The Lion's Den [Closed]

[Scriven]

“I’m like a bloodhound when it comes to liquor. If there’s a drop in the Seven Kingdoms, trust me- I will find it.”


As they walked, she tall and slim, he small and stunted, Tyrion considered the woman his father had decided to take to wife. He’d been surprised when he had heard from Varys that his father planned to remarry. Tywin seemed to enjoy manipulating the lives of everyone around him, but he kept his own affairs very private. Tyrion shared his feelings with Amaia as they walked.


“You know, when I heard that my father was planning to marry a woman from the Westerlands, I was shocked. I never thought he would remarry. He treats life like one giant game of chess, you see, but I’ve never seen him make himself one of the pieces. I’m surprised he didn’t try to arrange a marriage between you and I, actually, if he’s intent on uniting our houses.”


Tyrion’s scarred face drew into a bemused grin. “I’m not sure which would be worse for you.”


They ascended the steps of the Red Keep, Tyrion’s gait a slow waddle. Each step was harder than the last, and slower too. By the time they reached the top his legs ached, but Tyrion hid the pain well. The soft smile on his lips never faltered. It helped that he was keeping himself amused with thoughts of Tywin actually trying to romance the woman that walked beside him. It was as ridiculous as it was unlikely.


Tyrion led Amaia into Maegor’s Holdfast, where he had found himself living since being displaced as Hand of the King. “There’s an impressive library over this way,” he told her as they walked. “I find myself spending quite a lot of time there. And there is, of course, liquor.” Anywhere Tyrion spent a great deal of time had to have wine on hand. Complete sobriety was unbearable, especially these days. If he was going to have a knife put in his back, he wanted to at least be enjoying his final hour.


More stairs. Tyrion grunted, his hand latching onto the bannister to help haul himself up. “Just... this way...” he panted. They reached the top and he sighed in relief, showing her into the library. He closed the door behind them, guarding against curious eyes and intrusive ears. Not that it really made any difference, he supposed. The Spider could be anywhere, and if it was true for Varys it could be true for others. A sealed door gave the illusion of privacy though.


“Tyroshi pear brandy,” said Tyrion as he reached a table and lifted a decanter, pouring a measure of the liquid into two crystal goblets. He handed one to Amaia, then climbed into the chair and pulled himself up to the table. “So, tell me. Why is it you owe me a drink?”

 

[Lucyfer]

“A winehound, then. Much more useful,” Aemilia joked, not in a mocking way, though. Tyrion, it seemed, was going to be rather easy to chat with. ‘What is the saying, in wine there is truth?’ Some Valyrian saying, no doubt, like ‘All men must die’.


He spoke rather freely of his surprise on hearing Tywin’s plans. “You should have seen Jaime’s face. I’m almost disappointed I won’t see Cersei’s surprise,” nor would she see Tyrion’s, though he spoke of it. “I believe the war must be going worse than he’s letting on, if Tywin feels the need to secure house Hetherspoon so closely. Or else Robb’s forces are simply that large. He could have tried to marry me to a Clegane, or another vassal he loves more dearly.”


Hetherspoon was loyal, of course, but Hetherspoon was not nearly the strongest house. They just had a good position. “Not that my father would have agreed to such an arrangement.” As he wouldn’t have agreed to Tyrion, if it had even been offered. It was a matter of appearance.


Aemilia was able to slow without complaint. Considering Tybolt’s age, she’d gotten used to waiting for others and slowing her pace so that she did not hasten them too much. She let Tyrion set the pace of their movement, up stairs and simply walking. She’d not be impatient with him. A library was the destination, and she was not at all opposed to this idea. 'Might have to look up 'Ty'. So many Westerland names...' Tyrion, Tywin, Tybolt.


If she got to spend any leisure time here (which, she didn’t want, but at the same time, did), the library would be a good place to reside. There would be more books here than in her own lands, and likely on more topics she was unfamiliar with. The smile on her lips was constant and gentle as she thought of it, and so remained when they entered and took their seats, and Tyrion poured the liquor.


