The boy would live.
That was what the maesters said, what the green-robed physicians of White Harbor's academy had written in their careful hands, and what Tyrion told his sister and brother over honeyed bread and fried bacon that morning.
It was the silence that followed which chilled him more than any northern wind. Jaime had glanced at Cersei, a fleeting flicker, her eyes had met his with equal swiftness. Tyrion chewed, swallowed, and forced a smile to crease his lips as if he had noticed nothing. After, he excused himself and, as always, made for the library.
Winterfell's collection was a respectable one, though it smelled of dust and age. No polished marble floors here, no scented candles as in White Harbor's academy. Only cold stone, wolf pelts, and shelves crowded with tomes that had not been moved in years. Still, a book was a book, and Tyrion was not a man to spurn knowledge for want of polish.
He had already finished the large volume young Arthur Manderly had gifted him, Beowulf, a tale of monsters, mead-halls, and a hero's doom. Now he opened the weightier tome he had pried from the academy's library by no small effort: On the Advancement of Civil Order, penned by some Archmage Therman Ashwood.
The Keeper of Tomes of the Academy, High Mage Dortan had all but snarled when Tyrion asked for it, as if handing over the book would mean the loss of his own liver. In the end it had taken the academy's Grandmage's coaxing and young Arthur's word to pry the thing loose. Dortan's face, he recalled, had soured less when Arthur promised to see it returned. The boy had a certain way about him.
Tyrion had been amused then, and more so now. Knowledge was a rarer coin than gold, and more jealously hoarded. He opened to the first page, words penned in dried ink kissed the parchment:
"Civil order is not based upon the promise of Crowns, but of the Agreements Men bind themselves to.Of Law, of custom, of Duty, and of Prosperity. A King may reign, but it is the ties between Gods and Men that let him rule."
"Wise words," Tyrion muttered, "and wasted on most kings."
"The peace of a realm rests not in castles, nor in swords, nor even in gold, though each has its place. Peace is born of order, and order is born of law. Where laws are absent, men will make their own; where laws are unjust, men will rise against them; where laws serve only the strong, the realm rots like a fish left too long in the sun. No man is above the law, for he too is sworn to it. Else, he is no better than a brigand with banners."
Tyrion snorted into the quiet of the library. "Spoken like a man who never ruled a foot of land," he said, "A scholar with a bold tongue. You would not have lasted long in court."
"Laws without faith are but words. Where the Father holds the scales, the Old Gods hold the roots. One measures the deed, the other remembers it. The scales weigh all. Thus must a lord remember both, for mercy lies in memory, and justice in measure."
"Mercy," Tyrion echoed, smiling wryly. "A rare enough coin in this realm. And justice was scarcer still."
Tyrion had just reached another passage when the hinges of the library door creaked open. He looked up, expecting a servant with wine or firewood. In came Ser Arthur Manderly in a sea-blue doublet etched in silver. "Tyrion, of House Lannister," he said brightly, "Reader of books. Lover of wisdom and women. Stealer of their hearts."
Tyrion snorted, "Stealer of wine would be more apt, ser. Women's hearts are more elusive than a spider's web."
Arthur Manderly laughed, the sound clear as a bell in the dust-hung library. He crossed the chamber with easy grace and slid into the seat beside him. In his hands, he carried a heavy, leather-bound volume, its clasp gleaming like dragon-scale. He set it down upon the oak table with the kind of reverence one showed to relics or crowns.
Tyrion leaned closer, his mismatched eyes narrowing. He read the gilt lettering upon the spine, then again, scarcely trusting himself. Dragons, Wyrms, and Wyverns: Their Unnatural History.
For a moment, words failed him. His throat went dry.
"Where in seven hells did you come by this?" he asked, more sharply than he had intended. His stubby finger tapped the cover as though to prove it was real. "Septon Barth's heresies were burned on Baelor's command. The Citadel burned them to ash. Fragments, aye, scraps of passages quoted by others, but this—" He shook his head. "A complete tome? Impossible."
Arthur's smile turned sly, "Nothing is impossible, my lord."
Tyrion let his hand rest on the forbidden tome, as though it might vanish should he look away. "Tell me, ser," he said at last, his voice softer than before, "how does one come by a dead book?"
Arthur replied, "Gold can find many things, my lord, as you know already."
Tyrion chuckled under his breath. "Not burned and buried things. I have squandered coin enough to know, ashes do not answer when you call."
The boy only smiled, "Septon Barth was no fool. He knew his words would be despised by the Citadel. So he had another copy made, one he illustrated with his own hand, and sent it across the Narrow Sea to Rego Draz, the Pentoshi master of coin to King Jaehaerys."
