TYRION
Men-at-arms in the livery of House Baratheon accustomed to taking their orders from the old castellan of Dragonstone were plentiful in the castle, so there was little hardship in arranging a conversation. On the eve of the day he had attended Lady Baratheon's court, Tyrion dined in Ser Axell Florent's chamber, which, he noted without surprise, was larger and more opulent than his own.
Almost as soon as Tyrion put down the last succulent leg of lamb he had been chewing on, Ser Axell said, "What would you have of me, my lord of Lannister?"
That bluntness surprised Tyrion. Is he truly so crude, or does he merely want me to think he is? He answered with a smile, "Why, ser, I daresay you know. The question is: what would you have of me?"
Ser Axell rested his hairy face on a hand. "What would I, then?"
Subtle as a hammer, this one. "It is not usual for a brother to inherit his lord brother's seat at your age," Tyrion mused aloud. "Two men stand ahead of you, as well as Lord Alester's daughters, both of whose husbands are strong enough to protect their claims from any… alteration. And of course I would not accuse you of any ambition against your lord brother's heirs. But it is not unprecedented for a younger brother to inherit over his elder when the elder has only one son, without the ghastly toil of violence amidst the family."
He had Axell Florent's full attention now. Candlelight danced in his mismatched eyes as the larger man leant forward.
"It is oft said that before my own ancestor obtained the higher seat of Casterly Rock he was known as Ser Joffrey Lydden; but this is a half-truth, for he was indeed, but only for hours. In truth he was Lord Joffrey Lydden, of Deep Den. But it was desired that Deep Den and Casterly Rock should not be united, and his children would of course have a claim to the Lion Throne. And so, when he became King of the Rock, he forsook not only his name but his original seat. His younger brother, a certain Ser Justin Lydden, became the Lord of Deep Den in his place, and served him leally and ably without any dishonour to his name."
If the castellan were acting, he must be exceedingly skilful at it. Ser Axell pretended to be nonchalant, but Tyrion could see the tension in his arms.
"Do you ever tire of staying here in the cold and the damp and the dark? So many years of leal service, so little reward," Tyrion said. "Consider, then, what I propose for you. You know well your House's claim to Highgarden. I shan't insult your intelligence by repeating it to you. It so happens that Lord Tyrell has much displeased my kingly nephew, who, it so happens, is also named Joffrey. He has tied himself tightly to the usurper Renly's cause; most of Renly's strength comes from him; if he wins the Iron Throne for his unborn grandchild he will do it by stepping over my nephew's corpse, and that is a treason House Lannister cannot forgive. I am Hand of the King. My sweet sister, whose children the Tyrells mean to slay, is Queen Regent. My uncle commands the great host that defends the capital. My lord father commands a greater host still. And my nephew the king is three-and-ten; he will affix his seal as we instruct him. We require a new Lord of Highgarden, ser, and who better than your lord brother…? And if so, I wonder, who may be Lord of Brightwater thenceforth? It may be we'll award it to some valiant knight of no relation to you, one who's served us ably, as the gods know many of them have. If we give him Highgarden I doubt Lord Alester will protest overmuch. But if I speak for you…"
He trailed off. Sometimes, to leave a thing unsaid was the best of ways to say it.
"I see," the stout Florent said. "Truth be, I expected something of this nature. There's just one thing that stands in your way, my lord. You aren't going to win your war."
"Such confidence, ser," said Tyrion. "I fear it may be misplaced. The Stark boy has divided his host in twain, one horse, one foot. The foot he has left with Lord Bolton, the horse with himself, for like many boys he's fond of swiftness and too impatient for a slow march. Neither host is strong enough to defeat the greater one of my lord father. He can defeat them one after another. Lord Stark will not stay long in the west; he lacks the strength to take Lannisport or Casterly Rock. Meanwhile, the riverlords have been dispersed in all directions and Lord Tully sits in Riverrun with the remnants of his strength like a coward; they pose no threat of offence any more. Even were that not so, not all the strength of Stark and Bolton and Tully will suffice to break my lord father's host. Harrenhal is a strong fortress and well-provisioned, and it is not the only one my lord father has occupied. He rules from Harrenhal to Maidenpool and south along the God's Eye then along the Mudwash to the Blackwater. Do you imagine that Lord Stark can defeat such a host?"
