Chapter 212

The Riverlands. Harrenhal.

Tyrion Lannister.

In the bathhouse of Harrenhal, dim and low ceilinged, steam curled through the air above the great stone tubs. Harren the Black had loved everything oversized: the biggest castle, the thickest walls, the tallest towers, the most cavernous halls, and the largest baths. Not that a dwarf was in any position to judge such excess, but reaching the baths had very nearly killed Tyrion outright. It would have made for a fitting little tale: the Giant of Lannister, seeking only to soothe his aching legs after a long road, gives up his soul to the Stranger before he can even reach the water. The most humiliating death imaginable… though he’d heard of worse.

“Ahh…” The small muscles of his legs went blissfully slack.

Recognition and love. Once, little Tyrion had dreamed of making his father proud, of earning his sister’s love, but no matter what he did, the result was always the same: contempt, condemnation, hatred. After his disastrous marriage to a whore, Tyrion had grown thoroughly disillusioned with life, and at some point, he’d simply given up. If he was to be despised regardless, then let it at least be for something real. Abandoning all hope of anything better, he’d given himself over to whoring and drink. No, he couldn’t lie to himself about that much. Some flicker of hope had remained after all, otherwise he would have abandoned his own intellect entirely and sabotaged his father’s orders out of spite. Instead, he’d never once stopped sharpening the edge of his own particular sword, and he’d carried out every task set before him admirably.

“And where did that get me?” he asked himself.

And now, recently, the dwarf had gotten everything he’d once wanted, only the circumstances left much to be desired. His father had died in a three way battle. Cersei, along with her wretched little bastard, had both been beheaded. The Giant of Casterly Rock hadn’t missed either of them, not after everything they’d pulled. Now the ship that bore the Lannister name was steered by Jaime, Uncle Kevan, young Tommen, and himself. Whether it was the first, the second, or the third, all of them acknowledged him and trusted him. In remarkably short order, King Tommen’s court had been brought into something resembling order: Jaime had become the new Lord of Casterly Rock, Uncle Kevan the Hand, Lord Randyll had been promised any seat he wanted on the small council (on that matter he was keeping his silence for now), and Tyrion himself had become Master of Coin, though after the sack of the Westerlands, the title sounded rather more like a joke.The remaining seats had been left open, kept in reserve as tools for bargaining, bribery, and reward.

Now Tyrion, as Master of Coin and kin to the king, had been sent to negotiate once more with Lord Tarly. Letters were letters, but face to face talks were worth a thousand pieces of parchment. And he’d be damned if he let this particular task slip through his fingers.

“Time to get out.” His brother’s council should be wrapping up soon, and he was hoping to catch Jaime before he departed. Though the servants’ reports on his brother’s condition hadn’t exactly filled him with joy.

…

“I’m glad you could find the time for one small dwarf, my lord Lannister,” Tyrion opened with their usual light sparring.

“…Good to see you, little brother.” Jaime’s reply came a beat too late, and he even attempted a smile, though it came out looking rather pitiful.

The lack of reaction, the hollow cheeks, the bags under his eyes, he’d clearly lost weight, and he winced whenever he stretched his muscles. Tyrion was no maester, thank the Seven, but even he could tell his beloved brother was running himself into the ground. That was bad. A tired commander is a poor commander, and in the middle of a war, that could prove catastrophic. And the worst part of it was that no one could force Jaime to rest right now. Unless one small dwarf managed to find a way.

“Perhaps you could take a break from your work? Talk with your brother for a while?” But now wasn’t the time, deception had its own maneuvers to run first.

“…Yes, I suppose so.” Glancing up from the map of the continent, he gave his consent. “How are things with you? How’s the new position treating you?”

“I hardly know how to describe it. Gold exists so that one might learn to do without it, but a life of scandalous luxury never taught anyone how to hold onto it. I try, but it proves stronger than me.” The financial situation was a quiet horror, there was really no other way to put it.