Tyrion blinked. "Draz? Aye, I've read the name. Hardly a man to keep books."
Arthur inclined his head. "Yet he kept this one, locked in a vault. Long after, it passed into the hands of a prince of Pentos, who treasured it for its strangeness but not enough to refuse gold. And so the book came to me."
The boy spoke with such calm certainty, as if princes and vaults and forbidden knowledge were no more trouble than fish sold on the docks.
Arthur stroked the spine of the tome with reverence. "The original lies safe in the academy library. What you see before you is a copy, my companion on the road."
"And if I were to empty my purse of every last dragon… how much for a copy of my own?" Tyrion said, wagging a finger, "Name your price, boy. My purse may be shallow compared to my father's vaults, but it is not empty."
Arthur answered, calm as ever. "And yet, you will not pay me coin, my lord." His smile was disarming. "I would be happy to let you have a copy, as a gift."
That made Tyrion raise his brow. "You are too free with your gifts, my lord. This is no bauble carved from driftwood, but a treasure thought lost to fire and zealotry. Why would you give it away so lightly? You must want something in return."
"I would give it to you, for I know you will honor it." The light from the high window caught the vivid blue-green of the boy's eyes. "My lord, your wit, your hunger for knowledge, make you well suited to carry Septon Barth's words. He himself was the wisest Hand to ever serve a king upon the Iron Throne. Should his words live again, better they rest in the hands of one who can see their worth."
Tyrion stared at him for a long moment, uncharacteristically bereft of jest. Compliments he had known, flatteries too, all manner of poisoned sweetmeats served with grins and false bows. But there was no guile in the boy's tone, only the quiet confidence of youth that had yet to learn the world's cruelties.
"You honor me too much, young ser," Tyrion said at last, his voice touched with a gravity rare for him.
Arthur shook his head. "Only with what you deserve."
They left the library together, Arthur bearing the forbidden tome beneath one arm as if it were no heavier than a prayer book. In the corridor, sunlight slanted through narrow windows of tinted glass, painting the marble floor in streaks of blue and red.
"I'll have the copy delivered to you in King's Landing," Arthur said, his voice low, meant for Tyrion's ears alone. "But you must keep it hidden from the maesters. The Academy has trouble enough with them already."
Tyrion snorted. "Aye, I've no doubt. The Grand Maester calls it a farce. An affront. A mockery of the Citadel."
Arthur's lips curved, unbothered. "Yes. Grandmaester Pycelle often mistakes innovation for insult. The Winter Academy is a sanctuary of unrestricted learning, free from the chains of Oldtown."
"And it ruffled their feathers," Tyrion smirked. "Pycelle muttered about 'lawless scholars' for weeks, after your men of letters thrashed the maesters at that trial… what was it, seven years ago?"
Arthur shook his head. "Eight. When Lord Manfred Dondarrion served as Robert's Master of Laws."
"Eight, Aye." Tyrion tilted his head, memory tugging at him. "I remember the debate well. Your scholars argued that the Citadel holds no monopoly over learning, nor law, nor the healing arts. That a noble lord, by ancient right, may sponsor such endeavors in his own domain. They argued with logic, with history, and with clarity enough to silence even the most pompous of graybeards."
Arthur smiled at that, a flash of pride tempered by restraint. "Aye. And Lord Manfred ruled in our favor, granting the Academy its royal charter. The maesters have held a grudge ever since."
"So then," Tyrion said as they turned down another corridor, "your house must not keep any maesters. The Citadel can hardly look kindly upon you."
Arthur chuckled, "One would think that, yet we do. And he is your kin."
Tyrion cocked a brow, lips twitching. "My kin?"
"Maester Theomore. A Lannister of Lannisport."
Tyrion laughed, "Then it is a wonderful jest indeed. A Lannister among the Manderlys. The gods have a queer sense of humor."
Arthur only smiled, then added, "Lord Tyrion. I would have a word in private, if you'll grant me the time."
Now this is an unexpected turn of events, Tyrion thought. So, he nodded and followed eagerly, the curiosity pricking his mind.
Tyrion noted, as they walked side by side, how the boy matched his shorter pace with unthinking ease. Neither striding ahead like so many tall men nor lingering as though pitying him.
Arthur led him across the yard to the guest house where the Manderlys lodged. His chambers were well-appointed, though not ostentatious; maps and books warred with silks and sea-blue hangings, the balance of lord and scholar both.
The boy went straight to a broad oaken table, where a great parchment lay unfurled. Tyrion climbed onto a chair with effort and peered across it. Westerlands, he saw at once, his own country, drawn in fine detail, every river, mine, and holdfast marked. Tyrion pursed his lips. "Planning an invasion, young Manderly?"
