Sansa
It really was a delectable lemoncake. The crust was flaky on the outside, fluffy and soft just enough underneath, a sweet crunching sound bouncing against the edges of her teeth when she bit into it. The center was tender, moist, the flavor so sweet and concentrated that Sansa would've guessed she were tasting an actual dollop of lemon milkcream, she actually had to peer inside the cake, see that was still bread and flour. And the coating of dried sugar atop and along the rim, well, that was just the purest stroke of genius and, as she finished the piece, placing her dish back onto the table while a servant hurriedly served her another, the Queen took a sip of her Arbor Gold.
"It's like strawberries," she said, letting the flavor linger across the tip of her mouth, "and just enough spice from...from...a rhubarb? Yet it's...it's not too sweet, which makes it the perfect accompaniment to the cake."
The old woman sitting across from her nodded her approval, eyes dipping down to her fingernails before she spoke. "Paxter told me they shipped cocoa from the Summer Isles for that batch."
"Well, I've never tasted a finer wine in all my years in the Keep," Sansa said, setting her goblet down and returning to her second piece of pastry. "Really, Lady Olenna, you've been holding out on me...that's a terrible crime in itself, I daresay!"
"Just tell me how you like the cake," the old matron snapped, losing her patience while the harp played a soft song in the background, not Florian and Jonquil, Sansa didn't think, but of a similar tone and nature. Perhaps it was one known only to the musician himself, they said he came from Braavos. Sansa had not remembered the minstrel from the tourney, his fat form oddly disconcerting to watch as he strummed the instrument she'd once played herself when she'd been younger. Not a smart man, Sansa mused, travelling so far in a time of war, but she knew better than most now the lengths the common people would go for the smallest amounts of coin.
Did he know Daenerys, she wondered, while savoring the tart taste of citrus upon her tongue. What coincidence that would be, how small the world were that so, had this man strummed his notes accompanying the Princess as she spoke fire and blood, the words of her ancient ancestor whose life had been long passed to the hands of maesters only slightly less ancient.
"Oh, my dear woman," Sansa said, pretending to remember. As she pulled out a small slip of parchment from inside the dress, the Queen beckoned Arya and Brienne and Edric and Thoros towards the table. "Please, help yourselves, it's delightful."
Jeyne, sat beside her, was already mouthing down wordlessly her first piece. Watching satisfied whilst they congregated around the platter, though Sansa saw Thoros ignoring the cake, instead taking for himself an entire jug of the wine, she waited for the reactions which followed the first chewings with their tongues and teeth.
"Edric," she questioned her new husband...her first husband, by the Gods, and that was the truth.
"It's...," the young knight said, mouth full and voice mumbled, "it's so good, Your Grace. Best lemoncake I've ever had for sure."
"Well," Olenna Tyrell gestured impolitely.
"My best wishes to you on this happy occasion, dear lady," Sansa gushed, ignoring her hint, instead handing the old woman the letter. Reading it, Olenna set it gravely upon the table, fingers trembling, looking far from happy than one might normally expect by such news.
"By gods, Margaery's with child."
"And so the line of Viserys Targaryen will have its heir," the Queen continued for her, "should the babe be born healthy. Interesting timing, don't you think?"
Fingers still nestled against the parchment, the ancient woman crumpled up the letter and dropped it callously into the grass.
"I told Mace not to get involved in any of this business," Olenna muttered in disgust, her confession more to herself, Sansa thought, than to the Queen she owed her every word and breath to. "He was to wrangle Margaery a marriage to your brother Bran, believe it or not. Shouldn't have been too difficult of a match, the boy's a bit young for her, but they would've made a good pair. But by the Gods...I think he forgets sometimes that he's Tarly's liege lord...not the opposite. And the crowds...that dirty, unwashed mob of fanatics...they scare the man, I fear that's what set my son on this whole rotten business, he's simply not made for riots and the sort."
The sun shone brightly against her fingers, they'd given her a corner piece for her second helping, which mean more sugar for her to pluck at around the brittle edges of the confection. If she closed her eyes, Sansa wondered if she could imagine birds chirping the songs of spring, just before butterflies emerged from the gardens of the crimson rose, flapping their wings in rejuvenation of the seasons, portending spring.
