Mid February, 299 AC

"Two Starks, a steward's daughter, and a maid. Tell me, sweet sister, how do four girls not yet flowered vanish?"

Cersei glared at Tyrion over her glass of wine. Her cheeks were as red as her eyes, her hair undressed and unkempt. Today would have been the boy's thirteenth name day. Neither the old gods or the new would be able to help Sansa Stark if Cersei got her hands on her.

"As if you cared ," Cersei hissed. "You must have drunk yourself silly when you heard Joff was dead." The cutting remark was somewhat dulled by the sad little hiccup in the middle. It seemed he and Cersei shared a fondness for wine, if naught else.

"I did no such thing," Tyrion said patiently. "I was with our father at the time, and you know how well he tolerates drunks." Cersei snorted.

It had been a foul day at the Crossroads Inn where Lord Tywin had assembled his bannermen after the debacle at the Green Fork. Ser Kevan's capture by Karstark men was bad enough; to learn Jaime had been taken by a stripling boy of fifteen was catastrophe. His father's fury was colder than the Wall, a sword that cut through the babble of panicked bannermen.

And then the messenger had arrived from King's Landing.

If Tyrion had been asked to choose which Stark would stand accused of shoving Joffrey off the Red Keep, he'd have chosen the other sister. Arya Stark was a grubby little hellcat, running about Winterfell in roughspun. She'd even had the nerve to set her direwolf on Joffrey, or so Cersei claimed.

Sansa Stark was another matter. She was a delicate little blossom of a girl, for all that she was taller than Tyrion. Beautiful and sweet, and thrilled to learn of her betrothal to the prince. Perhaps Starks have room for so much honor because their heads are filled with feathers, Tyrion thought. Betrothal to Joffrey was no prize, as even the Stark girl must have realized once he took Ned Stark's head.

"Your sorrow is not yours alone," Tyrion soothed, daring to pat Cersei's hand. She yanked her hand back, jarring his arm. His elbow throbbed where the morningstar had laid it open. If the gods were good, he'd never see battle again.

"You always hated Joff," Cersei hissed. "Perhaps you were the one who paid for his death."

Cersei couldn't seem to make up her mind whether Sansa or Trant had pushed Joff. Lacking any better suspects, Tyrion's money was on Trant. Bags of gold had been found in the knight's rooms, though Varys claimed he could not yet identify who had bought Ser Meryn. Cersei suspected he'd been paid to let Arya Stark escape as well, though she was no more certain of the buyer. The simpering Renly and his Tyrell friends? The traitorous Dornish? The cunning old Lord Hoster Tully? Perhaps even the Starks, since Ned Stark had stooped to asking Littlefinger to buy the goldcloaks.

Tyrion sighed. Trant's incompetence was more likely to blame for Arya Stark's escape, if not Joffrey's death, but an angry Cersei was not a thoughtful Cersei. Cersei would blame everyone who crossed her until the mystery was solved, and Tyrion crossed her by merely existing.

"I may not have loved Joff well, but he was still my nephew. And I hope you'd give me more credit than to think I'd trust such a plot to the likes of Meryn Trant."

Trant's head now decorated a spike on traitor's walk. Tyrion had seen it that morning when giving the order for the Stark heads to be taken down. One of the empty spikes might suit Petyr Baelish, if he could persuade his sweet sister it was for Joff's sake and not his own. A Lannister pays his debts, Littlefinger , Tyrion thought grimly. The matter of the valyrian steel dagger would not go unpunished.

"Trant was a fool," Cersei snapped, rising from her seat. The wine in her goblet sloshed, almost dripping on her mourning gown. "A stormlander never should have been trusted with Joff's life."

Tyrion bit his tongue. If he recalled correctly, it had been Cersei's idea to put Trant on the Kingsguard. His birth in the Stormlands was a sop to Robert, but his loyalty had lain with House Lannister.

"Since I cannot question the man myself, perhaps you might tell me what he said before you had Sir Ilyn shorten him," Tyrion said.

It seemed that the small council had questioned Trant, found him guilty, and executed him within a week of Joff's death. Doubtless it was Cersei's work, but Tyrion found it very interesting that neither Varys, Pycelle, nor Baelish had stopped her. And Trant wasn't as lucky as Ned Stark. He had been flayed, hanged, and then beheaded.

Cersei poured herself more wine, her eyes hollow with grief. For once in his life, he pitied her, but he kept his mouth shut.

"Court had ended for the day. Trant and Sandor Clegane were guarding Joff," she began, sipping her wine. "It seems he had a notion to show Sansa her father's head, so he took her up to the traitor's walk."

"His Grace had a unique way of winning the hearts of his subjects," Tyrion said wryly, unable to resist. Cersei glared.

"Trant said Joff showed the girl Stark's head, and promised to gift her Robb Stark's head for his name day." Tears dripped down Cersei's face, and she angrily brushed them away. "All else Trant said was gibbering nonsense."

