billowing sails, designed for carrying barrels of spice and wine from Dorne, ill-adapted for swiftness or for ramming or for battle. It made Tyrion uneasy to detach any substantial part of their already inadequate fleet, especially as another part would be leaving for Braavos and then Dorne with Princess Myrcella, but he had little choice in the matter. Both those alliances were too important to give any but the best of security.
A dozen more grim-faced men-at-arms, wrapped up warm beneath their Lannister red cloaks, moved in good order onto the quay and thence across planks to the ships. They climbed aboard and stood at guard, lion halfhelms gleaming in the starlight, ere Tyrion himself followed behind them with forty knights and their squires. Without a tail of such, Tyrion knew, he would seem of small account, and ordinarily so many knights would have a greater retinue. But the dominion of islands and bay coasts once ruled by Stannis, Lord of Dragonstone, had lost most of its men-at-arms in the Clash of the Stags, and the last thing the Lannister delegation wanted to do was to appear threatening.
The Narrow Sea was rough this morrow. With the harsh wind almost like a physical blow, the short walk to the Maiden Dancer was nonetheless cold, rocky and unpleasant. Tyrion was relieved once he was safely on-board. It did not last long. The ships drew up their anchors and set sail to depart. They were not small boats, but as they went further from the shore the waves grew taller and struck hard. The rocking was incessant, relentless. Another man might have composed a song about the nature of the ocean. Tyrion just hated it. He staggered to the side and was, repeatedly, violently ill. He did not always make it to the side. Though they had to pretend to be polite, the crew of the Maiden Dancer seemed not to realise that his hearing was unaffected; they frequently cursed him under their breath, oft as "landlubber fool of a lordling", as they washed his vomit from the deck.
They sailed all day. On occasion they passed protruding rocks, but never a true island. Tyrion got little sleep that night or the night after it, though he managed perhaps four or five hours during the night after the night after it. He was unaccustomed to the ocean's swell and did not care to become so. It was the day after that when they caught sight of land: the isle of Driftmark. Galleys from Driftmark espied them many miles out from there, but must have seen their white sails and white flags, for though they sailed out athwart them, they did not attack. After the galleys sent out a dinghy to ascertain who they were, they were permitted to set sail, under heavy escort, to Dragonstone.
Most of his knights and soldiers were as unused to the sea as Tyrion, so they were a much more miserable delegation when they disembarked and stepped ashore. The harbour of the isle of Dragonstone was far greater than that of King's Landing, and it was crowded with ships to match. Varys's whisperers had heard tell of strange foreigners in Stannis's service, Lyseni and Myrishmen. If there had ever been such, none were present now. The ships of the royal fleet in which King Robert had invested so much of a fortune were so manifold they seemed numberless, countless great dark forms with deep draughts and high sails stretching so far that one could almost wonder whether there was truly any end to them, but it was plain to see that they were all of Westerosi making.
By some ship faster than theirs, Lady Selyse must have been forewarned, for there was a mass of soldiery present at their arrival. Men-at-arms in the livery of House Baratheon, though with yellow frequently replacing the more expensive paint of gold, stood in ranks to greet Tyrion and his retinue as they walked off their ships, and standards of the black stag on a golden field were everywhere to be seen. Thousands of curious smallfolk were watching, quite fearlessly, from behind them. The contrast between the well-fed, sometimes even round-bellied fisherfolk of Dragonstone and the starving citizens of King's Landing was more striking than Lady Selyse could have realised or intended. The guard was a paltry display compared to the silent threat of the amassed royal fleet at harbour—it was plain to see the men were green, their helms oft ill-fitted, sometimes not even holding their weapons in the manner of men accustomed to them—but Tyrion could tell the intent behind it. Selyse Baratheon knew they were here and meant them to fear her.
A red-cloaked herald blew a few notes on an exquisitely tuned gold trumpet and proclaimed: "Announcing Tyrion of the House Lannister, of Casterly Rock, Hand of the King, here to treat with the Lady Selyse Baratheon!"
