A letter was tossed onto the desk before Tyrion.
It was crumpled, the parchment creased and wrinkled as though it had been crushed in someone's fist. He smoothed it out with care, read only two lines, then set it down.
It was Prince Doran's formal refusal of the betrothal.
"House Martell is insulting us," Tywin Lannister said from behind the desk. His voice remained even, but the fact that he was standing was proof enough of his anger.
"I'm not surprised," Tyrion replied. "The Martells still pine for the Targaryens—and they've never forgiven us. What surprises me is that you're not blaming me for it."
"Do you take me for a fool?" Tywin narrowed his eyes. "I've already ordered House Tyrell to muster their forces at the Prince's Pass, to block the Dornish from reaching the Reach until Doran explains himself."
"And the Stone Pass?"
The Stone Pass was the main route cutting through the Red Mountains, linking Dorne to the Stormlands.
"The Stormlands are not yet under our control," Tywin said. "Once the wedding is done, I'll have Lord Mace reclaim them."
"A second siege of Storm's End? I imagine Lord Mace will be thrilled," Tyrion said with a faint smile.
"Have you nothing to say about the wedding?" Tywin's brow lifted. "Arianne Martell has left. You'll need another bride."
"How thoughtful of you, Father," Tyrion said dryly. "To remember such matters amid all your great labors. But perhaps I'll stay unmarried for a time."
Perhaps until Daenerys lands, he thought, that might be the right time to take a wife.
"Out of the question." Tywin seated himself again. "There are several options for you to consider."
"My thanks, dearest Father. Since you treat me with the same tender care as you did Cersei, why not let me rest first and have my brother deliver the list?" Tyrion rose.
"No. The decision is to be made tonight." Tywin gestured for him to sit back down.
"After hearing the Dornish had departed King's Landing, Lady Olenna came to me," Tywin continued evenly. "She proposed that you marry one of her kin—Desmera Redwyne of House Redwyne. Lord Paxter is willing to offer five years' tribute from the Arbor and gold equal to your weight as dowry."
"If I must marry a Redwyne, then perhaps next year," Tyrion said with a smirk. "That should give me time to gain a few dozen pounds."
"I declined her offer. Desmera is freckled. She would shame you as a wife."
"Heavens, Father, I'm touched," Tyrion said, feigning surprise. "I always thought parents arranging marriages didn't much care about looks—since they're not the ones expected to share the bed."
"I care not for beauty," Tywin said coldly. "Only for the honor of our house. Balon Greyjoy's daughter, Asha Greyjoy, is another possibility, though I hear her appearance leaves much to be desired."
"Stop there, Father." Tyrion raised a hand quickly. "I've no wish to be tied to the Iron Islands."
I'll wager Cersei will clap her hands in delight at that, Tyrion thought—just as I did when I heard she was to marry into the Iron Islands.
"But Balon Greyjoy is dead. His daughter's worth is diminished—far less than Arianne Martell, or..."
"I understand," Tyrion interrupted. "Your final offer is Sansa Stark." He leaned back. "I've no interest in that foolish wolf girl. The North is nothing but scorched ruin."
"Tell me, Father—after I marry her, would you have me march through Moat Cailin and help her reclaim the North from the ironborn? And didn't you once propose marrying her to Lancel?"
"Her blood is noble. House Stark once ruled as Kings in the North—something House Redwyne can never claim. And she is beautiful, far more than any Greyjoy girl," Tywin said, ignoring Tyrion's objections. "As for Lancel, he knows nothing of it. Your uncle will not protest."
"She's a child," Tyrion said quietly. "I'm twice her age."
Westerosi often looked older than their years—but as someone born in another world, Tyrion found the thought difficult to stomach.
"Your sister assures me she has already come of age. To be precise, she is a woman—fit for marriage. You must take her maidenhead at once, before delay breeds trouble. After that, it is your right as her husband to neglect her for a year, two years, or even ten."
"Gods, I've no intention of treating her the way your darling grandson treated his bride."
"Then what are you waiting for? The Stark girl is young, beautiful, and obedient. Of noble birth, and a true virgin besides."
"Yes, you're quite right. But I'd prefer to marry someone intelligent."
What am I even hesitating for? Sansa Stark would likely be as unwilling to share my bed as my sister was with Robert.
"If you want wit, go lie with Varys or Littlefinger," Tywin snapped. "The eunuch lacks a cock, and as for Littlefinger, you might as well cut his off too—he's already lost enough parts of himself. Assuming you can find either of them!"
Tyrion knew it was his father's anger misdirected at him. Their rash dealings had cost them two crucial courtiers. Both had vanished from King's Landing, and no search had turned up so much as a trace.
"Or," Tyrion said, "perhaps you could find me a bride whose family commands ten or twenty thousand soldiers?"
Tywin's eyes hardened, glinting with disdain.
"I fail to see how the pride of the Lannisters has failed to manifest in you. To think only of such trifles?" he said with a sneer. "Your mother was my cousin. I never relied on outsiders, yet I served as Hand of the King for a lifetime."
"Indeed," Tyrion said. "And since you hold such contempt for 'shortcuts' and soiled women, tell me—why was Joffrey..."
"He was merely my grandson. But you—" Tywin's voice softened for a heartbeat. "You bear the blood of the Kings of the Rock. You could be the future Great Lord of Casterly Rock."
"Indeed, Father. You are the Great Lord of Casterly Rock." Tyrion stood, watching him carefully. Was that what he had meant to say? You are my son?
"But speaking of the future Great Lord," Tyrion continued, "didn't we once strike a bargain?"
"Correct. You agreed to marry, and I would name you my heir."
"But Arianne is gone. What now?" Tyrion folded his arms.
"The terms stand. You marry Sansa Stark, and I will declare you heir to Casterly Rock." Tywin did not even lift his gaze.
"I object," Tyrion said. "To avoid another misunderstanding, perhaps you should declare it first—and then I'll marry."
"You become betrothed, and I'll make the announcement." Tywin relented slightly.
"Done." Tyrion turned toward the door, but his father's voice stopped him.
"Whom you choose to bed is none of my concern," Tywin said coolly. "But remember your duties as a husband."
"Lessons on the bedchamber, Father, are quite unnecessary," Tyrion replied, pausing at the threshold. "But I'll remind you of something in return—someone has poisoned you."
It was, after all, merely the inevitability of history.