Outside the throne room, thunderheads gathered — a storm on the verge of breaking.
Inside, candleflames wavered.
Varys spoke first, slow and smooth. "Renly left most of his infantry at Bitterbridge. The lords and knights who rode with him through the night to Storm's End have largely gone over to Stannis."
Queen Mother Cersei sipped summerwine, frowned. "Varys, I won't object if this already small Small Council becomes smaller."
She set the cup down. "I want specifics. Do remember that."
Varys gave a quick shiver and wiped the mystery from his face. "More than ten thousand cavalry at Storm's End now follow Stannis — near the whole of the south's heavy horse."
"And the thousands of freeriders Renly had hired," he added, "are likely waiting upon Lord Stannis's generosity."
Grand Maester Pycelle sniffed, a hint of mockery in his tone. "No doubt the Florents lead the way. All know that house is a chameleon."
Varys tittered. "You've guessed rightly, Grand Maester. Lord Alester Florent of Brightwater bent first, and most of the others soon followed."
Tyrion cut in. "Most? Not all?"
Varys inclined his head. "Not Randyll Tarly nor Mathis Rowan. They led those unwilling to bend back toward Bitterbridge."
Tyrion bared his teeth. "At last, a good bit of news."
Varys smiled. "Renly's queen, the Little Rose of Highgarden, remains at Bitterbridge — with some eighty thousand infantry."
He shook his head. "So many soldiers — their king dead, and many of their liege lords having bent to Stannis at Storm's End. They do not know where to turn. Poor souls."
Tyrion's mismatched eyes brightened; he leaned forward. "Which is precisely our opportunity. Everyone loved Renly. No one loves Stannis. We can win Highgarden."
Silence dropped. Then Cersei's voice, cold: "My Hand, since when does the golden rose love a Lannister?"
Tyrion shrugged. "Plainly, it doesn't…"
His tone hardened. "But the man they loved is dead. If we can show that Joffrey is even a little better than Stannis, that will be enough."
The lioness's green eyes trembled; beneath the table her hand closed to a fist.
Varys tilted his head. "Lord Hand… and how shall this be shown?"
"I think the late Renly provided us a fine model…"
Tyrion's gaze swept the table. "We court the golden rose with marriage."
Pycelle darted a glance at the silent Queen Mother and quavered, "Your meaning, my lord Hand… to wed King Joffrey to Margaery Tyrell?"
Cersei turned a winter gaze upon Tyrion. The look made him uneasy; he pasted on his most obedient smile.
She sneered. "Do you forget Loras Tyrell? Garlan Tyrell?"
Tyrion lifted a shoulder. "I remember. Father's large hound made for an… unfortunate incident."
Cersei snorted. "Then you are a child indeed."
Tyrion's eyes crinkled. "The Little Rose has just lost her new-made husband. Look at it another way — the Tyrells are in need of comfort. We should offer comfort with impeccable sincerity."
Cersei remembered the witch's prophecy: You shall be queen… until there comes another, younger and more beautiful, to cast you down and take all you hold dear.
At their first meeting at Maegor's (Ch. 112), she had suspected Margaery might be that woman.
Later, when the girl wed Renly, the fear had eased.
Now the prophecy's steps seemed to draw closer.
Queen to my son? Take everything from me?
Only ashes await Margaery Tyrell.
Her eyes went cold. "Wed my son to a woman who hates him? Who knows when her hate will flare — at a crowded feast, or in the midnight bed?"
Tyrion chuckled. "The Little Rose is very charming. Joffrey will like sharing a bed with her. Every man will be jealous—"
"Enough!" Cersei's voice cracked like a whip. "What do you take my son for, you ugly dwarf!"
Tyrion's smile vanished. His heterochromic eyes fixed on her.
"Queen Regent. This is the Small Council."
She gave a hissing laugh. "Be a good puppet. I warned you."
"Dear sister, keep on and you may find I'm truly angry."
"How droll. Will you threaten me? Go to Father again and tattle?"
"Perhaps I have other surprises in mind."
They glared, neither yielding.
"I could have you in the black cells this instant," Cersei said, voice like ice.
"I doubt you could," Tyrion said, baring teeth.
"Ahem."
The new Master of Coin, Lord Gyles Rosby, coughed into a kerchief. "Your Grace… my lord Hand… an alliance by marriage is worth the attempt. Stannis is our greatest foe; with our present strength, King's Landing may be hard to hold."
Varys added softly, "Your Grace is a devoted mother, but we men of office must think first of the realm, and set aside our desires for a time."
He paused, solemn. "This may be the only way to see King Joffrey live to his wedding night."
The long, burning look between sister and brother ended. Cersei reclined, unmoved. "Say what you like. My son is proud. He will not stomach Renly's leavings. He will refuse."
