Tyrion spent the walk up to the Tower of the Sun telling Myrcella about Margaery Tyrell, whom Tommen was due to marry. If indeed they've not already been.
"From what I saw of her, the girl was clever, pretty, and brought the wealth and strength of Highgarden to boot. The Tyrells' coming to our aid rather than joining Stannis after Renly's death may well have saved our House."
"Say rather, our House's hold on the throne. Sansa Stark was clever and pretty too, yet she was set aside as Joffrey's betrothed." Clever when she deigned to speak her mind, which was never in my hearing. Pretty when she wasn't sobbing or wandering in her daze of living death, which began the day we wed and only worsened after the Freys killed her mother and brother.
"Her family were traitors to the crown and hardly about to lend us any strength."
"So? The war seems to be coming to a close, you said it yourself, Uncle. Winter is coming, and then only the number of sword a man has behind him will matter. Grandfather's catspaw, this Roose Bolton, will name himself King in the North sooner rather than late, and who's to stop him? Had Joffrey and Sansa had a child, such an heir would settle the northern succession most firmly. Some manner of northmen might resist all the same, but others would have bent the knee to a grandchild of Eddard Stark's."
"A host of Lannister swords retaking Winterfell in Sansa's name, wouldn't that be something?" Tyrion smiled, though Myrcella's words had his insides turning to ice all over again. How could Lord Tywin have erred so? Nobody knew she was going to vanish from Joff's wedding, but her very existence made her the rightful liege of all the north. Well, assuming they'd take a woman as such. Old habits die hard in the North, the greyer one's beard the greater one's right to be heard. I suspect that might be why some men above the Neck would sooner heed a goat's advice than a woman's. Margaery Tyrell brought the Reach into the fold, to be sure, but who was going to bring the north? Tyrion had no doubt that Myrcella had the right of it. Father ought have learned from Vargo Hoat. Turning on the lion is no great ask, especially far away and out of his reach. Perhaps that was Lord Tywin's plan, let the northmen continue to fight the ironmen and spat about who ruled, with all still standing come spring ready to capitulate. But why would they? The ironborn live in a world of their own, as the northmen do. Why would they seek to be subject to the Iron Throne? And with the Night's Watch in such dire straits… Tyrion huffed as the stairs up continued to wind. And to top everything else off, Sansa might well reappear just in time to knock Bolton off the northern heap and put the north forever out of our grasp!
Ser Arys shadowed them dutifully as they mused, his white cloak seeming to grow heavier by the step. Tyrion's mouth became a hard line. If he acts the whipped dog without Arianne Martell so much as in the room… He tried to find some part of him that felt for the young knight, but it was hard to pity a knight of the Kingsguard with his mind and his eye on the wrong princess. Perhaps it would be kinder to send him straight to the Wall. Should he arrive unexpectedly in the capital, Lord Tywin would scarce offer him the chance to take the black. He's yet to hear Janos Slynt has become Lord Commander and anyhow, I doubt he'd be lenient regarding a potential compromising of his granddaughter's safety. Tyrion thought on Tysha and his mood fouled further. I wore no white cloak, held no princess in my charge. Tysha had no family around her, no pit of vipers hungry for a bite of lion. If it came to war between Sunspear and the Iron Throne, Ser Arys would hesitate, and in that wasted moment Myrcella would die. I have enough and more to contend with without a Kingsguard knight whose cock is harder than his sword plopped on top. He wondered if Jaime would take the opportunity to rid himself of Ser Boros or Ser Meryn, or if he'd be more concerned with Myrcella's safety and send a white cloak fit for that purpose. It will be Balon Swann, I suppose. That might not be the worst thing. A good sword, and one who conveniently believed Tyrion innocent in Joffrey's murder… All while Tyrion brooded, Myrcella kept quiet, as if giving him the silence needed to think. He found himself reminded of Oberyn's implication regarding her conspicuous lack of Baratheon blood. He acts as though a match between Myrcella and Prince Trystane could not please him more. Whatever the snake was up to, Tyrion affirmed it was something he knew too little about to much plot around. At last they stood on the threshold of the feast hall, the doors opening to the sound of Sunspear's herald announcing their arrival. Judging by the man's staring clear over his head, Tyrion guessed the man was blind. At the far end of the room sat the hall's high table, House Martell seated at it in turn beneath a great sun tapestry. There could be no mistaking the man in the wheeled chair for anyone but Prince Doran, an older, thinner version of his younger brother with none of the Red Viper's daring air. The lush beauty beside him could only be Princess Arianne, murmuring into her father's ear. Prince Trystane waved to Myrcella, even going so far as to blow her a kiss. The girl blushed beautifully, hiding her face in her hands. Prince Oberyn, Tyrion saw, had no difficulty sitting Ellaria Sand next to him even given her birth. On his other side were three rather less affable-looking women, eyeing Tyrion with everything from loathing to distaste to a sort of wide-eyed guilelessness as disarming as it was false. The elder Sand Snakes. Obara, Nymeria, Tyene. Obara Sand was muscle and scars, mouth a sneer. Nymeria Sand was every bit the beauty her elder sister wasn't, her Volantene blood very apparent. Tyene Sand might have been a tall child with her big eyes and fair face, but no daughter of the Red Viper's was as harmless as she appeared. At the end of Oberyn's side of the table sat a gaggle of four little she-Oberyns, each straining to get a better look at Tyrion. While Ellaria Sand chastised them sharply, the Red Viper only grinned at him. He left all this just to take the Mountain's head, Tyrion thought. What would he do, how far would he go for my lord father's?