A silver-haired knight rode out from among the men in Baratheon livery. "Sers, my lord of Lannister—" of course the man did not acknowledge him as Hand— "I have the honour to be Ser Laerys Galenyon, and I come as envoy of my lord father's liegelady, Selyse of the House Baratheon, Lady Dowager and Regent of Dragonstone. The Lady Selyse requests that you enter her hall and eat her bread and salt. You will be housed comfortably, and you will be received at court shortly."
Tyrion doubted very much that Selyse Baratheon meant it as a request, but it was not as if he had a choice. "Lead on, ser."
The castle of Dragonstone, named for the island—or is it the other way round?—loomed tall and dark afore them. It was wrought of a strange black stone, not oily and matte in colour as he had heard of Asshai but dry and quite smooth, with not large lumps but tiny grains that caught the light each at a hundred angles, making the fortress seem at once midnight-dark and, queerly, vanishingly, piercing-bright. Tyrion wondered at it, knowing the Valyrians in times of yore had wrought their great works as much with stone as with their sorcery. The like of Dragonstone could never be built again.
Given the strange dark-and-bright stone and the monstrous gargoyles of countless mythical creatures all over the castle, the exterior of Dragonstone had been astonishing enough. Somehow, the interior surpassed it. The outside of the castle had, at least, been built with simple curved and flat surfaces, sensibly designed to repel an assault. On the inside there had been no such concessions to practicality. Dragonstone's Valyrian builders had stopped at nothing to make it in the image of their dragons. Gates and doors were held by dragons rampant. Thresholds were dragons lying on the floor. Roofs were dragon wings, and torches were clasped by dragon-claws. Even entire towers enclosed within the walls were shaped like dragons, resulting in some rooms with strangely shaped and sloping sides. All was made of the same queer reflective black stone that Tyrion had seen before. The Valyrians, it seemed, had been more than a little fond of it.
To Tyrion's surprise, in spite of the rugged look of openness to the winds of the sea, the bedchamber to which Ser Laerys directed him was warm and more than tolerable, although he, his knights and his lowborn soldiers were dispersed throughout the castle, deprived of their weapons, and the corridors were flush with armed Baratheon guards. A blind man could see the old hag places in us no more trust than she would give a true lion, tail twitching, in hunting poise, two feet from herself. Even for food he was not reduced to always eating fish, as he had thought he might be; the meals brought to him by Lady Selyse's serving girls were quite satisfactory. But despite her envoy's promise of a swift audience, she did not receive them for nearly a week.
So it was that Tyrion was impatient indeed when Lady Selyse finally deigned to invite him to her presence. The Great Hall of Dragonstone was the most ambitiously distorted yet. The whole chamber was wrought in the shape of a reclining dragon, though it would have to be a dragon of such monstrous size as to make the largest dragon that had ever lived seem like the runt of the litter. The gates, great enough that a man could have ridden in on horseback without trouble, were themselves contained in their entirety within an even larger, fabulously detailed artifice of stone, wrought to resemble the gigantic not-a-dragon's maw, and the high ceiling rippled as if Tyrion were indeed inside a living thing and not a chamber. Hundreds or mayhaps thousands of listeners were arrayed on either side of the chamber, chattering excitedly. It was a room that could have made Ser Gregor Clegane look small. So much more so Tyrion. Knowing that it could not have been designed for him, Tyrion was nonetheless somehow resentful of it as he waddled through the clear space in the centre of the hall, approaching the high seat at the far end where the Lady Dowager of Dragonstone sat.
Selyse Baratheon had not changed a whit since the last time Tyrion had seen her, before Lord Arryn had died, when her lord husband had lived in King's Landing as Robert's master of ships. Tall as a man, thin, big-eared, big-nosed and bony, with a wispy moustache on her upper lip, Tyrion was no stranger to ugly women but Lady Selyse was truly remarkable by any standard. But he did not allow himself a moment of pity. Petty, mocking and prone to cruel comments behind the backs of the subjects of them, Lady Selyse was nonetheless not without a certain cunning, and with the power of the royal fleet she was not a woman to be taken lightly.
