Tyrion looked down on the ball below him, stifling a yawn. He hated these typed of events but had to admit that Sansa had outdone herself. Every dinner, every flower, every decoration, every minute detail had been perfection. The Lady of the Keep, indeed.
Of course, the last week she'd been violently ill every morning and miraculously fine by early afternoon. Only that morning, he'd lay beside her after she'd collapsed into their bed after her morning rush to the privy.
"Love, have you realized what's wrong yet?" he asked gently, pushing her sweat dampened hair back from her forehead.
She nodded, swallowing, and opened her eyes. "We're having a baby," she whispered, smiling slightly.
He'd pressed a kiss to her temple, lingering there for a long while. When he'd finally pulled away, she'd been sleeping. He smiled now, thinking about it. Hopefully, the child would look nothing like him. Perhaps an auburn haired, blue eyed girl, like her mother. Or a son, tall and blonde, that would hopefully look like his handsome uncle.
"There you are, Tyrion," the King said, coming to stand beside him. "Why are you hiding up here?"
"Oh these types of things bore me to tears, Your Majesty," he said cheerfully. "I cannot dance and if I'm down there, Sansa will feel obligated to remain by my side. And she has far too much to do."
"She looks lovely tonight," the King said mildly.
"Yes, she does," Tyrion agreed, as both men easily found her, a vision in a white dress with a silver and white overskirt, her hair trailing down her back in a mass of auburn curls, diamonds sparkling around her neck. "So," Tyrion turned to look at the King. "Have you made your choice?"
The King was silent for a long minute. "Probably Lady Samyra Hawthorne."
Tyrion frowned. "She reminds me far too much of my sweet sister for my tastes." The girl was cunning, and not quite as intelligent as she thought, although she was pretty enough.
"I prefer Jorra Jast," the King said slowly. "But, she isn't the most intelligent of them, is she?"
"No, but she is a sweet girl, warm and kind," Tyrion said. "And certainly the most beautiful of them, aside from Princess Arianne." Who had made it clear that first evening that she had no intention of becoming the Queen, and asked only that the King consider a marriage between his eventual heir and hers, and perhaps that he would consider giving Highgarden to her brother Trystane, as he'd given up Mycella at the King's request. Tyrion advised against it, and the King was inclined to agree. He intended to pass Highgarden – and the title of Warden of the South – to the father of whomever he took as his bride. But he wasn't opposed to offering Prince Trystane a title and land, somewhere far from his father. Perhaps in the North, or the Vale.
"I can't see Lady Jorra arranging this type of event, or overseeing the work Sansa has been doing in the city," the King sighed.
Tyrion was silent for a long moment, watching the dancing couples below them. The subject of their discussion was also easily identifiable, with her raven black hair and porcelain skin. Her eyes were the clear, bright green of emeralds, her nose pert, her mouth small and bow shaped, her figure lush. "Your Majesty," he said slowly. "A wife has the ability to make your life sweeter than the heavens, or more miserable than all seven hells. You are in the unique position of being able to choose your bride without thought for your kingdom. You already have a Lady of the Keep and as long as I'm here, she will be here. And she is thrilled with the work she is doing, and happy to continue it. Choose a bride that is most pleasing to you. I would advise Lady Joraa."
"Surely I should choose a bride who has an interest in something besides music and flowers," the King protested. "Although she is sweet and I do enjoy her company, and she is certainly beautiful, a Queen must be able to serve her kingdom as much as her King does."
"That is a wonderful sentiment," Tyrion said wryly. "However, the last Queen of the Seven Kingdoms was enough to sour most of us on queens for a few lifetimes. No, Your Majesty. A queen who is interested in nothing but music and flowers may be exactly what Westeros needs right now. Should the need for queenly attribution arise, Sansa is here."
The King was silent for a moment. "I suppose," he said quietly. "I'm glad Sansa is feeling better."
Tyrion smiled. "Come morning, she'll be rushing to the privy again. She's pregnant." He was looking down at Sansa and so didn't see the angry red flush that swept the King's face. He did, however, notice his silence and glance at him. By then, the King was smiling.
