“Nor I, my lord,” said the armorer. “I confess, these colors were not what I intended, and I do not know that I could duplicate them. Your lord father had asked for the crimson of your House, and it was that color I set out to infuse into the metal. But Valyrian steel is stubborn. These old swords remember, it is said, and they do not change easily. I worked half a hundred spells and brightened the red time and time again, but always the color would darken, as if the blade was drinking the sun from it. And some folds would not take the red at all, as you can see. if my lords of Lannister are displeased, I will of course try again, as many times as you should require, but -”
“No need,” Lord Tywin said. “This will serve.”
“A crimson sword might flash prettily in the sun, but if truth be told I like these colors better,” said Tyrion. “They have an ominous beauty... and they make this blade unique. There is no other sword like it in all the world, I should think.”
“There is one.” The armorer bent over the table and unfolded the bundle of oilcloth, to reveal a second longsword.
Tyrion put down Joffrey’s sword and took up the other. If not twins, the two were at least close cousins. This one was thicker and heavier, a half-inch wider and three inches longer, but they shared the same fine clean lines and the same distinctive color, the ripples of blood and night.
Three ful ers, deeply incised, ran down the second blade from hilt to point; the king’s sword had only two. Joff’s hilt was a good deal more ornate, the arms of its crossguard done as lions’ paws with ruby claws unsheathed, but both swords had grips of finely tooled red leather and gold lions’ heads for pornmels.
“Magnificent.” Even in hands as unskilled as Tyrion’s, the blade felt alive. “I have never felt better balance.”
“It is meant for my son.”
No need to ask which son. Tyrion placed Jaime’s sword back on the table beside Joffrey’s, wondering if Robb Stark would let his brother live long enough to wield it. Our father must surely think so, else why have this blade forged?
“You have done good work, Master Mott,” Lord Tywin told the armorer. “My steward will see to your payment. And remember, rubies for the scabbards.”
“I shall, my lord. You are most generous.” The man folded the swords up in the oilcloth, tucked the bundle under one arm, and went to his knee. “It is an honor to serve the King’s Hand. I shal deliver the swords the day before the wedding.”
“See that you do.”
When the guards had seen the armorer out, Tyrion clambered up onto a chair. “So... a sword for Joff, a sword for Jaime, and not even a dagger for the dwarf. is that the way of it, Father?”
“The steel was sufficient for two blades, not three. If you have need of a dagger, take one from the armory. Robert left a hundred when he died. Gerion gave him a gilded dagger with an ivory grip and a sapphire pommel for a wedding gift, and half the envoys who came to court tried to curry favor by presenting His Grace with jewel-encrusted knives and silver inlay swords.” Tyrion smiled. “They’d have pleased him more if they’d presented him with their daughters.”
“No doubt. The only blade he ever used was the hunting knife he had from Jon Arryn, when he was a boy.” Lord Tywin waved a hand, dismissing King Robert and al his knives. “What did you find at the riverfront?”
“Mud,” said Tyrion, “and a few dead things no one’s bothered to bury. Before we can open the port again, the Blackwater’s going to have to be dredged, the sunken ships broken up or raised.
Three-quarters of the quays need repair, and some may have to be torn down and rebuilt. The entire fish market is gone, and both the River Gate and the King’s Gate are splintered from the battering Stannis gave them and should be replaced. I shudder to think of the cost.” If you do shit gold, Father, find a privy and get busy, he wanted to say, but he knew better.
“You will find whatever gold is required.”
“Will I? Where? The treasury is empty, I’ve told you that. We’re not done paying the alchemists for all that wildfire, or the smiths for my chain, and Cersei’s pledged the crown to pay half the costs of Joffs wedding - seventy-seven bloody courses, a thousand guests, a pie full of doves, singers, jugglers...”
“Extravagance has its uses. We must demonstrate the power and wealth of Casterly Rock for all the realm to see.”
