TYRION II
"The golden coins from the day's brothel visitors shone in gold and silver on Littlefinger's table. Red dark wine sparkled dimly in Tyrion's goblet, and in the cup of his generous host as well.
"So... Any advice for me?" Tyrion asked the smiling previous Master of Whisperers, as he looked back at him from across the table inside his solar.
He was thankful for Lord Baelish's surprise invitation, a mere day or two before his taking on his position at the Small Council. He would no doubt need it if he were to survive his tenure for any amount of length. This was King's Landing, after all.
"Advice..., my lord?" Petyr Baelish looked amused.
"Take care to hear, and not be heard... Know the city. Know the castle. Know its secrets. Use them wisely." Littlefinger shrugged his shoulders.
"Other than that, it's a craft unique for every man. Though you should know that there are others in the city who are contending with us already."
"Others?" Tyrion asked, intrigued, as he reach for a goblet of red wine from Littlefinger's table. They did not have a cupbearer at the moment, as Lord Baelish preferred complete solitude away from prying eyes for the meeting.
"Yes, indeed... " Lord Baelish grieped in his thick Braavosi accent, laying his head to the side. "There are eyes and ears almost everywhere that decisions are made, or wherever some small cracks in His Grace's rule can still be found. Seeds of loyalty, seeds of betrayal, seeds of calamity... And the voices that whisper of these messages, whisper them to ears foreign and uninvited as well..."
Littlefinger waved for Tyrion to come closer, and he did.
"Little birds, from across the Narrow Sea... Friends of the Spider, Lord Varys, from the old days of the Mad King... "
Tyrion listened intently, trying to make sure that the Master of Whispers was not trying to pull his leg with any falseties. He had admittedly not spent many days in King's Landing before, but he had not heard about the eunuch Lord Varys ever since he was a boy. He was not even sure if the eunuch still lived, somewhere off in Essos, after supposedly having escaped the city in a puff of smoke during the sack when King Eddard Stark and his own lord father had taken the city.
The man, if one could call him a man without his man-parts, Tyrion mused, was more a legend than a man these days. A ghost, a rumour, that some still spoke of, but his continued presence in the city, or even acrosss the Narrow Sea, yes, the thought of the spider-like lord Varys still having control of some spy net in the city seemed about as likely to Tyrion Lannister as if the golden dragon Sunfyre would suddenly come hatching forth from the egg-like shape of his lord father's forehead.
"Lord Varys?" He said, making it clear in his tone of his doubt.
"Indeed..." Littlefinger confirmed, with a condolatory voice. "It bears me no joy to say it, for it reflects poorly on my own station, but... It is true... I have tried to tell the king of my misgivings, and to stake up a plan to deal with the Spider, even to go to war with Pentos over it, but His Grace will not listen. … He still has more ice inside his ears than one would think, at the end of summer. Only the changing of the seasons seem to trouble him, and not those in the hearts of men and eunuchs."
Littlefinger gave a tired sort of chuckle, as he stretched out for a goblet of wine for himself.
"Still... If you serve him well, and if you should notice the same thing as I have, and tell him so... Perhaps he will take some sense to himself and listen. I do not believe that you will have to dig very deep to discover the many threats to the king's rule that are already upon us. I only wish you good fortune in staving them all off..."
He made a keen face, signifying the importance of his words, as he drank elegantly yet deeply. He almost seems worried, Tyrion thought. And so much concern in a man who was most of all famous for conjuring up money from thin air and for keeping the best brothels in the capital. Perhaps my lord father has sent me into more than I can chew off... He surmised, and hoped that it was not so.
"Little birds", Littlefinger repeated again. "One was caught not ten days ago, at the Dragon Gate. The king investigated the matter himself, but will still not see the truth of it.
You may speak to Ser Robin Mulber, the captain of the gate, to find out more. But be careful to not press the matter, or else the king will think that I have told you about all of this. He is suspicious of me... Far more than he should be. Far more suspicious at things that will bring him naught good, and far less at the true threats than he would like to believe. I pray he changes a mind soon, before our enemies can act."