"Congratulations," he said. "How delightful." His tone said it was anything but.
"Thank you, Your Majesty. We're very pleased." How long would it take for him to get over this? He wondered. The boy was about to marry one of the most beautiful girls in the Seven Kingdoms, surely he should be over it by now, it had been months.
Eventually, the King left him and returned to the ball, leaving Tyrion yawning again and wondering how much longer he'd have to pretend to stay. He knew Sansa was probably looking for him, she did tend to want to stay near him. He knew he should return but he'd rather go to his solar and work.
"My lord, you aren't enjoying the festivities?" Varys asked quietly, stepping up beside him.
"Not particularly," Tyrion said with a smile. "You?"
Varys shrugged. "Your lady has outdone herself. Everything is lovely."
"Yes she has, I am immensely proud of her," Tyrion smiled.
"She would have made an excellent queen."
"Yes, she would. And in many ways, she is." Varys nodded, smiling slightly. "Tell me something, my friend," Tyrion continued slowly, as a thought came to him. "When Robert's Rebellion began, why is it that King Aerys sent his Queen to safety at Dragonstone, but Prince Rheagar kept Princess Elia and his children here in King's Landing?"
"To ensure that her brother would send his support," Varys said. "They needed the Dornish troops to ensure a victory. The King and Prince believed that without his sister's immenent danger as a threat, they wouldn't come."
"Still, it seems he could have done more to ensure their safety," Tyrion said skeptically.
"Perhaps," Varys shrugged. "Why do you ask, my lord?" Tyrion glanced around them. "We are alone," Varys assured him.
"I have to wonder if perhaps Prince Rheagar…didn't mind if his Princess died in the fighting," Tyrion said carefully. "As he already had Lyanna Stark locked in the Tower of Joy. It has always been rumoured that he loved her dearly."
Varys merely shrugged. "Anything is possible, my lord."
Tyrion nodded slowly. "And is it also 'possible' that Prince Rheagar married Lady Lyanna? Targaryens have also been known to take more than one bride."
Varys shrugged again. "Anything is possible."
"Is it 'possible' that Lady Lyanna was pregnant?"
"Anything is possible," Varys smiled.
"And where would that babe be, if it were born? Possibly?"
"Oh, dead. Surely." Varys looked shocked at the thought.
"And you saw this with your own eyes?" Tyrion asked quietly.
"No, but one hears. Walls have ears."
"Did one also hear that at the same time Lady Lyanna's possible child died, Ned Stark appeared with a bastard child?"
"Yes," Varys said slowly, his gaze as sharp as his smile. "A black haired, gray eyed boy who looks strikingly like his father."
"Or his mother," Tyrion said in an urgent whisper, turning to face Varys fully. "Are you saying that it is possible that Jon Snow is the son of Prince Rheagar?"
"Walls have ears, my lord," Varys hissed sharply, then visibly composed himself. "Some things are best left unspoken surely, after all of these years, and on such a happy occasion. Our King is choosing his bride. Surely such depressing things can be forgotten." His voice was pleasant, as was his expression. But his eyes…his eyes spoke other words, and Tyrion heard them as clearly as if they'd been said aloud. A cold finger of fear slid down his spine. Suddenly, Tyrion remembered that Varys was the one who'd arranged his escape from prision, and put him in a crate and sent him to Essos. Varys was the one who'd managed to save the boy King, and coordinate his care and eventual ascent to the throne.
Tyrion smiled, then nodded. "You're right, of course," he said, happily. "The King is choosing a bride, and my own bride is giving me a child. Not a time for depressing bygones."
Varys gasped happily. "Oh, congratulations, my lord! How wonderful!"
Tyrion couldn't stop the grin that spread across his face. "Yes, it is." His gaze found Sansa once again. "It is wonderful, isn't it. Varys," he said as the man made to move away. "Have I ever told you how deeply grateful to you I am? Without your intervention, I would literally be dead. Instead, I am Hand of the King, married to a beautiful woman who loves me and is giving me a child, Lord of Casterly Rock, Warden of the West, and living a life beyond anything I could have imagined. I am forever indebted to you, my friend. Should I ever be able to render you assistance, please let me know."
