The streets of King's Landing carried a new stench—sharp and musky, like the scent of weasels.
In the shadows of the Red Keep, the silhouettes of patrolling guards flickered past, torches in hand, their steps steady and measured. Since the number of prisoners in the dungeons had doubled, so too had the patrols—more men, more shifts, more watchful eyes.
Tyrion returned to the Tower of the Hand. He needed to speak with Sansa and Arya.
Explaining why he had hidden the news of Robb's death no longer mattered. What mattered was rescuing Daven from the weasel's den. Allowing one of his own blood to marry into House Frey was something he could never accept. Even if Riverrun now stood as the strongest and richest castle in the Riverlands, Tyrion knew it was only a gilded wreck—grand in appearance, but rotting within, barely afloat.
The door opened to reveal Shae. The instant she saw him, her eyes lit up, and a tender smile curved her lips. She stepped aside softly, allowing Tyrion to enter.
Brienne sat in a chair directly across from the door, her back straight, posture firm and imposing. Even in so private a setting, she had not removed her chainmail.
Sansa was focused on her embroidery, needle and thread gliding gracefully between her fingers, as if she were weaving dreams of hope and a gentler future. Arya sat in the corner, her gaze fixed on the floor, silent and still—a wounded little wolf.
Armor and blades could wound the flesh, but mistrustful eyes could cut just as deep.
"Shae, Brienne, may I speak with the ladies alone?" Tyrion asked.
Such a request did not come easily to Brienne, whose sworn duty was to guard Sansa and Arya.
Shae hesitated but let out a soft sigh and withdrew with reluctant obedience. Brienne's eyes, however, were filled with warning and quiet threat.
"Lady Sansa," she said, "call for me if you need anything. I'll be right outside."
"It's all right, Brienne. Lord Tyrion means no harm." Sansa's tone was calm and even, her voice soft enough to smooth away the tension in the air.
The bedroom door shut with a faint click, and Tyrion exhaled slowly.
"First of all, ladies, I owe you both an apology." He cleared his throat, realizing how clumsy his words sounded. "Lies... sometimes they're told with good intentions..."
"Liar. Oathbreaker!" Arya Stark spat the words like venom.
"Enough, Arya." Sansa stopped her gently, knowing it would do no good to argue. "My lord, this isn't your fault. Can we go home now?" Her voice trembled, barely audibly.
Home. Where was home now?
"I'm sorry, Sansa," Tyrion said quietly. "You have no home left. Moat Cailin is in the hands of the ironborn. Winterfell has been taken by Theon Greyjoy. Your brothers, Bran and Rickon... are dead."
Gods forgive me. He knew they lived, but once again, he had to lie.
Sansa's face didn't change. Tyrion expected grief, perhaps anger—but there was none. Her calm expression made him wonder if she even understood what he had said.
At least Arya trembled, her body shaking, proof that his words had struck home.
"Your home is gone, my lady," Tyrion said softly. "I know an apology means nothing, but there may be another way to give you one."
"I... will do as you say."
"My cousin, Daven Lannister—my mother's brother's son—is a good man. Handsome, brave, a true warrior on the battlefield," Tyrion said. "If you don't know him, I can arrange for you to meet."
"And then there's my cousin, Lancel Lannister. Handsome as my brother was in his youth, though he's never seen battle and is much younger."
He paused, then added dryly, "Of course, my dear cousin also happened to sleep with my sister."
"The Lannisters can give you a home again. Whichever of the two you choose, I can arrange a betrothal to make amends for breaking my oath."
Giving the poor girl a choice was the greatest help he could offer her.
"Neither of them holds a castle at present, but whichever one you prefer, I'll see to it he's granted lands fitting your rank and station," Tyrion continued. "It won't be Winterfell, but it'll be far better than those second-rate toys others might offer."
Tarbeck Hall and Darry Castle were both vacant now, yet too ruined, shabby, and poor to be worthy choices. Castamere, perhaps, would do. He'd need to persuade his father, but that shouldn't prove too difficult. Both Uncle Kevan and cousin Daven had earned such reward for their service to the house.
Of course, there was always Harrenhal—but that place was cursed, its last lord still rotting away in the dungeons.
"Liar! Liar!" Arya shouted. Her voice burned with fury and grief, each word forced through clenched teeth, her eyes flashing with cold rage. Like a direwolf, she bore the wolf's fire within her.
"Enough, little girl," Tyrion said. "I'm running out of patience. Say another word like that, and I'll toss you into the weasel's nest—marry you to a Frey, let you bear him a litter of pups. You know I'm not bluffing."
At that, Arya fell silent. Tears streamed down her cheeks as she glared at him, wordless but defiant.
"Some Northmen have come to King's Landing as well—though as prisoners," Tyrion said, turning to Sansa. "If you wish to see them..."
"No, my lord. Thank you for your kindness," Sansa said softly. "If I wish to see them, I'll have Brienne tell you. Please, let me speak with my sister."
Only after the heavy oak door closed between the lion and the wolves did the sound of her quiet sobs reach him.
Tyrion stepped away from the doorway, hurrying toward his study.
"My apologies, my lord," Podrick said, standing stiff and straight by the door. "The prince and princess await you inside the study."
"Wonderful," Tyrion muttered. "The Tower of the Hand has become a whore's bed—people coming and going all day. Not your fault, boy. You couldn't have stopped the Dornish anyway. Go find Bronn and have him wait outside."
"As you wish, my lord."
Watching Podrick leave, Tyrion took a deep breath, steadied himself, and pushed open the door.
Moonlight spilled softly through the garden window, casting long shadows across the study. Oberyn Martell lounged behind a finely carved desk, toying idly with a quill between his fingers, a sly gleam in his eyes.
Princess Arianne sat gracefully on his narrow bed, her expression serene as still water, her gaze dark and unreadable.
"Lust Demon," the prince said smoothly, "we need to talk."
...
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