"Enemies? You believe that old Lord Varys is conspiring with some others against the king?"
"Yeess, my lord. Precisely so. The message that was found on the little birds had a seal from Pentos. There must be some of the rich magisters over there that he has found a liking to. Most unnerving.
Though what interest they would have of the Iron Throne is still beyond me, I'm afraid. Taxes, most like. The spicers and cheesemongers never were the most patient or charitable of men. And they have no liking for kings, unless it is the Dothraki passing by their cities, in which case they will gladly shower them with gifts to avoid the slightest bloodshed. " He sneered.
"The Targaryens did more trade with the Free Cities in Aerys's time, and with less taxation, I'm afraid. We may thank our dear old Master of Laws for that. At any rate, the archons across the sea should trouble us more than we care to admit if we cannot project our power on them more. They have no respect for a Northern king, a Stark, from the frozen wasteland of somewhere north of the Bite, not even now, at the end of a long and prosperous summer. Why should they? All they care for is food, wine and riches, and that they all have, and will always have more of than we do...
Some men have no allegiances at all in their bones. You will find out such things within short.", Littlefinger promised.
...
As he thanked Littlefinger for his advice and took his leave, Jyck and Morrec accompanied him as usual by his side.
His next meeting, immediately following the one with Lord Petyr Baelish, as decided by his lord father, awaited him all the way up in the Tower of the Hand. Tyrion at times almost thought that his father had made it so on purpose by conversing with the ghosts of some long-dead Targaryens, Maegor the Cruel perhaps. They would have a lot in common to talk about, he reflected.
Morrec was kind enough to carry him for most of the way, even as he complained slightly.
"The steps here are smaller than at Casterly Rock, my lord. Not as wide."
"No, you are right", Tyrion agreed. "It seems that even possession of dragons cannot make a man build greater than the Casterlys of old. Although I suppose Aegon could have chosen to build his keep in the side of the hill instead of on it."
His father sat waiting for him in his solar at the top of the Tower of the Hand like some massive red vulture lurking high up in his roost.
"Ah, Tyrion", he said, feigning a slight surprise as if he had already had time to forget about their meeting that he had sent orders for via word of servant only the day before.
"Father", Tyrion said, as he hopped up to the table to sat just across his father at the other end of the long table.
"I am glad to see that you did not let Baelish hold you for too long. That man has a way of talking", his father noted as he peetered down some final thoughts into a letter, sealed it for the time being and put it away to the side of the table in an eloborate little wooden coffer-box.
"To my great triumph, I have been blessed with idle ears, and a heart that owes its duty only to you, father."
His father made a slight acknowledgeing face, blind to the irony of his words, and motioned for his cupbearer to pour his disfigured son a drink.
"I suppose you will be in sore need of refreshment after climbing those stairs", he said with disdain plain in his voice.
"How kind of you", Tyrion chisened his eyes together in a mocking smile.
"Did you know that I made that same walk for two times every single day while I served under Aerys?"
"And no doubt it grew your legs out to be just as long and elegant as they are today, father."
"Mm-hm."
His father said nothing more, perhaps realizing the hyporcrisy of his words, as he took a small swallow of wine, while Tyrion did the same.
Soon after, the warm pleasantries of family entoned themselves to the background for the benefit of the business of the crown.
"So", his father said, "how did he treat you?"
"Well enough", Tyrion said, somewhat surprised by the question. "He did not serve me water and crispbread, if that's what you're asking."
"I should hope not", his father inclined. "From what I gather, he has managed to spend even more of the crown's coin than I thought possible. It is not only the king's loans to us that trouble the kingdoms. The Iron Bank will want its due before the coming winter."
"That is surely all among Lord Rosby's troubles now", Tyrion reminded his father. "You know, the coughing prime exemplar of a man. Ruddy flushed cheeks, a running nose, and a constitution of Baelor the blessed half a year into his fasting. He is sure to make a good job of it.", he japed.
