With Lady Lysa a widow, any man who married her would become the Lord of the Vale. Ambitious lords were already swarming the Eyrie, each vying for the position of Warden of the East. The Vale of Arryn was consumed by its own internal power struggles, with no time or interest for the wars raging beyond its mountain borders. Besides, with the natural fortification of the Bloody Gate, they had little fear of invasion. The great houses of the Vale were far too busy trying to win the widow's hand to unite and send aid to the North or the Riverlands.
"So, we need not worry about the East," Tyrion concluded, swirling the wine in his goblet. "And Dorne, far to the south, is also a secondary concern. The Reach and Dorne are ancient enemies. The Dornish will never march north to support Renly's claim." He paused, a flicker of a smile on his lips. "So the path is clear. If you and Jaime can crush the northern and Riverlands armies before the Baratheon brothers unite to besiege King's Landing, then the victory is ours."
Lord Tywin was secretly impressed. Tyrion had seen through the entirety of the plan he and Kevan had spent days devising. His strategic mind was far sharper than that of Jaime, who was a fine soldier but a poor commander. If Tyrion's birth had not cost his wife her life, if he had not been born a twisted dwarf, Tywin would have named him heir to Casterly Rock without hesitation. Only a mind as sharp as his own could ensure the continued prosperity of House Lannister.
But it was not to be. He would never hand his family's legacy to this creature. Jaime's mind might be lacking, but with the proper training, he could be molded into a worthy Lord of Casterly Rock.
After a long silence, Tywin made his decision. "Tyrion, you will ride for King's Landing tomorrow."
Tyrion was stunned. "Me? To King's Landing?"
Lord Tywin unpinned the bronze emblem of the Hand of the King from his doublet. He rose, walked around the desk, and tossed it onto the table beside his son. "I am naming you acting Hand of the King. I want you to go to King's Landing and ensure that idiot boy and his mother do no more humiliating, stupid things."
When Joffrey took the throne, the Queen Regent had named her grandfather, Lord Tywin, as Hand. But Tywin was needed on the battlefield. He would send Tyrion to rule in his stead. With Tyrion's mind running the kingdom, there would be no more blunders like the one that had cost them Eddard Stark.
"You're right," Tyrion said, a grim satisfaction in his voice. "We can't have my dear sister and nephew making any more messes. Jaime is already exhausted from cleaning up after them." He picked up the Hand's badge, the cool metal heavy in his palm. A rare, genuine thrill coursed through him. For the first time in his life, his father was entrusting him with real power. He was determined not to fail.
Lord Tywin saw the flicker of joy in his son's eyes and frowned, but said nothing. He returned to his desk. "Your task is not only to control Cersei and Joffrey. You are to watch the members of the council. Without their indulgence, or perhaps their encouragement, Cersei would never have been so foolish as to execute Stark. Keep a close eye on those sly foxes."
Tyrion immediately thought of Littlefinger, the Spider, and Grand Maester Pycelle—a council of schemers and flatterers, none of whom could be trusted. "Rest assured," he said. "I will watch them."
"Do more than watch them," Tywin said, his green eyes flashing with cold fire. "If any of them steps out of line, cut off their heads and mount them on the walls of the Red Keep beside Eddard Stark's. That should remind anyone with divided loyalties where their duty lies."
Tyrion was not surprised by his father's ruthlessness. This was the man who had extinguished an entire house and inspired the song "The Rains of Castamere."
Having given his orders, Tywin picked up a document and resumed his work. "You may go. Be ready to leave at dawn."
Tyrion didn't mind the abrupt dismissal. He grabbed the jug of wine and his new badge of office and strode out of the tent. Outside, a captain informed him that Lord Tywin had assigned him an escort of three hundred Lannister guardsmen. Tyrion immediately grew wary. In King's Landing, he suspected those men would be more loyal to Cersei than to him. He needed men whose loyalty was bought and paid for by him alone.
He made his way toward the rear of the camp, where the sellswords and freeriders gathered. These men had flocked to the Lannister banner for a chance at coin and glory, hoping to earn a knighthood on the battlefield or, more likely, to loot the castles of the Riverlands. Lord Tywin and his commanders tolerated their presence, as was tradition. Mercenaries were cheap, expendable, and effective at sowing chaos among the enemy.
The army camp was a city unto itself. Merchants accompanied the host, buying and selling captured weapons and armor, a practice popular with the common soldiers. Not far from the camp, enterprising madams had set up tents, doing a brisk business with men far from home. From the highest lord to the lowest peasant, no one in the Westerosi army thought anything of it. This was the nature of war. The real fighting was done by the knights and lords; the peasant levies were mostly for show, good for a charge when victory was certain but quick to break when the tide turned.
Tyrion found the mercenaries gathered around their campfires. He stood before them, the Hand's badge heavy in his pocket, and announced he was hiring.
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