“Then perhaps Casterly Rock should pay.”
“Why? I have seen Littlefinger’s accounts. Crown incomes are ten times higher than they were under Aerys.”
“As are the crown’s expenses. Robert was as generous with his coin as he was with his cock.
Littlefinger borrowed heavily. From you, amongst others. Yes, the incomes are considerable, but they are barely sufficient to cover the usury on Littlefinger’s loans. Wil you forgive the throne’s debt to House Lannister?”
“Don’t be absurd.”
“Then perhaps seven courses would suffice. Three hundred guests instead of a thousand. I understand that a marriage can be just as binding without a dancing bear.”
“The Tyrells would think us niggardly. I will have the wedding and the waterfront. If you cannot pay for them, say so, and I shal find a master of coin who can.” The disgrace of being dismissed after so short a time was not something Tyrion cared to suffer.
“I will find your money.”
“You will,” his father promised, “and while you are about it, see if you can find your wife’s bed as well.”
So the talk has reached even him. “I have, thank you. It’s that piece of furniture between the window and the hearth, with the velvet canopy and the mattress stuffed with goose down.”
“I am pleased you know of it. Now perhaps you ought to try and know the woman who shares it with you.”
Woman? Child, you mean. “Has a spider been whispering in your ear, or do I have my sweet sister to thank?” Considering the things that went on beneath Cersei’s blankets, you would think she’d have the decency to keep her nose out of his. “Tell me, why is it that all of Sansa’s maids are women in Cersei’s service? I am sick of being spied upon in my own chambers.”
“If you mislike your wife’s servants, dismiss them and hire ones more to your liking. That is your right. It is your wife’s maidenhood that concerns me, not her maids. This... delicacy puzzles me. You seem to have no difficulty bedding whores. Is the Stark girl made differently?”
“Why do you take so much bloody interest in where I put my cock?” Tyrion demanded. “Sansa is too young.”
“She is old enough to be Lady of Winterfel once her brother is dead. Claim her maidenhood and you will be one step closer to claiming the north. Get her with child, and the prize is all but won. Do I need to remind you that a marriage that has not been consummated can be set aside?”
“By the High Septon or a Council of Faith. Our present High Septon is a trained seal who barks prettily on command. Moon Boy is more like to annul my marriage than he is.”
“Perhaps I should have married Sansa Stark to Moon Boy. He might have known what to do with her.”
Tyrion’s hands clenched on the arms of his chair. “I have heard al I mean to hear on the subject of my wife’s maidenhead. But so long as we are discussing marriage, why is it that I hear nothing of my sister’s impending nuptials? As I recall -”
Lord Tywin cut him off. “Mace Tyrell has refused my offer to marry Cersei to his heir Willas.”
“Refused our sweet Cersei?” That put Tyrion in a much better mood.
“When I first broached the match to him, Lord Tyrell seemed well enough disposed,” his father said. “A day later, all was changed. The old woman’s work. She hectors her son unmercifully.
Varys claims she told him that your sister was too old and too used for this precious one-legged grandson of hers.”
“Cersei must have loved that.” He laughed.
Lord Tywin gave him a chilly look. “She does not know. Nor wil she. It is better for all of us if the offer was never made. See that you remember that, Tyrion. The offer was never made.”
“What offer?” Tyrion rather suspected that Lord Tyrel might come to regret this rebuff.
“Your sister will be wed. The question is, to whom? I have several thoughts -” Before he could get to them, there was a rap at the door and a guardsman stuck in his head to announce Grand Maester Pycel e. “He may enter,” said Lord Tywin.
Pycelle tottered in on a cane, and stopped long enough to give Tyrion a look that would curdle milk. His once-magnificent white beard, which someone had unaccountably shaved off, was growing back sparse and wispy, leaving him with unsightly pink wattles to dangle beneath his neck. “My lord Hand,” the old man said, bowing as deeply as he could without falling, “there has been another bird from Castle Black. Mayhaps we could consult privily?”