It did not surprise Tyrion that he was forced to come alone, as if he were a humble petitioner seeking Lady Selyse's ear. His knightly tail was here to send a message of his social stature, not to negotiate. So be it. There had been a whole host of visual tricks to make him look as though he were the weaker party, but nevertheless the Lannisters of Casterly Rock were nowadays more powerful than the Baratheons of Dragonstone. He had to remember that.
A handsome young herald standing before the high seat, purple-eyed and silver-haired like so many of the folk here with their dragonseed blood, announced, "Lady Selyse Baratheon, of House Florent, Lady Dowager of Dragonstone and Lady Regent of Dragonstone for the Lady Shireen Baratheon!"
Tyrion noticed that, with the direness of Lord Stannis's defeat outside Storm's End, Lady Selyse no longer chose to be addressed as a queen, at least when in his presence. That, he supposed, was something of a good sign, though not a great one.
Tyrion stood before the high thronelike seat where Lady Selyse sat, flanked by a dozen armed guardsmen, and at last he spoke. "My lady of Baratheon, greetings."
A sword lay, albeit still sheathed for the nonce, in Lady Selyse's lap. It was a sign, and not a promising one. "My lord of Lannister." She said no more. A murmur ran through the seats at the side. It was pleasantly warm, but somehow the air in the room was like ice.
Tyrion attempted to sound undaunted. "My lady, I have here a letter under the sign and seal of His Grace Joffrey of the House Baratheon, King of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, and his mother as Queen Regent of the Seven Kingdoms, to attest that I am here as the King's Hand and emissary to speak for them." He could not, of course, immediately speak his purpose. Protocol demanded elsewise. "I come with gifts to the goodly lords and knights and ladies of your court, as tokens of the esteem and warm regard with which His Grace the King holds you all."
The room seemed to relax somewhat. Tyrion called for servants, and they brought in the gifts that had been brought to the castle almost as soon as Tyrion and his retinue arrived, excluding those formerly intended for the Lyseni, Salladhor Saan, and his Myrish counterpart, due to their desertion.
The first gift, an exquisitely woven set of hunting tapestries, once King Robert's, to old Jon Farring, Lord of Swirlstone, went perfectly. For the second gift, Tyrion called, "Will Lord Celtigar step forth to receive his bounty from the king's grace?"
Unexpectedly, a ripple of chatter, and not an answer, came from the seats of the Great Hall. An answer came from the high seat. "He will not, my lord," said Lady Selyse Baratheon, "for he's naught but a common coward. Ardrian Celtigar left many of his men to die while he himself did not lift a sword in my lord husband's defence, pleading age. Once he saw that the battle was lost, he fled the camp and took his ships to Claw Isle, where they reside now, in defiance of his liegelady's call. He has broken the oath of fealty he swore to my lord husband and his heirs."
Tyrion was appalled at his mistake. "That is an ill tale indeed, my lady. Plainly the king's esteem was misplaced. I pray that justice will come to the traitor Celtigar swiftly, be it in this world or the next."
If not wholly, Lady Selyse seemed at least partially contented with that. "Quite so."
The other gifts were given without a comparable incident. Many men had died, as Tyrion had expected, though he had not known precisely who, but nothing else was quite comparable to Lord Celtigar's brazen desertion of the new Lady of Dragonstone. Tyrion was glad of it. It was plain to see that the Baratheons of Dragonstone had more power over their bannermen than most of the great lords in the Seven Kingdoms, more akin to House Lannister than to House Tyrell or House Tully. Another House's power might have been utterly broken, deserted by its vassals, after such a great defeat. He supposed that could be attributed to the royal fleet, which the late Lord Stannis had possessed thanks to his kingly brother's command, not the consent of his lords bannermen, so he had had a great source of power which did not arise from them.
Once courtesy had been satisfied and gifts had been given, Tyrion raised the matter for which he had come. He took in a deep breath. "My most gracious and honourable lady of Baratheon," he said, "your goodsister, Her Grace Queen Cersei, and your kingly nephew Joffrey extend their sincerest condolences for the foul murder of your lord husband, her lord goodbrother and the king's uncle, at Storm's End, at the hands of the rebel, pretender and kinslayer Lord Renly. In this time of grief we extend the hands of friendship and of unity. House Baratheon should unite and avenge this impious insult by Lord Renly to the laws of gods and men. To expedite his usurpation, Lord Renly has peddled malevolent lies which I shall not give the honour of a hearing in this hall, concerning the lawful wedded and bedded wives of both his elder brothers, both of whom have a greater claim to the Iron Throne than he ever will."