Further down, he spotted a septa seated next to a girl who resembled Myrcella somewhat, if from a ways off. Rosamund, he remembered, a Lannister of Lannisport. And Septa Eglantine. I knew we'd sent a septa of our own. Tyrion wondered what pretext the Martells had found for separating Myrcella from her usual septa. Or what pretext Myrcella found, he amended. Rosamund's smile at Myrcella's appearance disappeared as she got a proper look at Tyrion. Her green eyes went wide and her lip trembled. She is more Tommen than Myrcella. Ser Arys sat next to Septa Eglantine, leaving Tyrion to escort Myrcella past twin sandstone pillars to the high table. She sat next to Trystane, the prince gently taking her hand in his own and brushing her knuckles with his lips. Rather loudly, Tyrion cleared his throat. Trystane paled, spluttering a greeting his way while Arianne shot him a dirty look. Oh, goody, Tyrion thought. I'll add it to the rest I've collected over a long lifetime. He made to return to the party from the capital, perhaps wedging between the newly-arrived Bronn and Pod down at the end, but Prince Oberyn forestalled him.
"Oh no, my lord. You must join us- after all, you found a place for my Ellaria at your nephew's wedding, it's the least I can do." He snapped his fingers and a chair was brought forth to Myrcella's vacant side.
"Well, I'd have to be mad not to accept. After all, my prince, I've seen the most you can do. And to think I had Clegane right where I wanted him."
"You had?" the eldest of Ellaria's daughters blurted out heatedly.
"Just so, sweetling. I was even beginning the song of my victory, the gods only know I was in that cell long enough to write it. Then your princely father had to step in and ruin my farce." He allowed his mouth to become an impassive line and gave Prince Oberyn an unamused look. "Now how am I supposed to prove my mastery at arms?"
"Had I known your prowess for the sword, I'd have gladly left Clegane to your tender caress."
"Sword?" Tyrion asked, acting confused. "I was going to hurl a beehive at the Mountain's head, or perhaps into the crowd. Surely that would have stirred up chaos enough for me to scurry off." He made a gesture with his hands.
"Is that the way of dwarves, my lord?" Princess Arianne snapped. Tyrion grinned at her.
"It is, my princess. Actually, we appreciate the ability to snicker into our hands, if not cackle devilishly before running off, but needs must and every opportunity to tweak Lord Tywin's nose is one I'll seize with both hands. He is an utterly humorless man, you see, and nothing pains him like the sound of laughter." Oberyn's mirth was not shared by the rest of House Martell, but Prince Doran was rubbing the bridge of his nose to take a second look at Tyrion. When he sat next to Myrcella, he saw the girl had gone a bit pink in the cheeks. "Well, I had to say something to warm them up to me." Tyrion muttered, feeling quite pleased with himself before draining the cup of sour red in front of him. The tartness had his lips twisting in a knot. "My lord father isn't around to hear-"
"I'm not embarrassed on his behalf, Uncle. There's no call to go embarrassing yourself."
"I've said a deal worse to a deal more people at my trial, your grandfather among them." Meanwhile these Dornish loathe me for being a Lannister and a dwarf, and that's nothing I can't bear.
The food came shortly after, Tyrion busying himself with the Dornish fare for a bit before looking up. He'd learned after long experience that little was learned watching people at feasts until the wine had flowed and the food been eaten. There were stuffed olives, plums and oranges, a rainbow of peppers that ran from small white stunted things to great swollen reds that filled his palm. Fish from the Greenblood, scorpions coated in honey and a red serpent to welcome Prince Oberyn home were served as well. This last item seemed rather unusual fare for even the Dornishmen, though the prince happily had a bite after his brother good-naturedly waved it away. When the scorpions were brought, Tyrion was both surprised and a bit mollified to see Myrcella tip three onto her plate.
"They are not so different from crabs and lobsters, Uncle." she said when she saw him looking. Not seeking to be outdone by his maiden niece, Tyrion took four of his own, and a strip of snake as well. It turned out the meat of the creatures was the least of his worries- both tasted as if they'd been soaked in spices for hours and soon Tyrion felt ready to breathe fire. I shan't be able to taste anything for days. "Drink some water, Uncle, you're red as a pomengranate!" Myrcella whispered.
"No doubt I'm handsome as one, too." he spluttered in reply. He forewent the use of his glass, simply downing the entire jug of water that sat nearby while Myrcella giggled.
"Has the heat gotten to you, my lord?" Trystane asked.