“There’s no need for that.” Lord Tywin waved Grand Maester Pycelle to a seat. “Tyrion may stay.”
Oooooh, may I? He rubbed his nose, and waited.
Pycelle cleared his throat, which involved a deal of coughing and hawking. “The letter is from the same Bowen Marsh who sent the last. The castel an. He writes that Lord Mormont has sent word of wildlings moving south in vast numbers.”
“The lands beyond the Wall cannot support vast numbers,” said Lord Tywin firmly. “This warning is not new.”
“This last is, my lord. Mormont sent a bird from the haunted forest, to report that he was under attack. More ravens have returned since, but none with letters. This Bowen Marsh fears Lord Mormont slain, with al his strength.”
Tyrion had rather liked old Jeor Mormont, with his gruff manner and talking bird. “Is this certain?” he asked.
“It is not,” Pycelle admitted, “but none of Mormont’s men have returned as yet. Marsh fears the wildlings have killed them, and that the Wall itself may be attacked next.” He fumbled in his robe and found the paper. “Here is his letter, my lord, a plea to al five kings. He wants men, as many men as we can send him.”
“Five kings?” His father was annoyed. “There is one king in Westeros. Those fools in black might try and remember that if they wish His Grace to heed them. When you reply, tell him that Renly is dead and the others are traitors and pretenders.”
“No doubt they wil be glad to learn it. The Wall is a world apart, and news oft reaches them late.” Pycel e bobbed his head up and down. “What shall I tell Marsh concerning the men he begs for? Shall we convene the council...
“There is no need. The Night’s Watch is a pack of thieves, kil ers, and baseborn churls, but it occurs to me that they could prove otherwise, given proper discipline. If Mormont is indeed dead, the black brothers must choose a new Lord Commander.”
Pycelle gave Tyrion a sly glance. “An excellent thought, my lord. I know the very man. Janos Slynt.”
Tyrion liked that notion not at al . “The black brothers choose their own commander,” he reminded them. “Lord Slynt is new to the Wall. I know, I sent him there. Why should they pick him over a dozen more senior men?”
“Because,” his father said, in a tone that suggested Tyrion was quite the simpleton, “if they do not vote as they are told, their Wall wil melt before it sees another man.” Yes, that would work. Tyrion hitched forward. “Janos Slynt is the wrong man, Father. We’d do better with the commander of the Shadow Tower. Or Eastwatch-by-the-Sea.”
“The commander of the Shadow Tower is a Mallister of Seagard. Eastwatch is held by an ironman.” Neither would serve his purposes, Lord Tywin’s tone said clear enough.
“Janos Slynt is a butcher’s son,” Tyrion reminded his father forcefully. “You yourself told me”
“I recall what I told you. Castle Black is not Harrenhal, however. The Night’s Watch is not the king’s council. There is a tool for every task, and a task for every tool.” Tyrion’s anger flashed. “Lord Janos is a hollow suit of armor who will sell himself to the highest bidder.”
“I count that a point in his favor. Who is like to bid higher than us?” He turned to Pycelle.
“Send a raven. Write that King Joffrey was deeply saddened to hear of Lord Commander Mormont’s death, but regrets that he can spare no men just now, whilst so many rebels and usurpers remain in the field. Suggest that matters might be quite different once the throne is secure... provided the king has ful confidence in the leadership of the Watch. In closing, ask Marsh to pass along His Grace’s fondest regards to his faithful friend and servant... Lord Janos Slynt.”
“Yes, my lord.” Pycelle bobbed his withered head once more. “I shall write as the Hand commands. With great pleasure.”
I should have trimmed his head, not his beard, Tyrion reflected. And Slynt should have gone for a swim with his dear friend Allar Deem. At least he had not made the same foolish mistake with Symon Silver Tongue. See there, Father? he wanted to shout. See how fast I learn my lessons?