Tyrek was the son of his late Uncle Tygett, a boy of thirteen. He had vanished in the riot, not long after wedding the Lady Ermesande, a suckling babe who happened to be the last surviving heir of House Hayford. And likely the first bride in the history of the Seven Kingdoms to be widowed before she was weaned. “I couldn’t find him either,” confessed Tyrion. “He’s feeding worms,” said Bronn with his usual tact. “Ironhand looked for him, and the eunuch rattled a nice fat purse. They had no more luck than we did. Give it up, ser.” Ser Addam gazed at the sellsword with distaste. “Lord Tywin is stubborn where his blood is concerned. He will have the lad, alive or dead, and I mean to oblige him.” He looked back to Tyrion. “You will find your father in his solar.” My solar, thought Tyrion. “I believe I know the way.” The way was up more steps, but this time he climbed under his own power, with one hand on Pod’s shoulder. Bronn opened the door for him. Lord Tywin Lannister was seated beneath the window, oil lamp. He raised his eyes at the sound of the latch. “Tyrion.” Calmly, he laid his quill aside. “I’m pleased you remember me, my lord.” Tyrion released his grip on Pod, leaned his weight on the stick, and waddled closer. Something is wrong, he knew at once. “Ser Bronn,” Lord Tywin said, “Podrick. Perhaps you had best wait without until we are done.” The look Bronn gave the Hand was little less than insolent; nonetheless, he bowed and withdrew, with Pod on his heels. The heavy door swung shut behind them, and Tyrion Lannister was alone with his father. Even with the windows of the solar shuttered against the night
Derma 21 hard sellthe chill in the room was palpable. What sort of lies has Cersei been telling him? The Lord of Casterly Rock was as lean as a man twenty years younger, even handsome in his austere way. Stiff blond whiskers covered his cheeks, framing a stem face, a bald head, a hard mouth. About his throat he wore a chain of golden hands, the fingers of each clasping the wrist of the next. “That’s a handsome chain,” Tyrion said. Though it looked better on me. Lord Tywin ignored the sally. “You had best be seated. Is it wise for you to be out of your sickbed?” “I am sick of my sickbed.” Tyrion knew how much his father despised weakness. He claimed the nearest chair. “Such pleasant chambers you have. Would you believe it, while I was dying, someone moved me to a dark little cell in Maegor’s?” “The Red Keep is overcrowded with wedding guests. Once they depart, we will find you more suitable accommodations.” “I rather liked these accommodations. Have you set a date for this great wedding?” “Joffrey and Margaery shall marry on the first day of the new year, which as it happens is also
reenex cpsthe first day of the new century. The ceremony will herald the dawn of a new era.” A new Lannister era, thought Tyrion. “Oh, bother, I fear I’ve made other plans for that day.” “Did you come here just to complain of your bedchamber and make your lame japes? I have important letters to finish.” “Important letters. To be sure.” “Some battles are won with swords and spears, others with quills and ravens. Spare me these coy reproaches, Tyrion. I visited your sickbed as often as Maester Ballabar would allow it, when you seemed like to die.” He steepled his fingers under his chin. “Why did you dismiss Ballabar?” Tyrion shrugged. “Maester Frenken is not so determined to keep me insensate.” “Ballabar came to the city in Lord Redwyne’s retinue. A gifted healer, it’s said. It was kind of Cersei to ask him to look after you. She feared for your life
Elevit.”
PR
