3271

The bandage pressed tight to his nose itched, and it was all Tyrion could do to avoid scratching it. Scratching it will not help it heal, Maester Pycelle had admonished. Not that it would do much good for the wound to heal, for it never truly would. Last Tyrion checked, one could not regrow a nose. He wrinkled his nose, or rather what should have been his nose, in a failed attempt to relieve the itch but it only pulled at the tight skin. He grimaced.

Any other time, Tyrion might make an attempt to distract himself from the discomfort with wine. But his father was displeased enough as it is, and he always looked down on Tyrion's drinking habits. No, it would be best not to further draw his ire, at least not at that particular moment.

In the absence of wine, it was the itch or his sister's dramatics, and Tyrion much preferred the itch of an absent nose. Of course, it wasn't merely an absent nose. The gash cut across from his brow to his chin and, had he been any luckier, Ser Mandon might have cleaved his face entirely in half. His sister's doing to be sure, but what proof did he have? Father wouldn't believe me even if I did have proof.

The extent of the wound was no matter. It was his nose, or lack thereof, that itched the most. It was not an itch sated by a scratch over the bandage, either.

The itch crawled deep under his skin, beneath the thick scab that crusted over the gaping wound and between the thread Maester Pycelle had used to stitch what little flesh was left back together. Nothing short of clawing the scab from his face, peeling the crusted pus and fluids and ripping the stitches and bandages and dried poultices away would relieve the itch. The itch even wormed its way in his nightmares, where it took the form of vile beetles which burrowed deep into his face.

Mayhap the itch would have been relieved had Tyrion received at least some recognition for what he'd done for the city. He'd saved them all, didn't they realize? Stannis Baratheon and his fleet would have taken King's Landing and all of its stinking rats had Tyrion not ordered a chain boom constructed, had he not thought to use the wildfire. There would not have been a city for his father to save, had it not been for Tyrion.

And what had they given him? Nothing, and he'd been left with nothing. He was no longer Hand of the King, nor did he posses the fine chambers which came with it. Instead, he'd grown even more grotesque than he'd been before. Not even lame Lollys would take him now. No, my face will frighten her more than it did before.

In the two weeks since the battle, Tyrion had heard nothing of his efforts. Granted, he had spent most of that time abed, recovering from his wounds. But no mention, no gratitude had been given even when he emerged. Well, perhaps that is not fair. Varys acknowledged it.

"Tyrion. Are you listening?" Tyrion absently brushed a hand over his bandage and surfaced from the depths of his mind. His father glowered at him from across the table, and his sister simmered from where she stood behind him.

"He's not listening, he never listens. Had he listened we'd not be in this mess in the first place," Cersei said. She resumed her pacing, and Tyrion grit his teeth. Her feet scuffed against the thick Myrish carpets, and it was all Tyrion could focus on. The sound overwhelmed the otherwise silent small council chamber and made his skin crawl.

Empty save for himself, his father, and Cersei, the small council chamber felt much more crowded than it really was. The Lannister banners that replaced the Baratheon ones following King Robert's untimely death swarmed the walls and snarled mockingly down at him, and the stone Valyrian sphinxes which flanked the doors encroached into the already small room. The magnificent tapestries from Lys, Norvos, and Qohor hung on the walls, but even more Lannister banners obscured them.

A pitcher of wine and an empty goblet sat in the middle of the table far out of his reach, no doubt an intentional choice of his fathers. His father sat across the long, oaken table in what had once been Tyrion's seat. Now, Tyrion had been consigned to the opposite end.

Tyrion glared at the pitcher of wine as though he could summon it with just his mind. "How was I to know that Dorne would join with the Starks?"

The entire purpose of betrothing Myrcella to Dorne was to prevent that very thing from happening. And to worm out who remained loyal to Cersei; Maester Pycelle, as it would turn out. A shame his father restored him to his previous post of Grand Maester.

"Dorne hates our family more than anything. You were a fool to think they wouldn't betray us," Cersei answered mockingly.

Should I have seen it coming? Tyrion had not expected Dorne to march to war on their behalf, but he had hoped that the betrothal between Myrcella and Trystane in additon to a seat on the small council would have been enough to at least ensure they'd stay out of the conflict. What could the Starks offer that would entice them so?

