Late February- Late March, 299 AC
Tyrion grimaced as he looked over the crown's accounts. Loan after loan, all with interest to be paid. Either Tyrion had forgotten all he learned in his study of sums, or Baelish had been up to something.
The man had been busy as a bee. Littlefinger wasn't just a magician when it came to breeding golden dragons, but Tyrion suspected he could make girls vanish.
His conversation with Bel a few weeks past had been quite informative. With gold and reassurance that Littlefinger was no longer in the crown's good graces, the Dornish singer had sung like a bird.
And oh, what an interesting song it was. Just after Ned Stark arrived in King's Landing, Baelish had brought him to Bel's brothel to speak with a woman. A lady, Bel said, with long red hair and a Riverlands accent.
It didn't matter whether it was Catelyn Stark or Lysa Arryn. What did matter was that Bel said she remembered the lady because Baelish preferred young redheaded whores. Perhaps he meant to return Sansa Stark to one of the grieving widows to win her gratitude and her hand. Or perhaps he meant to keep Sansa for himself, hidden away forever. Either way, Petyr Baelish had betrayed the crown for his own ends.
It was a pity he couldn't stick Baelish's smug face on a spike. Littlefinger was already dead, knifed in his own brothel. And Tyrion had so wanted to see Baelish's face when Tyrion finally convinced Cersei that Littlefinger had outlasted his usefulness.
With a sigh Tyrion pushed his plate away, the roasted beef long cold. When word arrived of Littlefinger's demise, Tyrion had made straight for the ledgers, sending Bronn to make inquiries at Baelish's brothel. That had been hours ago, and Tyrion set the papers aside, resting his aching head. He didn't dare drink more wine, not with his belly only half full. Unlike Cersei, he had too much work to indulge in drunkenness.
Tyrion had just opened the ledgers for another look, his elbow throbbing, when a guardsman stuck his head in to announce Bronn. Finally. Bronn entered the room with an insolent smile and a ginger kitten. No sooner had Bronn dropped the kitten to the ground then it bounded for Tyrion, hopping up on his lap.
"Bold little beggar, isn't he," Bronn said as the kitten made itself at home, curling up on Tyrion's lap and purring loudly. To Tyrion's annoyance, the sellsword plucked a roll from Tyrion's plate and popped it in his mouth.
"Not near as bold as you. If you'd like to keep yourself in coin, you'll swallow that lump of bread and report what's happened to Baelish." Tyrion's appreciation of Bronn's insolence only went so far. Bronn swallowed, a wolfish smile on his face.
"Half the street was still in an uproar when I got there. You'd think that Baelish was the old mad king, the way the whores smiled to be rid of him," Bronn said. "Bel gave me a kiss as soon as she saw my face, and two girls offered themselves for free."
Tyrion wondered if Bronn had taken them up on the offer. His thin smile looked just a little wider than usual. Tyrion decided he didn't want to know.
"Seems Baelish sold your northern girl's maidenhead to a sellsword named Loram. This morning, Loram come back from the Riverlands to find the girl gone." Bronn chuckled.
"Littlefinger was at the brothel when the man came in roaring for his girl. Baelish offered to return the sellsword's money and give him a better girl for free, but Loram wasn't havin' it. He knifed Baelish in front of a dozen whores before a goldcloak heard the commotion and slew him."
"Did you look into this Loram?" Tyrion asked. Bronn nodded curtly.
"He came back from the Riverlands with some other sellswords. They said he liked 'em young, and he'd been to Bel's place now and then. Though they didn't know anything about him purchasing a girl's maidenhead."
Most men with enough gold to buy a young girl's maidenhead would boast of it. Although... one couldn't steal what one didn't know about. Tyrion rubbed his chin, wincing as his elbow throbbed. The Grand Maester had offered him something for the pain, but he couldn't trust Pycelle, not until he knew if he was Cersei's pet. Perhaps Loram feared one of his fellows would outbid him on the girl. Yet something seemed wrong.
Tyrion stared at Bronn a moment, absentmindedly petting the purring kitten. Bronn claimed he could smell a lie, and Tyrion had no reason to doubt him thus far.
"Did anything Bel said strike you false?"