"The mob's a frightening thing, isn't it," she asked, smiling at the old woman. "I should know, my mother should know, she was killed by a mob, I rode in that wheelhouse all the way back to the Red Keep with her...staring at her lifeless eyes...that bloody hole in her head. And I do find it a shame, Bran would've loved his new bride, he would've treated Margaery so well...except...he's dead, isn't he? And didn't the Lady Margaery marry the man who murdered Bran and Rickon in cold blood?"
It took a few seconds for the old woman to regain her composure. When she did, all courtesy had vanished from her voice, same as Sansa's when she'd muttered her last words.
"It's a rotten business, these politics. Young men get killed in war, lords and princes too. But murdered like that, prisoners? A child Rickon's age? It was wrong. I can't say anything more, or otherwise."
Wrong. Just wrong, nothing else? Would you say that to Viserys's face, you old coward?
"I'm afraid you misunderstand the situation, Lady Olenna," Sansa said, feigning a nervous chuckle. "You speak of the vilest treasons and murders as if they were just...just reduced to a thing as politics...just a simple game played between lords and ladies and bored old widows. That's where your mistake is, I fear. There is no game, Lady Olenna, not when it comes to the Crown. There's only fealty. Or death."
Finishing her second piece, Sansa looked over to Arya. "It's good. It's very good. But I'm afraid the old Nan in Winterfell makes a better lemoncake."
Her sister returned her a knowing smile while several of Edric's knights dragged Willas Tyrell from his chair nearby into an adjourning courtyard. Arya knew the truth, that Sansa hated the lemoncakes in the North, they were far too bland for her taste, but it was a lie both sisters would keep to themselves, she was certain.
The castle was still holding in its defenses when the Queen joined the rest of her armies in siege, straight from her act of so-called kingslaying, and her wedding the morning after. It had been Olenna Tyrell who'd sent out a scroll upon her arrival, asking to discuss terms for their surrender, one woman to another, it'd said, to which Sansa ordered her response.
No terms. Just surrender.
She figured the Tyrells were still scurrying for an appropriate reply to counter when the castellan opened the gates to them that night, a fitting end to their house, Sansa thought. Olenne Tyrell's only act left at that point was to beg her to spare the life of her last living grandson, and Sansa felt herself generous enough to offer the old woman the terms she'd desperately sought.
"Make me the best lemoncake I've ever had in my life, and I'll spare your grandson Willas."
To give her hope, knowing it was fruitless.
Of course there was no way she could honor her promise, Sansa mused, as the dismembered head of the last heir to Highgarden plopped onto the ground, blood sullying the innermost sanctity of the ancient castle. At least he had died with dignity, same as Garlan Tyrell, both men were good at dying, and they'd seemed decent, the few times Sansa had conversed with them before this last war. But she needed to secure Jeyne's inheritance, she needed to satiate the bloody appetites of the surrounding smallfolk which she'd been the one to whet, and she needed all the realm to know just how little tolerance their Queen held for treason.
You should have killed me, all of you. Whatever afterlife there is, or isn't, I'll make you all bemoan for millennia that you didn't while you could.
But, Sansa confided to herself, the lemoncake had indeed been the best she'd tasted in her life. It wouldn't be the last she'd have of it, Jeyne would gladly give her all of Highgarden's kitchens with only a word, but Sansa also warned herself with the thought that there would be little more time for lemoncakes and wine with a war still to win, which made this interlude spent in the afterglow of her enemy's surrender all the more precious.
"You'll leave for Dorne tomorrow morning," the Queen proclaimed, rising from her seat, but not before beckoning the servants to refill her wine cup and place another piece of that most wonderful cake on her plate. "Prince Edric will have fifty of his finest men escorting your way...I think you may rather like it...lots of cousins and nieces and such to keep you company, fan you when it gets too hot down by the Summer Sea."
"Finest men," the old woman spat out, all veneer gone. She'd not looked once at Willas's beheading, Sansa noted, staring down at her hands clutched sadly against each other through the whole grim scene. "Are they to be my executioners...Your Grace?"