Tyrion could not recall a single occasion in the history of the Seven Kingdoms that Dorne and the North allied together in such a manner. As far as Tyrion knew, Dorne detested the Starks nearly as much as they did the Lannisters. It was Lyanna Stark who Rhaegar had passed over Elia for, after all.

Then again, the Starks hated the Lannisters nearly as much as the Martells. Perhaps it was that shared hate that led to such an odd alliance. But then why agree to the betrothal? Prince Doran could have turned down Tyrion's offer, but he'd taken it. For what? For Myrcella as a hostage? They'd made no demands, as the Starks had with Jaime and his Aunt Genna. There was a missing piece to it all, and it ate at him.

Cersei continued to pace and scowl down at Tyrion, and their father watched the two of them intently. "Cersei," he warned, but Cersei only stiffened before resuming her tirade.

"They have Myrcella, and now they have Tommen. I told you to send Tommen to Rosby before Stannis arrived, but you ignored me. Perhaps you wanted this to happen," Cersei accused.

Tyrion bristled. "Despite your best efforts, Tommen was good. Is good. I did nothing to harm him, would do nothing to harm him," Tyrion said. He would trade places with Tommen, if possible. If he's even a hostage in the first place.

"And yet you let the Stark bitch and the Greyjoy take him!" Cersei ceased her pacing and twisted to face him from across the table.

They took him, did they? Tyrion failed to see how the Greyjoy boy could lead Sansa Stark to freedom whilst also forcing Tommen along. And then there was the matter of their escape route. One of Maegor's tunnels. Tyrion doubted Sansa or Theon had known of that passageway beforehand, but Tommen had always loved exploring the keep.

"That's not what Joffrey says happened," Tyrion said. "To hear him tell it, Tommen helped them escape."

With a fierce crack, Cersei smacked her hands down on the table. "Tommen would never!" Her nostrils flared and her lips drew back in a rather unflattering manner, and Tyrion almost found it humorous. "He would never betray me in such a way!"

"To hear Ser Meryn and Ser Boros tell it, Tommen fled and Joffrey ordered them to kill all of them. Joffrey says the same. Is Joffrey lying? Or is he mistaken? Which is it, Cersei?" Tyrion jeered.

Cersei's face purpled and she swept a hand out to grab an empty goblet, but their father was quicker. He wrenched it out of the way and set it on the other side of him with a thunk. "Enough," Tywin said. "Cersei, sit down."

"I don't wish to sit," Cersei spat. Tywin said nothing and only continued to peer at Cersei. She heaved a breath and her face returned to a normal color, and she caved and took the seat to Tywin's right.

Their father cleared his throat. "Joffrey was mistaken in his anger and grief. Theon Greyjoy stole Tommen when he came for Sansa Stark and set Jory Cassel upon Joffrey. That is what happened," Tywin said, his tone brokering no room for dispute.

"And what of Ser Meryn and Ser Boros? Were they also mistaken? I'm not sure that word of the King ordering his own brother dead would bode well for your new alliance." His father fixed him with a forbidding glare, and Cersei whipped her head between the two of them.

Varys had been one of the few people to visit Tyrion in his sickbed, besides the squire his father had placed in his service. Poor Podrick. A cruel jape. On one such visit, Varys had told Tyrion all about how his father had ridden in with the Reacher lords at his back and claimed the victory for himself.

House Hightower, Redwyne, and Tarly. New alliances which might have won them the war, had Dorne not awoken from its slumber. New alliances which might yet shatter, if Joffrey continued as he had. Who would want to declare for yet another mad king?

"What new alliance?" Cersei demanded. She stared sharply at both of them, annoyance writ large across her face at being left in the dark.

Their father's eyes remained trained on Tyrion, silent and cautious, as he spoke. "Really sister. Did you think father would have secured the aid of the Reach without some sort of deal being struck?"

At the mention of the Reach, Cersei's face pulled into a sneer. "The Reach. The Redwynes, Hightowers, and Tarlys you mean. You can hardly call that the Reach when the Tyrell's remain holed up in Highgarden, or wherever they ran off to. You don't think it odd that the Tyrells would let their bannermen join our cause while they sat behind?"