Arthur laughed, a clear, easy sound. "Not yet, my lord. Come, take a look."
Tyrion looked more carefully this time, being thoroughly impressed by the details. Whoever made the map took their time and knew their home well. It was concerning. he asked, "May I ask why you've brought me here and laid out a map of my father's realm as though you mean to carve it like a roast?"
"To plan the future, my lord," he answered.
Tyrion blinked at that, amused and wary, "The future! You are far too ambitious for a boy of fifteen."
Arthur's lips curved faintly. "The western trades of our realm begin with the city of Lannisport. From there, to Oldtown, and then to such other harbors as the ships can stomach. The whole of it stretches far and wide. Tell me, my lord, can you see what is amiss here?"
Tyrion tapped the map with a stubby finger. "The distance," he said. "It is too far away. A voyage from there takes a long time."
Arthur nodded, grinning, "I knew you wouldn't disappoint, my lord. You are right, a merchant seeking some fine silk or iron from Braavos or Lys must sail from your coast, across the Sunset Sea, round the Summer, then on to the Narrow. A perilous and drawn-out venture. Or, if he were to travel overland, he must haul his wares from Lannisport to King's Landing, then board ship anew. Both ways are long, costly, and clumsy."
Tyrion replied with a smirk. "Aye. Gold grows weary when it must walk such a road."
Arthur's hand moved deftly across the table, folding away the first map and replacing it with another. This one stretched wider, north, riverlands, and the western coast, all etched in neat, confident lines. Tyrion leaned closer, squinting at the ink. Certain points along the coasts were circled, others traced with lines that formed a route.
"There is a simpler, far easier solution, my lord," Arthur said. His finger tapped lightly at Torrhen's Square, marked with a small sigil. "Rather than drive your ships southward into Oldtown's maw, let them sail north, toward Torrhen's Square. There, your merchants may find the goods they seek, brought from Essos by way of White Harbor, at half the time, and half the risk."
Tyrion cocked his head, "Half the time, you say? Bold promises. How?"
Arthur did not flinch. "White Harbor has already bound itself to the east. Our ships run steady routes to Braavos, Myr, Lys, and even as far as Qarth itself. We have allies who hold stockpiles in their harbors, waiting upon our word. Spices, silks, iron, gems, name it, and it can be brought forth. No need for your merchants to brave the long seas themselves. We bear that burden. All they must do is fetch what waits at Torrhen's Square."
Tyrion pursed his lips, "Impressive," he allowed at last. "Very impressive. But two problems arise at once, young ser. First, there is no harbor at Torrhen's Square. Wolves, yes. Harbors, no."
Arthur's smile flickered, unbothered. "There is no harbor….. Yet."
"And second," Tyrion went on, "the Ironborn. Raiders fattened on grief and plunder. Even your pretty plans will drown in their longships."
"And that," he said softly, "is where you come in, Lord Tyrion."
Arthur's hand drifted across the map once more, finger landing on two inked circles. Tyrion's eyes followed, and at once he knew the places. The first, nestled in the north of the westerlands, close by Banefort lands, just beyond the Pendric Hills. The second mark struck him, a blot where once had stood proud halls, the ruined castle of Castamere.
"Here," Arthur said, voice steady as stone, "lies your advantage. Build a harbor at one of these sites, strong, fortified, with walls and watchtowers. Station your fleet there. From that perch, you may guard the southern coast of Ironman's Bay. Leave the northern waters to me."
Tyrion regarded him sidelong, lips quirking in a half-smile, half-sneer. "A fine plan, aye, but marred by another flaw, and most fatal it is. My father rules the Rock still, not I. And my lord father is not a man much given to change, or to fondness for the Manderlys."
Arthur smiled, "Perhaps not. Yet he shall not rule forever."
Tyrion clutched at his breast with mock solemnity, letting his voice rise in feigned drama. "You mean to kill him now, do you? Gods! Spare my beloved father, I beg you!"
Arthur laughed, "Only gods or demons could ever kill Lord Tywin."
Tyrion chuckled in turn. "Aye, only demons. I doubt even the Stranger would dare."
Arthur's mirth faded to a softer tone, "But he is a man, all the same. And as with all men, his time shall come. When it does, another will bear his mantle. His heir." His eyes met Tyrion's with open candor. "You, my lord."
The words struck harder than Tyrion would admit. He felt them bite beneath his armor of japes. Heir. His father had never spoken the word to him. Never looked at him and seen aught but a twisted jest of nature. No, the golden son was the heir in Tywin's eyes, the Kingslayer whose name was damned in song yet still shone bright in his father's heart.