What do you know, old woman, about having a sword by your neck, awaiting the final blow by those sworn to protect you?
"Lady Olenna," the Queen said, clipped but polite, "believe me, those men are the only reason the smallfolk won't rip you limp from limp before you even reach Prince's Pass...a woman who'd sold her kingdom to the false gods. Oh," she paused. Sansa stepped carefully over towards the matriarch of a dying house, as her soon to be former servants helped the old lady to her feet one last time.
"For your sake, and Margaery's,...for the sake of my own conscience, I do pray her child is stillborn. I suggest you write her tonight, write your son too. Whatever the health of her child...it's clear to all the realm that she and her husband hold the power of life and death over my son. If Prince Baelor comes to any harm...when I win this war, and I will win it, I assure you...the Lady Margaery will pray to have suffered the clean deaths of her brothers."
With that she left, walking past a worn wagon they'd placed upon the edges of the square, within view of the terrified harpist. Jon Connington was dead, he'd lingered long enough past Prince's Pass, into the first villages they'd paraded them through in the Reach. His post stood next to another, from which the horrifying remains of Rhaegar Targaryen were strung upside down, suspended, burnt skin peeling off like dead bark from a tree, only the tips of his still silver hair brushing against the dirt where they'd set him serving as evidence of the royal dragon which once inhabited the mutilated body. Atop his post, nailed by his feet, lay a sign drawn in blood.
"The Red Usurper."
Atop Connington's head was another.
"His Kingslaying whore."
Men guarded the bodies day and night, she'd heard the japes, whomever held the shift jokingly referred to as Kingsguard by their knowing brothers in arms. They stood by and laughed along with the villagers who spat and threw rotten fruit against the corpses wherever they went. Sansa couldn't help but think how horrified the Lady Olenna had been by the sight at first, the stench overpowering her most delicate and carefully maintained gardens, not to mention her aged nostrils. How mortified Margaery would be, to see her home so blemished upon by such unsightly wonders, would it disturb her more than the news of her dead brothers? Did it give the old woman nightmares, that she may have to see her last grandson strung up to suffer such a similarly horrible fate. Though Sansa never intended for any punishment more gruesome than a simple beheading for Willas Tyrell, she would be lying if she didn't take glee in the fact that the Lady Olenna did not know any better for the duration of her ordeal.
"I can't believe they killed Bran and Rickon. Rykka...she thought she'd marry him some day...Rickon. I told her...even when the Tarly's held us, it's probably not proper, cousins and all, it's not a good look for either of our families. But Rykka, she just said, she liked the way their names sounded together. And Bran...I don't think I've met anyone kinder, purer of heart, son of a King or not."
Myrcella looked down upon her feet shyly, the two women sharing one last conversation the night before she was to sail back to Dorne, to the moment she'd waited so long for. She thought they'd speak more of politics, how to rule...yet that rotten business seemed the last thing that either one of them wanted to speak about apparently. Though Sansa had said little of her brothers she'd killed through her sloppiness, her selfishness, not even to Edric, strangely enough the Queen felt comfortable speaking of them with her cousin. Myrcella had always been more of a child, never a friend her age, a possible peer, when she'd visited Winterfell in the past, but there was something comforting to her presence now, so tranquil and peaceful juxtaposed against the storms raging inside her heart.
She's family, Sansa thought. Every word she'd told her and Cersei she'd meant, they were family, they were the pack, it had taken all of them far too long to realize it so, but it was not too late.
"You didn't...you didn't want to marry Bran, did you Myrcella?"
"Oh no," the younger girl shook her head, mortified rather than bashful. "I thought...I'd hoped he would remain a good friend to me. Mother wished to marry me somewhere in the south you see...it's a strange land for me...the people, their ways, their Gods. But Bran had always been kind, so I..."
Her golden haired cousin trailed off, and Sansa rubbed her back with her palms, offering what Queenly comfort she could.
"The realm is a worse place without him."
"Trystane too," Myrcella continued, tears freely flowing from her eyes now, "he'd...I'd...he'd lived with us for so long..."
