When he told Bronn what the princely brothers had planned for him, Bronn idly ran his tongue across his teeth. Tyrion was loath to give the sellsword anything he could not readily get back, but it behooved him to let the seasoned killer ostensibly watching his back in on certain coming complications. Rather uncharacteristically, Bronn remained silent for a time, as if appraising the information just divulged to him.
"Mmm." he finally said.
"Oh, that's demonstrative." Tyrion snapped, pouring a cup of red and pushing it across the table at the sellsword knight.
"Well, what do you want me to do about it?" Bronn asked in reply.
"Keeping knives out of my back would be a good place to start. Rather than ogling the Red Viper's daughters."
"Dressed the way they were, they were aiming to be looked at. Well, the pretty ones, anyway. As for ogling, it were Ser Stiff sat next to me drooling into his bloody soup." The unpleasant prospect of dealing with Ser Arys loomed large yet again. I'll do that today, I need to speak with Myrcella anyway.
"All the more reason to send him away. Should this marriage go through, I don't need some tall strapping Reachman lusting after my wife." Bronn clicked his teeth.
"A toothless cur could kill the white cloak. You'll have more trouble with the snake's squire, that Damon."
"Daemon," Tyrion corrected, a bad feeling brewing in his belly. "What of him?"
"He didn't give the princess a look all evening, not even to peek down her front when she chanced to lean forward. There's likely a bit of awkwardness there, I'll wager. Probably, they used to fuck." Well, that's bloody perfect, Tyrion thought tersely. As if I didn't have enough snakes to dance around. Tyrion half-reached for the wine jug before he stopped himself. If I've proven anything in my life, it's that most any situation can be made worse with the addition of a drunken dwarf. "Anyway, you'd best put your ugly head toward figuring out whatever's really going on down here. This marriage is just a fog bank. If there's a proper storm rolling in, I want to hear of it before it's got its cock in my mouth."
"Oh, relax." Tyrion rolled his eyes. True, Prince Doran had seemed ready to move a deal quicker than Tyrion had learned to expect from the man, but that hardly meant things were moving at any pace remotely unmanageable. "I never expected to have to put a proposal to a princess, I suppose."
"As I recall, you've done it before."
"I proposed to a crofter's daughter and the princess I wedded had just had her family murdered on my father's orders. Not exactly desirable circumstances to emulate."
"Well, whatever the fuck that means, you're still here after all of it, aren't you? You're ugly but you're not blind. Everyone in that feast hall wanted to kill you with their little finger." Tyrion's brain itched at Bronn's words.
"I ought to learn not to ask you for advice."
"Not advice," Bronn amended. "but you've got a bad habit of asking me questions you really don't want answered." Tyrion remembered the night Janos Slynt began his journey to the Wall. The night, too, Allar Deem began his journey to the bottom of the Narrow Sea. Perhaps Bronn was right. The best questions are ones that go unasked, and thusly go unanswered.
His present circumstances stood something like a block of marble in Tyrion's mind. One twice as tall as I, and me with only a mallet and chisel to make some dwarf's mischievous work of it. Well, I'm a small man, perhaps it's best I start small in turn. As he knocked on Myrcella's door, he imagined the chisel's first bites out of the huge white block. That it was Septa Eglantine to answer and not Vylette had Tyrion breathing a bit easier.
"My lord."
"Good morrow, Septa. Might the princess have time for the smaller of her uncles? The bigger, too, when I'm the only one. The septa pursed her lips.
"Princess Myrcella has already risen, my lord. She's gone to join Prince Trystane as she does most days. Ser Arys accompanies her as her sworn shield, of course." She made no mention of the Dornish septa. All the better. A spat between the pious was the last thing he had time for. Events are apace, after all. Septa Eglantine shot a quick glance at Bronn, as unlike handsome, noble Ser Arys Oakheart as was possible to be, and her mouth wrinkled. Haven't you heard any of the songs, Septa? Princesses get tall handsome knights to guard them. We imps must make do with any old common-born killers.
"Well, no doubt I'll turn her up eventually. Thank you, Septa." He took his leave, Bronn keeping up without a second thought.
"Where's Pod?"
"Remember that little talk we had about asking me things you'd rather not know?" Tyrion stopped.