Whispers swept the court. There was much risk in mentioning the tale that Lady Selyse had cuckolded Lord Stannis with a lackwit fool, but mayhaps there would have been similar risk in ignoring it.
"To the misfortune of the realm," Tyrion continued, "this poison has reached the ears of some of the powerful. His Grace the King is outraged at this insult to the honour of his lady aunt, as much as to the honour of his mother, and is most determined to stamp out such treachery. There will, of course, be royal pardons and statements of conciliation to prevent any wrongheaded retribution for the unfortunate misunderstandings this disgusting deception has created."
Tyrion had hoped that statement might go unchallenged; he did not for a moment expect the Lady Regent of Dragonstone to believe it, but it was a means of avoiding a loss of face. It did not. "What brazen lie is this?" scoffed grey-bearded Lord Hendry Sunglass. "No man may accuse me of partiality to Lord Renly—" three of his sons had been slain outside the walls of Storm's End, as well as both of the sons of his elder-line cousin, Lord Guncer and Ser Roger Sunglass— "but all men know the Lannisters to be the origin of that foul lie against the honour of our lady. 'Tis not luck that it came about as soon as King's Landing heard of the truth about your so-called king Joffrey from our dear and fallen lord. I knew Lannisters for liars but this is a new depth even for you."
"Peace, my lord," said Tyrion. "Even supposing that my House were the honourless curs you believe us all to be, why should we have chosen to spread such filth? His Grace the King's claim to the Iron Throne does not require any slander; he is King Robert's eldest son and heir, as all men acknowledged and knew until this war began for the sake of Lord Renly's ambition. Lord Renly's, however, does require such. Why should it surprise you to hear that he is the source of both lies? He is the third-born of the brothers Baratheon. He has no right to the crown. In order to pretend he does, to expedite his loathsome ambition, he needs must disestablish the claims of the children of both of his elder brothers."
"Nonsense, Imp," said a handsome woman who had been introduced as Brienne Bar Emmon, Lady Dowager of Sharp Point, regent on behalf of her little son. She turned to her liege in appeal. "My lady, we know the Imp for a liar in one respect. The truth about the bastard Joffrey's parentage was first found by your lord husband, gods rest his soul. That should not be attributed to Lord Renly. And if he lies on the first matter, why should he be trusted on the second?"
"I don't believe so." All turned to hear this higher female voice. With a jolt of shock, Tyrion recognised it at once. "My lady, our fallen lord never discussed at length how he first heard the tale alleging Queen Cersei's adultery. If there had been a highborn source, he would surely have disclosed it to reinforce the tale, but there was not. He told Lord Arryn, not otherwise. Men of low birth are easily bribed with food and gold to waste on whores and suchlike; such folk cannot be expected to uphold the standards of nobility. We all admire your lord husband, my lady, but could he not have been deceived toward his death by some hireling in the service of Lord Renly? For in this if nothing else my lord of Lannister certainly speaks the truth: it is passing strange that a man with the ruthlessness and lust for power of Lord Renly should receive such good fortune from the gods as sordid tales to discredit the wives and issue of both his elder brothers and set them against each other, without himself having any hand in it."
Tyrion was taken aback by his own good fortune. He did not know most of the lords of the Narrow Sea by face, but few of noble blood who had spent any great length of time in King's Landing during Robert Baratheon's reign would have failed to recall such an illustrious personage as the Lady Helicent Velaryon. Though a Bar Emmon by birth, the goodsister of Lady Brienne, Lady Velaryon was of one of the most ancient Houses in the world, a House of the same dragon-blood as the Targaryens, with whom they had often wedded. The Velaryons of Driftmark were among the mightiest houses of the Narrow Sea, rivalled only by the now-fled Celtigars of Claw Isle and by their once-Targaryen, now-Baratheon overlords. If she were inclined towards King Joffrey's side, that was a great and unforeseen windfall for House Lannister, and a great part of the work of seeking Lady Baratheon's allegiance was already done.