The embarrassment of not having understood or heard about the replacement of the position of Master of Coin from Petyr Baelish to the even lowlier Gyles Rosby must surely spike some small and hidden-away corner of the great lord Tywin's heart, if he indeed had one beneath the thick layers of his golden armor. Tyrion had often wondered.
"The position might have fallen to one of the king's most close-grazing sheeps for the moment, but it still bears the marks of that useless mockingbird of a man", his father said with laidback distaste.
And so he has at least noted his recent change of sigil, for a change. Good work, father. I'm proud of you...
"If the king had more sense than snow inside his head, he might have put an end to this mad spending years ago. It appears that he did, for a brief moment, a year or two ago, but the debts are still there."
"I am sure that the all-wise Lord Gyles will sort it out", said Tyrion again. "And if not, you could simply decide to forgive His wolfishness a couple of hundred gold from our side. What's the hurt?"
"A Lannister always pays his debts", his father reminded him, in no soft manner of words. "What the king has lent from us, he shall return. With my help, if so be it. But he shall return it.
In turn, he will have my good service for as many years as I have left. And I will make sure that the misuse of the crown's coffers ends as soon as possible. We cannot be indebted to half the Narrow Sea in peacetime with winter approaching. I will see to it."
"Good, good", Tyrion nodded along, almost amused by his father's stern position on the treasury.
The city was practically bathing in money, rich red and purple wines from Dorne being shipped and hauled up from the boastful trading cogs from Dorne and the Arbor every single day, if not every hour, fruits were growing all the way from here to Highgarden and beyond, and the harvests of at least three kingdoms seemed great and bountiful from what he and Joff had seen already back on their long way from the Rock to here.
Unless the winter came very soon, and lasted just as long ast he Long Summer had done, which to him seemed hard to imagine at least now in this heat, with the fruits, the girls, and almost the very air around them in the streets exploding with the ripeness of summer heat, the crown would be safe from famine for a long long time, Tyrion was certain.
Still, he decided to indulge his father, if not for any other reason, then perhaps for the fact that the great lord Tywin was for once speaking directly and only to him, his lowly dwarf son, on a matter that seemed to have at least some transignant point of significance to him.
Perhaps he would even listen to his advice, if he had any to give, Tyrion allowed himself to dream for a short moment.
He cleared his throat, as he put down his goblet, and looked at his father with a face of slight worry, pretending to take the matter seriously.
"Yes... Well... As you said that Lord Gyles noted on the last council meeting, the city has enough grain for a seven year long winter. Was that not so?"
"It was", his father agreed. "But who can say how many commonfolk will begin pouring into these gates before the end of autumn is come? After Duskendale, Aerys closed the city off to all peasants who did not have enough carts coming with them. He was a fool of a man in much, in his illness, but not in that. The city cannot be overflowed, or it will turn into a slaughterhouse where the poor fight eachother to death over scraps."
Tyrion almost felt tempted to say something about the sack that his father had orchestrated, pointing out what a slaughterhouse that must surely have been, but some self-preserving little bone in his twisted back made his mischievous tongue for once hold itself still.
"I am sure that the king will know what to do in winter", Tyrion insisted. "He is a Stark, after all. The old and fabled Kings of Winter..."
"A Stark or no, he has not the sense nor the severity in him to keep the commonfolk out in his mawkishness. If they should cry out for protection, for food and shelter away from their own fields and hovels, he will give it to them, again and again, whatever the price.
When winter comes, we will be overrun. The City Watch needs a bolstering, for a start", he said sourly as he griped for another swallow of the sour red wine. Tyrion did the same. It tasted just like his father's disdain, Tyrion first now noted, as his tongue came aware to the flavour.
"And we will need to make sure that there are no thieves nor any uprisers to our rule before the year is out", Lord Tywin continued. "In two moons' time, if I can convince the king, I will have closed the city gates to all of the beggars and havenots, as a start. The fields outside are plenty aripe. Let the Frey boy and the Stokeworths deal with the trouble."
"Marvellous", Tyrion said, clinking his goblet against the table. "And I suppose that this highly esteemable job of making certain the will of the people towards the throne will fall to... me?"