Tyrion forced a laugh all the same, though it tasted bitter on his tongue. "You place much faith in the succession of House Lannister, young ser. I daresay more than Lord Tywin ever did."
"There's no denying that you are his heir, my lord," Arthur said, tone calm as still water. "By the laws of gods and men, no one could deny you your birthright. Not even your father."
Wouldn't he? Tyrion thought, the words sour in his skull. He asked, "What do you expect from me, then?"
"I would ask that you bring this matter to your lord father," The boy's calm was almost unnerving.
Tyrion muttered. "You ask me to put this before my father."
"Aye."
"And if you know aught of Lord Tywin, you know how little he listens to me."
Arthur leaned back, "He listens to profit, my lord. As do all great lords, in the end. You may find your tongue weighed lighter than your brother's sword, but both are sharpened tools in their place."
Tyrion found himself smiling again, "Bold words, young ser, yet true nevertheless."
Arthur's laugh was soft. "Speak first to Ser Kevan, if you doubt your father's ear. I hear your uncle is a more amenable man. He will see the worth of it. From there, let the Rock decide. And tell them this as well: should you require investment, Merlin Bank would be glad to provide it."
Tyrion arched a brow, curiosity dancing with suspicion. "Pray tell, what do you gain from this? More trade? Is that all?"
Arthur's laugh was light, almost boyish, "What more is there, my lord? Trade is everything. Trade fattens coffers, feeds mouths, builds fleets, and binds oaths stronger than swords. Without trade, thrones crumble."
"Many would disagree," Tyrion said dryly. "Steel, some claim, is the true coin of kings. And why Torrhen's Square? You are heir to Barrowton, too, are you not? Why not plant your harbor there?"
Arthur's smile was sly, but not unkind. "Because greed serves no one, my lord. Not even the greedy. Torrhen's Square is the natural choice, shorter distance, better ground, stronger tide. To choose Barrowton would be to serve myself only. Such ventures must serve all, else they rot."
Tyrion barked a laugh. "So you mean to make everyone richer, friends and enemies alike?"
Arthur's eyes glimmered, "There is a merchant I know, a banker now, who helped me found my bank. He has a saying I've come to cherish: Keep both your friends rich, and your enemies too, and then wait to see which is which."
Tyrion laughed in earnest this time, "Aye, that is a good one. Almost worthy of a saying."
Arthur's expression sobered, though his smile lingered at the edges. "It is true, my lord. Gold is a blessing, aye, but more often a curse. Its greed binds tighter than chains, its edge cuts the soul deeper than blades."
Tyrion though. A curse, indeed. And I was born with it in my veins.
"You play a long game, ser," Tyrion said at last. "Longer than I'd expect of a boy who's yet to grow a beard worth combing."
Arthur's smile returned, faint but certain. "The sea teaches patience, my lord. The waves do not break the stone in a day. But break it they do."
Tyrion quit the boy's chambers with his head full of maps and his belly full of schemes. The torches sputtered low along Winterfell's guest wing, their smoke clinging to the chill stone, and his boots echoed in lonely rhythm as he made for his own rooms.
Kevan, aye. His uncle was no great man, but he was steady, and steadiness had its value when standing before the storm that was Tywin Lannister. And the plan itself, he could not deny the boy had the right of it. A harbor, a fleet, a chokehold on trade, all set upon the Ironman's Bay. Profit, power, and pride. Father would like that, whether or not it came from Manderly lips.
Arthur Manderly's voice lingered still, Trade is everything. A boy of fifteen, yet speaking with the patience of a priest and the certainty of a king. Gods, but there was a danger in such charm. Tyrion had sat across from lords thrice his age who could not match him for reason or for wit. Yet this one had nearly won him to his cause in the span of a single evening. Almost,
Tyrion thought as he pushed open the door to his chamber. He poured himself a cup of the sour red they served in Winterfell, and sat by the fire that fought a losing battle against the chill. Castamere crept into his mind, those damp halls, their stones haunted by Rains and ruin.
Once a warning, now only a wound upon the West. What use was a ruin, save to be rebuilt? Perhaps even I could raise something from the bones of the Reynes… an academy, a place for ships, for whoring, for freedom beyond hisFather's goldenchains. He chuckled at the thought. Lord Tywin would choke on the notion.
The boy had planted seeds in him, that much was plain. Seeds of ambition, seeds of respect, too, though Tyrion knew better than to water them too freely. For every charm that drew him nearer, the lion in him whispered caution. No man gave gifts without purpose.
Tyrion raised his cup in a silent toast to the fire. "A dangerous young man, Ser Arthur," he said to the flames. "And the most dangerous thing of all… is that I rather enjoy him."