TYRION
It was a pleasure to be on the other end of this spectacle. Tyrion lounged in his chair in the stands at the side of the Great Hall of Dragonstone—hardly a seat of honour, far as it lay from Lady Baratheon's high chair, but at least a comfortable one—as he watched the newly arrived petitioners come through the central space of the vast dragonlike hall towards the Lady Regent of Dragonstone.
The new visitors were hardly the picture of manly vigour. Five of them could walk, one of whom was still a slender youth who must not have seen five-and-twenty namedays and another of whom was even younger and had a face covered with hideous warts and pimples. The sixth was an old man of such great girth that he had to be carried in a litter.
As they approached the high chair, the handsome silver-haired young herald proclaimed, "Lady Selyse Baratheon, born to House Florent, Lady Dowager of Dragonstone and Lady Regent of Dragonstone for the Lady Shireen Baratheon!"
When they had been summoned into her presence, the visitors had been named. One of the able men was Ser Helman Tallhart, Master of Torrhen's Square, who in any of the Seven Kingdoms but the north would have been titled a lord, and held lands greater than many with that title. The fat old man on the litter was Wyman Manderly, Lord of White Harbour, with a stream of other titles. Of the four who shared a look, the two young men were Edwyn Frey, the tall thin one, and his younger brother Petyr, the warty one. They were the first- and third-born sons of Ser Ryman Frey, the heir to the Crossing. As the middle brother and their father were with the Young Wolf ravaging the west, the elder kinsmen accompanying them were their father's half-uncles Jammos and Whalen, of that same House.
Perhaps to other eyes it could have been an impressive delegation. But the Freys, though one of the most powerful Houses that were not called Great, were looked down upon for their low birth. The Houses of the Narrow Sea, most of them poorer than House Frey in gold but richer in ancient ancestry than the mere six-hundred-year lineage of the Lords of the Crossing, were especially prone to such contempt. The Tallharts and Manderlys were more respected lines, but, all told, this delegation paled compared to a Hand of the King who was also the king's uncle and of a Great House in his own right, House Lannister. And, more importantly, Lady Selyse's face had been even more pinched than usual since she had heard that Jammos and Whalen Frey had come here styling themselves as King Robb's goodbrothers.
What lunacy occurred on the Young Wolf for him to send Freys to Dragonstone? It was an insult, in a way. Due to the Clash of the Stags, Lord Frey had more men-at-arms by far than Lady Baratheon. Surely all here knew it. And it was almost rubbing in Lady Selyse's face the lack of the most obvious choice for an alliance with Robb Stark. But Tyrion supposed the boy might have had little choice. Alternatively he could have sent only Tallhart and Manderly, and a delegation of only two Houses of significance, neither of them related to a Great House, would be even less impressive than this one.
Still, it did not escape Tyrion's notice that Lady Selyse had no sheathed sword in her lap as they entered, nor that they had been allowed to enter as a larger group than he, though not with even close to their entire retinue, lest they overshadow the display of power by their hosts. Those were ill signs indeed, in light of what he knew of how some in Lady Selyse's court already looked with favour on the prospect of an alliance with House Stark.
"My lady of Baratheon," Lord Manderly began, "greetings."
"Greetings, my lord," Lady Selyse replied.
"My lady, I bring word from His Grace Robb of the House Stark, King in the North and King of the Trident. I have a letter here from His Grace the King under his seal, to assure you that my companions and I are entrusted by his express will with the right and responsibility to speak in his name."
The letter was presented to Lady Selyse, who duly read it as she had read Tyrion's from Joffrey more than a fortnight ago, and there was a round of gifts to the lords and ladies of the Narrow Sea. Tyrion was interested to hear Jammos Frey call the white-haired Lord of Swirlstone "my good lord grandfather". It took a moment to recall that Lord Jon's daughter Annara was the latest Lady of the Crossing to be survived by Walder Frey. By his age, which must have been near hers, plainly Jammos could not truly be her son, or else he would have been much too young to be sent on a mission of diplomacy, but even a stepson was kin of a sort. Tyrion supposed it was a small loss, for Jon Farring had already been an opponent, but it was unfortunate nonetheless.