"Who better?" His father said. "You find odd and lowly friends when you are carousing away without any heed for what is proper", he noted. "Sellswords, winemakers, mummers and minstrels..." He scoffed.
"Make use of them, for once. Learn their secrets. Make certain of their allegiance to His Grace. Have them tell you if they should know of any dissent or trouble. There is always some to be found, even in the plentiful times of summer. Some slight or other... Some disgruntled lord of here to hell who would support an invader, or the Prince Viserys... Find them. Make them heed."
Tyrion closed his mouth together, trying his best to gather his thoughts around the mission. It was a lot to take in, but at the same time more or less what he had expected the job of Master of Whispers entailed. The fact that his father put so much trust in him was still a surprise he could not quite digest without wondering at the true nature of his intent. But, however befuddled he was, he agreed.
"Certainly. I shall be as clever as a mouse in disguise. Wherever traitorous hearts a-lie, I shall root them out and make them our loyal subjects once again. Or... The King's, rather."
"You do not need a disguise", his father said, once again deaf to japes. "They already know who you are. Half the city has gotten word of us by now. Even Joffrey, though he never leaves the castle walls.
They will be watching. All of them. From the highest lords of the Blackwater to the lowest gutter rat that draws breath. They will all be watching us.
Until they have remembered or relearnt how it is to have a Lannister in command here once again. It is our job to make them see. In time, they will forget about Jon Arryn and love us just the same.
They may laugh at you, or distrust you now, or even fear you. A little fear is good. The lion must be feared by the sheep if he is to lead them. But you must also inspire their loyalty.
Make them heed His Grace. Make them heed his Hand. Make them heed you. Make them follow you.
...If you can", his father finished.
Tyrion swallowed a glass of wine once again, harkling his throat to escape a nearing cough attack.
He thought for a moment if he should tell his father what Baelish had said about the Spider, lord Varys, being back in the city or having his spies around somehow, but it still seemed too absurd for him to bring up. Perhaps it was only some strange ploy of Littlefinger's to make him seem foolish in front of his father, who had known the eunuch himself during his many years on Aerys's council. If the former Master of Whispers, from those old days, was truly back, he would find out soon enough.
He let out a small sigh, as he tried his best to lean back into his chair, as uncomfortable as it was, and instill some small sense of severity into his face to show that he understood to his father. Then he cleared his throat once again, and spoke up.
…
"Anything else?"
His father leaned back into his chair, seeming to think on that for a moment, before he replied, eyes as cool as green emerald ice.
"I would tell you to keep your whoring to a minimum while in the capital, but from what I hear you have already made yourself known in half the brothels this side of the God's Eye", his father said disapprovingly.
"What can I say? It seems that even the honourable Good King Ned understands and allows for its continuation. I hear that Lord Stannis tried to outlaw it once, though. Quite a dreary man, for a Baratheon."
"The king is no fool. He knows that he cannot keep a peaceful hold of the largest city in the Seven Kingdoms if all of its inhabitants do not get their lowly fill. Even the Targaryens could not make laws that went against the true will of the people. Aerys found that out in the end.
But that does not mean that you have to drag our house's name in the dirt for all the commonborn people to see."
"Oh do not worry for me on that account. I only visit the very finest establishments. If there is not a silk lantern at the entrance, nor a door knob made of solid gold, I do not enter my humble frame into it.
Thankfully, there are many such in the city. At least one or two of them owned by the current procuror of my position to be."
He sneagled up towards his father with mismatched eyes, a mischievous grin on his twisted lips awaiting his reaction.
"Petyr Baelish is not a man to emulate. I would have thought even you to know that."
"Oh, don't worry on that account, father. I have far better standards than him to strive for. I have not forgotten."
His father might have said something back to that, but he left it be with a singular glare that spoke multitum.
Tyrion took his leave from his lord father's solar with a studdering yet decided waddle, as Jyck and Morrec slipped forward from the door-edges to his sides, accompanying him to the next sojourn.
...
Tyrion went down the stairs on stunted legs and soon reached his own chamber on the third floor.
