April, 299 AC

"Wolves gelding rapers? Really?" Tyrion sipped at his wine as Bronn shrugged.

Of late there seemed to be more tall tales about wolves than there were wolves in all Seven Kingdoms, whether Stark or four-legged.

Smallfolk coming into the city from the Riverlands claimed wolves were defending villages from Lannister raiders. Varys reported rumors of a pack of wolves kneeling before Robb Stark. A begging brother preached that the Seven had sent a red wolf to slay Joffrey for profaning the Great Sept of Baelor with Ned Stark's blood. Utter nonsense, of course, but Cersei had had the man seized and imprisoned, along with a dozen begging brothers who'd been foolish enough to pray for his release before the gates of the Red Keep.

Tyrion sighed and put down his goblet. He really needed some food before he drank any more.

"Pod!"

It was hard to remember that his hapless squire was distantly related to the gaunt, fearsome King's Justice. While Sir Ilyn Payne had terrified many a man with the stare of his colorless eyes, Podrick Payne was a gangly boy of twelve who usually addressed the floor rather than the person to whom he was speaking. Pod also had a tendency to doze off while waiting outside Tyrion's solar.

When the boy finally appeared, rubbing his eyes, Tyrion sent him away with orders to bring fowl and whatever else he could manage. Once the boy was out of earshot, Tyrion turned back to Bronn.

"Did Bel have any useful information?"

In answer Bronn handed Tyrion a piece of parchment. Reading was not one of the sellsword's many talents.

Tyrion read the parchment, his eyebrows raised. It was a list of names. There were two keepers of the keys, the harbormaster, tax farmers, customs sergeants, pursers, wine factors... and he suspected he already knew what they had in common.

"What is this?"

"Bel says Littlefinger ordered that these men only pay half price should they visit her brothel. She thinks there might be more, but the women who run Baelish's other brothels are close-lipped with no word on who's to inherit."

Tyrion sighed. He could feel a headache coming on.

"Bel can run them for all I care. Tell her I'll have the papers drawn up in thanks for the list."

Tyrion dismissed Bronn, wishing he could slap the smile off his insolent face. Baelish was causing near as many problems in death as in life. Baelish had promised to deliver the Vale by charming Lady Lysa, but his silver tongue lay in the grave with the rest of him. Tyrion wondered if anyone had informed Catelyn Stark and Lysa Arryn that their father's ward was dead.

He could only pray that the sour widow Arryn kept her swords atop her mountain. Perhaps that was where the Stark girls had fled, aided by Baelish and his men. Cersei had mentioned Baelish asking for Sansa's hand after Ned Stark's arrest, which only confirmed Tyrion's suspicions. Even Varys had no word of either Sansa or Arya Stark, or the steward's girl. Who could engineer such unlikely escapes under Varys' nose but the devious Littlefinger?

The issue of the Baelish inheritance was a minor concern by comparison, and it had quite slipped his mind. Littlefinger was the only son of an only son. His grandfather had been a hedge knight, his father the smallest of petty lords. Though few might guess it from his endless velvets and silks and silver mockingbirds. Tyrion frowned. How had Baelish come by such wealth?

A savory aroma wafted in from the hall as Pod returned from the kitchens bearing a plate. Tyrion's mouth watered at the sight of roast duck in honey and lemons, fresh bread, and buttered carrots. His troubles could wait a while.

While the city wasted away from want of food, Tyrion gorged on a banquet of problems. From dawn to dusk he sought to strengthen the city's defenses, secure his own position, handle Varys and Pycelle, and manage Cersei into the bargain. She'd appointed Lord Gyles of Rosby as the new Master of Coin, despite his ever-irritating cough and lack of prominent family or holdings. At least the man had poor eyesight and was easily persuaded to accept "assistance" with his duties.

Finding a bookkeeper to assist Rosby had been another ordeal. Tyrion didn't have the time to unravel Baelish's labyrinth of accounts himself, and half the merchants in the city were connected to Baelish. The other half were either completely unknown or actively unfriendly to House Lannister. Despite their amusing camaraderie Tyrion could not trust Varys to find him an honest bookkeeper, nor more than he could trust that simpering fool Pycelle.