"Is he dead?"
"No, but the way he's bumbling about he'll soon be."
"Go find him and pull him out of whatever he's embroiled himself in, then." Tyrion fought to keep his voice down, made all the harder by Bronn's smirk.
"Eh. Might be shorter arms than mine will need to do the pulling, my lord." He leaned into the last word like a one-legged man leaning on a wooden peg. Tyrion's brow furrowed.
"I'll thank you not to pull my leg."
"I'd have to stoop and more to do that, and I'm more than comfortable up here." The same shit-eating grin he wears whenever he knows something I don't, particularly something he knows I ought know.
"Do you know where he is, at least?"
"Oh, aye."
"Then let's get to pulling Pod out of the muck and quickly. I'll not find another squire content to serve a dwarf so easily, particularly in Sunspear."
"Nor an anointed knight. Particularly one who used to be a sellsword and used to the gold flowing freely." There had been so much more to worry about that Tyrion had never considered Bronn's own motives.
"Well, I've scarcely got the Rock's wealth to squander now. If you're still interested in gold, why did you agree to come?"
"A little gold now is nice, a lot of gold later is nicer. The same thing goes for castles." Ah, Tyrion thought.
"I wouldn't have guessed you to count on me holding Casterly Rock in my own name. If and when and might be are not your favorite words, as I recall."
"They are, when it's my hide on the line. Your bitch sister won't forget about me, nor Payne. She's not smart enough to turn up a sellsword in the middle of a war, but your father might be. Best to stick with you, and down in Dorne too where the women are wanton and nobody gives a fuck about another hired sword." Where neither Cersei nor my father can reach, Tyrion mused. The Red Viper had the same thought.
"Stokeworth not far enough, then?" It was his turn to grin. "I recall Prince Oberyn once called it a pimple on the sagging arse of the crownlands."
"A pimple even your fool sister could pop in a blink."
"He mentioned something about there being castles in Dorne as well, even heiresses." Not that marrying one will get you anywhere, daughters inherit in their own right down here. To Tyrion's horror, Bronn's grin returned.
"Eh. Heiresses are nice, but when they marry low it tends to draw envious eyes. I don't need any of that. I'll settle for bastard-born, perhaps, though. It isn't like I lack options." Tyrion remembered the feast, Bronn's appreciation of the elder Sand Snakes. Gods be good. Send a serpent to wed a snake. Well, if you somehow manage it, I'll tie the bloody both of you in knots.
When they found Pod, he was sitting on a bench with a Dornish girl, talking about the night of the Blackwater. Waddling closer, Tyrion realized she was not just any girl, but the Red Viper's own eldest with his paramour. Elia Sand had none of her mother's reserved nature, though. From her eyes to her lean frame, she was all Oberyn. All Viper, Tyrion amended. And Pod has seen fit to stammer at her of all people. He cleared his throat when Elia Sand noticed him approaching, content to have gone unnoticed until he was beside them. Unfortunately, the girl was sharp of eye as she'd been of tongue at the feast, and her frown made Pod turn to look- and go red and spluttering at once.
"Good morrow, Pod. I looked for you when I rose, but you were nowhere to be found."
"He was with me." Elia Sand said. And who will you complain to that he was, Imp? her tone said.
"Well, then, might you know where Princess Myrcella is? You have the look of a rider, perhaps you saw her in the stables with Prince Trystane readying for a ride?" What she had was the smell of horse lingering over her, though if Pod had noticed he did not let on that he had.
"They're probably playing cyvasse somewhere nobody will bother them. Or they're with Arianne, sometimes they muse on their wedding with her if she feels like indulging them." Speaking of weddings, Tyrion thought, though he was sure the girl had not been made privy to her uncle's plans.
"Will you be needing me, my lord?" Pod asked, scrambling off the bench and just managing not to plant himself in the bricks.
"Only for a bit. In fact, if your lovely companion would agree to wait here, we shouldn't be long at all." Either she's milking him for some secret or other or she's just humoring him because she knows Pod is her father's pet dwarf's squire. Whichever was the case, it got Pod away from her.
"I'll tell you the rest when I get back, my lady." he told Elia Sand, and stammer-free, too. Once the three of them were far enough away, Tyrion pressed his query.