"Lord Renly is a cruel man, my lady of Velaryon," declared Jon Farring, his white whiskers quivering, "but he is not to blame for all evils. 'Tis fortunate for him, yes, but that is no ground to allege conspiracy."
"Is it not, my lord of Farring?" Lady Velaryon asked him. "Lord Renly is a man of surpassing wickedness. His murdered brother, and your own valiant slain son and nephew Ser Gilbert and Ser Godry, and even your poor fallen grandson, brave Bryen, my lord, could attest to that. Do you believe that the Father Above, font of justice, and the Warrior, defender of right, would grant their favour to a man of that sort? I think not. What appears to be unbelievable good fortune is likelier to be the fruit of his malign scheming."
That reference to his relatives slain in the Clash of the Stags and to Lord Stannis had a powerful effect on Lord Farring. He still seemed to disagree, but remained silent, and so did Lord Sunglass and Lady Bar Emmon. Such was the palpable hatred with which Lord Renly was held in Lady Selyse's hall that almost nothing construed to be in his favour could pass muster, so even such a boldly false statement as this one could avoid challenge if opposition to it were made to appear as a moral defence of Renly. Tyrion admired Lady Velaryon and wondered at her reasons in equal measure.
"Thank you, my lady of Velaryon," Tyrion said with a deep bow. "Moreover, His Grace the King has heard tell of the wisdom, piety and charity of his maiden cousin, the Lady Shireen—" even with most homely girls one would say 'beauty', but with greyscale-struck Shireen that would seem like a jape or even an insult, and Tyrion dared not that— "and he has fallen deeply in love with her from afar. The Queen Regent and the small council have given way before his ardour. It is his desire and belief that there can be no more fitting queen to rule the Seven Kingdoms by his side and to bear many fine sons, that her line might be kings in the eyes of gods and men forevermore."
There was another round of frenzied whispers from the seats at the side of Dragonstone's court. Lady Selyse spoke over it. "So you come here to propose a full alliance between Houses Lannister and Baratheon, my lord? You would have me tie my fate to yours, and my daughter's hand to your king's?"
"No, my lady," Tyrion answered, "I come here to propose a renewal of the existing alliance between Houses Lannister and Baratheon, the alliance that deposed the Mad King and has given the Seven Kingdoms more than a dozen years of peace and plenty, replacing House Targaryen's failure. And I would have your daughter wed a boy of the noblest blood and the highest station, a boy who can make her queen and her children kings and princes and princesses. That is a fate to which she is already tied, for they are of one blood, Baratheon blood, however much Lord Renly may wish to deny it, and if Lord Renly triumphs, as he has so recently shown, he has no kingly virtues and will show no mercy to either, or to anyone. If he succeeds in usurping the Iron Throne from your nephew, he will murder him. You know what he did at Storm's End. Do you doubt it? And then, to secure his ill-gotten throne and a crown to which he has no right as long as his elder brothers' progeny live, I don't doubt for a moment he will murder your daughter too."
And there it was. The first part was merely a rewording, but the latter was the true reason for an alliance between King Joffrey and Lady Shireen Baratheon. Not because of anything to do with their birth, true or otherwise, or their parents or their reputation, but the simple fact that Lord Renly was a greater threat to both.
He had laid out Lady Selyse's choice. There was naught now but to see how she reacted to it.
"My lady, my lord of Lannister is wrong about Lord Renly," said Lord Farring. "Foul a man though he may be, he has never been known to kill a child."
"Which is more than can be said for House Lannister," added Lady Bar Emmon, with a glance at Tyrion.