When they had given their gifts to the greatest among the courtiers of Dragonstone, the Stark delegation came to the point. "My lady," said tall, slender, young Edwyn Frey, he who someday would be Lord of the Crossing, "His Grace the King sends his deep horror at the slaying of your late lord husband and his loyal men by the despicable Lord Renly. And I must convey that my lord great-grandsire mourns especially for his valiant goodbrother, Ser Gilbert Farring, and his son and cousin. His Grace believes it fitting for those wronged by the crimes of Renly and Joffrey, more alike in nature than either may prefer to believe, to stand together against both those villains that falsely claim the mantle of kingship."
"The Seven Kingdoms were ungainly welded into one by dragonfire," his great-uncle Whalen said, "and the dragons are dead. Joffrey and Renly alike will fail to hold what should never have been made. But that does not mean we cannot work together. The Kingdom of the North and the Trident extends the hand of friendship to you, my lady of Baratheon, confident of our strength and the justice of our cause and willing to aid you in overthrowing our common enemies."
"The Lannister cause is dead or dying," said Ser Helman Tallhart. "Even as we speak, Renly marches ever-closer to King's Landing. There he and Joffrey will spill an ocean of each other's blood. Meantime, His Grace the King is winning victory after victory in the west. Lord Tywin plays for time around the Trident like a coward, daring neither to relieve King's Landing nor to stray far enough from it to pursue an effective campaign against the riverlands, while His Grace ravages the westerlands. Sooner or later, if he does not die in a failed defence of King's Landing, as he may, he must come to the west's defence. If he does, his army will be broken as so many other western armies have been broken by His Grace the King in his glory and greatness. Once that is done, let Renly march against us, calling himself a king. He will be a king with a depleted army, a king so weak he can scarcely win a battle with horse against foot with four to one in numbers. Such a man stands no hope of victory against a warrior as able as His Grace."
That was an astute choice. Tyrion cursed Lady Selyse's decision to force him to enter the Great Hall alone during his own first audience. The Master of Torrhen's Square was a muscled, hard-faced, battle-scarred northman, an older man with streaks of grey in his hair but still plainly of an age for fighting. Assurances of victory sounded surer, stronger, coming from a man who looked like a warrior. He had dozens of such men among his Lannister retinue, but it had not the same effect from a dwarf. There was no substance to it, of course—it was a trick, a farce, a veil—but tricks would not have been invented if there was no power to them.
"Renly Baratheon chooses to be our enemy, as he is yours," said fat Lord Manderly, with his softer voice, "by seeking what was never his by rights. But the same cannot be said of the Lady Shireen. To you and your lady daughter we propose alliance, not because we cannot triumph without it but because your cause and ours are well-suited to be made one. And we do not propose merely that she remain Lady of Dragonstone, though that is also part of her inheritance. Once Renly is defeated, who should rule the stormlands and the crownlands-that-once-were but the last Baratheon? And when his upjumped Tyrell friends fall with him, who should rule the Reach but House Gardener's true heirs? And when Joffrey and Renly and those who have followed them into dishonour are overthrown, who shall be rewarded in lands and honours but those of noble blood who have fought and suffered and endured against them and proven their loyalty so well?"
Then spoke Hendry Sunglass, Lord of Sweetport Sound, who had inherited his lordship after his cousin's sons, Lord Guncer and Ser Roger Sunglass, had died in the Clash of the Stags alongside three sons of his own. "You speak fairly, my lord," the old man said. "I hope you will speak clearly too. What, then, would you promise to our noble lady and to us?"
"Vengeance," answered Lord Manderly, not only to Lord Sunglass. "Justice, for your fallen sons and brothers and fathers and husbands. His Grace himself seeks the same thing, for his lord father was slain as Lord Stannis was. Lands and honours aplenty, once Joffrey and Renly and their treacherous servants have fallen, as, the gods willing, we shall see soon. And for your lady, the stormlands, and a guarantee of His Grace's friendship which, by a letter that came to me from His Grace, I am permitted to make on his behalf. For the Lady Shireen is of an age with his brother, Prince Brandon, a boy of ancient noble blood: a marriage that could seal our alliance and our friendship for many years to come."
"Fair words indeed," a voice said loudly. Tyrion knew not what he must say, but he knew he must say something, lest the hall be utterly convinced by the Stark delegation's story, delivered without challenge. "I would question only the truth in them." He scrambled for a phrase. "And the truth is, you cannot win this war."
"And who is to ensure that?" said Tallhart, looking at him with contempt. "Dwarfs and whore queens and a tired old man with an already beaten army?"
"My lord father will be so disappointed to hear that he's been beaten and he didn't hear of it," Tyrion said sweetly. "If anything, I have heard the opposite. Or has nobody told you of the Battle of the Banks?"