The answer came during one of Lady Tanda's useless dinners. Tyrion was in a bad temper after riding through the city, hearing yet more complaints from every mouth, and his wits had been too slow to escape the invitation. Lady Tanda seated him between her daughter Lollys and Ser Aron Santagar, the Red Keep's master-at-arms. If she thought putting him beside a Dornishman might make him more interested in Lollys, she was sadly mistaken.

Unfortunately, Ser Aron proved taciturn. Aron Santagar was a gloomy man, his attempts at conversation as dull as his olive skin. After ten minutes all Tyrion had for his efforts was an account of all the knights Santagar had trained and confirmation that Pod was attending weapons training with the other squires. Ser Aron said the boy was attentive and showed promise. Tyrion reminded himself to pass the compliment along to Pod- he was such a mouse of a lad that any praise would boost his confidence.

Thankfully, Ser Aron's demure wife was another matter. Lady Cedra was a plain thing, of a height with Ser Aron but with gleaming brown skin. Though quiet at first, Tyrion drew her out with questions until she was pouring forth information like a fountain.

A Jordayne by birth, Lady Cedra been raised amongst a flock of scholars who proudly bore a golden quill as their sigil. Her father was a younger son, her mother a recently ennobled merchant. The lady had grown up in Dorne and with her mother's people in Braavos, and she expounded at length about the differences between the sands of the Tor and the canals of Braavos, her dark eyes bright.

When that topic was exhausted, the talk turned to books. Cedra was currently reading Beldecar's History of the Rhoynish Wars, a book Tyrion had been meaning to read.

The conversation was better than he'd had in some time, but the plum in the pudding came near the end. Not only did the lady frequently borrow tomes from the castle library, but it seemed she kept the accounts for Ser Aron's household, having learned advanced sums from her merchant kin in Braavos.

Well, she might be a woman and half a merchant, but he could be certain Lady Cedra was no friend of Cersei's. His sister had hated the Dornish for years, though he wasn't quite sure why. Nor was Lady Cedra an enemy of House Lannister- well, not more than any other Dornishman. Elia Martell and her children had not been the only victims of the Sack of King's Landing. Rumor had it that Lord Tywin's men had killed or raped almost all the Dornish in the city.

But Ser Aron and his wife had come to King's Landing after that nasty business, brought by Jon Arryn as a peace offering when he sought to pacify the Martells. Lady Cedra had wed Ser Aron for love, not wealth, and she missed some of the comforts she'd grown accustomed to as the daughter of a more prosperous house.

It took Tyrion less than a week to persuade the lady to assist Lord Gyles with the ledgers in exchange for Lannister gold and a few luxuries. Whatever was amiss with Baelish's ledgers, Lady Cedra would find it and report it. Hopefully.


"My lord father has done what?" Cersei asked, her voice dangerously even. Varys tittered, holding his powdered hands out helplessly.

"He has secured the release of Ser Kevan Lannister and his son Willem, as well as Ser Harys Swyft, Your Grace."

"By returning prisoners that belonged to Tommen," Cersei snapped.

For once Tyrion shared her fury with Lord Tywin. The terms sent to Riverrun with Ser Cleos Frey included an offer to exchange the same prisoners- prisoners who would be long gone before Cleos arrived. Even if Robb Stark lacked the wit to realize what that signified, the Blackfish would surely inform him. I should have known father would undermine me, Tyrion thought bitterly.

"You are sure there have been no ravens from Lord Tywin?" Tyrion asked Pycelle sharply.

The grand maester stroked his flowing white beard, the very picture of self-satisfied ancient wisdom. Enjoy it while it lasts, old man. Tyrion couldn't touch his father, but the lickspittle maester was another matter.

"None, my lord hand. Though surely, as King Tommen's Hand, he speaks with our dear king's voice," Pycelle said gravely, his chain clinking.

