"Is the ship for Castle Black ready?" Tyrion asked Bronn.
Bronn had set about arranging it early that morning. As instructed, he found a food ship in the harbor of King's Landing, the Summer's Dream. Its hold, however, was packed with nothing but cheap fare—moldy potatoes, soft onions, and cabbages gone brown at the edges.
With most of Stannis's fleet withdrawn, the naval blockade pressing on King's Landing had eased considerably. That was a matter to be raised at the Small Council soon enough.
"Fair price," Bronn said. "I bought them a round of drinks and paid a hundred golden dragons to sail her north to Castle Black."
"Isn't a hundred rather light?" Tyrion asked.
"Cargo's worthless. They'd hardly profit unloading it here," Bronn replied. "I told them to sail tonight, and wait for my signal."
"Good." Tyrion nodded. "I expect Lord Janos Slynt will keep his appointment this evening."
...
Though the streets of King's Landing rang with cries of hunger and crime festered in every alley, the Tower of the Hand hosted a private banquet.
No sooner had Tyrion taken up residence there than he sought out the finest cook in the city and claimed her service.
Tonight's table held oxtail soup; summer greens tossed with walnuts, grapes, fennel, and crumbled cheese; steaming crab pies; spiced pumpkin; and roast quail—each dish paired with its own wine.
Janos Slynt's father had been a butcher, and when he laughed, it still sounded like a cleaver striking bone.
"More?" Tyrion asked.
"I don't object." Lord Janos pushed his cup across. He was built like a barrel and drank like one. "Not at all. A fine vintage. Arbor, is it?"
"Dorne." Tyrion signaled, and a servant stepped forward to pour, then withdrew.
Save for the servants, only he and Lord Janos remained in the chamber. The candles lit the table, the rest of the room sunk in shadow.
"A rare taste, my Lord Tyrion. You seem to fancy the exotic. Much like your appearance."
"Rich." Frog-faced Slynt took another heavy swallow. The man never sipped—Tyrion had marked it from the start. "Yes, rich. That's the word. Perfectly said. Not to flatter you, Lord Tyrion, but you've a gift with words. And your stories—hilarious, absolutely hilarious."
"I'm glad you think so... but I'm no lord, not beside you. Just call me Tyrion, Lord Janos."
"Very well." He tipped back another gulp. Red wine spilled across his black satin tunic. Over it he wore a half-cloak of golden thread, embroidered with a bloodied spear, fastened by a clasp shaped like a little spear glazed red at the tip. By now, he was dead drunk.
"May I see your spear?" Tyrion asked.
"My spear?" Lord Janos blinked.
"The clasp on your cloak."
With some hesitation, Slynt unfastened the ornate hook and handed it over.
"Our smiths in Lannisport do finer work," Tyrion said. "No offense, but the enamel on these bloodstains looks too red—like it was just pulled from a man's back. Tell me, Lord—did you drive the spear yourself into a northerner's spine, or only give the word?"
"I only gave the word. And I'd do it again. Lord Stark was a traitor!" The bald crown of Slynt's head flushed red. His golden half-cloak slipped from his shoulders to the floor. "The man tried to bribe me!"
"But he never dreamed you were already bought."
Slynt slammed his cup down. "Are you drunk, to sit here and soil my honor—"
"Honor? You?" Tyrion scoffed. "To win a lordship and a castle without even dirtying your hands—you've some talent, I'll grant you that." He tossed the clasp back at Slynt.
The man lurched to his feet. The clasp clattered across the floor.
"I don't care for your tone, my lord... no, Lust Demon. I am the Lord of Harrenhal, a royal councillor, with friends aplenty in the court. You're nothing but a wastrel—what right have you to judge me?"
"Petyr Baelish bought you. How much was it? Six thousand golden dragons? Enough to make you betray Eddard Stark at the crucial moment." Tyrion rose sharply to his feet. "Littlefinger cast you aside long ago. He's already told everyone of your treachery. Think carefully—besides him, who in the court still counts as your friend?"
Janos Slynt wobbled, unsteady on his feet. Whether from drink or fear was hard to say.
"You want a knighthood? Fine. Perhaps I'll be generous enough to see your son raised to nobility." Tyrion's mismatched eyes gleamed with a strange power. "But Harrenhal? Never. Your appetite is far too large. Did you truly think a few shameless deeds would win you the king's castle?"
With that, Tyrion hurled his wine cup into Slynt's face. Red spilled over him, streaking down his chest like fresh blood dripping from the spear on his sigil.
At some point, the servant at his side had been replaced. Bronn stood at his shoulder; Timett flanked the other side.
And Shagga's massive frame filled the doorway like a sealed iron gate.
Fear lit Janos Slynt's eyes. "My lord... please—"
"No need to beg." Tyrion flicked a glance to Bronn. The sellsword pulled out a wad of cloth, while Timett uncoiled a length of hemp rope.
"I give you my word—your family will come to no harm. House Lannister does not forget its debts. Your deeds may yet bless your descendants. Your son will inherit the title of Lord Slynt—and that ghastly sigil of yours."
He nudged the little golden spear clasp with his boot, sending it clattering across the floor. "We'll find him lands of his own—maybe some unclaimed fields, maybe an empty castle. It won't be Harrenhal, but it'll serve well enough."
Janos Slynt's face drained from crimson to chalk. "Then... then what do you mean to...?" His cheeks quivered like jelly.
"How do I mean to deal with you?" Tyrion let him tremble a while longer before answering. "There's a ship called the Summer's Dream. She sails before dawn tomorrow, bound for Eastwatch-by-the-Sea. You'll disembark there and make for Castle Black. When you see Lord Mormont, give him my regards. Tell him I've not forgotten the Watch's needs. Long life and good fortune to you, my lord."
Bronn shoved the rag into his mouth while Timett bound him tight. Together they hauled the frog-faced lord away.
Tyrion plucked a few pastries from the table. Perhaps the Stark girls would want a midnight snack.