Tyrion recognised, with pleasure, the briefest flash of fear in Tallhart's eyes. It was gone in an instant. So I was right; they did begin their voyage before they heard of it. "Some minor skirmish."
"No, and I daresay you know better than that yourself, ser," Tyrion replied. "Ten-thousand northmen under Lord Bolton advanced southward to occupy the ruby ford of the Trident. My lord father taught them not to believe themselves equal to a Lannister. Half that number escaped, and even now are besieged in holdfasts beyond the Trident by my lord father. The rest fled or were slain in the rout. Westermen roam the riverlands, ser, and some are even nearer to the Crossing than Lord Walder may like. Perhaps Robb Stark should not have dared send you away."
"A small setback," Tallhart said. "Do not try to baffle us with the dazzle of a single battle, Imp. The full shape of the war is plain to see. Your father must still come to the westerlands and die there or come to King's Landing and die there. You are caught between two armies, both of them stronger than yours."
"But are they?" asked Tyrion. "Your so-called king is trotting around the west with a few thousand men ahorse, too few to threaten Lannisport or the Rock. Meanwhile the lands of the Trident are torn apart. How long do you think the riverlords will remain quiescent, I wonder? Do you expect them to stand still and obey forever, while their homes are taken and their fields burnt?" He twisted the knife. "I know not. Mayhaps you do, if the ironmen's activity in the north is any indication."
He turned to Lady Selyse and spoke briefly and loudly, lest he be cut off mid-phrase. "The Stark cause is a lost cause, my lady. I presume you would oppose being shackled to a corpse."
"Trotting?" said Edwyn Frey. "We have taken great strongholds. Ashemark, for one. My own father had a part in that."
"No doubt you did, young ser, no doubt you did," Tyrion said. "There's just one problem. Two kingdoms have sworn fealty to Robb Stark. Both of them are under attack. He stands in neither of them. How long do you think this can last, before the king of the Trident and the north becomes the king of neither?"
"Long enough for Lord Renly to take King's Landing and stick Joffrey's head on a pike," Petyr Frey replied hotly.
"Enough!" cried Lady Selyse above the argument. "Enough, I say!" Silence fell. "You have spoken as you would. Now tell me: What would you bring to me?"
"His Grace would make your daughter queen," Tyrion said swiftly, "the true queen, of all seven kingdoms. Your grandchildren will be kings and princes and princesses. And she will keep her life, by allying with the only power that has any real hope of vanquishing Lord Renly."
Helman Tallhart said, "His Grace the King, unlike Joffrey, will not make promises he cannot keep. Joffrey will die, and Renly after him. His Grace will be an ally of House Baratheon, as Lord Eddard was before him. And we will give you the stormlands without requiring an alliance with the misbegotten bastard who started this war."
"Aye," Whalen Frey said. "The war and the death of Lord Stannis are the Lannisters' fault. Lord Renly, villain though he is, merely seized upon an opportunity—an opportunity he would never have had, if not for Joffrey. Does any man, in his heart of hearts, truly believe that the deaths of Jon Arryn and Robert Baratheon and Eddard Stark in such swift succession, all benefiting House Lannister, were naught but coincidence?"
"Lord Arryn was an ancient man," said Lady Danelle Chyttering, "and the late king was always fond of hunting, even as he grew, ah, let us say—" Tyrion wondered how such a cold-hearted woman could sound so bashful and demure— "broadly less well-suited to it. At the time of his death he was also in his cups, as was his wont, as all men know. My lord of Frey, I fear that you overstate your case."
Tyrion could have kissed her. Ironically, it was actually true that Robert Baratheon had been murdered, but at least in this, Cersei, though he would never tell her so, had acted well. The idea that a drunken sot fond of hunting and fighting would get himself killed by drinking too much when he was hunting was wholly plausible to anyone who had known King Robert. Whalen Frey's words were perfectly true, but they sounded mad as Aerys.
"I believe I have heard enough," said Lord Sunglass. "My lady, you know I want to believe this alliance can be made, but I fear it cannot. Robb Stark will not bring the Lady Shireen the crown that is hers by rights, and, moreover, he cannot. I wanted to hear a persuasive explanation for how House Stark can win this war in spite of the Battle of the Banks. I have not heard one. My lady, the choice is yours, but know this: I would sooner die than bend the knee to Renly, who slew my Danwell and my Androw and my Perwyn, and if he can be defeated, the House that will defeat him is House Lannister."