“Just the one glass, I cannot be foolish tomorrow,” she told him, so he’d know not to pour when the glass emptied itself. She held it up to her nose briefly, old habits dying hard, and scented no poison. It wouldn’t have mattered to her if Tyrion drank first—she knew the art of lacing glasses to give the illusion of safety to others. “But I owe you a drink, because if I am not barren,” she had to take a drink then before she could continue the thought.


What would she do, if she weren’t? Aemilia was trying not to think of it much, but it was…problematic. She had wanted kids, of course. The Reynes should live in some way. However, Tywin’s? The thought alone was enough to stifle words and make her want to pull her hair from her head. In many ways, it was twistingly fitting. In too many others, it was abhorrent.


“Then I will be responsible for taking all but gold from you,” she finished the thought after the burn of the alcohol moved down her throat. There was a sweetness in the pear, a refreshing aftertaste, but it was strong as one would expect from the Free Cities. “I’m sure I owe you more than a drink for that, but it sounded like a good start.”

 

[Scriven]

There was a stinging in his jaw, as if Tyrion had just dug his teeth into a lemon. He grimaced, hiding the expression behind his goblet and taking a healthy swig of the brandy. It burned a little going down, but it did distract him. Thank the gods for small favors, Tyrion thought.


“Well. Isn’t that... considerate... of you.”


Tyrion wasn’t quite sure what to say. He filled his lungs and set down his cup. It wasn’t as if he had never considered the possibility of his father having other children just so that Casterly Rock wouldn’t go to him. In any case, Tywin had made it perfectly clear that his dwarf son would never be the Lord of Casterly Rock and Warden of the West. What ought to rightfully be his would be passed along to a cousin or a nephew- whoever Tywin held the least amount of loathing for when he one day died.


Tyrion forced a smile onto his face, feeling the expression pull the scar taut across his already unusual features. “Amaia- may I call you that? I’ll be frank, since we’re about to be family. Even if we weren’t but you were to spend any time at the Red Keep, you would soon learn this to be true: it doesn’t matter if you have a hundred strapping sons or none at all. Casterly Rock will never be held by a dwarf. Particularly the one before you.”


Tyrion put his chin in the palm of his hand and looked curiously at the redheaded woman. She appeared to be close in age to him, though the similarities ended there. She was a very handsome woman, he thought. Would his father use her as a trophy or hide her away? It probably depends how often she opens her mouth, he decided.


“So the wedding is tomorrow, eh?” he asked, changing the topic to something a little less grim than old family hatred. “Quite soon.” His eyebrows rose as he said that. “Did you already know my father?”

 

[Lucyfer]

‘No, no it probably wouldn’t, but I know what a bitter draught hope is.’ Tyrion’s own hope had been there, in the grimace. It had dissipated quick, as it ought. His words were thought out, polite, before they became frank.


Aemilia leaned back in her seat and tilted the brandy back quick as he spoke of his own knowledge of his fate. She set the glass down, and then pushed it away with her fingers, letting her hand come to rest in her lap. “Amaia, Ami, I answer to both. Lady Hetherspoon when I must,” it was permission for Tyrion to be informal, indeed. “I am…well, I’m not at fault for it, but I am sorry that your father dislikes you so,” she knew the story. She didn't know the proper words, but it did bother her. She had already seen Tywin's coldness towards Jaime. The gold lion hadn't learned how to be a father to his cubs.


Of course, in Tyrion's case, one could be 'sympathetic' to Tywin--if they wanted. Joanna had died in giving birth to Tyrion, after all, and Joanna was the woman Tywin had loved. Another lion, too, but of the same golden coat.


She shook her head in answer to Tyrion’s question, and to clear her head before something stupid came out of her lips, “Not as well as I’d like." That was close enough to being stupid, and she let her eyes fall to the table rather than meet Tyrion's gaze. She wasn't sure what emotion might show, but she knew the alcohol wasn't clouding them well enough. There was a frustration to all she didn't know about Tywin. She knew the legends, not the man himself. He seemed good at keeping his life relatively private, even if his children did not. "I was here during Robert’s Rebellion,” she motioned out, “Medic for the Westerland troops. I never met him then, though. I never met him until today.”


