After sending Greatjon and Wylis on their way, Aunt Genna came into the room next.
She came alone, though the head of the house was her husband, Emmon Frey, the second son of Walder Frey. But his uncle did not appear. The sharp aunt had her foolish, weak husband completely under her thumb. The old man was timid and tightly controlled by his wife. Tyrion hoped he and Sansa would never end up like that.
Then Lyonel Frey and Red Walder arrived. Both had served as attendants at Casterly Rock. They were Aunt Genna and Uncle Walder's sons. Tyrion had seen them and noted they showed none of House Frey's typical features, though Lady Genna insisted they were Emmon's. From Casterly Rock to the Twins no one dared question her—least of all her husband.
"My lord." Aunt Genna's face broke into a warm smile. Her eyes curved like crescents. Her tone held teasing affection. "You look absolutely radiant today."
"Don't tease me." Tyrion waved his hands, a flash of embarrassment crossing his face. "How could I command you? Good aunt, what did my father promise you?"
Aunt Genna sat opposite him. Tyrion poured her a cup of wine.
"Your father promised me Riverrun… Ah, why are you looking at me like that? I have no intention of taking it."
Tyrion's hand holding the bottle froze. His expression was worth studying. Aunt Genna chuckled and went on.
"Truthfully I would prefer Darry. It is much smaller than Riverrun and its lands are poorer, but the Darry line has died out—unlike House Tully." She rubbed fingers heavy with gold rings. "Could I ask you to hang Edmure Tully? He is your wife's uncle."
"Darry's too small for you," Tyrion said. "Even Lancel only got Tarbeck Hall — a Westerlands castle's still worth more than any hold in the Riverlands."
"I don't think you would harm House Tully. They may not be your wife's natal family, but they are her only living kin." Aunt Genna smiled. "You are like Tywin in your bones. Once you marry, you'll turn into a soft-hearted lion."
"I'm only betrothed," Tyrion said. "And I never said anything about Riverrun or Edmure Tully."
"Then what do you intend?"
"You can conquer land with iron and fire, but to hold it you need allies and wedlock." Tyrion paused, thinking. "Make friends, weed out enemies. I marry Sansa not only for Winterfell or her looks."
"I need the Tullys. Their cooperation will steady the Riverlands. I don't need Riverrun. I'll give you the Twins."
"The Twins?" Aunt Genna sounded surprised. The Twins were indeed richer and more prosperous than Darry. Not Riverrun, but hardly a cramped, shabby keep. "But Emmon is only a second son. How will you secure the Twins?"
"My uncle's elder brother, Stevron Frey, died at the Battle of Oxford. He left several sons and grandsons." Tyrion counted on his fingers and lost track. "We'll simply remove them all. My uncle won't mourn his kin, will he?"
"Such thinking won't carry weight." Aunt Genna replied. "Lord Walder has many heirs. That plan will be hard to pull off."
"We'll cut them down in order of succession." Tyrion said. "I've met Black Walder and Pimple. They made poor impressions. Whether they die of illness, at the hands of the Brotherhood Without Banners, or in an accident, I will not grieve."
He picked up a quill and began to write. "In any case the Twins are the final goal. For now I'll have you installed at Darry. My clan warriors will quarter there temporarily. Then they will move to Harrenhal."
He slid the writ to his aunt. "How many guards can you and Uncle Emmon muster?"
"About fifty men," Aunt Genna answered. "With money we might hire a few sellswords. Counting attendants we could reach a hundred."
"No sellswords." Tyrion said. "We are not marching straight into the Twins. Guards and attendants will do. I need your wealth. Provide more grain."
"The heir to the mighty Casterly Rock—could he ever go hungry?"
"If it were just me, I could feast until I died," Tyrion said. "But my men can't. Once I set foot in the Riverlands, I'll find displaced peasants, bandits, guerrillas, and vassals eyeing their chances. At that point, grain matters more than men."
"An army of ten thousand? If the Riverlands nobles shut their gates tight, those soldiers will crumble without a fight." Tyrion calculated aloud. "How many men could the Twins muster? Four or five thousand? For a minor house, that's a formidable force—and I haven't even factored in the losses they suffered aiding Robb Stark."
"Besides, they're scattered across the Riverlands, unaware I'm coming for them. Two thousand men will be more than enough."
"And do you have two thousand?" Aunt Genna's lips curved upward.
"No." Tyrion's answer was frank and direct, without a hint of hesitation or pretense. He shook his head slightly. "But I've sent everyone out to raise troops. A thousand will suffice."
"Your father is truly demanding," Aunt Genna sighed. "What does he take you for? A guerrilla commander?"
"In his eyes, perhaps this force is sufficient to deal with Walder Frey," Tyrion said. "I will seek out the Tullys, the Mallisters, the Blackwoods, the Brackens—all the Riverlands nobles. At the very least, I'll ensure they don't support Walder Frey."
"At least you have a plan," said Aunt Genna. "With a plan, I feel much better. I'll find ways to gather as much grain as possible and send it to Darry. When do you intend to depart?"
"Within a week," Tyrion replied. "Write a few letters, rest a bit, pack my belongings, muster the troops. Once these matters are settled, I'll set out."
"Without waiting for the king's wedding?"
"Joff? Forget it." Tyrion shook his head. "I have no interest in currying favor. If you want a handout from the king, you'd be better off asking my father."
After seeing his aunt off, Tyrion slumped into a chair. Commanding a campaign was one thing, executing tactics another, but governing a territory was quite another matter entirely.
Tywin Lannister, the eternal Hand of the King—how many brains did he possess to keep all this running smoothly?
...
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