"Aye," said Lady Chyttering.
"I think not," said Lady Brienne Bar Emmon. "We have already lost too many of our sons to war. If we fight again, with even fewer menfolk, we will only lose more, and gain nothing."
"Aye," said her goodsister, Lady Helicent Velaryon. "House Stark cannot win this war, but I can no longer blind myself to the truth that I would rather not see; House Lannister cannot either. Even in such a great victory Lord Tywin lost too many. 'Twould be better for us not to fight."
Tyrion took the betrayal with almost languor. To think of it! Conspirator and murderess she may be, for once in her lifetime Danelle Chyttering was being honest.
"I think not," said Ser Axell Florent. "Lord Tywin is master of half the riverlands now. If the riverlords are fool enough to confront him, he'll have the rest soon enough. The Starks are doomed; the Lannisters are in the ascendant. Unpalatable truth it may be to think Lord Renly can lose, my lady, and if so we're all dead men walking; but I tell you, it is also an unpalatable truth that Lord Renly will never allow Lady Shireen to remain alive. However unlikely it may be, we've no choice but to seek to destroy him. The time was, I thought a Stark alliance was the best way to achieve that. Now? I don't think so."
You mean, you now think we're doing well enough in the war to make it worth the risk so that you can get your hands on Brightwater. But Tyrion would be a fool to complain, of him or of Lord Sunglass or of Lady Chyttering or any of them. Support was support, no matter its reason.
"Lord Renly is not such a man as you speak of," declared white-whiskered Lord Farring in his quavering voice. "Foul though he may be, he is no child-killer. The Lannisters are. I say, no."
A hundred retorts sprang from other courtiers, and a hundred more in return, till Lady Baratheon gestured and a loud note of her herald's trumpet brought them all to silence. Court was dismissed, and they filtered out of the great dragon's maw.
Abruptly Tyrion felt the grip of a hard hand on his shoulder. "My lord of Lannister," said a silver-haired knight whom he recognised as Ser Laerys Galenyon, "my lady would speak with you."
"I see," said Tyrion. "I shall be dressed and prepared to dine in her quarters."
"No," Lady Baratheon's knight said, and Tyrion noticed other men-at-arms, spread discreetly throughout the vicinity. "She would speak with you now. Alone."
There was no choice. Tyrion followed the knight through a dark, dank set of passages that somehow led back into a side-chamber of the Great Hall. From there they mounted a long, winding spiral staircase. Tyrion huffed heavily as he climbed each step. It was easy to resent Lady Selyse's serving men, young and strong and whole, whole above all, as they made the ascent while scarcely even sweating. They went past several grim-faced armed guards, one of whom took away anything on Tyrion's person that could be used as a weapon, even an eating dagger of the sort that anyone would have, man or maid. Then, and only then, one of them opened the door.
It was hard not to gasp. Inside the room there was the most magnificent map he had ever seen. Fifty feet long and up to half as wide, it was a map of all of Westeros, but a map like no other. It was not merely drawn. It was painted, and, moreover, it was sculpted. The Mountains of the Moon were mountains. Hills were hills. River valleys were truly valleys, carved inward by the power of the water. And at the precise place where Dragonstone should have been, there was a high seat, no, that was not the word for it, a throne, and enthroned there, there was sat…
Tyrion blinked.
Not Lady Selyse.
A girl.
"Do you like it?" said Shireen Baratheon, trueborn Lady of Dragonstone, looking up from the pages of her book.
Tyrion looked around. The Lady Regent was nowhere to be seen. "It is… marvellously made, my lady."
"It was Aegon the Conqueror's room," Lady Shireen said. "My ancestor. He was here when he planned to take Westeros. But it's really father's room. He likes to work here."
Tyrion had no idea what he ought to say to that.
"He did," said another voice, and for once Selyse Baratheon was welcome.
"You have my condolences, my lady."
"Spare me," said Lady Selyse with an irritable wave of her hand. "There is no use in a lie when both of us know it for one."
He fell silent.
"Your offer is not without merit," she allowed, grudgingly. "I must at least consider it, as sufficiently many of my bannermen desire that I do. And my daughter is the rightful queen."
Tyrion interjected: "Which is exactly why Lord Renly will not leave her be."
