Tyrion Lannister might have been small, but in that moment, his voice filled the council chamber like the roar of a real lion.
"We have the Tyrells now!" Tyrion shouted, slamming his fist onto the table. "We have the upper hand. The North is winning battles, but they're bleeding men, and the Riverlords are tired. I say we give them their independence. Agree to a ceasefire. Let us focus entirely on crushing Stannis. Once the 'False King' is dead, we'll have all the time in the world to deal with the Wolf."
He looked around the table, his mismatched eyes burning with a rare intensity. "We trade Sansa and their Valyrian sword for Jaime and Kevan. We use our gold to buy back our captured knights. I'll even go as the envoy myself."
It was a brilliant plan - logical, safe, and calculated.
Pfft.
Cersei let out a sharp, mocking laugh, covering her mouth as if Tyrion had just told a dirty joke. Varys watched Tywin, trying to read the Old Lion's thoughts. If the Lannisters lowered their heads now, the war would be over in three years. If they didn't...
Tywin looked at his son with eyes as flat as a frozen pond. "I don't agree to a single word of it. The Stark boy won't release my brother or my son based on a promise. Focus on your ledgers, Master of Coin. Leave the war to me."
Tyrion's shoulders slumped. He'd seen the disaster coming, and his father was inviting it in for tea.
"And Pycelle," Tywin added, his voice cold. "Send Eddard Stark's bones back to Riverrun. Let that be our 'response' to the Wolf's terms."
The Twins.
I'd lasted two days in the room the Freys gave me before the dampness drove me insane. Everything felt like it was covered in a layer of river-slime. I'd moved into a tent in my own camp, and I felt a hundred percent better the moment I smelled woodsmoke and horse sweat instead of mildew.
Abel walked into my tent that afternoon, looking like he'd been dragged through a gravel pit. He was dusty, weary, and smelled like sun-baked salt.
"Young Master," he rasped, "we're back."
He told me the whole story. The trip south had been a nightmare of small paths and avoiding brigands. They'd met Prince Doran, delivered the "gift," and everything had gone according to plan.
"But on the way back out of Sunspear," Abel said, his voice dropping, "we got followed. Dozens of 'em. They cornered us in the woods at night. I'm telling you, Boss, I thought we were done. They had crossbows and longbows aimed right at our throats."
I poured a cup of wine and handed it to him. "But you're all here, and you're all breathing. Who saved you?"
Abel grinned, a bit of that Karstark swagger coming back. "The Martells. A group of riders came out of the dark and cleared the path. And get this, there were women with 'em! Armed to the teeth! Dorne is a weird place, letting girls go to war."
"Careful, Abel," I teased. "If Maege Mormont heard you say that, she'd cave your chest in with her mace."
I knew who those women were. The Sand Snakes. Oberyn's bastard daughters. If they were protecting my envoys, it meant Prince Doran was more than happy with the Mountain's head. The alliance was silent, but it was there.
"You did good, Abel," I said. I pulled a heavy pouch from my belt and tossed it to him. "Twenty gold dragons. Share it with the boys and take two days off."
"Boss..." Abel hesitated, then dropped to one knee. "I'm your man. Whatever you need, whenever you need it. By the Old Gods, I swear it."
I helped him up, gripping his arm. "And I swear you'll always have a seat at my fire, Abel. When I'm Earl of the Golden Tooth, you'll have your own village. If you want to be a knight, I'll find one to dub you. We Northerners don't care about the fancy titles, but you've earned the respect."
Abel beamed and left the tent with a spring in his step.
I sat back, sipping my wine. Dorne was in play. Now I just had to see what the Freys were up to.
"My Lord!" Dita Calandre's voice came from outside. "Black Walder is here. He says the scouts found the bandit camp."
I drained my cup and grabbed my axe. "Tell him I'm coming. Let's see if the weasels have a trap waiting for me."
Qarth.
The city was a fever dream of gold and marble. Alysane Mormont stepped off the ship and immediately felt like she'd landed on another planet.
The walls were carved with scenes so graphic they made her blush, and she'd already raised two kids. The women on the streets wore silk that hid absolutely nothing, and people were performing magic in the alleys, dancing with fire and water as if it were a common skill.
"Madam, we need a room," Quinn, one of her soldiers, whispered. He looked like his brain was about to melt from sensory overload.
Alysane slapped the younger soldier, Alan, who was staring a little too hard at a passing noblewoman. "Alan! Eyes front! You haven't seen a woman before?"
"Not like that, I haven't!" the fifteen-year-old squeaked.
"Move it," Alysane ordered. "We find a place to sleep, and then we start asking. We're here for Jorah. The Karstark kid said he'd be here or in the slave cities. We aren't leaving until we find the Bear."