"What have you told her so far, Pod?"
"Oh, about the Blackwater. The battle. Not the river. With the chain."
"Yes, yes, I rather recall. What else?" He hoped Pod was bright enough to realize he was asking about something quite particular. Pod's eyes went wide.
"Oh, well, there was Ser Mandon going into the water. And your lordship taking a wound from one of Stannis' rebels." Good lad, Tyrion thought. It would make for rather a poor reflection on House Lannister and the Kingsguard as well if it got out that the white cloaks were content to serve as catspaws in service to Casterly Rock. And that the lions see fit to kill each other when they think no one's watching.
Myrcella and Trystane were in the middle of a game when Tyrion discovered them. Though he had no grounding in cyvasse himself, it was plain to see that Trystane's array of tiles and pieces was something positively mundane compared to the madness going on opposite him. There was too much purpose to Myrcella's array for it to be completely random, with her dragon lurking behind a mountain with a double line of spearmen before it. The closest I'll ever get to the real thing, I suppose. Princess Arianne lounged by a window, a fan in her hand while Tyene Sand whispered something to her, making the both of them giggle. Bugger, Tyrion thought, trying to think of a way to get the princess away from her venomous shadow. Ser Arys stood by the wall behind Myrcella, sweating quarrels and looking as though he'd rather be most anywhere else. Wish granted, ser, Tyrion thought. Myrcella looked up and smiled when she saw Tyrion approach.
"Good morning, Uncle." she greeted him, rising so she could curtsy. A greeting as befits an uncle and an elder. Prince Oberyn's estimation of her was not wrong.
"Niece. I'm sorry to interrupt your game, but I must confer with Princess Arianne about something rather private just now." He glimpsed Tyene Sand's viper eyes flash in his direction.
"Ooh, private? Might not we hide behind a door or curtain and hear it for ourselves?" Myrcella jested.
"I suppose, but then you'll know what each of us intends to get you for a wedding gift." Myrcella gave a squeak of dismay and (rather deftly in Tyrion's opinion) Trystane picked up neither the pieces nor the board but the table beneath them and followed her out without a puff of protest.
"Not half bad." Bronn muttered, as Ser Arys followed the pair out like the hem of his white cloak had caught fire.
"It comes from dancing, ser. Trystane is a wonderful dancer and always manages to make Myrcella shriek when he tosses her in the air." Tyene told him, blinking innocently.
"Bully for him. Was never much of a dancer myself. Not much call for it where I come from."
"Oh, I don't know about that. Wherever does brave Ser Bronn of the Blackwater hail from, anyhow?"
"Nowhere you've heard of, and nowhere worth mentioning."
"Oh, my." Tyene Sand replied, again blinking as if she were a child who'd received a gentle scolding.
"I shouldn't want to bother a gentle soul like you with my sort, anyhow. Now, that sister of yours, the pretty one, might be I could use some brushing up on Essosi history. She has the look-"
"Nymeria is oft occupied with the Fowler twins, ser. Prying her away from them is a task you're not exactly fit for." Tyene Sand's soft voice tapered to an edge, as if annoyed Bronn had asked after her sister. What the fuck is this? Tyrion looked up at him but Bronn had eyes only for Tyene Sand- and an air that said shut up, dwarf.
"Ah, shame, that. Always up for hearing a bit about the wider world, I am. You're certain there's no way I might do the trick?" Tyene's reply was as blunt as it was irked.
"I should think not, ser. The Fowler twins are girls." Bronn put a finger to his chin thoughtfully. "So they are. I appreciate your insight."
"I don't know much about Volantis- not that Nymeria does either- but I do know much and more about the Faith, if you're as keen to hear about the gods of your fathers as a city you've never been to and never will be." Bronn was too intent on his game to notice Tyrion watching him closely. He's no more tied to the Seven than Volantis. Wherever he does come from, the Seven have no presence.
"Well, I'm never one to turn down a little learning. The only kind I got as a lad was writ on the back of my mother's hand."
"Oh, poor ser. No doubt it stiffened you to the rigors of the road, and of travelling long leagues."
"Not so long when the company's good, as it happens." Bronn opined.