"Yet that nonsense may be important, sister," Tyrion said gently, hopping down from his chair. He waddled over to the side table, fetching the open bottle of sweet Arbor red. Cersei stared at him balefully as he poured it into her goblet.

"Ser Meryn said Sansa mocked Joffrey, and Joffrey ordered him to chastise her. Trant said it was like the girl turned to stone."

Cersei took a long drink of Arbor red. "He said she didn't make a sound when he hit her, just stared and stared." She gave a bitter laugh. "Then the air turned to ice, wolves howled for blood, the girl convulsed, fur sprouting from her skin." Cersei took another drink. "He claims he fled, leaving Joff alone with the Hound and the girl."

Tyrion frowned. Trant was a decent sword, but dull as a post. Perhaps he'd found a spark of imagination under the torturer's lash.

"I suppose that's why I heard some of the guards raving about a red wolf running through the keep?"

Cersei downed her entire goblet, then poured herself another cup. Tyrion was almost impressed that her speech was only slightly slurred.

"Yes, the superstitious fools. A guard claimed he saw two cats leading a wolf from the keep, and now every snapping twig or growling dog makes them wet themselves with fear."

Doubtless she'd had the guard killed, but alas, men would talk. Guards were never happy unless they had gossip to share during their long watches. A missing girl with red hair and a direwolf sigil was too dull, so she became a fearsome red wolf. Such fantastical tales were juicy fodder for guards starved with boredom. Soon enough the smallfolk would be repeating the tales, if they weren't already.

"And what did Sandor Clegane say?" Even dipped in tar, Tyrion would surely have recognized the Hound's ugly face on a spike. Cersei's hand clenched into a fist.

"Nothing of use," she spat. "He's in the black cells until I decide his fate."

Droplets of wine hit Tyrion in the face, but he ignored them. The Hound, useless? Sandor Clegane had been Cersei's dog before he was Joffrey's. They were well suited to each other. The man hated people almost as much as Cersei did, and his hideous face made Cersei look all the more beautiful.

"Father sent me here to serve you," Tyrion said patiently. "I cannot serve you if I am kept in the dark. What did Clegane say?" Cersei stared into her goblet, swirling the wine slowly.

"He said he had to take a piss, and that he didn't think Trant needed his help protecting Joffrey from a twittering little bird."

Tyrion barely managed to choke back his laughter. That story had the ring of truth. Of all the times to take a piss. Perhaps the gods did exist and they were smiling on the Lannisters. Tommen would be a far better king than his brother, though Tyrion wasn't stupid enough to say so in Cersei's hearing.

"Every man must piss," Tyrion said instead. "It seems the Hound has been unfairly blamed. He had no reason to doubt Trant, and Sansa Stark is as dangerous as one of Tommen's kittens."

It seemed Tommen's first act as king had been to acquire as many kittens as possible, now that there was no Joffrey to slay them. He'd shown them to Tyrion not an hour past while he awaited Cersei. Tommen's favorite was a fluffy blonde cat who shared his nephew's green eyes and friendly nature.

Though it was a bit unfortunate that the boy had named the cat Ser Jaime. No one needed reminding that Tommen was the spitting image of Jaime, if Jaime were a chubby and cheerful seven year old. Tyrion had suggested Ser Whiskers instead, claiming the kitten's name might upset the Queen Mother while the northerners held brave Uncle Jaime captive. Tommen had readily agreed.

"Even so," Cersei said, setting her goblet down. "He should have been quicker about it. Perhaps then we'd have the Stark girl to trade for Jaime."

There was another mystery, one that had made a vein pulse in Lord Tywin's forehead. Not even Varys could find a single whisper of where the maid had gone. All they had were the tatters of a green silk gown that had been found on the walkway and beside Joffrey's broken body on the ground below. Had Joff ordered Trant to strip her? Or had Sansa torn her clothes in grief for her father? Or had Joff clutched at her gown as he fell?

The maid hadn't fallen, that was certain. The drop would have turned her into a bloody flatcake like Joffrey. Pycelle said the boy's body was so broken they'd had to cover it with a golden cloth when it lay in the sept. How on earth had a half-naked maid of twelve escaped?

"You're right, sweet sister," Tyrion agreed. "But the Hound is a faithful dog, and I'd not see him chained when he could be guarding the flock."

"We are lions, not sheep," Cersei snarled.

"A poor choice of words," Tyrion soothed, thinking quickly.

"Why not strip him of his white cloak? That will be punishment enough for his failure, and give you two plums to reward men you trust."

Cersei watched Tyrion carefully, suspicious but clearly interested in the idea.

"Men that I trust," she said slowly, setting her goblet aside. Encouraged, Tyrion continued.

"I am here to serve and advise you, sweet sister. The Hound's not fool enough to betray us- let him be your sworn shield. He'll terrify every man stupid enough to cross you."


It took near an hour of careful flattery and cunning, but at last Tyrion was free of Cersei. The Hound would be her sworn shield, and Ser Addam Marbrand would be summoned to take his place on the Kingsguard.

