King's Landing.
The parting rays of the setting sun gilded the Hand's solar and fell like arrows upon his weary eyes. From sitting too long in one position, his neck and shoulders had stiffened, and his left foot prickled unpleasantly.
Rising with difficulty, Tywin Lannister approached the high arched window. From the window of the Tower of the Hand, an excellent view of the city opened up. As thirty years ago, so to this day. The Dragon was trampled by the Stag, only to perish in turn in the Lion's jaws, but the sun plays on the red tile roofs and gilds the waters of the harbor just as before.
Everything had become more complicated in the last year, and even the chain of the Hand returning to his neck did not improve the layout in the slightest. How simple everything was when that stupid boar Baratheon drank away his money and disgraced the very title of king.
Yes, the heirs helped, nothing to say! Anger at them had long since faded—there was simply no time left for it. Half a year ago, after Jaime's capture and the Young Wolf's first major victory, the Iron Bank suddenly became concerned about the safety of its investments. Tywin received a most polite letter, the content of which boiled down to the following: since Joffrey I styles himself a Baratheon and is considered the legal successor of King Robert, it is for him to repay his father's debt. That debt is already ten years old. Time to repay.
A reasonable reminder that they were at war and it was the beginning of autumn did not soften the merchants' mood: "Since the Lannisters, contrary to popular belief, have ceased to pay their debts, well, perhaps King Stannis will keep his word." It had been a long time since Tywin felt such humiliation. A disgusting situation, both exits from which were equally bad.
In the end, he had to thoroughly deplete the gold reserve, which had already suffered greatly during the campaign in the Riverlands, and even then the debt was only partially repaid. And when Tywin intended to replenish the treasury from the vaults of the Rock, a raven arrived with the news: the Stark boy had taken the Golden Tooth and was moving West.
In King's Landing itself, the seeds of chaos sown by the war were sprouting. The stream of refugees intensified day by day and flooded Flea Bottom. Speculators drove up grain prices. A belated order to recruit for the Gold Cloaks did not improve the situation in the slightest—they were negligibly few against the seething slums ready to explode at any moment. Given that after Kevan's departure for the Westerlands the post of Master of Laws was vacant, Tywin had to deal with this too.
A rumor reached him that none other than Petyr Baelish, his own Master of Coin, had managed to profit handsomely from the grain situation. It reached him not from the Master of Whisperers, which was doubly suspicious. Both played only for themselves and pursued their own interests, which had to be reckoned with—it would not be possible to replace them soon, only after victory...
He could not leave the capital and rush to the Riverlands at the head of an army. Could not, because upon his return he would find ashes in its place—his heirs were capable of finishing what the Mad King failed to do. He had to wait for news from Kevan, and miss such a wonderful opportunity to put the presumptuous boy in his place. Well, no matter, he always knew how to wait. Robb Stark can revel in his victories as much as he likes, but one day he will suddenly feel a burning sensation under his shoulder blade and see a knife in his back. And the pain will be a hundred times bitterer from the realization that the blow was struck by the hand of a man he trusted...
The sun set. Servants hastily lit candles. Tywin rubbed the bridge of his nose and returned to his desk. He had yet to think through the plan for rescuing his son from captivity once more...
Olenna Tyrell sat in the gazebo with a goblet of Arbor wine and watched. Her granddaughter and Sansa Stark walked arm in arm along the white garden path. The girls were animated and seemed quite upset by the impending separation.
Olenna took another sip of wine and hid an involuntary smile. Her scheme had succeeded famously.
After King Renly's sudden death, the future of House Tyrell hung by a thread. It was necessary to choose a side again and not miscalculate in this case. The decision was obvious—with the Lannisters, despite all their arrogance, it was possible to negotiate and get maximum benefit. Even Loras's antic, which greatly disappointed her, did not hinder the forming alliance.
With each day, her youngest grandson's behavior raised more and more questions. He flatly refused a place in the Kingsguard and tried with all his might to convince his father not to take anyone's side and maintain neutrality, like Dorne and the Vale.
It was unreasonable—to have the largest army in the Seven Kingdoms and in the midst of war not get advantages from this? But on the other hand, they had already bet on the wrong candidate once. It was necessary to get everything from victory, but also secure themselves in case of defeat.
Lord Stark would support Stannis's claims in any case—that was obvious. It would be almost impossible to negotiate with Stannis, but with Robb Stark, one of his largest vassals... And all that was required was—during negotiations with the Lannisters, touch upon the topic of the Stark girl's fate. Since she is no longer the King's betrothed, but merely the sister and daughter of a traitor, why not give her to House Tyrell? She inherits no lands, no dowry will be given for her, and they are unlikely to agree to exchange her for Jaime Lannister. In short, a hostage though highborn, but almost useless.