"It's certainly something to bite into cooked meat and taste something other than grease, if I'm honest." Tyrion replied, coughing a bit and earning a huff of irritation from the beautiful Arianne. "Then again, I wouldn't know good scorpion from bad, or good snake for that matter. I suppose I might ask a crannogman the next time I have to go through the Neck, but as the north seems determined to chew itself free of the rest of us, I'm not like to get the opportunity." Myrcella provided a welcome distraction by noticing that her betrothed wore a small emerald in his left ear, oohing over it while he beamed.
"I hoped to invoke your eyes, sweetling, but I fear even an emerald does not do them justice." Tyrion left them to trade young lovers' words, eyes moving down to the lower tables. It seemed Bronn had prodded Pod into trying a scorpion, the poor lad beet red and sniffling loudly. However, to Tyrion's growing trepidation, Podrick Payne failed to hold Ser Bronn of the Blackwater's attention for long. It seemed he was rather more interested in the Red Viper's elder daughters, black eyes unable to settle on one for long. Because I needed that in my life, Tyrion thought wearily. As brazenly as Bronn's eyes flitted between Obara, Nymeria and Tyene Sand, he seemed an exemplar of courtly honor compared to Ser Arys, who it seemed could not go a moment without glancing up at Princess Arianne. Whenever she chanced to even look up from her plate he went wide-eyed and looked into his own lap or suddenly engaged Septa Eglantine in some banal small talk. Seven save us, Tyrion thought. It was one thing for the Kingsguard knight to bed the Dornish princess, but he could not have been more obvious about their dalliances if he'd just strode up to the high table and fucked her next to the bloody whiskerfish! Tyrion made a show of running a hand over his eyes, to communicate his embarrassment to any Dornishmen watching him watch Ser Arys. Had it been my father sat here, Oakheart would be flung out a window by now.
His brooding on the matter of Ser Arys had him missing the next words thrown his way. Myrcella had to nudge him to make Tyrion turn his head.
"Hmm? Apologies, I did not hear." Prince Trystane's face reddened.
"Myrcella tells me that you didn't return south with the royal party, my lord. You went on to see the Wall." Tyrion put Ser Arys out of his mind.
"So I did. I thought I might glean some small measure of meaning seeing it for myself." He took another half-cup of sour. Maybe it's a good thing the wine fights back going down, he thought. I'll certainly be less inclined to get drunk at the first opportunity.
"And did you?" Trystane asked, Myrcella looking on expectantly. Tyrion almost gave some blithe answer when he realized he had not much thought on his visit to the Wall, too much had happened in such quick succession afterward.
"Just the opposite. Standing atop the Wall, staring out over the Haunted Forest into the wilds beyond… I've never felt smaller, my prince. And I've felt small many a time in my life." Myrcella and Trystane both shivered despite the Dornish heat.
"Is it as big as they say?" Arianne asked over her brother's shoulder, in a tone Tyrion supposed the princess thought was patronizing.
"It's only a word until you see it for yourself. At first it's a white line poking up over the horizon, then it grows taller with every step further north." Tyrion sipped from his goblet, affixing Princess Arianne with his mismatched eyes. "I spent some time in the First Ranger's company whilst at Castle Black. A rather dour fellow, but from what I know of Starks that's rather the only color they come in. We shared some small talk about the current affairs of the Night's Watch, how it seemed rangers went missing in the forest more often than before. How even the wildlings were cagey and guarded, as if something worse than a few black brothers were hunting them through the woods."
"You seem a little old for cradle tales, my lord." Arianne said.
"Just as the Wall isn't really real until you have it under your feet and you feel the cold rising off it, when you're that far north, you entertain certain ideas with rather more circumspection than you would, say, in your father's lovely feast hall." Tyrion replied. "I never saw a wildling when I was up there, let alone spoke with one, but I chanced to meet several of the hill tribes in the Mountains of the Moon, wildlings in all but name. They were no monsters, only wild men. Hairy, smelly and loud to a one, but nothing whatever one would go to the trouble of building a wall of ice clear across the land to hide from." He shrugged. "But with histories full of dragons to entertain my younger self, I scarce troubled to dig up any of Casterly Rock's writings on the Long Night. Whatever happened then is ten thousand years past and more. I'd sooner muse upon the nature of what's to come." Tyrion lifted his cup and toasted Myrcella and Trystane, who were hanging on his every word. It was only then that he realized the depth of the discrepancy between Trystane and Arianne. Here the younger son is betrothed to a princess. The beautiful heiress to all Dorne, however, yet remains unmatched. That niggled at Tyrion's mind, as did Prince Quentyn's absence. He knew better than to ask where Prince Doran's elder son was, of course, and the wine had begun to make its presence felt, so he excused himself for a visit to the privy. Perhaps it was the heat, perhaps it was the spices of the food, but soon Sunspear's halls were spinning. Tyrion's thoughts went to Tyene Sand, who as far as he saw never moved from her place on the other wing of the table. Bugger, even I thought I'd last longer than this, Tyrion thought, feeling almost disappointed in himself as his face met the fine Myrish rug.