"Truer words were never said." Tyene Sand rose, to Princess Arianne's astonishment, and slipped an arm in Bronn's. On his way out, a gaping Tyrion caught his eye. You owe me, his expression said. Then it was Tyrion, Pod and Princess Arianne, at least until Pod seemed to realize he was surplus to the needs of the moment. Turning on his heel, his face a blank mask, he walked out of the room. Off to find that bench, no doubt. That left Tyrion alone with Princess Arianne, whose crossed arms and cross expression left her little open to being romanced. Then again, I am a little man.
"I'm going to be brief and blunt, princess. Best wrap a wound in boiled rags instead of leaving it to fester, no? Your father has mentioned to me that he's interested in a marriage between me and your good self. He seems to think I ought wait until the day before such a union can take place, but I can't in good consciousness spring marriage to me on yet another girl who scarce deserves it." Arianne Martell's face went paler by the word.
"You're already married." she blurted out.
"To a slip of a girl I never touched, much less bedded. Add to that her disappearance, and one must wonder how married I am, really." He let his face fall. "If I'm honest with you, I was as kind to Sansa Stark as circumstances allowed. Woefully inadequate though they may have been, I had it in my mind that she might flourish after Joffrey's wedding, when we'd be free to leave the capital. His murder rather dashed those plans to bits, as I was arrested and she vanished. It could be she found a rock to scurry under, but a friendless young girl outwitting all the agents of Lord Tywin Lannister sounds a deal less likely than her simply deciding to join her family. Her wolf, too." He looked to the wine jug at her side, eyed Tyene Sand's empty cup, and thought better of it.
"Is that the best my father can do? Wed his so-called heir to the dwarf son of the man who ordered his own blood's death?" Arianne asked, sounding too angry to shout. "These are my prospects, are they? A wilted rose, a stunted lion, a bleeding hedge knight from the Vale-"
"Hedge knight?" Tyrion was unable to keep up his wounded façade. "Whatever are you talking about?"
"Never you mind, dwarf. Just know I've more than done my due diligence on most any man my father might get it in his head to sell me to." I'd best head her off or I'll never get anything out of her mid-tirade.
"No less than might be expected of the heir to Dorne."
"Not if my father has his way."
"You think he means your brother to succeed him? All I know of Quentyn is he has a talent for going unseen. I should think that those Dornish lords who've yet to see him wouldn't know him from any other man. You, Princess Arianne, are both a striking beauty and have an unmistakable air of high birth about you. If I may say so. Small balm though a dwarf's words may be, but I've spoken to your father at some length. You need not worry about being sold like a cow at market. Prince Doran fully intends on you ruling Dorne when he is gone." Some of the color had returned to the princess' face.
"How would you know when I myself do not?"
"Call it imp magic. Now, what were you saying about a hedge knight from the Vale? I hardly think such fare a fit match for you…"
"Well…he's not quite a hedge knight. The Hardyngs are landed, at least, but still…" Tyrion thought hard. The name was half-familiar to him, had he seen their arms when he was Lysa Arryn's guest? His confusion must have been evident, because Arianne pressed on. "There was a bloody lot of tree-tracing to do, but in the end I puzzled it out. Well, Tyene and I. The boy lord in the Eyrie has no sons of his own, obviously, so it's a matter of some import to consider his heir. It turns out the heir to the Eyrie and the Vale at large is one Harrold Hardyng, a ward at Ironoaks. Four drops of Arryn blood is three more than most of the other lords of the Vale can count, it seems, and so he stands as heir." It just so happened Tyrion had seen Robert Arryn in the flesh. A boy lord who's sickly, runtish, and likely to die when winter falls upon the Vale.
"And you thought him a possible match? How old is he?"
"A scant four or five years younger than I, why? Are you planning on marrying him?" No, but someone's likely got that very idea. Give Littlefinger Harrenhal, it's an empty honor anyway. Let Littlefinger marry Lysa Arryn, the woman is a nervous wreck in lace. Make Littlefinger bring the Vale back into the king's peace. He frowned. Let the Imp lose his head and free Sansa Stark from her unwanted marriage. It was too perfect to ignore. Tyrion had his suspicions about where Sansa had gone, but Arianne Martell's most unexpected input had tempered them into certainty.