Lord Tywin was only able to manage the crushing workload with the help of his brother, Ser Kevan Lannister. Otherwise, he would not have slept at all.
"You look busy, Father," Tyrion said, his voice carefully neutral.
The sight of his father, ever stoic and severe, was enough to subconsciously quell Tyrion's own impatience. He refused to give the man who despised him another reason to look down on him by appearing rushed or anxious. So, despite the storm of questions and frustrations raging inside him, Tyrion's expression remained calm.
Lord Tywin put down his quill and lifted his head. His cold green eyes settled on Tyrion—his ugly, dwarfish son, who shared nothing of Jaime's golden likeness save for his hair. Tyrion saw the familiar disgust and indifference in that gaze and felt a hot surge of anger.
His voice rose, cracking the tent's tense silence. "The only reason you're so busy, leading an army all the way from the Westerlands, is thanks to that pair of brainless fools in King's Landing! If Cersei and Joffrey had a single thought between them, they would never have been stupid enough to take Eddard Stark's head! "
Tyrion's tone was seething with resentment. How could anyone be so foolish as to kill Eddard Stark, turning the North into a lifelong enemy? With Stark imprisoned, the northern lords would have been cowed, and the Young Wolf, Robb Stark, would never have dared to march south, fearing for his father's life. With Eddard Stark as a hostage, the North would have been theirs to command.
That perfect position had been shattered by his sister and nephew, plunging the Westerlands into a war of annihilation. Now, no matter who won, their own lands would bleed. A conflict that could have been resolved with ink and paper now had to be settled with steel. To a man as clever as Tyrion, their stupidity was infuriating. He continued his tirade, his words dripping with sarcasm as he cursed his sister and the boy-king.
Lord Tywin listened in silence, never interrupting his son's bitter complaints. He felt the same fury. When the raven had arrived from King's Landing with the news, he had nearly fallen from his horse in disbelief at the sheer idiocy of his daughter and grandson. If not for their blunder, he wouldn't be stuck in the Riverlands, fending off the North while trying to intimidate the Baratheon brothers. He would have marched to King's Landing and strung them both up himself.
Tyrion finally vented all the anger he had been carrying on his journey, and a sense of relief washed over him. He looked at his father's grim face and knew the man was just as enraged.
Lord Tywin slowly uncurled his clenched fists. "The deed is done," he said, his voice dangerously cold. "It cannot be reversed. Any complaint now is a waste of breath. I know you fancy yourself clever, Tyrion. Since you find so much fault in what Cersei and Joffrey have done, what would you do now? "
Though he loathed his second son, Tywin knew that Jaime was a warrior, not a thinker, and Cersei was an arrogant fool. Only the dwarf possessed a truly strategic mind. He wanted to hear what Tyrion had to say, but his decades of prejudice would not allow him to show it.
Tyrion felt the sting of his father's words but pushed it aside. He walked to the table, poured himself a goblet of wine, and began his assessment. "To the north, we have the Young Wolf and his Riverlands allies. To the east, the Vale of Arryn remains neutral, for now. In the south, the Stormlands and the Reach have united behind Renly Baratheon. And from the sea, Stannis Baratheon watches and waits. Dorne is too distant to be an immediate concern."
He took a sip of wine and climbed into a chair. "As it stands, we are in a stalemate. As long as my brother Jaime can pin down the northern armies and you remain here in Harrenhal, we can threaten the Starks and Tullys to the north while deterring the Baratheons from attacking King's Landing to the south. The situation will hold, unless another major power enters the field. The Vale is the key. If they honor their old alliances and join Robb Stark, I fear we cannot hold against three armies at once."
Tywin's eyes narrowed. "Do not concern yourself with the Vale. Jon Arryn's widow, Lysa Tully, is a frightened cow. She hides behind the Bloody Gate and will not dare to send her armies forth."
Tyrion raised an eyebrow. He knew Lysa's history—how her father, Lord Hoster Tully, had forced her into a marriage with a man old enough to be her grandfather. She bore no love for her family in Riverrun. And with her son, Robin Arryn, being a sickly child, she would naturally be cautious. Still, to base a strategy on a woman's perceived cowardice was a gamble full of uncertainty.
"Relying on that woman's fear is a shaky foundation for our entire war effort," Tyrion countered, certain his father must have a better reason for his confidence.
Lord Tywin did. "I have sent letters to the most powerful lords of the Vale—to House Royce, House Waynwood, and House Corbray. I have promised them that if they remain neutral in this war, the title of Warden of the East will no longer belong to House Arryn."
Tyrion finally understood. His father wasn't gambling at all. He was undermining the Arryns from within, using the ambition of their chief vassals against a house now led by a sickly little boy. The great lords of the Vale would never pass up a chance to seize power for themselves.
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