"In law he is underage," Tyrion said. "You are his regent; I am his Hand. He marries whom we choose. Even if she were leavings, he'll make do."
All eyes turned to Cersei.
After a long silence, something shifted in her gaze. "Make the arrangements. If this angers Joffrey, beg the gods' mercy."
The change did not escape Tyrion. What scheme now, dear sister?
She had scarcely finished when he moved to box her in. "Glad we are agreed."
Cersei opened her mouth; Tyrion spoke over her. "We must choose a proper envoy — one who will make the golden rose glad to give us their Little Rose."
His glance slid past his sister's devouring stare to the faces at the table.
They all weighed names. Cersei's smile turned sweet. "Send Ser Jacelyn Bywater — the (current) Commander of the Gold Cloaks — south. A man to be trusted, is he not, my Hand?"
Tyrion blinked. So, dear sister, you've noticed the City Watch slipped your leash into mine? A pity… too late.
He shook his head. "We don't need a mouthpiece. Our envoy must speak for the King and this Council — and conclude matters quickly."
"Stannis will not leave us much time."
Silence again.
Then Cersei purred, "The Hand is the King's voice. You are the best choice, my sweet Tyrion. Your tongue is as sharp as Ser Jaime's sword. Who better?"
Send me away and hope I don't return? Tyrion sighed inwardly. Why does my sister think all others are fools?
"You flatter me," he said brightly. "But for arranging a child's match, a mother suits better than an uncle…"
His smile widened. "And you have such a talent for making friends. I admire your craft."
Fire flickered in the lioness's eyes. The stare stretched taut again.
"If only Earl Gawen were here…" Varys murmured, easing the strain.
Tyrion's eyes narrowed, sliding to the spider's bland smile.
"In truth," Varys went on, "Lord Mace Tyrell is fond of Earl Gawen. Many say they're like father and son."
A sigh. "Were he still at the Red Keep, he'd be our best envoy to the golden rose."
He paused, then smiled faintly. "His tongue, too, is as deft as Ser Jaime's sword."
Pycelle looked troubled. Lord Gyles rasped, "All the more reason to choose one who will reassure the Tyrells."
Cersei's voice was edged. "Varys — where is Gawen?"
Before Varys could answer, Tyrion said, "Why, dear sister, by your son's command, Gawen went to the Vale to seize Lysa Tully and Robert Arryn."
It took effort for Cersei not to fly across the table and slap him. "This is your plotting, isn't it?"
Tyrion blinked. A misunderstanding?
She knows I saw Joffrey before that order. So she thinks I moved her sword away? By the result… hard to deny.
In Cersei's eyes his silence read as guilt. Her fingers curled tight — then slowly eased as a smile crept in. What's the use of an exposed plot?
"Bring Gawen back," she said coolly.
Her warning gaze swept them all. "I want him back — at once. No one will hinder him, or…"
She raised her voice. "Hear Me Roar!"
The Hand's Tower — Garden Pavilion
Outside, Bronn waited with a dozen Gold Cloaks. Within, Tyrion faced Varys.
"I had thought you my ally, Lord Varys."
Puzzlement crossed the eunuch's face. He bowed. "I am at your service, my lord Hand."
Sunlight broke briefly through the heavy clouds; Tyrion's gilded nose flashed.
"You've been busy, Spider. Your aim is to bring Gawen back, isn't it?"
A flicker of panic touched Varys's features; he shook his head quickly. "Some misstep of mine has misled you, my lord."
Tyrion raised a hand. Outside, the Gold Cloaks turned toward them, fists on hilts.
"Lord Varys, I'm giving you a chance. Tell me what you're after."
Varys's eyes drifted over the ring of guards. "You are sharp-eyed, my lord Hand."
He sighed. "I will be frank, but this is for your ears only."
Tyrion studied him, then gestured; the watchmen withdrew.
Varys spoke low. "The Queen Regent already knows she has lost her grip on the Gold Cloaks."
Tyrion held his gaze. "I haven't laid a hand on the Red Keep watch."
"Many volunteer as the Queen's eyes," Varys murmured. "You cannot hide your movements from her. And she does not trust Ser Lancel entirely."
Tyrion's brow twitched. "And?"
Varys leaned in. "My little birds say the lioness is courting strange septons. I smell danger, my lord Hand."
The Hand's Solar
Tyrion slit open the letter his page had brought — gold seal and all.
The matter was Myrcella's betrothal — and the Old Lion had changed the plan.
No longer Dorne and House Martell of Sunspear as the Hand had urged. Instead, Robert Arryn of the Eyrie.
Why the sudden turn? Father did not explain. Only a command, hard as iron.
Tyrion rubbed his scalp. Already, the headache bloomed.
.
.
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