“I’m certain the task suits you well enough.” Only from his brother could he ever receive teasing that carried no malice behind it. “As for me, it’s the same as ever: insolent squids, dumbstruck dragons, and hysterical river lords. The first have decided, for whatever reason, to try and dig in on the mainland, sometimes even standing to fight properly. The second are shamelessly trying to poach my vassals right out from under me. Clumsily done, I might add.” If Jaime, who cared little for intrigue at the best of times, was commenting on someone’s ineptitude at diplomacy, then Viserys was even more foolish than anyone had given him credit for.

“And how many have taken the bait?” There were fools to be found everywhere, after all.

“Two minor houses: the Bakers, and either the Littlefoots or the Limefoots, I can’t quite recall. We hanged them, spent the evening with a rendition of “The Rains of Castamere,” and any wrong ideas the rest might have had promptly vanished. The third sort, the ones still good for something, are shaking in their boots over their own safety, more scared than I don’t know what.” His brother had clearly inherited more from Tywin than just his looks.

“Arryn slaughtered everyone worth anything and left nothing behind but this rabble.” At least he’d left behind a half repaired Harrenhal. Time to move on to less pleasant matters. “And how many men do you currently have at your disposal?”

“Twelve thousand. Ten thousand are our own, the rest I’ve scraped together from the river lords. Outright rabble, but they’ll serve for something at least.” Realizing the conversation had turned serious, Jaime seemed to straighten up a little.

“Then I have good news and bad news. Which would you like first?”

“The good. There’s precious little of it these days.”

“The Westerlands can sustain your army a bit longer than we’d originally planned for.” Tyrion and Kevan had been counting on a larger force.

“And the bad?” Jaime asked, with the calm of a man already bracing for what was coming, though he’d clearly already guessed which way the wind was blowing.

“Four months. Five at the absolute most.” A moment later, a goblet of wine went sailing into the wall.

Exhaustion, without question, and he needed to be sent off to rest immediately. If only that were possible… but the dwarf hadn’t come bearing only bad news.

“Drop your quarrel with the Greyjoys and march against Viserys instead. The Dothraki are going south, but this opportunity won’t last for long. We need to finish him off while we still have the chance.”

“If the squid manages to dig in on the mainland, we may never manage to drive them back into the sea again.” Jaime had wanted to march straight on King’s Landing, and once, he would have done exactly that, but his captivity among the Starks had taught him to think on a larger scale.

“That’s a problem for the future. Right now we need to solve the problems of the present.” He needed his closing argument. “Jaime, we’re without Casterly Rock’s gold now. Entirely without it. Every old vein has been stripped bare, and no new ones are coming.”

“No…”

“Yes. The last mine ran dry. We need gold, and urgently, and the only place left to find it is the Crownlands. Your task, within four months, is to break the will of the royal domain and knock Viserys Targaryen out of the game entirely. Only that way do we stand a real chance of victory. Any other path leads to total defeat.” Seeing his brother’s gaze drift back to the map, searching frantically for something, Tyrion pressed on, alarmed. “Jaime! Can you win within the time we have?”

“Yes.” At last, the green eyes across from him filled with certainty, hardening into unshakable resolve. “I can do this.”

“Good.” Setting his empty goblet down at knee height, where it wouldn’t be noticed, Tyrion began pouring the wine. That an extra ingredient happened to fall into it along the way was simply sleight of hand. “Drink.”

“I’ve no taste for wine right now,” Jaime tried to wave it off, but he was hardly a match for a seasoned drinker.

“Let’s honor Cersei’s memory with this cup.” A touch low, perhaps, though a dwarf was hardly the one to lecture anyone on that score, and the trick never failed. “To the bottom.”

“To the bottom.” He drained the entire goblet in one draught, and Tyrion reflected on just how thoroughly his brother buried his own talents.

On his way out of the hall, Tyrion did a quick bit of mental arithmetic, caught hold of a passing servant, and ordered him to prepare a bed for Lord Jaime. The boy was given ten minutes to see it done, after which he was to inform his lord it was ready. The boy bowed and hurried off to carry out the order. And if the servant happened to find Jaime already asleep, well, his lordship had simply waited so long that he’d nodded off right there at the table.

It hardly mattered that the small man had deliberately slipped a sleeping draught into his wine.