Truthfully, it did strike Tyrion as odd that the Tyrell's were still nowhere to be found. They always had been ambitious; according to Varys, it was Loras Tyrell who convinced Renly to claim the Iron Throne as his, and the Tyrell's had wasted no time in marrying Margaery to him. So why sit back now, when theycould have saved King's Landing and place Joffrey and Tywin in their debt?

Yet again, they'd found themselves on the losing side of a rebellion. First the Targaryens in Robert's Rebellion, and now Renly. Mayhap they merely wish to avoid supporting another failed claimant.

"It does not matter," Tywin said. "The Tyrell's will come to their senses and declare for Joffrey. If they fail to do so, we will make them see sense once we defeat Robb Stark. They won't have much of a choice once our alliance with three of their principal bannermen is secured."

For all Tyrion despised Cersei, his sister was not a fool. Not completely, anyway. Understanding gleamed in her eyes. She tensed and addressed their father with a burgeoning fury. "And how do you mean to seal this alliance?"

"Joffrey will marry Desmera Redwyne, and once Tommen is safely returned, he'll marry Talla Tarly." A silence which buried the room chased their father's words. Tyrion watched eagerly as rage crackled across Cersei's face, and her jaw clenched so fiercely he could almost hear it.

"No," Cersei said. The word was barely more than a sigh, yet it did all the damage of the roar of a lion.

Their father raised a brow. "No?" Tyrion's gaze darted between his father and sister and he forced himself to remain still.

Cersei's hands curled into fists. "Tommen is too young. And we are at war. Joff cannot afford to be distracted—"

Their father had never been generous in his patience, and he swiftly put an end to Cersei's objections and spoke over her. "You do not get a say in this. It's done."

"Joffrey cannot marry that Redwyne girl," Cersei hissed. Her hands flattened against the table, and her nails dug into the wood. A smile tugged at Tyrion's mouth, but he stifled it.

"He will. And Tommen will marry Talla Tarly once he is safely recovered. If we manage to retrieve Myrcella before she is married, I will arrange a suitable match for her. It is high time they were married. You've been remiss in that." The delight that came with watching their father chide Cersei in such a way overpowered any attempt to keep his face impassive, and a smirk split Tyrion's face. It stung his wound, but his father's next words numbed any pain. "It is time you remarried. You've had your time to mourn."

"Remarried?" Cersei's eyes flashed, and her voice cracked like a whip. Tyrion hid a snicker behind his fist, but it did not escape Cersei's notice. She flashed a poisonous glare in Tyrion's direction. But for once, he did not care.

"Yes, remarried. I had thought to propose a match with Prince Oberyn, but that is no longer an option. Lord Greyjoy may soon be in need of a new wife, and Lord Crakehall's son has yet to marry." The mocking smirk that cracked Tyrion's face finally caught the attention of their father, who fixed him with a reproving frown. "And you, Tyrion. I've let you have your fun with your wine and whores, but it's past the time you should have married."

Married? His father had made no secret of all the failed attempts to secure him a betrothal. Yohn Royce, Leyton Hightower, Lord Florent, they all refused him. Tyrion was more curious than anything as to who had finally settled for Tywin Lannister's shame. "Pray tell, who will be blessed with me for a husband?"

"Should the Tyrell's surrender peacefully, a betrothal between you and Lady Margaery will be secured. A reward, for loyalty to the Crown." Or a punishment for daring to refuse to kneel to Joffrey in the first place. Cersei's sneer mirrored Tyrion's previous one until it was once more washed from her face. "Jaime will be made to see sense as well. This Kingsguard nonsense will come to an end. Joffrey will dismiss him, and he will marry Ser Baelor's daughter, Ceryse Hightower."

If the news of her own impending betrothal infuriated her, the news of their father's plan to marry Jaime off sent wildfire surging through her veins. "I will not marry, and Joff will not dismiss Jaime. He is the King, not you," Cersei spat.

"And I am his Hand. If he is wise, he will listen to me." Their father's words sounded more a threat than anything, and Tyrion almost hoped Joffrey would disobey Tywin. The realm would be far better off with Tommen as King. But would his father stoop low enough as to commit the sin of kinslaying? No, most likely he'd command a man to do the dirty work for him, as he did with Elia Martell.

Cersei's chair nearly tumbled backwards as she shoved back from the table and her skirts flared behind her as she stalked towards the door. Tywins' demands for her to return fell on deaf ears and without a backwards glance, Cersei wrenched open the door. She let it fall shut behind her with a harsh clatter that reverberated through the room.