Lady Velaryon looked as if she wished to speak but a male voice cut in above hers. "With respect, I disagree with my lady of Bar Emmon and my lord of Farring. 'Tis exactly in Lord Renly's nature. But 'tis in the Lannisters' nature too. Why must we choose between two evils?" Lord Sunglass rose. With the gout in his leg, it took visible effort. "I tell you all, I would sooner slit my throat a thousand times than bend the knee to Renly, but I trust your lord husband's word, my lady of Baratheon. Joffrey is no true king. I say there's a better way. The Imp makes it seem there is no choice but betwixt Joffrey and Renly, a bastard abomination and a kinslayer, but there is another king in the land. The King in the North! Why should you not seek a Stark alliance? King Robb is young and virile. He would make a good husband for your lady daughter. And recall the Battles of the Whispering Wood, and the camps at Riverrun, and Oxcross; 'tis said he has never fought a battle 'twas not a glorious victory. With your lady daughter by his side he has a claim to the Iron Throne. He can destroy the Lannisters with or without our strength; he has already come near to that. Lord Renly, meantime, came within an inch of losing a battle where he had the advantages of knights to levied peasants and of four men to one. The Young Wolf will cut him to shreds once he has put an end to House Lannister, and I say, good riddance."
Lady Velaryon tried to reply, but a cheer arose from the men and women seated. "The north! Stark! A Stark alliance!"
It took a while for Lady Velaryon to be heard, and by then it was plain to see the mood of the hall was against her. "My lord of Sunglass, my lady of Baratheon," she said, "Lord Stark may be valiant but he will never win this war. Lord Lannister is surely marching west with twenty-thousand men, more by far than Lord Stark's army there. Lord Stark has left all his foot behind him with Lord Bolton, like a boy playing at war who finds a host only of horsemen, swift but rare, as better for his game. 'Tis a fool's decision. Lord Lannister can attack either of the northern hosts and defeat them in detail, one and then the other. And even if Lord Stark were to defeat Lord Lannister, with them having ground down their hosts against each other, surely they would both fall to Lord Renly. No, my lords and ladies, Joffrey Baratheon may win this war, if he can hold King's Landing and let Lord Renly's host batter itself to pieces against the city walls, and Renly may win it if he can take the capital without losing too many, but Robb Stark never will."
"All this talk of wolves and roses and lions," Lady Bar Emmon said. "My lords and ladies, do you not recall what led us to this parlous state? I do. We tried to take part in this clash of kings. 'Twas ill indeed for us. I lost a son, a boy of four and ten who should not yet have been at war. Most of us here lost some such. I have only one son more, and I desire that he live. However awful a man Lord Renly is, that is for the gods to judge and take their vengeance; we have lost enough already. We cannot afford another round of killing. We are not the Reach or the westerlands with their inexhaustible armies. Our menfolk are valorous but not numerous. Perhaps the Lannisters will vanquish the Tyrells and perhaps the opposite, but in either case, I say, we should have no part of it. Why shouldn't we have a peace?"
That did not arouse a cheer, but from the quiet nods that abounded afterward, Tyrion feared it had even more support than Lord Sunglass's suggestion. That was ill news indeed. If Dragonstone sought an ally with which to make common cause and leant towards Winterfell, it could perhaps be convinced to choose Casterly Rock instead, but if Lady Selyse wished to retreat into isolation, despite knowing all that could be said of the risk posed by Lord Renly to her lady daughter, Tyrion saw little that could be used to persuade her otherwise.
The argument went on for many hours more before Lady Selyse gestured to her silver-haired young herald, who called a halt to court for the day. Her vassals and petitioners, animated with chatter, drifted slowly out the gates. Well beyond the dragon's maw that marked the entrance to the Great Hall, Tyrion stumbled as he felt a hand on his shoulder. Helicent Velaryon towered over him, though she was quite short and stout in figure. "My lord of Lannister, I would have words with you."
"My lady of Velaryon," he acknowledged, turning his face up to her. The almond-shaped eyes gazing intensely down at him, from above the level of her breasts near his head, were as dark brown as her hair, which she wore in exquisite curls. To his surprise, Tyrion had to suppress his own reaction.
"If I were you, my lord, I would look to those who listened to that debate—not all, of course, only men and women of substance—and I would consider not only those who spoke but those who chose not to speak in that debate. They, perhaps, may yet be swayed."
"My lady's counsel is wise," said Tyrion. He tried to think back to those of Lady Selyse's retainers whom he had considered significant enough to receive the choicest gifts to woo them. Only one name sprang to mind. "So you would have me speak to Lady Chyttering?"
