Tywin looked up from his desk. "Good afternoon, my lady."
He stood and gestured for her to sit.
The moment Olenna lowered herself into the chair, he spoke. "I was about to send for you myself."
"Oh?" Olenna took a sip of wine, trying to ease the ache in her legs from climbing the tower. She silently cursed whoever built these damn things so tall. "What could the Hand possibly need from me?"
Tywin didn't waste time. "I'm holding a public trial for Monford Velaryon. I want you and Prince Doran to sit on the jury and see it through to the end."
Olenna didn't agree or refuse. She simply said, "I'll think about it."
Tywin didn't push. Instead he asked, "Why are you here?"
He poured himself a glass from the gilded decanter.
Olenna's eyes flicked over him. "I heard there's been… a bit of unpleasantness inside your family."
"That's none of your concern."
Tywin's voice turned cold, a clear warning to mind her tongue.
"What I came to say might make it your concern," Olenna replied, unfazed. "My grandson Willas is a fine young man. He's of an age to marry. Why not wed your daughter Cersei to him? It would be a good match for both houses."
The words landed like a slap.
Tywin's hand paused mid-pour. His mind raced through the angles, but his face stayed blank.
"Cersei's a grown woman now," Olenna pressed. "She'd do well with my grandson. Willas is only seventeen—every girl in the realm would kill to marry him."
A Tyrell-Lannister marriage would strengthen both sides considerably. She couldn't see why he'd refuse.
"No."
Tywin's answer was immediate and final.
Olenna's brows drew together. "Why not?"
Tywin took a long drink, then said flatly, "Cersei is the most beautiful woman in the Seven Kingdoms. She has her sights set higher than some greenhouse rose."
Olenna's mouth tightened. "My grandson is—"
"Mediocre," Tywin cut in. "He hasn't lasted long in any position he's been given. Right now he's just helping his father balance shipping ledgers."
He made no effort to hide his contempt.
Olenna gave a sharp, angry laugh. "Cersei's not getting any younger. She'll be an old maid before long if she keeps waiting."
"And?" Tywin said, perfectly calm. "A lioness doesn't lower herself to marry a garden rose."
The insult hung in the air.
Olenna pressed a hand to her chest, breathing hard. For a moment she looked ready to throw her wine in his face.
Tywin didn't flinch. If anything, he seemed faintly satisfied.
Olenna eventually calmed herself, though her eyes were still cold. "If you're so set against a match with Willas, then I have nothing more to say."
She started to rise.
"Wait."
Tywin stopped her. "If you truly want a marriage, I have a better suggestion."
Olenna paused. "Who?"
"My son Tyrion," Tywin said. "He could wed your daughter Janna. They'd suit each other well."
Olenna stared at him for a long second, then looked down at the wine in her cup like she was seriously considering throwing it.
"You must be joking," she said at last, voice tight.
"Think it over," Tywin replied, unruffled.
"Don't ask again," Olenna snapped. "Or I'll start saying things you won't like."
Tywin let it drop. He had no interest in listening to the old woman rant in his office.
"Since you're not interested in an alliance," he said, "you can go."
Olenna stood. "I'll see myself out."
"Hold on."
Tywin's tone changed. "You will attend Monford Velaryon's trial as a juror. Along with Prince Doran."
Olenna covered her cup with her hand when he tried to refill it. "My legs are giving me trouble. I doubt I'll be able to make it."
"You will be there," Tywin said. It wasn't a request.
Olenna met his eyes without fear. "What are you going to do? Have your men carry me in on a litter?"
Tywin didn't rise to the bait. "House Velaryon has been trading with Qohor. Smuggling mithril. Conducting blood sacrifices. The charges are serious."
"And why should that matter to me?"
Tywin held her gaze. "If House Velaryon is guilty of such crimes, what makes you think House Tyrell and House Redwyne are clean?"
Olenna's expression didn't change, but her fingers tightened around the cup.
Tywin picked up a fresh sheet of parchment and a quill. "If I were to expose whatever dirt exists in the Reach and then hand more power to Lord Rowan on the Roseroad and raise Lord Hightower's authority on the coastal roads… how do you think that would go for your house?"
Olenna said nothing, but her eyes could have killed him.
Tywin dipped the quill in ink, almost polite. "So. Shall I draft the appointments, or will your legs suddenly feel better on the day of the trial?"
Olenna stared at him for a long moment. Then she reached out, took the quill from his hand, and snapped it cleanly in two.
The sharp crack echoed in the room.
She had yielded.
Without another word, she turned and left.
Dragon-Tongue Farm.
Daeron sat by the window, watching the yard below. Jaehaerys was working with a boy of eleven or twelve, correcting his sword form with patient instruction.
Lady Shiera set down two cups of hot tea and smiled. "Should I call the prince inside for a rest?"
Daeron shook his head. "Sebastian's nearly thirteen now, isn't he?"
"Yes."
Shiera's face lit up at the mention of her son.
Daeron watched the boy for another moment. "He's old enough. I want him to join the Constabulary Knights. Start at the bottom—patrolling the kingswood with the others. See how he does."
He had been at the farm for three days. Varys had already sent word of everything happening in King's Landing.
Everything was unfolding exactly as Daeron expected. While he was away, Tywin and the Velaryons were finally tearing into each other.
Good.
He needed the second eastern campaign to have a clean stage. Letting the great houses bleed each other a little first made everything simpler.
Shiera studied him, then gave a warm, knowing smile. "Whatever you decide is best, Your Grace."
She was in her thirties now, but she still carried herself with the easy confidence of a woman who knew exactly how to handle powerful men.
Daeron didn't make empty promises. "Tell him to work hard. Talent matters more than my favor."
He glanced at the map spread across the table beside him—a detailed sketch of the Valyrian Peninsula.
Victarion's latest raven sat nearby. The fog over the Smoking Sea was thinning fast. There had been reports of dragon roars coming from inside it.
Daeron tapped the quill against the parchment.
Rhaegar was probably already in there somewhere, chasing the same thing.
When his brother came back out, the entire eastern continent was going to catch fire.
Daeron looked back out the window at Jaehaerys and the boy.
"Let them train a little longer," he said quietly. "Then send Jaehaerys up. We have plans to make."