‘Not that I remember, anyway.’ If she had met Tywin as a child, during some banquet his father Tytos held, it was far too long ago to remember, and she would have been too young to be identifiable.


At least, she certainly hoped so. She was able to look up then, mind turning to curiosities, “Perhaps you can enlighten me as to what sort of living this is going to be?” She canted her head in question, in hope that something Tyrion said might prove useful in setting Tywin up later. “Or how to make the best of it, at the very least. You must have learned a trick or two to still be here.” Here, and not disowned, or dead already.

 

[Scriven]

He tried to imagine his father as the rest of the world might see him. Tywin Lannister was the richest, most powerful widower in the Seven Kingdoms, yet Amaia Hetherspoon didn’t seem particularly enthused about her upcoming nuptials. She was no quivering virgin though, fearing her wedding night. Tyrion deducted that Amaia- Ami- must be widowed as well. His father would never marry an old maid, but he would probably also be reluctant to marry a girl close in age to his own granddaughter. That he had begun negotiations sight unseen of Lord Hetherspoon’s daughter meant this was purely a political move for him.


It made Tyrion think of Roose Bolton. There was a rumor going around that was almost too humorous to believe, but perhaps there was a spark of truth to it. As the rumor went, Walder Frey, who had a surplus of daughters, had offered Roose the weight in gold of any Frey wife he took. Bolton chose a woman dubbed ‘Fat Walda’, no doubt earning himself a hefty dowry in return. Men apparently married for many reasons, and seldom did any of those reasons have to do with feelings of the heart.


Tyrion licked his lips, running one stubby finger around the rim of his goblet. He doubted there was anything he could say that would really help prepare this woman for a lifetime spent with his father, but he would do his best. “My father likely has few expectations of you,” he told her. “This was a match for politics. He says he wants there to be a loyal house between the North and Casterly Rock, and I believe that’s part of it, but... I think it may have more to do with my father not wanting to fight a war within the Westerlands. House Hetherspoon is a direct neighbor to the Lannisters and Casterly Rock. It would put us in a terrible position if our neighbors decided to turn their cloaks and join up with Robb Stark or Stannis. The heir of House Hetherspoon marrying the head of House Lannister ensures that won’t become a problem. He’ll have one less person to protect his back from.”


At least, that was Tyrion’s hypothesis as to the real reason Tywin valued the strength of the union between their houses enough to remarry. The Hetherspoons, should they swear their loyalty to someone else, could not only supply a great deal of money toward the cause, but also offer a direct and easy path through the Westerlands to Casterly Rock.


“He doesn’t like to be questioned, nor denied. That comes down to a matter of personality though. Either you will get along or you won’t and it just remains to be seen.”

 

[Lucyfer]

Tyrion took his time to think, and hypothesized as to why this was even going to occur. A smile played at her lips as he did that, but she let him finish his thoughts without interruption. “The marriage is for reasons of politics,” she confirmed for Tyrion when he’d finished.


‘Though I can’t say how well protected Tywin is personally.’ That much wouldn’t be stated. Tywin would be safe for a while, until Aemilia got a grasp of the routines, health, and if there was a patsy she could pin things on.


“Shame he doesn’t sound like he’ll be a good conversationalist if he doesn’t like questions,” or denials. She let her hands rest on the table between them, seeming to debate a moment if she should rise and call it a night, or delay. “At least there will be you, and your rather…interesting brother.”


She was still stricken by the way Jaime had entered and his mannerisms. They weren’t at all what she expected of the Kingslayer, and she still wasn’t sure what to think. “I’m not certain how I’ll get on with Cersei, if the rumors are true that she takes to wine like a fish to water,” was it appropriate to speak like that in the castle library? Probably not. Well, if Cersei found out her opinion, so be it.