"If he meant to act as Hand, he should have come when I summoned him, not sent Tyrion in his place." Cersei's eyes were wildfire green and blazing with anger.

"Why, sweet sister, I never knew how much you valued my efforts," Tyrion said amiably.

Perhaps it was unwise to tweak the lionness's tail, but it was satisfying to watch Cersei's eyes narrow, caught between telling him off in front of the entire small council and admitting that he, unlike father, at least pretended to give a damn about her wishes.

"Any word on how the exchange is to take place?" Tyrion asked Varys, retreating before Cersei decided to give him a tongue lashing. The eunuch smiled, rubbing his hands together.

"Ah, yes, my lord. Ser Kevan and young Willem are to be delivered to the Golden Tooth, while the northern lords are delivered to Riverrun. The Stark boy is still there, too frightened to face Lord Tywin, no doubt."

That was odd. Tyrion would have thought his lord father would send them by as long and indirect a route as possible, the longer to deprive Stark of seasoned commanders. Cersei's eyes narrowed, then she smiled sweetly.

"Ser Kevan should be here, defending his king. Grand Maester Pycelle, prepare a summons for Tommen to sign. The sooner we send a raven the better."

The maester hesitated, then nodded ponderously.

"Anything else?" Cersei glared at Varys, not even bothering to be pleasant. Varys consulted his parchment, but it was Lord Gyles who spoke.

"Your Grace, if I may, there are certain customs officers and wool factors appointed by Littlefinger I beg your leave to replace."

The obedient cougher had laid the idea before Tyrion first, and Tyrion had instructed him to put the matter before Cersei. The more in control she felt, the less savage she would be.

"Name the cow what you will, so long as the milk flows," Cersei said, taking a small sip of her wine.

To Tyrion's annoyance, Cersei's drinking had somewhat subsided as she poured her energies into Myrcella and Tommen. She spent half her days with them, walking in Myrcella's garden, listening to Tommen prattle on about his kittens.

The other half of her days were spent as Queen Regent, and she was far more active sober than drunk. His sister toured the city inspecting the defenses, she went to the Great Sept to make pious noises, she plotted against him with Lancel and the Kettleblacks… Tyrion forced himself to focus, as Varys was speaking again.

"My little birds report Beric Dondarrion is still running loose in the Riverlands, gathering more outlaws to his cause-"

"Our lord father's problem," Cersei said, waving a pale hand dismissively as Lord Gyles coughed into a kerchief.

"Robb Stark has sent Theon Greyjoy to treat with his father, yet the boy arrived on a southron ship, while Lord Balon gathers longships at Pyke. A red wolf has been seen near Stoney Sept, and-"

Cersei shook her golden head, and the eunuch fell silent.

"Any word of Dorne?"

Doran Martell had called his banners, that much they knew, but no more. As of yet there was no response to Tyrion's raven, no sign whether the Dornish would back Renly or continue brooding in their deserts.

"Alas, I am afraid not," Varys said with a sigh, his plump lip trembling. "Forgive me, Your Grace, it is difficult to gather whispers in Dorne, with how bitter they remain over Princess Elia and her babes. They mistrust anyone from outside Dorne, and securing Dornish friends has proved difficult. And yet..."

Varys twisted his powdered hands, a doubtful look upon his face.

"And yet what?" Tyrion asked, impatient for the damned meeting to end. Shae awaited him in her manse, the one sweet thing he had in this stinking city. Varys tsked and rubbed his bald head.

"There are rumors that Prince Oberyn grows jealous of his feeble brother. Should Prince Doran accept a council seat, and leave Dorne in his daughter's charge, I fear the Red Viper may seek to supplant him. Doran's heir is a girl of twenty or so, no match for such a perilous uncle. And Oberyn has eight bastard girls he might wed to either of Doran's sons."

Cersei leaned back in her chair as though she lounged on a throne. Her eyes glittered as she looked at Tyrion, a cutting smile on her lips.

"Younger brothers are dangerous," Cersei said.