Sansa was about to ask if she saw her last beloved as a brother as well, but the way her eyes wavered, the way her lips quivered, her shoulders slumped and shook...
"You loved him too, didn't you?"
"I," the younger girl laughed nervously, surprised she'd read her mind.
Oh, you poor thing, Sansa thought, you need to learn to lie so much better for you to survive here.
"It's fine. He was a...Trystane was a very lovable man. I don't blame you."
"I don't think I even knew what love was, to be honest, I was so young."
So had she been too, Sansa realized. So had Trystane. Did they truly love each other? Did they even know what love was, did they even know who each other were, or did they just find each other only because there'd been no one else?
"I miss him," Sansa confessed, hugging the girl, even as she unknowingly stood less than a fortnight away from her marriage. "I'll always miss him. But...he's...even if he can hear us cry for him, Myrcella...he can't dry our tears for us, wipe them away...not now, not anymore. We have to live. Doesn't mean we'll forget our past, whom we loved before, whom we lost."
"No."
"Don't be afraid to mourn him. Take your time, my dear cousin. You're the Lady of Hightower now, the country's oldest and proudest city is yours to rule. You'll find it in your heart to love again. Not right away...perhaps not for some time..."
"You're lucky," the girl said, forcing a smile as she wiped away her tears. "Your Edric...he's...he's perfect, is he? He's every bit the knight and warrior Trystane was...the great man he could've been."
"Edric's far from perfect," Sansa laughed uncomfortably, "if only you knew what...but...he's good for me, I think."
"I think so too."
The Queen woke. Had it been a dream, or had it actually happened? It was hard for her to tell the difference sometimes. Her beautiful husband was already up, sitting at their small desk inside the lord's chambers in Goldengrove. They'd marched up the river after leaving Highgarden, the Rowans had abandoned their castle, and she was keen to give more riches to her soldiers, see more of the countryside, talk to more of the people, bequeathing to them the former wealth of their former lords in turn.
"Where were you last night?" She'd felt him crawling into bed next to her late, barely interrupting her from whatever nightmare she'd been suffering then.
"Busy," Edric replied, worried as he continued studying the map. "It's not good, I didn't want to tell you last night, spoil your sleep."
His fingers picked up a slip of paper, and Sansa could tell from his mournful eyes that he'd meant it.
"Stop," she commanded, her husband obeying, pausing in his tracks in the middle of the room.
"You're troubled too, Sansa?"
"Just the opposite. I've news too. I don't want...whatever you have there," she pointed at the scroll between his fingers, "to ruin this for us."
Sitting up, patting the bedsheet next to her, she beckoned Edric approach, and Sansa took his arm and wrist with both her hands after he'd sat.
"The day of Rhaegar's execution," she began, intoning darkly, "I had a secret. But he didn't deserve to know it."
"What was it," he asked, unsure and wary of what she was about to say.
"My daughter with Trystane," the Queen forced herself out the words. Rather than close her eyes, she took in all of her husband before her, his gallant visage, his scent, the faint musk of sweat, his posture, more relaxed than most lords, more rigid than most Dornishmen...all so as to avoid picturing and reliving in her mind that awful night. "I'd named her afterwards...my Princess, who lived but a few short breaths.
Lyanna."
"I'm sorry," was all Edric could offer, staring discomforted at his feet. Rather than let him linger on in his awkwardness, Sansa moved his limp arm and placed his hand on her stomach.
Realization set in. Uncertainty, fright, happiness, joy, wonderment all flitted through his eyes in a moment, then he lunged at her and hugged her tightly. This shouldn't have been too much of a surprise, she'd stopped the moon tea ever since their wedding, but still...caught in each other's warm embrace, she could forget they lay in the bed of a stranger, inside the castle of a vanquished enemy, with troubling news still to come, all she asked for was that they could savor the now, for once, if not forever.
"The heir to the Seven Kingdoms," she said, when he withdrew, but not leaving yet another lingering kiss against her lips. "The birthright of an Iron Throne...our child...the future of House Stark...the future of our dynasty."
"By the Gods," Edric stammered back, his hand never leaving her belly, his teeth chattering as he spoke, "this war...we must protect you."