"You speak of what may be, my lord," Ser Axell said. "I look to what is, and the truth is, you lions are losing this war. Yes, what you say is true, and it might be you're a better leader of men than your lord father, but that matters nothing. In the world that is, the Stark boy has won two great victories over Lannister hosts, once at Riverrun and once at Oxcross, both of them surpassingly decisive. Whole armies broken, thousands of men slain or put to rout… time was, there were three great western armies, now only one left! I care not for what advantages House Lannister appears to have in this war, or could have if it were to use them properly. If aught, that makes it worse. A House that keeps losing battles from a poor position can be said to be only unlucky. What should be said of a House that keeps losing battles when, as you've verily told to me, its opponent keeps making mistakes and it ought to win?" His words cut like a knife. "Misfortune is poor enough, but from the position you westermen started with, as strong as it was, your failures reek of incompetence."
"I see." Tyrion's lips were thin and pressed tight. I ought never have come here.
"I think you do," Axell Florent said. "I regret to give such a rebuke, my lord, and there's no malice in my heart for you. But sometime, what's plain to see needs saying, or else a clever man can fool himself into not seeing it."
On his way to his bedchamber after that stinging and unproductive meeting, Tyrion felt the touch of a small hand in his pocket. He spun, cursing, but the boy or girl or whoever it was had already fled into the shadows. A moment later, he realised to his surprise that the weight of his velvet purse was still there. Nothing was gone. Fumbling around in the pocket, he noticed a small scrap of parchment.
That made him smile. This may have become interesting.
He gave no sign of it while he returned to his allotted chamber. If it were anything like the Red Keep, Dragonstone's walls could be overflowing with eyes and ears. Once he was at his desk, penning a letter to his sister with a report by the low-burning candlelight, an activity quite unsuspicious, he took the scrap from a pocket and glanced at it.
Before fire. Place of night, it read. If you are wise, you will not be seen and you will not be alone.
Tyrion took the sender at his word. Six of his knights, all born into the same minor House from the crownlands, escorted him into the courtyard of Dragonstone Keep before the break of dawn. He dared neither to send many fewer for fear that the sender might be an enemy, nor to send many more for fear that his purpose might be discovered. The knights had their squires with them, except one, the squire of the knight Tyrion had summoned to his quarters, who had stayed in Tyrion's quarters in Tyrion's clothes after he had left them to call some other knights. A dwarf could never pass for a normal man but he could pass for a child if he were not looked at too carefully, especially when dressed warmly for the night. If the gods were good, Ser Axell Florent's men believed that the brothers and cousins of House Stockford were going on a visit together and had not the faintest notion that Tyrion had left his bedchamber at all.
The sender, who it was plain to see had been worried that the message might be intercepted, had been clever enough to use two meanings at once. A reader who missed it might think that the 'place of night' was a brothel, especially given Tyrion's reputation, but if 'before fire' were included in the phrase then its true meaning became clear: the place where Aegon the Dragon had stayed, the night before he went to conquer Westeros with dragonfire.
The gates to the Conqueror's Sept were rendered in the shape of two rearing dragons, their teeth and claws so intertwined in the centre that it looked impossible for them to smoothly separate when the gates opened, and yet they did. It was not a large sept—there were dozens in the vast breadth of Casterly Rock and many of them, not just the elder one, were greater—but save perhaps for the Great Sept of Baelor, and the Starry Sept which had seated the High Septon before Aegon's Landing for the gods only knew how many years, Tyrion had to admit to himself that he had never seen a sept which surpassed it in magnificence. The Conqueror's Sept was wrought of the same black-and-bright stone as the rest of the castle, with windows of marvellously smooth and detailed images from the Seven-Pointed Star formed from a dazzlingly delicate array of every imaginable shade of coloured glass. The black-and-bright ceiling was high and vaulting and the floor was covered with mosaics. At this time, the Keeper of the Conqueror's Sept, who Tyrion had heard went by the name of Barre, was still asleep. Some lesser septon, a beardless fellow who could not have seen more than fifty namedays, was humming early morrow prayers to his silent congregation, most of whom were folk of the Faith themselves, while the overpowering scent of incense and the soft sweet voices of the choir-boys filled the air. They made no move to acknowledge the presence of the knights and squires from King's Landing, though they must have noticed they were there.
