Blood magic never failed to deliver, Tyrion thought.
"Ha!"
Joffrey burst into laughter, clapping his hands as he spun in circles, shaking off his earlier fear in an instant. Within moments, he was already looking for some new amusement, leaving the council behind as if he'd forgotten the meeting had been his idea in the first place.
Varys stood beside the brazier, warming his soft, pale hands.
"It's hard to believe," he said mildly, "that Renly Baratheon was murdered so terribly in the midst of his own army. The blade cut through steel and bone like cheese, slicing his throat clean from ear to ear."
"Who did it?" Cersei demanded.
"Ah, that's the problem, Your Grace—too many answers mean no answer at all," Varys said in his silken tone. "With a king dead so suddenly, rumors sprout like mushrooms after rain. One groom swears Renly was slain by one of his Rainbow Guard. A washerwoman insists Stannis crept into his brother's camp with his flaming sword."
"Some soldiers claim it was a woman, though they can't agree on which one. One believes it was a girl Renly cast aside, another says it was the camp whore who served him the night before the battle, and a third dares whisper that it was Lady Catelyn Stark herself."
Utter nonsense, Tyrion thought. Renly only cared for what lay behind a man.
Still, Lady Catelyn had been there—and most likely at Littlefinger's urging.
"Do we truly need to waste time on the tavern gossip of idiots?" Cersei snapped. "Couldn't this be some elaborate trick?"
"If it is, then it's masterfully done," Varys replied. "Even I was deceived."
"It's not a ruse," Tyrion said flatly. "Using a king's death to fool the enemy would only crush your own army's morale. There's no advantage in that."
"In any case," he went on, "whoever struck the blow, the hand behind it must be Stannis. The motive's plain enough—he's the one who benefits."
He had originally planned for the Baratheon brothers to battle each other to exhaustion, then send the Faceless Men to finish off Renly. Now, it seemed, that slot could be saved.
"What of Renly's army?" Tyrion asked.
"He left the bulk of it at Bitterbridge," Varys replied, moving from the fire to his seat at the council table. "But most of the lords who rode with Lord Renly through the night to Storm's End have already bent the knee to Stannis."
"Stannis does inspire loyalty," Tyrion said, nodding. "As a commander, he's competent—second only to me."
Cersei gave a cold, disdainful snort.
"But not all will follow him," Tyrion continued. "The Tyrells and the Tarlys won't join Stannis."
"You are perceptive, my lord," Varys smiled. "Save for Ser Loras Tyrell and Lord Randyll Tarly, of course. The garrison at Storm's End has not surrendered either. They hold the castle in Renly's name, refusing to believe he's dead. They'll open the gates only when they see his body—but it's vanished. Likely hidden by someone."
"Most likely by Ser Loras Tyrell," Tyrion said.
"Indeed," Varys nodded. "Ser Loras is said to be on his way to Bitterbridge. His sister, Queen Margaery, remains there. The soldiers stationed with her suddenly find themselves without a king, unsure whom to follow. Many of their lords have already joined Stannis at Storm's End."
"Then we win them over," Tyrion said. "The late Lord Renly taught us a valuable lesson—marriage is a powerful weapon. We should use it, as he did, to secure the Tyrells' allegiance."
Varys's eyes gleamed with understanding. "You would have King Joffrey wed Margaery Tyrell?"
"Joffrey is too proud," Cersei cut in. "He'd never settle for Renly's leftovers. He'd refuse outright."
"Renly only loved men's backsides," Tyrion said dryly. "The young queen is fifteen, sixteen at most—just a few years older than Joffrey, and far more beautiful. Besides, the Tyrells are richer than the Starks."
"Joffrey is already betrothed to Sansa Stark," Cersei said sharply.
"Betrothals can be broken," Tyrion replied. "There's little gain in marrying the daughter of a dead traitor."
Cersei's lips tightened. "Then by all means, make the offer. And when Joffrey takes offense, may the gods have mercy on you."
"Not necessarily Joffrey," Tyrion said, rising from his chair. "There's another eligible noble present, isn't there?"
"Joffrey's nobility far surpasses yours!" Cersei snapped, anger rising.
"Ah yes," Tyrion said with a thin smile, "noble enough to have Ser Meryn Trant strip Sansa naked?"
Lancel burst out laughing before catching himself, earning a murderous glare from Cersei.
"Stark girls may be sweet, but aside from their beauty, they're of no use to Joffrey. Margaery Tyrell, however, brings fifty thousand men and all the strength of Highgarden as her dowry," said Grand Maester Pycelle at last.
The old man had been so quiet that everyone had assumed he'd fallen asleep.
"The Grand Maester cuts right to the point," Tyrion said. "I'm glad we're all in agreement. Now, who among us will go to Bitterbridge?"
"You mean to send a member of the Small Council?" Cersei asked.
"I can hardly expect the Knight of Flowers to negotiate with Bronn or Shagga, can I? The Tyrells are a proud lot," Tyrion said. "Lancel..."
His cousin immediately shook his head, pale and nervous. He had neither the courage nor the rank for it.
"The Hand of the King speaks for the King," Cersei said, eyes gleaming green in the candlelight like wildfire. "It should be you, Tyrion. That would be as good as Joffrey himself attending. Who better? Your tongue cuts as sharply as Jaime's sword."
"You flatter me, dearest sister. But if we're arranging a royal marriage, surely a mother is better suited than an uncle. You have quite the talent for making friends—a gift I sadly lack."
Her eyes narrowed to thin, dangerous slits. "Joffrey needs me at his side."
"And you think he doesn't need me?" Tyrion replied.
"You should have kept Lord Baelish," Cersei said. "Perhaps he would have been the right man for the task."
Foolish woman, Tyrion thought. That's exactly why I sent him away. "Never mind," he said aloud. "I'll go myself."
"You want to marry Margaery Tyrell?" Cersei's voice sharpened, her pride pricked. The doting mother in her couldn't bear the thought of her brother stealing her son's glory.
Margaery was far better than Sansa, and she knew it.
"Then you can handle persuading little Joffrey," Tyrion said. "I'll take a thousand Gold Cloaks with me. The mountain clans stay in King's Landing. And I'll need gold."
"You have gold," Cersei snapped.
"What uncle ever pays a dowry? That part falls to you," Tyrion said. "Trust me, when I return, the King will understand—blood runs thicker than water."
"What a charming sentiment, my lord," Varys said with a sly smile. "Our Joffrey is a king who never forgets a kindness. Go in confidence, my brave lord."
...
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