The satisfied smiled that spread across Varys face was exactly what Tyrion wanted to see. Yes, remember that I am your friend, and can be useful, Tyrion thought. "You are most welcome, my lord," Varys said, before stepping silently away, leaving Tyrion to stare at his wife as he reflected on the true source of power in the Seven Kingdoms.
The next morning Tyrion and the King met with Lord Jast and his oldest son, and made the official offer for Lady Jorra's hand. When he accepted, the King pronounced him the Lord of Highgarden, Warden of the South, and offered him a seat on the Small Council. He also offered Lady Margeary to his oldest son, as wife. "She's lovely and intelligent, and well familiar with Highgarden," Tyrion told them. "I'm sure you'll find her to be a most gracious hostess, and eager to settle down to a quiet life." As Lord Jast's wife had died recently, he knew Highgarden would need a lady. And this would give Margeary exactly what she wanted – to go home. According to both her and Captain Swyft's letters, she was succeeding brilliantly at her task.
Byrun Jast frowned. "That thrice married girl is hardly a prize," he said, his voice tight with insult.
"Thrice married, but never bedded," Tyrion reminded him. "Her marriage to both Renly Baratheon and Jeoffry were never consummated, and Tommen was a boy of ten, theirs was a marriage in name only."
"And she has become a friend to me," the King said firmly. "I offer you an honor, my lord. Lady Margeary has proven herself both resourceful and kind, so much so that I have sent her to perform an errand for me on my behalf. I am eager to see that she is well cared for. If you do not feel that you can accomplish that task, I will find another."
When he'd grudgingly agreed and they'd left, he looked to Tyrion. "If that old man lives to step foot in Highgarden I will be amazed."
Tyrion nodded. "He was a loyal bannerman of my father's," he said. "But he was taken captive during the war. There's no telling what atrocities he endured during that time. But his son is strong and intelligent, and I belive you will find him more than capable. And Margeary will be a good wife to him, and a gracious lady."
As Sansa had already made all of the arrangements, the wedding happened only two weeks later. The bride was blushing and beautiful as her father escorted her in, and the King handsome in his deep purple and black attire. When the vows were said and the wedding feast eaten and the happy couple retired to their room – to much teasing and joking – Sansa and Tyrion walked hand in hand back to their rooms.
"How do feel?" he asked softly.
Sansa shrugged, but smiled. "Fine," she assured him. "Tired. Between struggling to stay away and running to the privy, it's amazing that I've managed to accomplish anything."
Tyrion chuckled. "Yes, I'm told that's normal in the early months. But now that all of this is done, perhaps you can rest a bit."
Sansa nodded, yawning. "A bit," she said happily. "Until the Queen is ready to accompany me into the city." They'd already discussed that she would continue to oversee the castle and work in the city and as Tyrion had assumed, she was happy to do so.
Once in their rooms he left her in Alinor's care – ordering both of them to bed early, as they'd worked extrodinarily hard to arrange everything on top of their work in the city and the keep – and went to his solar. Before the wedding the King had asked if he'd heard anything from the North and Tyrion had assured him that he had not. What he had received was a letter to Dany from Barriston Selmy, asking her to return to Meereen as soon as possible, as the Yunkani'i army were slowly infiltrating the city, and the remains of the Iron Fleet had sailed into the harbor, threatening war for killing the brother of the King of the Iron Islands. He and Grey Worm were struggling to maintain control.
Tyrion sighed as he thought of the brave old knight. He'd urged Ser Barriston to return to Westeros with them, but he'd refused. "I've given my sword to my Queen, and will honor her request to stay here," he'd said stiffly. Tyrion hated to think that the great Barriston the Bold would die in Meereen, but the man had chosen his place. Gathering the letter along with the others that he'd been holding, he bundled them together and dropped them into a drawer. Perhaps he'd send them north, in a week or two. He'd yet to hear from the Wall, or either of the Stark children. He could only hope that no news was good news.