The Tower of the Hand. Only two people sat in the study.
"So, you sent Lord Baelish away?" Cersei glared at her brother, her tone sharp.
"Indeed. To bring our dear brother back," Tyrion said, absently sipping his wine.
"This could have been handled with a raven or a simple messenger," the Queen snapped. "Why send him? He's far more useful here in King's Landing."
"He left me a deputy," Tyrion replied. "Someone well acquainted with nearly all of Littlefinger's connections."
"And where is he?"
"In the dungeons."
"What?" Cersei's eyes went wide.
This foolish beauty, Tyrion thought. "Qyburn and Bronn are questioning him. They're having him write down every friend he has in King's Landing, and every bit of property in his name. I've also sent men to search his office."
"What if he finds out?" Cersei demanded. "What if the rest of the Small Council finds out?"
"Who—Littlefinger? How could he possibly know?" Tyrion said. "Tell me, dear sister, how many times does Grand Maester Pycelle report to you each day? If someone were sending messages, he'd know before anyone else. Besides, we've done nothing to harm Littlefinger. Sending him away simply makes it easier for me to do my work."
"And the other councilors? As long as you don't shout it from the rooftops, no one will know."
"Varys will," Cersei said, narrowing her eyes.
"Of course he will," Tyrion said. "And he'll also know I mean him no harm. My sights are on Littlefinger alone."
"But he's useful to us," Cersei countered. "Without him, much of the realm's business can't function."
"Such as?" Tyrion asked, gesturing for her to continue.
"The Iron Bank," Cersei said. "Braavos keeps sending envoys to demand repayment. We're long overdue."
"The Iron Bank? That was Robert's spending, wasn't it?" Tyrion asked. "I thought he burned through Father's gold, not his own."
"Hmph. At first, yes," Cersei said bitterly. "But that bottomless pit could never be filled. Eventually Robert began borrowing from Father too. After all, he wasn't the Hand—Jon Arryn was. Those expenses should've been his problem to solve."
"So Jon Arryn brought the wolf into the fold—Littlefinger." Poor old cuckold, Tyrion thought. He never even knew how many years he wore the green.
"Now that Littlefinger's gone, how do we deal with the Iron Bank?" Cersei pressed.
"What do you suggest?" Tyrion asked in return.
"Robert spent the money. Why should I repay it?" Cersei said. "I won't. Let the Iron Bank chase whoever they please—the crown will not take on that debt."
"A Lannister always pays his debts," Tyrion said. "We can't simply default. If we do, the Iron Bank will fund our enemies instead—Stannis, for instance."
"But we don't have the money."
"That's not the point," Tyrion said calmly. "We can't pay it all now, but we can at least send word that we'll begin repayment. Let them know we don't intend to walk away from what's owed."
"And if they refuse partial payment and demand the full sum?"
"Then we're out of options," Tyrion said. "If they insist, we default. What else can we do?"
"So that's your grand solution?" Cersei said with disgust. "And what of Joffrey? You've been in King's Landing all this time and haven't even paid your respects to your king."
"We're family. Why stand on ceremony?" Tyrion said lightly. "Besides, I've been buried in work, exhausting myself for the good of the realm. I'm sure His Grace will understand."
"Then you can explain it to him yourself," Cersei said coldly.
"What, you admit you've lost control of your precious son?" Tyrion said. "Speaking of Joffrey—another idea just came to me."
"What now?" Cersei asked, though she already expected trouble.
"The Vale still hasn't moved its troops," Tyrion said. "From what I remember during my visit, Lysa doesn't seem eager to help her family."
"And?"
"We could turn her into an ally." Tyrion's eyes gleamed mischievously. "Your daughter and Lord Robert Arryn would make quite the match. Perhaps—"
Smack!
Cersei's hand lashed out, knocking his goblet from his grasp. Wine splashed across the floor.
"Enough, you vile little maggot! Myrcella is my only daughter. Did you really think I'd let you sell her off like a sack of apples?"
"Sell her? Don't be ridiculous. Myrcella is a princess. In a sense, she was born for this. You're not planning to marry her to Tommen, are you? What are you now—a Targaryen?"
"For that alone, I should have your tongue torn out, brother or not. I am Joffrey's Queen Regent, not you, and I will not let you ship Myrcella away like I was sent to Robert Baratheon!"
Tyrion flicked a drop of wine from his fingers and sighed. "Why not? The Eyrie is safer than King's Landing."
"Are you a fool or completely mad? You and I both know that wretched woman Lysa despises us. Have you forgotten what she accused us of? Murdering Jon Arryn!"
"You make a fair point, sister," Tyrion said, nodding. "I'm honestly surprised—you've shown signs of intelligence in our few meetings. So tell me, where in the Seven Kingdoms would you have us send Myrcella?"
"Only the Iron Islands and Dorne have stayed out of the war."
"The Iron Islands are a barren rock where even the birds don't shit. I wouldn't send my dear niece there. Besides, King Balon's got no son fit for her." Tyrion feigned a sigh. "What about Dorne? Myrcella's nine, and Trystane Martell is eleven. When she turns fourteen, they could marry. Until then, she could live at Sunspear as an honored guest under Prince Doran's protection."
He pushed a parchment across the table. It listed a rich dowry—titles, castles along the Marches, and chests of gold and silver.
"The Martells hate us," Cersei said, staring at the paper.
"Yes, they do," Tyrion replied. "But Prince Doran is a man of honor. His grudge against our house goes back only one generation. Meanwhile, the Dornish have been fighting Storm's End and Highgarden for a thousand years. It works in our favor—the Stormlands and the Reach both support Renly."
"Absolutely not!" Cersei shouted. "I will never hand my daughter over as a hostage!"
"Oh? Then what will you offer instead—the hole between your legs?" Tyrion shot back.
Cersei shook with fury, her whole body trembling, but she had no retort.
"What now?" Tyrion sneered. "Going to throw something again? Or hit me, you lioness? Tywin's precious little heir?"
...
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