The following silence buzzed in Tyrion's ears, and the chain of golden, linked hands shimmered around his father's neck. My chain. Resentment smoldered deep in Tyrion's stomach, but he suppressed it as best he could, in favor of the matter at hand.

Desmera Redwyne and Ceryse Hightower. The realms latest in the line of doomed ladies. Tyrion doubted Joffrey had it in him to be any gentler towards Desmera Redwyne than he had poor Sansa Stark, and once Ceryse Hightower married Jaime, she would not be long for this world if Cersei had anything to do with it. It was nothing short of a miracle that Cersei had not done away with Shaena, gods rest her soul. Someone ought to warn her that his sister has already claimed Jaime. Then again, no one had warned Shaena.

"Is Lady Ceryse not a bit young?" Tyrion quipped. "She's barely older than Alysanne. Certainly she won't be pleased to marry a man old enough to be her father."

A shadow settled across Tywin's face and he worked his jaw. "I had planned to have Alysanne married to Baelor Hightower's son Dorian, once Robb Stark was taken care of. But I fear that she has passed the point of atonement, and we need this alliance with the Hightowers. Younger girls have married older men, and she is of age."

My sweet niece. If only she could know the madness that had overtaken Joffrey when word of Casterly Rock's fall reached the Red Keep. Not even Tywin could have spared poor Sansa that beating. Cersei hadn't even bothered to try, though Tyrion wondered if she'd even wanted to on that occasion.

Tyrion couldn't find it in himself to reach that level of anger. If anything, the news had sparked a mild amusement. No one had ever taken the Rock, not since Lann the Clever if the legends were true.

"Did you ever find out how Alysanne took the Rock?" Tyrion resolved to ignore the pointed, disapproving glare of his father as he reached across for the pitcher of wine. "It's not an easy keep to take. Is there traitor amidst the household?"

Tyrion searched the table for an empty goblet and stretched to grab one from the center. His father only watched him pour the wine as he said, "Maester Creylen isn't certain. He's heard talk amidst the Stark men left there of a passageway." A bit of wine spilled on the table as Tyrion froze. He set the pitcher down, though the goblet was only half filled. She couldn't have. "Most likely, a man of ours turned cloak."

All at once, the conversation Tyrion had with Alysanne the morning following her wedding engulfed his mind, and her conquest of the Rock was no longer so amusing. He'd told her everything. The humiliation of being tasked with the sewers, his petty revenge against his father. He'd even told her of the small boat he kept stashed away in the small opening, on the side of the Rock which faced the sea. Easily accessible, at low tide.

A sharp ache emanated from deep within Tyrion's chest, and he bit his cheek. Perhaps he should not have been so blindsided by Alysanne's use of a seemingly innocuous story he'd told her. After all, she'd made it clear whose side she'd taken, and he was just her imp uncle. Yet betrayal still lingered, a faint bitter taste in the back of his throat.

In a feat which even the most skilled mummer would be in awe of, Tyrion schooled his face into one of passivity. "What do you mean to do with Alysanne?" Tyrion asked. What will be my fate, once you learn of my part in this?

His father gave a slow shake of his head and picked up a folded letter which sat on the table in front of him. The wax seal faced down to the table, and Tyrion could not make out the sigil. "I've yet to decide. She might return to the Rock with Jaime and remain there. Joffrey will no doubt want her executed."

Or worse. Tyrion had seen firsthand what punishments the boy doled out to Sansa Stark for merely being the sister of a traitor and the daughter of an accused one. Alysanne had, in no uncertain terms, betrayed their family. Even her marching alongside Robb was certainly enough to condemn her in Joffrey's eyes. But taking our ancestral seat on the North's behalf? Tyrion thought it might be better if she never returned at all.

"If we're lucky, his new Queen will temper his worst impulses," Tyrion said with a sardonic slant of a grin. His jape only resulted in a thin press of Tywin's mouth, and Tyrion resumed filling his goblet. "Speaking of which, I thought cousin Daven was to marry Lady Desmera."