"I need not hear such words again!" Lady Selyse snapped. "Do you think I do not know, fool of a dwarf? Do you think I have not always known? No. If so, your mind is as stunted as your body. I was Stannis's wife, I was Lady of Dragonstone. Do you think he did not tell me, do you think me ignorant of what manner of man Renly Baratheon is?"
He knew of no good way to respond to that.
"I do," Lady Selyse said, now more calmly, "and I assure you that you need not tell me at my court to make me fear it. But you see, 'tis not only Lord Renly whom I fear. My lord husband also told me much of Joffrey."
Dread pooled in the bottom of Tyrion's stomach. Oh gods.
"Kittens," she said, almost in a whisper. "Cut from a pregnant cat with a knife by a monstrous child, the manner of child only such an accursed act as incest could conceive. I would save my daughter's life, of course, and I would give her the throne that is hers by rights. But I would rather die at Lord Renly's hand than let her wed a beast."
Tyrion tried to think quickly. If I fail here, 'tis my head Renly may well put on a spike next to Cersei's and Joffrey's. "If that is truly what you believe of my nephew," he said, playing for time, "why did you not expel my delegation as soon as you heard our aim?"
Lady Selyse pointed a bony finger. "Do not play games with me, my lord," she snarled, "for I am utterly out of patience. You know why."
"Because it is not what you want to believe. Because of Renly."
"Yes. Of course." Lady Selyse breathed deeply with frustration. "But for my daughter's sake it is what I must believe, unless you can persuade me otherwise."
Tyrion thought. He could not think too long, though, lest he appear false. "You know how young boys play at war?"
"Of course."
"Well, consider a boy kept carefully by his mother all his life, since she lost her firstborn son. A mother eager to protect him from anything that might harm him. A boy shielded from the sight of blood, even in food, let alone in men. And a boy, at the same time, who hears his father speaking endlessly of his better years being in battle, and the glory of war. Think of what might happen to the mind of such a child. No understanding, not truly, of what death is, what death means. All the while, he's hearing about it as something he should aspire to. He can't refight the Battle of the Trident, as his father always did in his thoughts when the rest of the world proved too complicated for him. He can't fight any battles at all. He is, after all, a boy. But he does want his father, a father sinking into vice, devoid of joy, to notice him. I'm sure you know what even a pat on the head can mean to a small child. What do you think he might do?"
Tyrion's words gained speed, gained confidence. "Why would he have brought the kittens to Robert if it were just pure cruelty? Such a man would conceal his deeds, not bring them to the king. 'Tis because it wasn't; that isn't who he is. No. He brought them to Robert because, as far as he, a child, could understand, it was the only way Robert would approve of him."
"So what happened then?"
"Robert saw the kittens," Tyrion told her bluntly. "He hit the boy harder than I've ever seen him do before or since. Cersei feared he'd killed him. Joffrey has never done such a thing since. He is many namedays older than he then was; and long ago he stopped seeking Robert's approval."
"You are fair-spoken," said Lady Selyse, but there was still caution in her voice. "But your words are always as fair as your form is the opposite. How can I know the tale is true? How can I know Joffrey is the king you portray him as, and not the beast I know him to have been?"
"I have an idea," said a voice that was not Tyrion's or Lady Selyse's.
"Shireen, this is an adult matter, the decision is not for you," her mother told her.
"I rather think it is," said Stannis Baratheon's daughter, lip curled stubbornly, "as it's about me, and I have an idea. Aren't you even going to ask me what it is?"
Lady Selyse sighed. "I brought you here so that you can observe and learn how you should act as a lady in the future, not so that you can make decisions now. Do you even understand what is being asked?"
"Yes," said Lady Shireen, with a withering look, "of course I do, and I know what to do. We want to know whether Joffrey is a beast or not, so I'm going to meet him."
"No!" her mother cried.
"You want to go to King's Landing?" Tyrion asked cautiously.
"I forbid it!"
"When did I say King's Landing?" With flaky black-and-grey stonelike substance covering her neck and half of her face, there was a rather disturbing effect when Lady Shireen Baratheon gave them such an angelic smile. "Now, this is an adult matter, so I wouldn't know about that. But it seems to me that, though we need your army, you need our fleet or else my uncle will cross the Blackwater; and if we don't have your army, we may live here for a few years longer, but if you don't have our fleet, my uncle will kill all of you in a few moons' time. So it seems to me you need us at least as much as we need you. So I'm not going to King's Landing to attend Joffrey in his home. He is coming here, to attend me."