To his surprise, Joffrey was seated at his small bedside desk, writing on a letter with a long white goosefeather quill in his hand. His nephew did not look pleaed with the result, nor with Tyrion's entrance into the alcove.
"Back from the training so soon?" Tyrion queried, as he propped himself up on his own chair and hung up his cloak on the lowest peg that the servants of the castle had set up especially for him.
"I gave as worthy of a battle as I could to Ser Bucket-head. It is not my fault that he cheats, just like the bloody prince", Joffrey said between clenched teeth as he stared at the letter in front of him.
"And now you are... writing a letter?"
"Yes, to my lady mother", Joffrey stated matter-of-factly.
So he does still miss her after all...
Tyrion often wondered. Or perhaps he just did it out of duty, but surely any boy of thirteen would miss his mother after being away for what seemed to border on five moons or more now... As far as he could recall, Joffrey had only written to Lady Reldina at the Rock twice before, and both of them were very brief letters. But this one seemed far longer.
Tyrion opened up his book to the page where he had last left it, the thin gold fabric of the book-thread still in its right place, thank the gods. It was a book on Essos and the Free Cities in particular; Archmaester Ebrose's shortwork From Far Away Lands Come Spices and Sands.
His longer tome on the same subject, The Lands and Ports of the Free Cities – Being a Charter and Comparison of the Free Cities of Braavos, Pentos, Lys, Myr and Tyrosh along the Coast of the Narrow Sea, rested heavily beneath it in silent magnitude. Beside them both was Maester Greydon's For the Sake of our Gods and our Men: A History of the Foundation and Reign of the Triarchy.
Pycelle had lent him the books from the library only a moon before, after their second meeting on speaking about the Free Cities, just as the Grand Maester had promised.
Tyrion had eagerly swallowed up much of the latter book, and now he was versing himself in the various spices, fruits, wines and concoctions of medicine which were according to Maester Ebrose to be found in any and all ports across the Narrow Sea. The names of most of them were well-known to him, but some gave him intrigue.
Spices like summerwind, red jupals, sourpepper, cloves, molassis and maultrey, redgjen, pulver, green tarsigon, red and black dragonroot, lyseni dewdrops, lyseni honey, myrish sugar, myrish muscot, myrish pepper, tyroshi pepper, pale greenish honey, tyroshi teggarot, and many others.
Fruits like the red grenade apples, the blueish purple jaubond, candaloubres, lady's cadence, as well as dates, palmsuckle, firedrops, fireplums, dragonberries, blackberries, the sultry dulcities from around the Summer Sea and the grand bazaars of Slaver's Bay, and names even rarer and queerer than that, names like ruklani, momo, mandalot, gandhi, durian and pahli-pahli. Most of them were from even further east, from beyond Qarth and the Jade Gates, but some were grown and harvested as close as Volantis, the pages said.
Tyrion browsed through the section for well over an hour, delighting in the exotic descriptions and counting how many of the fruits and spices he had seen so far only from the ports of the city, which – as it turned out – were many. But he still felt there to be much more waiting for him on the other side of the Narrow Sea, and wondered if he would ever be able to travel there, perhaps to broker some agreement with a new foreign bank, now that he was in charge of the wolf king's coffers. Yes, he decided, that would suit him most elegantly.
Joffrey had apparently finished with his letters and was getting ready to head out again, most like for some game of shooting with his new crossbow that he had found in the royal armory. The weapon was a sinister but efficient one, and his young nephew would recently delight in shooting target practice on the many pigeons of the castle courtyard when Ser Aron did not tell him to stop.
The king had so far not spoken out about it, though, and so Tyrion hoped that he did not mind. He only hoped that the Princess had not seen him, as she seemed to have a soft spot for the birds.
"You know that the Princess loves those little birds, do you not? She sings to them sometimes."
"Of course she does, she is a woman", Joffrey replied dismissively as he put his cloak on and waved an annoyed hand at Taleon who was covering the peg rack by the door.