"That fool? Not for a moment. Lord Chyttering fell in the Clash of the Stags and his son Lucos is held captive. As long as that is so, she'll never dare to offend Lord Renly. No, my lord, I spoke of my lady's favourite uncle, Ser Axell Florent."
Tyrion thought back to the round, burly, big-eared man with double chins who had sat near Lady Selyse, a seat of honour Tyrion had presumed the man had only received because he and his lady niece were of one blood. "Ser Axell has no keep, no lands, no bannermen, no great retinue. He has no power here but what Lady Baratheon chooses to give him, and with her present he is not much of a castellan any more. Why should he be held to be a man of substance here?"
"Because there is more than one substance," Lady Velaryon said with a faint twist of her lips upward. "Ser Axell served Lord Stannis as castellan of Dragonstone for near ten years of King Robert's reign, when he and his lady wife lived almost always in the capital. For near ten years he was regent in all but name of the dominions of the Narrow Sea. He acquired many courtiers here who came to follow his lead in that time, and the men-at-arms of this isle have spent near ten years accustomed to obedience. Aside from that, Lady Selyse trusts him as she trusts few others. Of her House, he chose to follow her to Dragonstone when no other did, neither of her other two uncles and not even her brothers."
"I understand," said Tyrion, his thoughts racing. It seemed Ser Axell would be a powerful ally indeed. "And I wished to thank you for your kind words, my lady. Whether or not I prevail, I shall not forget them. If House Lannister lives through to the end of this war, I assure you, there will be a handsome reward."
"Ah yes. 'A Lannister always pays his debts.' I've heard the saying before. I confess that I am glad of it, my lord, for there is a debt I would see paid."
So now it comes. Truth be told, Tyrion had expected something of this sort. Women of Helicent Velaryon's importance seldom helped the likes of him, ugly men serving causes with little hope, out of kindness or on a whim. "Which is?" he said.
"My son Monterys has seen six namedays," said Lady Velaryon. "Now he, and not my poor fallen husband, is Lord of the Tides and Master of Driftmark. I rule on his behalf but there are many on Driftmark who would rather be mastered by a man grown than a woman and a boy; and there is such a man. While my lord husband lived there was nothing and no-one I need fear—" for a moment, just a moment, she seemed almost fragile, before hardening further than ever before— "but he is gone, my lord, they took his head and waved it about on a sword-point as a standard, and I am all that remains."
"I see," Tyrion said softly. He did not bother with apologies which Lady Velaryon would surely know were insincere. "If Lady Selyse persists in the belief that even the eldest son and acknowledged heir of a king can be usurped of his inheritance, and his mother defrauded and dishonoured, by an ambitious uncle with a false tale of adultery, who or what shall stop another such uncle from disinheriting your son by dishonouring you?"
"That is truth, my lord, but not the whole truth. It is worse than you perceive. If Lady Baratheon refuses to submit to any of the three kings, her military position is so desperate that if one of her vassal Houses were to be usurped from a boy by a man full grown…? Why, I daresay she might even prefer it."
"Dear gods." Even Tyrion was taken aback at that. He supposed it was the natural consequence of Robert's brothers' breaking of the laws of succession. Regardless that Lord Stannis's accusation about Joffrey happened to be true, they had left chaos in their wake. "My lady of Velaryon, let me assure you, we in House Lannister shall do our utmost to prevent any such usurpation. Who is this villain of whom you speak?"
"'Tis my lord husband's bastard half-brother, Aurane Waters. My lord husband was always fond of him, and refused to send him away as I asked of him many a time. He never saw Aurane for what he is: a sly, ambitious creature who plays the boon companion to his trueborn sibling but reveals his true nature in his thoughtless cruelty to all whom he considers to be beneath him. So that is what I ask of you, my lord of Lannister. Keep my son in his rightful place, keep Aurane Waters in check, and you have my allegiance."
"I understand," Tyrion said with a bow. "Nonetheless you will have more than that, my lady, for what you have done for me today. I will see to it that you are protected from this ambitious bastard and that you are given your reward."
"I am glad of it," said Lady Velaryon with a half-smile. "Fare well, my lord."
"Fare well, my lady."