Small though it may have been compared to the realm's greatest septs, the Conqueror's Sept was nonetheless too large and too full to recognise the sender with ease. Tyrion had little idea where to go for a while until he recalled his earlier thought. Double meanings! 'If you are wise, you will not be seen and you will not be alone' sounded like nothing but a warning, but… if you are wise… if you are wise… wise… wise… that could mean something else as well. The one of the new gods most closely associated with wisdom was no god at all, but a goddess.
Tyrion left the great central hall of the Conqueror's Sept and headed to the statue of the Crone, which, following tradition, stood at a corner between two of the sept's seven outer walls. The sculpture was exquisite, carved from the masts of the ships that had carried the exiled Targaryens from Valyria to Dragonstone. The Crone's eyes were made of pearl and her long hair shone with silver, but the statue was otherwise plain, though wrought with extraordinary skill; it was as if a real elderly woman had been turned to oak. It made for a striking contrast with the Lion Sept in Casterly Rock and the Great Sept of Baelor in King's Landing, both of which were full of marble and gold.
There was nobody there, save for the acolytes.
"What do we do?" one of his knights hissed at him.
"We're in a sept. What do you think?" Tyrion whispered in reply. He knelt before the Crone's altar and muttered some words about granting victory to King Joffrey and success to their delegation.
He remained there on his knees in silent prayer until one of the true squires nudged him with a quiet "My lord—!" Tyrion looked up and saw a cloaked woman entering the Crone's hall, with a knight at either side. She was approaching them, her eyes flicking between the knights.
Tyrion rose and drew near to her. He allowed his hood to droop, just for a moment, and spoke under his breath: "A good morrow to you as well, my lady of Chyttering."
Danelle Chyttering, Lady Regent of Fenmouth, almost jumped. She drew nearer, and knelt by Tyrion's side, before the Crone's altar.
"My lord of Lannister," she said in an answering whisper. "I apologise for the furtive nature of this meeting but I had little choice if I wanted to speak with you discreetly. All the servants in the rest of the keep are used to following the castellan, and I assure you he reports everything of interest that they hear to his niece."
"I confess myself unsurprised at that," said Tyrion, still speaking softly. "May I take it that you have a request to make of me?"
"I do, my lord, but 'tis not for these ears."
Tyrion flicked a hand. "Do not go far."
Once the six knights of House Stockford and five squires were an acceptable distance away, as well as Lady Chyttering's own escorts, they could speak in peace at the feet of the Crone.
"What would you speak of, my lady?" Tyrion asked. He was surprised to hear from her. In addition to what Lady Velaryon had said, her House's seat was mid-way up and on the western coast of Massey's Hook. The Chytterings of Fenmouth were even closer to the stormlands and thus to the heart of Lord Renly's power than the Bar Emmons of Sharp Point, whose behaviour seemed to be governed by their fear of Lord Renly.
"My husband fell outside Storm's End, my lord. So did his brother, the old Lord Chyttering. He and old Lady Chyttering were very close. She threw herself into the Fenflow when she heard of the deaths of her husband and son, the silly fool; she won't do any good with her body in the river. The truth is, her son isn't dead. Lord Renly sent us another raven to say that Little Lucos survived the battle and was taken captive, though wounded severely. He seeks no ransom in gold; he demands that we bend the knee."
"I see," said Tyrion. "But you won't, will you?"
"Will I?" There was a playful lightness to her voice, but nothing frivolous whatsoever in those bright blue eyes.
Tyrion took a guess and drove it in like a dagger. "You do not fear Lord Renly will kill Lucos Chyttering," he said. "You fear Lord Renly will spare him. For if he returns, how will Fenmouth fall to your son?"
