The army of the Reach moved like a living forest, while the Lannister host flowed like molten lava. Steady as a forest, fierce as fire. And now, the column that was slowly marching into the city...
"The stench is unbearable—reeking of filth, betrayal, and conspiracy," Tyrion said, glancing out the window. "If I must share the Red Keep with them, I'd rather be sent back to Casterly Rock early."
"I invited them for your betrothal feast. The Freys are our allies," Tywin Lannister replied, seated at his desk, writing without pause. "At least for now."
These days, his father did nothing but write. Ravens flew north, south, to Dorne—and even to Dragonstone.
"Tell me, Father, what dealings do you have with Dragonstone?" Tyrion asked curiously.
"Stannis's lady, Selyse, is of House Florent of the Reach. And Stannis's Hand, Alester Florent, is the very lord who was stripped of Brightwater Keep."
"Oh, how pitiful," Tyrion said dryly. "I suppose Alester is discussing with you how to rebuild peace and reclaim Brightwater Keep."
"Indeed, Lord Alester has such ambitions, but I've paid him no mind," Tywin said. "House Tyrell is far more reliable."
"I prefer Garlan to the rest. He and I get along well. But such allies can't be trusted."
Tyrion's gaze fixed on the twin-towered banners fluttering outside the window. "If we ever face trouble, the Freys will treat us as they did the Starks, just as the Florents sought to abandon Stannis."
"Perhaps that day will come, but not yet," Tywin said without looking up.
"The war isn't over," Tyrion muttered. "Enemies still watch us from every side—across the Narrow Sea..."
"The last surviving daughter of Aerys?" Tywin finally looked up. "She has nothing but pitiful Dothraki savages. She has no ships."
"Perhaps she has allies?" Tyrion raised a brow. "Let's see... the Dornish, maybe?"
"The Dornish do hate us—especially Oberyn," Tywin said. "But Doran is no fool. He won't dig his own grave. Once you marry, Dorne will be our firm ally. What's this? Does Arianne not please you?"
"Not at all."
"Good. Of all your past deeds, perhaps only your skill in winning women's favor gives me some comfort," Tywin said, sealing his letter with wax and pressing the steel signet into it. "Prince Doran's reply should arrive soon."
Suddenly, Grand Maester Pycelle entered, carrying a silver tray gilded with gold, upon which sat ornate cups set with rubies.
"Lord Tywin, your medicine."
"Medicine?" Tyrion turned toward his father. "You're taking medicine?"
"A purgative," the Grand Maester explained. "Lord Tywin merely suffers a slight discomfort."
Tywin cast Pycelle a cold glance, motioning for him to leave.
"A laxative?" Tyrion said with a crooked smile. "Has the Hand of the King, in sympathy with the Master of Coin, finally decided to flush out some gold?"
"Enough," Tywin said curtly. "Go. Do your work."
The streets of King's Landing were growing crowded—men from the Reach, from Dorne, Freys newly arrived, and Lannisters returning from the south.
When Tyrion returned to the Hand's Tower, he found a grim sight outside his chamber door: knights in white cloaks—the Kingsguard. That could only mean Joffrey or Cersei had come to the Hand's Tower. Worst of all, perhaps both.
Brienne stood at the corner. Seeing the Hand return, she stepped forward to speak, but Tyrion raised a hand to stop her and walked straight toward the door.