Upon hearing of the siege of Storm's End, Mace Tyrell's expression turned grim.
Tyrion finally understood why they called him Lord Puff Fish—he looked just like a puffed-up pufferfish. The difference was that a pufferfish bristles with spines, while Lord Mace bristled only with embarrassment.
"Lust Demon," said Randyll Tarly. "Are you threatening us? Stannis is a just man..."
"Yes, yes," Tyrion interrupted impatiently. "Everyone says Stannis is the very picture of justice. Even Lord Eddard, headless as he may be now, admired him. But the Lannisters always pay their debts—did you forget that?"
"What was the name of that knight who saved his life? The one with the onion on his sigil," Tyrion went on. "And how did Stannis repay him? Granted him lands, then cut off his fingers? Does that sound just to you?"
"I warn you, do not slander Stannis's honor," said Lord Randyll Tarly.
"Lord Tarly, I understand you," said Tyrion. "You're both fine warriors. It's natural for you to respect each other. But calling Stannis 'just'... heh, I'm not sure what you mean by that. At Casterly Rock, we call men like him 'vengeful.'"
"Silence, Lust Demon!" Randyll Tarly stepped forward.
"Fine, go to Stannis then," Tyrion said, taking a step back. "I'll have him stick my head beside the throne. Let's see—when Stannis sits on the Iron Throne, will he name House Florent Warden of the South, or forget the Tyrells' little grudge at Storm's End?"
"Enough," Mace Tyrell finally sighed. "Ser Randyll, you may leave."
Randyll Tarly glared at Tyrion, then turned and strode out of the tent, the flap whipping in his wake.
"The rain's coming down harder," Tyrion said, sitting back down. "Perhaps now we can speak a bit more freely?"
Mace Tyrell straightened. "You can speak for the King? For Tywin Lannister?"
"I am the acting Hand of the King," Tyrion replied. "The son of Tywin Lannister, heir to Casterly Rock, the King's uncle, and the Queen Regent's brother. Of course I can speak with authority."
"So..." Mace Tyrell ventured.
"So, an alliance with the Lannisters brings many benefits," Tyrion said, matching his posture. "Not just the saying that a Lannister always pays his debts. I've noticed several empty seats on the Small Council since King Robert's death. Aside from the Hand's chair, which belongs to my father, the rest are yours to choose."
Mace Tyrell nodded slowly. "But that is not enough."
The tent flap lifted suddenly, and a knight entered. Tyrion was about to scold him, then recognized the man—it was Garlan Tyrell, the second son of House Tyrell.
He resembled his younger brother Ser Loras, but stood taller and broader, his face framed by a beard. Five years Loras's senior, Garlan walked straight to his father's side and stood behind him.
"I can make sure you keep your title as Warden of the South," Tyrion said quickly.
"I already am Warden of the South," Lord Mace replied, displeased. Normally, one wouldn't offer what a man already possesses as a bargaining chip, but this time, it served its purpose.
"It was meant for House Florent," Tyrion said, turning to Garlan. "But speaking of the Florents—their Brightwater Keep would make a fine fief for Ser Garlan."
Garlan Tyrell's eyes lit up.
Mace Tyrell nodded. "All of these sound quite good, but they're not good enough."
Though Lord Puff Fish wasn't the sharpest tool in the shed, he never held back when it came to securing benefits.
"Of course, to demonstrate the Lannisters' sincerity toward House Tyrell and our vision for generations of friendship..." Tyrion said, "I believe we could offer you a king."
"A king?" Mace Tyrell asked, puzzled.
"Joffrey Baratheon," Garlan said. "Lord Tyrion, you wish the king to wed my sister?"
"Precisely." Tyrion rose, fixing his gaze on Ser Garlan. "You lost a king, and I shall give you one back—the true king, Joffrey Baratheon, honest as day."
Then he turned to Lord Mace. "Your daughter remains queen, and you remain part of the royal family."
"Mace Tyrell, Warden of the South, member of the Small Council, father-in-law to His Majesty the King," he murmured with devilish charm. "And you, Ser Garlan, Earl of Brightwater Keep."
Mace Tyrell's neck flushed crimson, betraying his interest.
"Lord Tyrion," Ser Garlan inquired, "we don't know King Joffrey very well. Perhaps it would be wiser to proceed with caution?"
Tyrion noticed his gaze shift past him toward the entrance of the tent. Turning his head, he saw a beautiful young woman.
She was stunning—soft brown curls, warm brown eyes, and a graceful figure. Her steps were so light that Tyrion hadn't even noticed her entering.
"This is my sister, Margaery," Ser Garlan introduced, as Ser Loras rose beside him.
Surrounded by a circle of roses—what a suffocating feeling, Tyrion thought.
"My lord Tyrion," Margaery Tyrell curtsied slightly. "Welcome, and forgive my uninvited presence."
She was indeed beautiful. Tyrion forced himself not to stare, lest it give offense.
"It matters not," Tyrion said. "If I've offended you, your two brothers could probably take on ten of me."
"My lord Tyrion," Ser Garlan asked, "is His Grace Joffrey a kind king?"
"He always has been," Tyrion replied, "especially fond of his men. The knights around him speak of him with nothing but praise."
"And his skill in arms?" asked Loras.
"He's not as skilled with a sword as my brother Jaime," Tyrion admitted, "but he has a remarkable talent for archery."
"And his looks?" asked Margaery Tyrell.
"How about you look at me?" Tyrion puffed out his chest. "Nephews take after their uncles, and our king is no less handsome than I."
"Even if you're not satisfied with the king, there are other nobles to choose from."
Seeing Garlan still hesitant, Tyrion pressed his advantage. "Though I'm not the king and a bit older, I'm the true heir to Casterly Rock—and I'm standing right here, alive and kicking."
He laughed heartily.
"In any case, there's bound to be a Lannister man to your liking," Tyrion said. "Why not set out now? If Stannis captures King's Landing first, it will be too late."
"As for the betrothal, everything can be decided once we reach King's Landing."