"You are skilled in this game." A smile lit Danelle Chyttering's fair and lovely face. "I knew you were the type for it." For a moment Tyrion wondered at that, then: But of course. The riddle. "These are my terms, my lord. Support my little Rickard as the Lord of Fenmouth over his grown cousin and Fenmouth is yours. If you do not…? Why, then I shall join my dear Lady Brienne, who shall doubtless be surprised and delighted to see me, and I will endeavour to persuade my liegelady against you. But we have no need for such unpleasantness. If I help you to achieve what you desire for your nephew, you will help achieve what I desire for mine."
His death, you mean. "I see," Tyrion said. "My lady of Chyttering, you remind me deeply of my sweet sister."
Lady Chyttering was still smiling. "I am sure she's grateful for the compliment, my lord."
"You have my word, and the word of House Lannister," Tyrion said with a slight sigh, "if I have yours to speak for me, to the best of your ability. I would like to have two friends of significance among Lady Selyse's bannermen, rather than one."
Lady Chyttering clasped his hand and looked to the goddess's statue. "I will," she solemnly swore. "But I am afraid you are mistaken. You only have one."
"Then you have my apologies for calling you a friend."
"Oh no, my lord, you need not. We are friends." Lady Chyttering gave him another beautiful smile. "'Tis Helicent Velaryon who is not your friend and never will be when she speaks in private, no matter what she claims in public. Let me explain to you as to why."
Tyrion wondered whether there would be any honesty in this account. Lady Velaryon had been born into House Bar Emmon, and the Houses from the north and south of Massey's Hook had hated each other for thousands of years.
"It is not for nothing that each Lord Velaryon calls himself Lord of the Tides. They have always viewed themselves as the rightful masters of the Narrow Sea Houses of Westeros, second only to the royal Houses, the stags and before them the dragons. In his time of life, my lord goodbrother kept eyes and ears on Dragonstone, as every lord of sense did. A frequent visitor to the Lady Shireen was young Monterys Velaryon. They are of an age, or near enough to it, and Lord Stannis had no other child. If the Velaryons could achieve it, Dragonstone and Driftmark would be united in the next generation. Such a force would put their old Celtigar rivals to shame, and give them mastery over the other Houses of the Narrow Sea unto the end of time."
Tyrion could see at once why that would make Lady Velaryon oppose a royal marriage for Lady Shireen. If she seeks to thwart me, why would she…? But of course. "And she speaks in favour of alliance," he said, "because she cannot reveal to her liegelady that in her advice she is so flagrantly pursuing the ambition and interest only of her own House, not for Lady Shireen."
"Indeed," said Lady Chyttering.
"But I spoke with her," Tyrion went on, "and she spoke of the threat of her lord husband's half-brother, Aurane Waters. What do you have to say to that?"
"Aurane? I'm afraid that is a transparent lie. His humours run hot; he would be quite appalling as a cold-hearted schemer. He is often cruel to other men, but he always seemed fond of his lord brother and especially his nephew, now Lord Monterys. He's spent more time by far with the boy than his father did. Indeed, he and Monterys and Lady Helicent are so close, 't has often whispered that mayhaps Monterys is not Lord Monford's son at all."
"And what proof do you have of this?"
"Ask anyone who has ever laid eyes on them together. There are hundreds on this island. Aurane Waters may not be the manner of man for an outside man to trust, but he would never raise a hand against his family."
"I will," Tyrion vowed. "But one thing you have said makes little sense. Why should Lady Velaryon argue for me? What if, on the strength of her support, Lady Baratheon agrees on the marriage after all?"
"Why, my lord, you think my liegelady will agree?" Lady Chyttering laughed softly. "I will do what I can, of course, but that she did not foresee; and she does not expect my liegelady to agree. She dares support you only because she is confident that you will fail. The moment she believes that you may not—mayhaps as soon as I support you—I assure you, she will change her tune swift as the wind."
And isn't that a grim thought? The Velaryons of Driftmark were the mightiest of Selyse Baratheon's vassal Houses, unmatched by any other since the desertion of House Celtigar. It was never bad to have information, but in a way Tyrion almost wished that he had not come. Since the meeting at Lady Baratheon's court yesterday, he had at least had the consolation that House Velaryon was on his side. It may be that Danelle Chyttering, cold and treacherous, was his ally now… but she was hardly a woman to depend on, and every other person of significance on this godsforsaken island was arrayed against him.