Bronn shrugged.
"Not especially. Although..." Bronn smiled his dark smile. "If I were a betting man, I'd wager Bel knifed Loram herself. Dornish women know how to use a blade, but the ones who come north don't brag of it."
Tyrion laughed. He could see Bel knifing a man, though not for Baelish's sake. And for it to happen so soon after their little chat...
"You know, Bronn, I didn't think Bel liked our Master of Coin," Tyrion said, shaking his head mournfully. "Why would she slay the man who rid her of him?"
"Mayhaps Baelish wasn't the one who sold Loram the girl."
If ever Tyrion was able to patronize a brothel again without Lord Tywin hanging them all, he would have to give Bel his patronage. Selling a girl and letting Baelish take the blame... Tyrion appreciated such cleverness. At least when it was directed at others.
Though it was a pity some sellsword had gotten the pleasure of killing Littlefinger. Such a fate for a small council member was absurd. If a sellsword had the stupidity to knife Tyrion, Lord Tywin would see the entire brothel dead, along with every member of the sellsword's family. Lord Tywin might not love his dwarf son, but soon as Catelyn Stark laid a hand on him the Riverlands and their rich harvest were doomed. Though that may cause us problems if there's a long winter. But Baelish was not a Lannister. Littlefinger had no family, no friends, no bannermen, just gold, wits, and a silver tongue. And at last all three had failed.
"Bel asked me to send you her thanks, and bid me give you the kitten in the hopes that you might make a gift of him to the little king. Or keep him yourself, since the kitten liked you so much." Bronn rolled his eyes. "She also sent this, for your elbow."
The sellsword set a clay jar on the desk. Tyrion opened the cork to find a thick green salve. He carefully dipped a finger in it. Within minutes the finger was slightly numb. Tyrion smiled. The kitten could roam the castle for all he cared, but the salve was a worthy gift.
"Bronn, how would you like to become a regular patron at Bel's?"
Ser Cleos the clod, Tyrion thought as he watched the exhausted knight sip at a glass of wine, the plate before him already empty. Half-Frey, Half-Lannister, and completely brainless. No wonder Tywin had been furious when Tytos Lannister let Emmon Frey take aunt Genna to wife. Genna was a clever woman, but her son Cleos had none of her wit. He lacked even the low cunning of his grandsire, old Lord Walder Frey.
Given his druthers, Tyrion would rather have that bedamned Stark boy as a cousin. At least the boy was brave. Few boys of fifteen had the stones to lead men like Greatjon Umber into battle. Meanwhile, Ser Cleos, a man at least ten years his senior, could not deliver Robb Stark's impudent terms without trembling like a leaf.
"I was to take these terms to the Queen Regent," Cleos said feebly as Tyrion examined the parchment.
"I'll get them to her, never fear," Tyrion said. "In the meantime, you should rest."
Tyrion mulled over the terms as he rode back to the Red Keep. Cersei would not be happy with the last term. Her hatred of the Stark girl was growing ever fiercer since learning that Baelish had likely helped her escape.
Despite Trant's ridiculous story and the mysterious gold in his chambers, Cersei was now convinced that it was the girl who had shoved Joffrey. When Tyrion had indulged her by asking why she suspected the child, she'd slammed down her goblet of wine and stalked off muttering something about beautiful young queens. Still, her love for Jaime might be enough to stay her hand if the unfortunate Stark girl should reappear.
Perhaps Joffrey's stupidity might be of some use. Eddard Stark's bones would be a good way to begin negotiations. Robb Stark wanted to make threats? Then they'd best remind the Young Wolf what had happened to the previous Lord of Winterfell. Tyrion chuckled to himself. An angry boy was more apt to make mistakes. But how to best rub salt in the wound… he'd have to ponder that.
"No," Cersei snarled as Tyrion stood patiently in her solar, his legs aching from a day of riding.
"Sister, the sooner I send Ser Cleos back to Riverrun, the sooner we can begin to drag out negotiations."
They needed as much time as possible. His chain was only just begun. Ser Jacelyn Bywater struggled to bring order to Slynt's incompetent goldcloaks. And even if the alchemists could make all wildfire Cersei had ordered, as they had sworn to him this morning, it still wouldn't be enough to defend the city from Stark, Renly, and Stannis. Enough to blow the city and all its inhabitants to bits, perhaps, but Tyrion enjoyed living.
