"We should have hanged Edmure," said Emmon Frey, sloshing wine as he spoke.
Tyrion looked at his face—bald on top and lacking a chin below—like he was staring at some grotesque creature.
"And those two little Stark girls, too," Emmon went on, lecturing him as though he were an elder scolding a foolish nephew. "You're too soft-hearted, Tyrion."
Aunt Genna twisted his arm sharply. "I remind you, Lady Sansa is Tyrion's betrothed."
"I don't make empty threats like Ryman," Tyrion said. "If I have to use their lives to force the Blackfish's hand, I'll do it. If he refuses, I'll hang them—both of them—whoever they are. Understood, Uncle?"
"I—" Uncle Emmon began, but Aunt Genna cut him off with a snort.
"Don't waste Tyrion's time with your nonsense, Emmon. Why don't you step outside and get some fresh air?"
"Fresh air?"
"Or take a piss, if you must? My nephew and I have family matters to discuss."
Lord Emmon flushed. "Yes, it's quite warm in here. I'll take a walk outside. Lady. Lord." He carefully set his goblet down, gave Tyrion a stiff bow, and tottered out through the tent flap.
"Gods, Tyrion, forgive that fool," Aunt Genna said once he was gone. "He knows nothing. But I do worry—is it really wise to let Sansa meet the Blackfish?"
"You think Sansa and the Blackfish would run off to Riverrun?" Tyrion poured himself a cup of orange water. "What point would that serve, except to irritate me? If it were you, Aunt, and Sansa were your granddaughter, what would you do?"
Aunt Genna thought for a moment, then answered honestly. "Marry her to you at once."
"Exactly." Tyrion drained his cup. "Sansa isn't a fighter. She can't shoot, she can't kill, and she can't be used to threaten me. I'd wager the Blackfish only wants to ask if I've mistreated her."
"And after that? He'll open the gates?"
"No." Tyrion shook his head. "He'll never kneel. He'll fight to the end." Unless I do as Jaime did and send Edmure to negotiate the surrender—but that would cost me both Edmure and Brynden, and Riverrun's loyalty with them. I have enough cards to play; I don't need to gamble recklessly.
"Then what will you do?"
"What else? Stop fighting." Tyrion gave a dry chuckle. "There's no point continuing this siege. Let the Freys handle it. Let them burn through their own grain."
Just then, someone entered the tent.
"Emmon!" Aunt Genna snapped, her voice rising. "Didn't I tell you—" She turned, only to see it wasn't Emmon at all but a sellsword knight.
Bronn came in dragging a scrawny soldier. The poor man's face was streaked with blood, and the tunic stretched over his breastplate bore the twin towers of House Frey. Spurs glinted on his boots.
"Caught him coming from the north," Bronn said, tossing the man to the ground. "Tried to run. I shot his horse—he went down face-first." He reached into his cloak, pulled out a letter, and handed it to Tyrion. "A small prize."
Tyrion took the envelope. The gray wax seal bore the mark of the twin towers. He tore it open roughly and pulled out the parchment.
The scout gasped in terror. Losing a letter was a mortal offense for a messenger.
Tyrion read through the letter, his frown deepening until the crease between his brows twisted into a knot.
"Strip him naked, strangle him, and throw the body into the river. Make sure no one sees."
Bronn wordlessly grabbed the scout by the throat and dragged him out of the tent.
Tyrion handed the letter to his aunt. She finished reading and hissed through her teeth. "Has Tywin gone mad? He's handing Riverrun over to the Freys?"
"It wasn't Father's doing," Tyrion said. "The letter bears the crowned stag—it's Joffrey's decree."
"Exactly, not the lion." Aunt Genna examined it again. "It says 'in the name of King Joffrey,' not 'by the Hand of the King.' Of course he'd send it—he needs the appointment to claim authority over Riverrun—but still..."
"Most likely the bright idea of my dear sister and nephew," Tyrion said, setting the letter down on the table. "But why didn't Father stop them? Is he in trouble? Poisoned? I warned him already."
"Someone needs to go to King's Landing," Tyrion said after a pause.
"Can't we just send a letter?"
"No." If only there were telephones, Tyrion thought. The game of thrones was a war of intelligence—of information. "A letter won't tell us what's really happening in King's Landing. We need someone to go in person."
"I suspect Father isn't there anymore," he went on. "But where would he be? The Stormlands? That should be Mace Tyrell's domain. He'd never pass up another chance to redeem himself at Storm's End. Could it be the Dornish Marches?"
"Prince Doran would never be so reckless," Aunt Genna said. "Could Cersei have done this behind your father's back? But what about Kevan—what is he doing?"
"Impossible. Father must have left King's Landing." Tyrion shook his head. He knew his sister too well—Cersei was arrogant and reckless, and she only dared act freely when Father wasn't watching. No one in House Lannister defied the old lion while he lived. "Uncle should be at Casterly Rock. Father's plan before he left was to send him back there."
"Send Daven to find out."
"Can't." Tyrion shook his head again. "He's one of only two men here who can command troops. Neither of us can leave."
"The sellsword, then? He seems sharp enough. Maybe he could manage."
"No." Tyrion dismissed the thought. "Bronn's birth is too low. He has no standing for a mission like this. Sending him would accomplish nothing."
"I see." Aunt Genna smiled knowingly. "You're hinting that I should go, aren't you?"
"Well, Aunt, I think this task suits you best." Tyrion gave a sly grin. "Your rank and seniority will protect you—Cersei wouldn't dare insult you, and Jaime certainly wouldn't lie to you."
"Very well." Aunt Genna stood up. "You handle Riverrun. This old woman will make the trip myself. And Emmon will come with me, won't he?"
"It's best if he does," Tyrion said. "I'll give you a hundred guards to escort you to Darry. On the road, don't fly the Frey twin towers—use the Lannister lion."
"I know. The Brotherhood might grant you some courtesy, but they'll show the Freys none," she said. "Wait for my good news. I'll write to you as soon as I reach King's Landing."
"Yes, Aunt." Tyrion rose to help her up. "Keep an eye on Qyburn and Lancel for me—they should still be mine. As for Pycelle, if Father's gone from King's Landing, he'll surely be wagging his beard for my dear sister."
"Speaking of the Brotherhood, I'll need to write a letter to Thoros..."
"Don't worry, nephew." Aunt Genna waved her hand. "Wait for my good news."
...
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