Beaming at him, Sansa thought of the changes befallen her husband since that night they were married in their hearts. He'd been tender before, and protective too, but ever more so now, stronger, more sure in his role by her side.
"It'll still be many months before the child becomes a burden," the Queen replied, both her hands clinging still to his. "I'd expect we'd be sleeping in the Red Keep by then."
His smile disappeared. "Perhaps not," reminding Sansa of his letter. She saw that it bore the seal of the Lady of Storm's End, except not just the words, but even the handwriting, was all Renly's.
"The King is dead, you write me. It is for the better, Rhaegar wasn't fit, nor does deception and lies make right. Was it lawful? Laws seem to easily serve the purposes of those who'd interpret them from the throne afterwards, don't they? Did Eddard Stark have the lawful right to sit upon the Iron Throne, when other houses carrying the blood of the dragon still lived? Did his daughter have the lawful right to her crown, when thousands of years of Andal tradition dictated that the throne and inheritance should pass to her brother, however younger? What does law or right say, when competing claims marry, then set off to kill the other?
Or perhaps it matters less who inherits the throne by law or right, rather than who is right to rule. Was treason committed by House Tyrell? By law, it is for the maesters to decide. The merits of the case laid before an impartial man's eye, one can cast aspersions on the honor and intentions of Lord Mace, and his person alone. Yet the death of his son Loras in battle was fair, because it was battle received and given. The death of his son Willas more questionable, but the heir to Highgarden did resist in his siege, and by history and tradition the victor determines the fates of the vanquished in such unfortunate circumstances. The death of his son Garlan may appear even less honorable, a captive knight surrendered yet slain by his captors with no trial.
The Queen was wronged by many, this is true, and cannot be denied. She has since undeniably wronged far more than those who'd wronged her...the men of houses Hightower & Redwyne, whose only crime was to follow their bonds of fealty to their liege lord who...by the greatest irony of the Gods, sits alive and unharmed, though he is the only one who may be judged un-right. What justice has there been for him, compared to what justice was decided upon for the lords and sons of the Reach?
I know this. If the desires of the throne by Sansa I & Rhaegar I can be denied and contested by the other, the claim of Baelor II, whether his house rules as Targaryen or Stark, is unquestioned. His crown is lawful, it is rightful. It is also right, because his father and his mother have shown their wrongness, the true shades of their soul in their pursuit for power, for vengeance, for glory...at the expense of those they claim to protect as they rule.
Storm's End thus declares for King Baelor. Our banners march to the capital, to defend the new King while he is vulnerable, from those who would make war upon his rightful throne.
Sansa...I know not the woman who flooded the Reach in blood, but I knew the girl you were, or thought I did. Perhaps that girl still lives. Perhaps the woman who breathes calmly the toils of war today may still remember the love of a mother for her only son. Baelor II is the right king for our times. I pray his mother knows the right thing to do, so as to spare our realms and our people further bloodshed and war."
Edric braced for a violent reaction from her, the way his shoulders tensed, but she merely sat where she was, unmoving.
"Can we take King's Landing still?"
Damn the Gods, could she not have one happy moment left unspoiled?
"It makes things more difficult," Edric conceded, extracting the sheet from her hands as if it were poison. "I've spoken all our men from the Stormlands, they say they remain firm in our case. I trust them, but..."
His blue eyes looked away.
"You're not as sure."
"No." He stood, and Sansa rose as well, following him to the small desk, where the map took on yet another layer of meanings and disguise. "Tarly's out there somewhere, I've word anywhere from Maidenpool to the west banks of the God's Eye. We can besiege King's Landing. Your uncle Benjen will be riding south soon too, I'd suspect. But either he, or your uncle Edmure, or our army, would run into Tarly well before we can all assemble back together."
"I hate the capital anyway. I hate the Keep, so much blood was shed there." It was true. While taking King's Landing and reclaiming her Iron Throne had never been goals she'd ever doubted, Sansa could not help but wonder what would happen afterwards, returning to the castle which had once been her home, sullied so terribly as it was now by the crimes of her enemies, by the blood of those she'd loved.