Alas, Cersei was sober and angry, and she saw no point in sending Ser Cleos back and forth to buy them time. Their hapless cousin had waited for nearly a moon's turn already, far longer than Tyrion wanted.
The day had begun with such promise, too. He'd tumbled Shae last night, then spent the morning with the alchemists and their "substance." Tyrion had arrived in Cersei's solar feeling pleased with his day's work, only to be immediately ambushed with a slap and accusations of selling Myrcella to Dorne. Pycelle be damned. I'd hoped Littlefinger was her pet on the council. He might have been able to salvage that discussion, if Cersei hadn't glimpsed Robb Stark's most recent letter in his hand.
It was amusing how furious Cersei grew over accusations that were entirely true. Tyrion cared not. He'd known Tommen's parentage a long while, and if Cersei wanted to pretend he didn't, that was her business.
"If you send the boy his father's bones and sword, what's to prevent him from taking Jaime's head?" Cersei snapped, pacing like a lion in a cage, her green eyes blazing. Tyrion frowned.
"The bones and the sword are a threat. Or do you think the boy has forgotten that the last blood on the blade was his father's?"
Besides, if Robb Stark was going to execute Jaime, he'd have done it already. It was honestly a pleasant surprise that one of those bloodthirsty northern lords hadn't overcome the boy king and slaughtered Jaime personally. Ned Stark might have been a fool, but the northmen loved him dearly.
No, Tyrion would take no chances with his brother's dubious safety, not when they didn't have a single Stark as a hostage. By the time Ser Cleos returned with new terms, Tyrion would be ready to send him back with some brilliant escape plan. Not that he'd tell Cleos about it.
"And while Jaime sits in a dungeon, Stark might already have his little bitch of a sister, no thanks to you."
Tyrion thought that rather unfair. Sansa Stark was long gone by the time he arrived in King's Landing. Varys still had no word of a highborn red haired maid, and no one at Bel's brothel knew anything else except that Baelish had been to visit the night the steward's girl disappeared.
"I am doing my best to find her. I remind you, I was not here when she escaped. Even if Robb Stark does find her first, our father still has several of his lords."
Tyrion sighed.
"I'd offer you Littlefinger's head on a spike for losing the other girl, but alas, dear sister, my arms are too short for digging up graves."
And more importantly, Tyrion still hadn't found someone to replace him. Now that might improve Cersei's mood. Ser Cleos could wait a while. For now, he'd best sweeten his tongue.
"Queen Regent," Tyrion said, bowing low. "I've other business to put before you. We desperately need a new master of coin, and as your Hand I beg to know who you deem a worthy candidate to serve our good King Tommen."
Perhaps she'd surprise him by choosing someone competent. Ser Addam Marbrand had arrived just a few days past, and he was now Tommen's favorite companion. Human companion, anyway. The gaggle of kittens seemed to grow ever larger. Tyrion had even spotted the ginger kitten once or twice, curled up in the yard with Ser Whiskers as Ser Addam began to teach Tommen the simplest rudiments of the sword.
Cersei stared at Tyrion, her green eyes thoughtful.
"I shall have to think on the matter," Cersei said, looking pleased. "But as for Myrcella-"
"-betrothals can be broken," Tyrion assured her. "Prince Doran may hate us, but he hates us in peace. He'll not kill a helpless child."
Cersei's eyes narrowed as she considered Tyrion's words. She should thank the gods that Oberyn Martell isn't the ruling prince of Dorne. The Red Viper might decide to thank Tywin Lannister for Elia Martell's fate by making a gift of Myrcella's corpse in a red cloak. Not that the gods had anything to do with it. No, it came down to luck. Prince Doran quietly brooded on his wrongs while Prince Oberyn, lacking the power to make the Lannisters pay their debt in blood, spent his time fathering bastards.
"And when Doran comes to take the council seat, we'll have him as a hostage to guarantee Myrcella's safety," Cersei said slowly. Tyrion smiled.
"See, sweet sister? I think of everything."