The Lannisters simply had no choice. Compared to tax breaks for fifteen years and several castles on the border of the Stormlands, the price of Sansa Stark in light of the future alliance was quite low. Very soon the girl will depart on a ship to Oldtown, and from there to Highgarden, where she will become Willas's wife. With joy. Of her own free will.
And after that, Lord Stark will receive a happy letter from his sister, where she will report to whom she owes her salvation.
In case of a Lannister victory, a beautiful story about the lord's love for a beautiful captive can be composed. I recall something similar happened with us...
Olenna Tyrell enjoyed the wine and the excellent evening.
Water Gardens.
On a carved table before Doran Martell, precisely between a vase of lemons and a pitcher of aged Dornish wine, lay two letters. In one, Tywin Lannister proposed an alliance sealed by a marriage between his granddaughter Princess Myrcella and Trystane Martell. In the other, Robb Stark proposed much the same regarding his sister Arya.
"What is there to choose? It is obvious!" Oberyn, sitting opposite, flared up. "The Young Wolf has already shown on the battlefield that he is capable of defeating the Lannisters! We have waited so many years for such an opportunity!"
Doran did not find such confidence in himself.
The plan, drawn up many years ago, was slowly but surely crumbling. Viserys Targaryen was killed by the Dothraki. He never gathered an army capable of landing in Westeros and conquering the Seven Kingdoms, but his sister might still do it. Rumor has it she has dragons, and the history of Aegon the Conqueror suggests that this is a very weighty argument.
"Who knows if Lord Stark's talent is as great as they say," Doran remarked. "This boy can and knows how to take risks—that is so. Sometimes he is lucky. But is that enough to defeat an opponent like Tywin Lannister?"
Following the plan, he should accept the Lannisters' offer to lull their vigilance and buy time, but Lord Stark should not be refused either. Who knows, perhaps when the future queen lands in Westeros, it will be the Martells who help bring House Stark under her banners.
"We should not delay the answer for long. We will assure the Lannisters that we are ready for an alliance and will accept the princess into our family," Oberyn's face twisted with hatred. "We will have to rack our brains a little longer over the answer for Lord Stark. In any case, your daughter should deliver it."
"My daughter?" Oberyn asked again.
"Yes, that will somewhat soften the tone of refusal. I think Nymeria is perfectly suited for this mission. Upon her return, I must know everything about the young Lord Stark."
Riverrun.
Hearing the creak of the opening door, he raised his head and opened his eyes with difficulty.
"My king, you do not spare yourself at all," the genuine concern in her voice was familiar to the point of nausea.
"How did it go?"
Melisandre lowered her gaze and shook her head negatively.
"Although he is a descendant of the Kings of Winter, his seed is too weak to spawn a Shadow, but," the priestess smiled, "I was able to fully restore my strength."
"So we are still at an impasse," Stannis said almost indifferently.
During the waiting time, anger at himself had almost subsided. For haste and arrogance, he had paid in full with pain and helplessness. At the mere memory of how his insides boiled and his throat clenched in a spasm, cold sweat broke out on his temples. Now he will be able to spawn a Shadow in five years, or even ten. He will never have other children. Was Kevan Lannister's life worth such a price?
"Can you see in the flames again now?" Little, but at least something. "Ask the Lord if the Stark boy will be of any use to us. I do not like him. The profile of this wolf suspiciously resembles a jackal's."
Melisandre approached the dying hearth and, leaning over, threw on some wood. Her head bowed so that the flames licked the ends of her hair, but left the woman unharmed.
"Yes," the proximity of the Lord of Light filled her low voice with special power. Thus spoke not mere humans, but prophets, heralds of fate. "Something has changed. Prophecies tremble and go out like candles in the wind, but new ones immediately flare up in their place."
She fell silent and watched for a long time, not moving, not even breathing.
"Robb Stark. Three great duels lie before him—each harder than the last. The first—with a regal beast, the second—with a vicious bird, the third—with a giant. And the world will shake from these duels for a long time."
The silence hanging in the room was broken only by the crackle of firewood and the sound of intensifying rain.
"The regal beast is a lion," that was obvious. "Did it not mean Robb Stark's victory at Riverrun, when he captured Jaime Lannister?"
"No, my lord," Melisandre declared confidently. "That duel lies ahead of him."
"Robb Stark will defeat Tywin Lannister?" Stannis involuntarily raised his voice. "Will he act as my vassal or somehow else?"
"Time will clarify everything, my lord," hands strong as an experienced maester's helped him rise and reach the bed. "In any case, he will either stand at your shoulder or meet his death."