"I'm afraid that I don't think Princess Sansa will be impressed by your skill as a huntsman if you use that particular thing. At least use a bow and arrow, if you wish to practice. Any brute can use a crossbow, but it takes strength and a great degree of skill to become a great archer", he said.
"Truly, uncle?" Joffrey turned around to face him with an innocent look that almost made Tyrion think he was sincere in his naivety, but then he replied "Why don't you try it, then? You'd only need a small stool to stand on, of course", and laughed all his way out of the door.
Tyrion sighed, as he closed the book.
"Just don't be late back", he called as Joffrey was exiting the chambers, "we have been invited to dinner by Lady Tanda and Lady Lollys tonight, remember?"
Joffrey scowled something about a lion not caring about some dumb sheep's invitation and walked off into the corridors with loud clapping steps, his and Taleon's boots echoing off the stone of the castle floors.
You will come, Tyrion thought to himself. You will be coming tonight, because father will make it so. And noone ever opposes the great Tywin Lannister. Not any whore, not Lord Castamere, not Mad King Aerys, not Cersei, not the Imp of Casterly Rock, and certainly not your own petulant little face.
Yes, the lord of Casterly Rock would put the young heir to heel, surely, before he made more of a fool of himself at court than he already had, Tyrion Lannister thought as he turned another page in the book and swallowed a glass of lemonwater from beside him.
And so he did. Tyrion did not know if Lord Tywin had intercepted his young brash heir out in the courtyard or in the stairway, but most likely the latter. At any rate, when he came back to their chambers an hour or two later, at the early start of the evening, the young cub was in a stewing, scolding mood. Tyrion correctly guessed that he had gotten a lesson about forging alliances from his "father", as the poor confused boy still called him.
He had still not pryed or pushed on about the wording, but he sensed that Joffrey understood where he came from, if not from lord Tywin's, then at least from their uncle Gerion's swaying breeches.
...
The dinner with the Stokeworth ladies truly was a great and filling one, just as Lady Tanda and Lollys had promised them. Lamprey pie and roast suckling pig, along with an entire basket of garlic-bread, half of which Lollys had devoured into herself within the first eight minutes, plates of gourds, fine fat cheeses from the Reach, sweet green grapes bursting with delicious splendour, carrots in rich thickling stew, roast sheep's fiddle haunch, glazoned in a red wine sauce, and even a couple of roast-paned cods, though the wrinkled Lady Tanda noted that she was sick of fish.
After that came the dessert, hazelnut cake glazed in thick gleaming honey, lemoncakes – Princess Sansa's favourites, as Tyrion had found out not long before finding their places at court –, blackberry tarte, blueberry pie, brandeyed pears, plum pudding and a fine fat partridge glazed in a pattern of almond touffley and green sugarstock.
Tyrion was close to bursting already after the main course, as Lady Tanda nibbled at her lamprey pie and quizzed him all about the fineties of life at the Rock.
"I understand you have plenty of game there", she noted. "We find less and less deer on our lands as the summer draws further on. It is simply the heat, I believe. They cannot abide by it. Our farmlands are the finest in the realm, behind those boastful reachmen, of course, but our forests are all too sparse for the game which my husband always liked to hunt."
"Fascinating, my lady", Tyrion replied, doing his best to keep a haunch of roast lamb behind his gaunche. He managed to swallow it down with yet another sweet drink of Dornish red wine. "Lord Stokeworth must have been quite the huntsman, to find prey on so scarce grounds."
"Oh yes", Lady Tanda inclined, almost happily, though she seldom smiled more than a narrow glipe. "My daughter Falyse has inherited her father's thirst for the forests, I'm afraid. She takes to the horse oftener than not, even in the hottest of days, and then she'll be out until sunset. And my good-son Ser Balman as well."
"But we haven't seen Falyse in three moons now", Lollys said, her light and girlish voice peering out from behind a greasy chunk of roast pig that she was chewing absentmindedly on. "Not ever since we came back from Winterfell."
"I am sure that she will come and visit us again soon, my dear", Lady Tanda promised, as she took a comforting yet slender and wrinkled hand around her daughter's pale pink tree trunk of a wrist.