"I won't say we got lucky at Goatshorn Bend," Edric continued. "But odds are odds, and I can't promise we'll continue to roll the right die each time we further encounter him."
If he were anyone else, this man who loved her, who protected her, fought for her...sold his very soul for her, Sansa would accuse him of cowardice, or something worse. But Edric wouldn't shirk from a fight, he would not steer her wrong, she trusted that, whatever reservations he held, they were well-reasoned, they were justified, and entirely for her sake, not his own, or anyone else's.
Could I have trusted Trystane this way? He loved me too. But could have won a battle for me, a war?
Her eyes drifted to the left. "Old Oak," she said, pointing her finger against the map. "Dany rode there, to take Lyonel with her. She may still be there."
Edric nodded in agreement. "I was thinking the same thing. She may have left us thousands of her men, but...with word of Lord Kevan's departure from the capital, I'd be more assured of their loyalty with a Lannister lordling and his Targaryen mother marching beside us."
He kissed her neck first, before continuing, and Sansa wondered what war council could have paused as such. Prince Daemon, and his Queen Rhaenyra?
Not the most auspicious comparison, Sansa.
"The Crownlands will be hostile to us anyway...the Kingswood, not as certain as before. We march north through the Westerlands, gather what new houses who'd support us, rout any makeshift armies which may remain loyal to Rhae...which would pretend to rally for Baelor. Then we pass through Oxcross, find your uncle in the Riverlands, and we'll have more than enough to beat Tarly even if Lord Stark is still on his way to Moat Cailin."
So easily was it decided. Taking his hand, she led him back to the bed, where they fell together, fully clothed, and Sansa held him if he were a giant doll, her nose buried against the nape of his neck, just above the rise of his back. She wouldn't be able to hold him like this for much longer, the fuller her belly grew.
If I'm to lose this war, then take us like this, together, let a star fall upon where we lie, and crush us, so that we die free, and content, in each other's arms. So our child would not have to live under the oppression of our enemies.
That had been one of her stronger regrets, those darkest days between the night with all the deaths, and when she and Edric found each other in the Kingswood so long afterwards. Were she to die, and she'd been certain she would, truly actually, the moment she'd learned she carried what could have been Trystane's child, all she could've asked for was to die in her lover's arms. For Lyanna to have lived, not to suffer for her sins. For Bran and Rickon to live, and carry on where she'd failed.
"I'm making war against my own son," she whispered. "What kind of mother would do such a thing?"
"It's not his choice," he said, squeezing her hands wrapped over his abdomen, as if Edric were the one with their child. "We make war against those who hold him captive. Just as we made war against the traitors who took your aunt and cousins."
"Now Renly's one of them."
"Do you hate him?"
"I do," she admitted. What she'd done to Connington, she had no problems picturing the same torment on her newest traitor now. "Maybe he means what he says. Maybe he's doing this for Loras, despite what he wrote us. Maybe he's thinking he can lead a new regency council. Or maybe it's all of it, everything twisted together in his mind...what does he expect me to do, remain the stupid girl he remembers from years ago, a dead girl, rather one who's survived and winning this damned war?"
She'd not intended to raise her voice, calming herself, holding her husband tightly so she could regain her bearings, Sansa closed her eyes.
"But he did save my life, Edric, when he swore you and Lord Beric to ride for me, remain vigilant for me."
"What do you intend to do to him?"
It would pain him, but were Sansa to order a death more gruesome than Rhaegar's or Connington's for Renly Baratheon, Edric would allow it, he'd hammer in the nails by his own hands, if need be.
"I don't know," she admitted honestly. "Let's hope we win this war quickly, so I'll be in a merciful mood when I judge his sentence."
Tyrion
Each letter which arrived at Castle Black he dreaded more than the last, though he couldn't help but look morbidly forward to the next. Yet each letter his father seemed to favor more. Most of them were written from the Citadel, the one describing the bloodbath which occurred under its very windows Tyrion could give thanks for, if only for endless amount of wine and ale he'd drank later that night, if not the headache the morning after. Some came from the castellan or maester at Winterfell, informing Castle Black of the latest developments of a fast escalating war he'd never expected, because he hadn't honestly thought the poor girl could endure for so long, not under the watchful eyes of his traitorous uncle and the Spider, amongst others.