Aemilia used her hands to push herself to standing, and brushed a hand back by her ear, only to remember she’d put her hair up. There was nothing to put back. “Well, my lord,” no lilt, this time, “You and the rest needn’t fear the Hetherspoons turning on everyone, unless your father turns out to be abusive,” which, in truth, she didn’t think he would. Even if he discovered she was a Reyne, he’d likely just kill her quickly. “I will look forward to chatting with you more, but I should rest before I spend all night here,” for she would, and no doubt in the future while she waited for the opportune moment, she’d come to find him here, and not always to find out weaknesses she could exploit.


“I bid you a good night, Tyrion—if I may,” she hadn’t officially asked permission to be informal with him. He’d extended her the favor of asking, so she would do the same.

 

[Scriven]

An amused cackle escaped his mouth, the smirk lingering. “No, you’ll not find my father to be a strong conversationalist, unless you’re wanting to discuss strategy or you relish being denied.”


Ami stood, dismissing herself. Tyrion finished the brandy in his glass and slid off the chair, looking up at her. He nodded at her use of his first name, not at all bothered by it. “Good night. I will make sure I either earn an invitation to your wedding ceremony, or I’ll be sure to crash it uninvited.”

 

[Lucyfer]

“I’m sorry, I got distracted by Tyrion. I’ll go find the maester now.”

​

Tybolt could only chuckle as he recalled Aemilia’s entrance that morning, as he was already awake and sipping at coffee while reading a book he’d had one of his men fetch from the library. Usually, Aemilia was the sort to wake early. Hearing that she had been distracted by Tyrion seemed to answer the reason for why she hadn’t woken so early—she’d stayed up much longer, and likely had more to drink.


At least she had appeared clear-headed when she left him that morning, all but running for the stairs and the exit. Today had a time limit, though. She had to return to the Red Keep before her marriage.


There was noise outside as the Tyrells stirred. “Not surprised they’re not early risers,” he mumbled to himself, and heard a squeal too near his door. He forced himself to rise and to walk to his door, which he pushed open to see the brunette Tyrell rising from the floor, a black cat in her arms that looked a bit on the chubby side.


“I’m so terribly sorry, Lord Hetherspoon,” she said on sighting him, “My dear April Moon surprised me. Do you like cats?”


“No,” Tybolt didn’t mind cats, but he had no intention of being too kind to Margaery. He saw the door to Aemilia’s room open, and he knew for a fact she hadn’t returned yet. He stepped out of his own room and approached the door, only to have the rather imposing Lady Olenna step out, pulling the door behind her.


Tybolt glared down at her. “Can I help you, Lady Tyrell?”


“Oh yes, actually,” she said as she put a hand into a pocket within her skirts, hidden by the layers and ruffles, “I was looking for Amaia, as was Margaery. We wanted to help her, if she didn’t have a lady with her, before the wedding.”


‘These two are more informed than Tywin’s own children.’ That thought wasn’t comforting at all to Tybolt. “She’s gone to find our old maester,” Tybolt answered. “I will let her know of your concern, but kindly stay out of our rooms. Is there no such thing as privacy in High Garden?”


“There’s no need to be rude,” Olenna said, looking him right in the eye, “I merely went to see if she was in, there’s more than one room to these chambers, Lord Tybolt.”


With that, she took Margaery by the arm, and the pair of them left. Margaery gave her a concerned look. She had some inkling of why her grandmother would enter the room, but she dared not ask so openly. “My dear,” she spoke softly as they returned to their own area of the Maidenvault. “Would you kindly find me Lord Baelish?”


A confused little smile crept on her face, “Whatever for?”


From her pocket, she drew out something that almost looked like a crystal tear, but the composition of it was too thin to be crystal. Olenna held it gingerly between two fingers, “Do you know what this is?”


Margaery shook her head. “This is why.” Olenna then returned the item to the pocket. It was a Tear of Lys, but it hadn’t been the only one in the room of Lady Hetherspoon. She and Lord Baelish had already been in talks regarding a different purple poison, and she wanted those talks to continue. She wanted to continue working alongside the Lannisters.


