A Storm of Swords: Part 1 Steel and Snow. George R.r. Martin

twenty years younger, even handsome in his austere way. Stiff blond whiskers covered his cheeks, framing a stern face, a bald head, a hard mouth. About his throat he wore a chain of golden hands, the fingers of each clasping the wrist of the next. “That’s a handsome chain,” Tyrion said. Though it looked better on me.

      Lord Tywin ignored the sally. “You had best be seated. Is it wise for you to be out of your sickbed?”

      “I am sick of my sickbed.” Tyrion knew how much his father despised weakness. He claimed the nearest chair. “Such pleasant chambers you have. Would you believe it, while I was dying, someone moved me to a dark little cell in Maegor’s?”

      “The Red Keep is overcrowded with wedding guests. Once they depart, we will find you more suitable accommodations.”

      “I rather liked these accommodations. Have you set a date for this great wedding?”

      “Joffrey and Margaery shall marry on the first day of the new year, which as it happens is also the first day of the new century. The ceremony will herald the dawn of a new era.”

      A new Lannister era, thought Tyrion. “Oh, bother, I fear I’ve made other plans for that day.”

      “Did you come here just to complain of your bedchamber and make your lame japes? I have important letters to finish.”

      “Important letters. To be sure.”

      “Some battles are won with swords and spears, others with quills and ravens. Spare me these coy reproaches, Tyrion. I visited your sickbed as often as Maester Ballabar would allow it, when you seemed like to die.” He steepled his fingers under his chin. “Why did you dismiss Ballabar?”

      Tyrion shrugged. “Maester Frenken is not so determined to keep me insensate.”

      “Ballabar came to the city in Lord Redwyne’s retinue. A gifted healer, it’s said. It was kind of Cersei to ask him to look after you. She feared for your life.”

      Feared that I might keep it, you mean. “Doubtless that’s why she’s never once left my bedside.”

      “Don’t be impertinent. Cersei has a royal wedding to plan, I am waging a war, and you have been out of danger for at least a fortnight.” Lord Tywin studied his son’s disfigured face, his pale green eyes unflinching. “Though the wound is ghastly enough, I’ll grant you. What madness possessed you?”

      “The foe was at the gates with a battering ram. If Jaime had led the sortie, you’d call it valor.”

      “Jaime would never be so foolish as to remove his helm in battle. I trust you killed the man who cut you?”

      “Oh, the wretch is dead enough.” Though it had been Podrick Payne who’d killed Ser Mandon, shoving him into the river to drown beneath the weight of his armor. “A dead enemy is a joy forever,” Tyrion said blithely, though Ser Mandon was not his true enemy. The man had no reason to want him dead. He was only a catspaw, and I believe I know the cat. She told him to make certain I did not survive the battle. But without proof Lord Tywin would never listen to such a charge. “Why are you here in the city, Father?” he asked. “Shouldn’t you be off fighting Lord Stannis or Robb Stark or someone?” And the sooner the better.

      “Until Lord Redwyne brings his fleet up, we lack the ships to assail Dragonstone. It makes no matter. Stannis Baratheon’s sun set on the Blackwater. As for Stark, the boy is still in the west, but a large force of northmen under Helman Tallhart and Robett Glover are descending toward Duskendale. I’ve sent Lord Tarly to meet them, while Ser Gregor drives up the kingsroad to cut off their retreat. Tallhart and Glover will be caught between them, with a third of Stark’s strength.”

      “Duskendale?” There was nothing at Duskendale worth such a risk. Had the Young Wolf finally blundered?

      “It’s nothing you need trouble yourself with. Your face is pale as death, and there’s blood seeping through your dressings. Say what you want and take yourself back to bed.”

      “What I want …” His throat felt raw and tight. What did he want? More than you can ever give me, Father. “Pod tells me that Littlefinger’s been made Lord of Harrenhal.”

      “An empty title, so long as Roose Bolton holds the castle for Robb Stark, yet Lord Baelish was desirous of the honor. He did us good service in the matter of the Tyrell marriage. A Lannister pays his debts.”

      The Tyrell marriage had been Tyrion’s notion, in point of fact, but it would seem churlish to try to claim that now. “That title may not be as empty as you think,” he warned. “Littlefinger does nothing without good reason. But be that as it may. You said something about paying debts, I believe?”

      “And you want your own reward, is that it? Very well. What is it you would have of me? Lands, castle, some office?”

      “A little bloody gratitude would make a nice start.”

      Lord Tywin stared at him, unblinking. “Mummers and monkeys require applause. So did Aerys, for that matter. You did as you were commanded, and I am sure it was to the best of your ability. No one denies the part you played.”

      “The part I played?” What nostrils Tyrion had left must surely have flared. “I saved your bloody city, it seems to me.”

      “Most people seem to feel that it was my attack on Lord Stannis’s flank that turned the tide of battle. Lords Tyrell, Rowan, Redwyne, and Tarly fought nobly as well, and I’m told it was your sister Cersei who set the pyromancers to making the wildfire that destroyed the Baratheon fleet.”

      “While all I did was get my nosehairs trimmed, is that it?” Tyrion could not keep the bitterness out of his voice.

      “Your chain was a clever stroke, and crucial to our victory. Is that what you wanted to hear? I am told we have you to thank for our Dornish alliance as well. You may be pleased to learn that Myrcella has arrived safely at Sunspear. Ser Arys Oakheart writes that she has taken a great liking to Princess Arianne, and that Prince Trystane is enchanted with her. I mislike giving House Martell a hostage, but I suppose that could not be helped.”

      “We’ll have our own hostage,” Tyrion said. “A council seat was also part of the bargain. Unless Prince Doran brings an army when he comes to claim it, he’ll be putting himself in our power.”

      “Would that a council seat were all Martell came to claim,” Lord Tywin said. “You promised him vengeance as well.”

      “I promised him justice.”

      “Call it what you will. It still comes down to blood.”

      “Not an item in short supply, surely? I splashed through lakes of it during the battle.” Tyrion saw no reason not to cut to the heart of the matter. “Or have you grown so fond of Gregor Clegane that you cannot bear to part with him?”

      “Ser Gregor has his uses, as did his brother. Every lord has need of a beast from time to time … a lesson you seem to have learned, judging from Ser Bronn and those clansmen of yours.”

      Tyrion thought of Timett’s burned eye, Shagga with his axe, Chella in her necklace of dried ears. And Bronn. Bronn most of all. “The woods are full of beasts,” he reminded his father. “The alleyways as well.”

      “True. Perhaps other dogs would hunt as well. I shall think on it. If there is nothing else ...”

      “You have important letters, yes.” Tyrion rose on unsteady legs, closed his eyes for an instant as a wave of dizziness washed over him, and took a shaky step toward the door. Later, he would reflect that he should have taken a second, and then a third. Instead he turned. “What do I want, you ask? I’ll tell you what I want. I want what is mine by rights. I want Casterly Rock.”

      His father’s mouth grew hard. “Your brother’s birthright?”

      “The knights of the Kingsguard are forbidden to marry, to father children, and to hold land, you know that as well as