His father tracked the goblet of wine as Tyrion lifted it and took a sip, and he narrowed his eyes. "He was. Other arrangements, however, took precedence. He'll be married in the coming moons. Sooner, if all goes to plan." Tywin's gaze fell to the folded letter in his hands, before he returned his attention to Tyrion. "Lady Desmera is already en route from the Arbor. She and Joffrey will be wed upon her arrival."

Carefully, Tyrion set his goblet back on the table. "That is rather soon, is it not? If you mean to keep the Redwyne's from learning of Joffrey's… proclivities, I wouldn't bother. Word travels fast, and Joffrey is not exactly adept in the art of discretion."

The unfortunate business with Lady Sansa had gone on so long that Tyrion would be shocked if word hadn't reached the Wall. And then there was the incident with the whores. Tyrion had attempted to keep that under wraps, but small folk did like to gossip.

His words earned Tyrion yet another unimpressed glower from his father. "Joffrey will not continue thus. Cersei long ago proved herself incapable of reigning the boy in, and you should have kept Joffrey on a tighter leash." Tywin tapped a finger on the table and spared a glance around the chambers. "Joffrey and Sansa Stark should have been wedded and bedded moons ago. Lord Redwyne wished to wait until after the war to see Lady Desmera wed, but I won't have a repeat of the folly with Lady Sansa. They will be wed now, or they won't be wed at all."

Tyrion swirled the wine around in his goblet mindlessly. "That doesn't leave us much time to plan it, nor find the coin. Wars aren't cheap, and neither are weddings."

"I trust you'll find a solution, as the new Master of Coin," Tywin said.

The wound on his face ached, and Tyrion hesitated. "Littlefinger is the Master of Coin." Missing though he was. They'd sent him to Bitterbridge moons ago and the last anyone had heard from Littlefinger had been just after his arrival. He'd been meant to meet with the Tyrell's, and persuade them to the Lannister cause. But just as the Tyrell's had seemingly slipped away, so had Littlefinger.

"And yet he is nowhere to be found, and you've heard no word from him. Seeing as we've received no demands of ransom, he is either dead or turned traitor, leaving his seat on the council vacant. You have a certain cunning. I'm sure you'll find the coin for both Joffrey and Cersei's weddings. Tommen and Jaime too, once they return."

His father's gaze burned hot, and it was all Tyrion could do to not squirm in his seat. Was this the sewers of Casterly Rock once more? Or was this an impossible task that Tyrion was certain to fail? His father would take the first opportunity to send him away. Mayhap he grows tired of waiting and designed a failure of his own.

The intricate carvings which bordered the table became immensely fascinating to Tyrion. Dragons chased lions, stags, and wolves alike, and it momentarily shocked Tyrion that Robert never had it burned. He likely never spent enough time here to notice. "Is this to be my reward, then?"

"Your reward?" Tywin drawled. He regarded Tyrion in the same way a lion studied his prey, but Tyrion did not flinch.

"Yes, my reward," Tyrion retorted. "I saved the city, something which you seem to have taken credit for, or perhaps forgotten."

A vein pulsed on Tywin's forehead and shoulders tensed. "Your brother never once asked for a reward for his victories, because he understood it to be his duty. Once he returns, he won't think to ask for a reward for his sacrifice. Because he's done his duty. What makes you think you deserve one, when you've been drinking wine and fucking whores whilst your brother has endured months of captivity? If you want a reward so badly, consider Margaery Tyrell your reward," Tywin fumed.

Blood roared in Tyrion's ears and all he could see was the crimson of the Lannister banners that shrouded the room. Could he really be so arrogant? Jaime was still locked up wherever Robb Stark had holed him away. And yet his father spoke as though the war was won.

As Tyrion spoke, he rose in his seat and leaned further over the table, meeting his father's scowl head on. "You act as though they have freed my brother. My dear niece holds Casterly Rock, Sansa Stark is on the loose, and it appears Robb Stark is winning, father. So tell me, what is keeping him from sending you my dear brother's head in a gilded box?"

Tywin slapped the folded letter down on the table in front of Tyrion, just out of reach. "Robb Stark may have the upper hand for now, but he won't for much longer. I have my assurances. Jaime will be freed sooner than you think."

Straining his arm, Tyrion reached for the letter. He caught the end of it with his fingertips and slid it closer as he sank back into his seat. He flipped it over to the back.

Blood red wax stained the parchment, and forced into it was a flayed man.