Cersei had actually chosen well. True, she'd chosen Marbrand because the knight was Jaime's closest friend, but he was also a solid and well-respected warrior. Lord Tywin wouldn't like it, but Tyrion cared little. You told me to take things in hand, father, and so I shall. Trant's place would remain open, awaiting a suitable replacement.

And now Tyrion had yet another task ahead of him. He sighed as he shifted uncomfortably in his saddle. There might be no trace of the Stark girls, but the steward's daughter was another matter.

Varys had been practically giddy when he divulged that the girl had gone missing from the brothel where Baelish had stashed her. Tyrion suspected the eunuch loathed Littlefinger almost as much as he did. He might have shared Varys' glee, if the news hadn't been delivered at the Broken Anvil with Shae by the eunuch's side. How had Varys found her so quickly, yet discovered nary a trace of a Stark?

"Where to, m'lord?" Bronn asked. Tyrion frowned at the interruption.

"The Street of Silk," Tyrion said.

That was why he was risking the streets of King's Landing with only Bronn by his side. The clansmen would be near useless surrounded by such temptations, and Tyrion did not want Lannister guards drawing attention. With any luck he'd be able to question the whores and get their account before he confronted Baelish.

Baelish's brothel was a three story place, a bit decrepit but humming with laughter. A large Dornish woman was singing in the common room, her rich voice contrasting with the filthy words. Tyrion glanced about the room. There were only a few men, unsurprising for mid-afternoon. A straw-blonde woman was arranging chairs, a black cat at her feet. The singer finished her song and made for Tyrion, her hips swaying.

"And how may we serve our Lord of Lannister?" The woman purred, dipping a graceful curtsy. Her speaking voice was as lovely as her singing voice, smooth as butter and sweet as honey.

"I'm a bit short to be Lord Tywin, as you might have noticed," Tyrion said. The singer raised an eyebrow and smirked.

"It was a courtesy, as you knew. A blind man could see you are too young and too charming to be Lord Tywin," she said. Tyrion decided he liked her. "I am Belandra. I run this place. How may I serve you, m'lord?"

"M'lord would like to speak with you somewhere private," Tyrion replied.

Bel nodded. "Jess!" She called to the straw-blonde. "Some food and drink for our honored guest."

The room she brought him to was small but clean, furnished with a bed, a few chairs, and a table. A ginger kitten was curled up by the hearth while a calico cat washed the kitten's ears. Bel closed the windows at his direction, apologizing for how stuffy the room would soon become. Jess brought tankards of good beer for Tyrion and Bronn, and set a plate of fresh bread on the table, the loaf still hot from the oven, butter and jam beside it.

"We rarely entertain guests of such quality," Bel said as Tyrion looked over the food. "I hope you'll not take offense."

"Oh, any offense I take is as small as I am," Tyrion japed, slicing the bread and spreading a slice thick with butter and jam. He was famished from his war of words with Cersei, and the food smelled good.

"I'm glad to hear it. My girls are already nervous after our last, ah, lordly visitor. We women are so easily frightened." Bel gave an exaggerated sigh. After dealing with Cersei, this was practically fun. "Lords, stray dogs, spiders, all of them make a whore tremble."

Now that was a surprise. Varys had been here personally? The man must have wanted to be certain the girl had vanished before he threw Baelish to the lions.

"Spiders are very distressing," Tyrion agreed, cutting himself another slice of bread. "When did they last trouble you?"

"Oh, some weeks past. Just before the gods took m'lord's poor nephew."

Curiouser and curiouser. Had that been when Varys first found the steward's girl? Tyrion sighed and stretched, noting that Bel's ebony eyes narrowed when she saw the small bag at his waist, heavy with coin.

"Alas, the gods are taking all sorts of folk, from kings to brown haired northern girls. Mayhaps you've seen one?"

Bel's smile dropped.

"Have your man rap on the door," she said briskly. It was a thick wooden door, with a few dents in the wood. Bronn gave Tyrion a questioning look, and Tyrion nodded. Bronn rapped hard, and a muffled voice yelped. The cats leapt up from the hearth, startled by the noise.

"I'd have your man stand guard outside, if m'lord doesn't want anyone listening," Bel said, crossing her plump brown arms. The crooked fingers of her left hand lightly tapped on her arm as she waited.

"Go on," Tyrion ordered Bronn, and he went. No sooner had Bronn left the room than the kitten strolled over to Tyrion, mewling. With a chirp the ginger kitten hopped on Tyrion's lap, bold as brass.

"That one likes you, m'lord," Bel said as she handed him a fresh slice of bread.

"Perhaps he smells my nephew's cats," Tyrion said, accepting the slice as the kitten curled up, purring like mad. "But I was hoping to find a brown-haired girl, not a ginger kitten."

"Oh, Littlefinger brought her here, her and a common maid," Bel said, shrugging her plump shoulders. "Any more than that takes coin. I'd like to buy this place back from Littlefinger someday."

With a grin Tyrion cast the small bag of coin on the table. Gold dragons and silver stags spilled out, and Bel gave him the first true smile since he'd arrived.