"My brother Jaime has never visited me", Joffrey said suddenly, as he was stabbing his knife into the side of the suckling pig that remained on the middle of the table. "He's up at the Wall, thanks to plunging his dagger into the mad king."
If Tyrion had not been feeling as stuffed as the pig already, he would have smacked himself – or the boy, perhaps – on the forehead for the careless and inflaming remark.
Jaime, Jaime... It still always comes back to Jaime... Even with him, who has never even met him.
"Cousin", Tyrion reminded him. "Your cousin Jaime."
"Yes yes..." Joffrey relented. "Whatever."
He could not escape the rumour of his older brother even fourteen years on, it seemed. Though none of the ladies seemed wanting to press the issue further, or most likely they already knew all there was to know about it for someone who had not been there in person at the time.
And so the conversation soon relifted itself once again, to details of hunt in the Westerlands, of deer and the tales of lions long gone, the old and no doubt embellished hunting stories of his grandfathers and great uncles from long before he himself was born, tales of boar and bear, of hedgehog and hare, of fallow and crown deer and roe deer, of the hundreds of antler that adorned his father's halls even to this day, some of them thousands of years old from what the stories told, the most recent ones, among them a great buck roe deer taken by Lord Tytos in his youth, from what he recalled.
Lady Tanda and Lollys both listened intently on the stories, even though Lollys was just as focused on the food in front of them.
The thirty-three year old girl was as large as a young cow, now at the end-height of summer, with long brown hair, dull greenish brown eyes, her body wrapped into a green dress that matched the colours of her house, and still eagerly stuffing herself full of the plentiful platefuls of goodness that House Stokeworth and His Grace's harvests had afforded them all. How someone could be quite so huge and still have hunger inside, especially in the stifling heat of summer, eluded him greatly.
About halfway through the dinner, it was becoming more and more obvious to Tyrion that Lady Tanda had thoughts of marriage in mind for her begundian daughter. It would have made him laugh if not for the age of the girl.
Thirty-three, the size of a cow, a lackwit, and still a maiden... Perhaps the gods truly have set us up to match in their infinite wisdom.
But he would prefer to not fan the flames of mockery around his own being by coupling himself to one, if possible, that was even more absurd. If his lord father truly would forcibly find him a wife some day, he prayed that it would be some pretty girl from a lower house in the Westerlands, a young lady Spicer, Cyldigen or Myatt perhaps...
As the dinner grew into supper and dessert, to Joffrey's bored and hateful visage, and more cups of wine than was prudent for either of them, Taleon at last showed some sense and asked his lord if they should not retreat in case for his early rise to meet with his father.
Tyrion thanked the cunning bastard for sensing the murderous look in Joffrey's eyes as the boy practiced stabbing at the table repeatedly with the insidious length of the cheese knife.
They thanked the ladies most graciously, and promised to bid them back on a dinner of their own as soon as possible, although Joffrey turned red and black in the face simply from hearing the words.
The rest of the night was more or less a blur to Tyrion Lannister, as he stumblingly took his leave of Lady Tanda and Lollys for what seemed like yet another eternity, or surely at least over an hour perhaps, with his boot treveling across the woodboard of their chambers, the black moustache and even blacker eyes of Taleon urging him on with poison in his sharp voice, while Lady Tanda continued to blather on as to the importance of wine yeasting, and Joffrey was halfway into the corridor looking for some innocent prey cats to make pelts out of for the Princess.
"Thankyou, my lady, thankyou... Thankyou, my lord father... My... Our clevernesses... forever indebted to you... And His Grace... We are all... " – he found the word – "...delighted to have had you."
Jyck and Morrec, or perhaps it was two weary shadowcats in half-vests, half lifted, half dragged him along the floor, all the while as he told them not to scratch the leather of his boots too harshly on the stone of the cracks.
They went past a corner, down or up a level of stairs, and then a door was swung open, as furious curses came from a young lion cub somewhere up in the ceiling, and the Imp of Casterly Rock stumbled into a bed of night for an eternity of drunken darkness."
."