The letter telling of the King's execution had arrived from King's Landing itself, bearing the seal and signature of Mace Tyrell. It was written in a way meant to horrify, but that had been the one letter Tyrion laughed at. His father read it, and smirked as most men would fart, a passing moment soon forgotten, or so Tywin Lannister hoped to convey.
"Do you think the Martells died by her hand too?"
"I'd respect her the more for it," the former Lord of Casterly Rock answered his son, also a former Lord of Casterly Rock. In all the years he'd known his father, before and after the sack of King's Landing, Tyrion wondered how he could abstain so much from wine, especially ensconced in the frozen north where there was no other relief in sight outside of the few hags who passed for whores in the fittingly named Mole's Town, dried up warts poking visibly through their furry, unkempt bushes. He would know, but barely, it'd taken a lot of wine...though less by each visit, that disturbed Tyrion.
"I wouldn't have expected it, knowing her. But then I didn't expect the Tyrells either. Or the Hightowers, or the Redwynes."
"I don't blame her for it. Of course she'd have them killed, the girl's smart enough to know the necessity of it, apparently. She's stupid to leave the children alive, but not as stupid as appointing her little lady friends to the most hallowed seats in all the Reach, if not all the seven kingdoms."
Yes, you'd never leave a child alive if you can help it, would you? That's why you sit where you sit now.
"It doesn't surprise me." He tried to remain somewhat sober in the presence of his father, though it was these audiences which he required the most of wine, more trying than even a night being clawed at by crude, clumsy fingers in Mole's Town. "It was men like Baelish who betrayed her...all because she's not a man. Men like me who failed her, as well."
"And it's men who would win her crown back for her, this Dayne boy," his father said quietly, a sign that he was thinking more than he was speaking, "he's got some promise to him."
"Promise? In battle, yes. But I'd wager it's not Edric Dayne who's ordering heads being lopped off for half the lords in all the Reach and Dorne."
"Perhaps not," Tywin said, looking at him reproachfully. "You think me excessively cruel, son? I know you've always judged me, for things you could not possibly understand, before you'd ever been born. Do you think I take joy in ordering what needs to be done? A death is a death, it's all the same to those who die. But whether it's done for a purpose...or just out of passion...stupidity, lack of restraint..."
"Yes, there's a difference," he interrupted, "you murdered the Castameres and Tarbecks and Targaryen babes for the greater good, we all know that."
A harsh glare, and Tyrion knew he'd gone too far.
"What of my dearest sister?" He laughed lightly, trying, despite his best judgment, to appease his father after his latest insult, which he hadn't meant, but he could hardly control. "I wouldn't be surprised if Cersei ends up her Hand when all of this is said and done. You should be glad, father, a Lannister ruling the Hightower, another Lannister the bridesmaid to the Lady of Highgarden."
If only you knew just how Lannister they are, by the Gods, you refuse to see it.
The author to the greatest massacres before the era of Sansa I Stark grunted. So he was glad of it, though his father would never admit it, any pride he'd feel for any of his own blood, even Jaime for the matter.
"It's misguided, but she's young, I can't fault her thinking." Suddenly the claws of his father came for him. Tyrion read carefully the letter, his breath ragged by the end.
"She wants to meet." He said this not as a question.
Cocking his head, Tywin Lannister did not answer. Instead, he rose, took the letter from his son's outstretched hand, and cast it into the fire.
"Surely you're not going to do it."
"Surely you won't say a word."
Tyrion stood too, and tried his best to face his father eye to eye. "The business with Samwell was tricky enough...but you must know the consequences of what they'd do to you, a Lord Commander of the Watch abandoning his post, if you gamble on this and lose!"
Again, his father didn't bother to reply him, and why did he even care, he asked himself. Tyrion mulled over his choice of words...because surely the man who'd waited until the last second to sack King's Landing was not one to wager his everything on a failed toss of the coin. Unless Tywin Lannister had long passed the age to know any better. Or care himself.