All of those plans would fall through if Tywin was out of the picture, which she feared might be the Lady Hetherspoon’s intentions. She knew little of the Hetherspoons as a family.


Petyr would know better if this was something to worry about, or if this was better used to blackmail the soon-to-be Lannister.


Margaery gave a nod, and set the cat within the room of Olenna, before lifting her skirts and walking off to act as courier.


~***~


Aemilia had hoped to wake a little before sunrise. As it was, she woke a little after dawn instead, and rushed to pull herself together and tend to the chore forgotten last night. She’d told Tybolt of this, and left with a few things scattered about.


Tears of Lys hadn’t been one of them, though, although the Maester she met wouldn’t have been surprised to hear she had them. The man, Clifton, was a few years older than Aemilia and had to let out a pained sigh at the sight of her. “What are you doing in King’s Landing?” She’d been astute, and nearly his downfall. Her own fascination with all things had been charming and endearing when he was a younger man.


Now he felt her more a threat than anything. The smile that came to her lips heralded that much, “Clifton, is that any way to greet me?” There was mock-offense as she looked at the brown-haired man, his blue eyes dead from lack of sleep.


Of course it was.


“I came to ask if you would return to the westerlands with my father.”


Clifton squinted. She hadn’t said ‘us’. “Just your father?”


“Yes,” she said, “I will not be returning with him, and he’s not in the best of health anymore. I’d only trust you,” for Clifton had taught her everything she knew. She held her hands behind her back as she took a few steps towards the disheveled man. “I will be staying here.”


“Why?”


“I’m marrying Tywin Lannister, and he is Hand of the King.” It was not something anyone would dare to lie about. Clifton let the words repeat in his head, grasped at them. “I see the Valyrian steel already around your neck. You’ll be well-paid.”


‘If you’re marrying a Lannister, of course I will be….’ He swallowed the thoughts of his own greed. He wasn’t supposed to be greedy, but then, he wasn’t supposed to be many things. “Why wasn’t all of that in the letter?”


“Some things are better spoken.” She moved one hand forward in offer, “Won’t you come see Tybolt?”


Clifton allowed a sigh, “Oh, yes,” he had liked him. He had liked Lady Hetherspoon, too, even before she was a Hetherspoon. “Let me make myself decent.” He wasn’t sure he knew what decent was anymore. He’d been here, among other scholars who didn’t care much to look good for the public eye.


Aemilia let him, but didn’t wait in silence. No, she went to go pester another maester, and eyed the books all around her, wondering how she might get her hands on a few of them. The maesters had knowledge others weren’t allowed, but that hadn’t stopped Aemilia before. She had enough knowledge to wear a silver, black iron, and copper chain at least—or she was convinced of that, anyway. She downplayed that, though. Ignorance was a better weapon in the Citadel.

 

[Scriven]

“Dear, sweet sister. Do you know where I’ve just come from?”


Cersei looked at her brother through the reflection in her mirror. One of her handmaids stood behind her at a dressing table, brushing out her long, golden hair. Cersei put her hand on the other woman’s, halting her movements, and gave her a quick look. The handmaid knew by now that the look meant for her to leave, and she did so without a word.


“Where?” she asked Jaime as the door closed, humoring her brother.


“No guesses?” Jaime asked, tossing himself onto her bed. He leaned back on his elbows, a hint of a smirk on his too handsome features. Cersei felt a wave or irritation wash over her. Had he really come in here to make her play guessing games?


“Do I look like I’m in the mood to play with you right now?”


She saw Jaime sigh and for just a moment regretted the sharpness of her words. She reached for the cup of wine on the table before her, taking a sip to drown the weakness of the apology that threatened.


“Our father is getting married tomorrow.” Jaime seemed absolutely gleeful, as if he was telling her some wonderful secret. She realized, looking back at him, that Jaime had apparently had no idea their father was planning to marry.


“Oh. Is it happening so soon?” Cersei couldn’t help sounding slightly bored. She shrugged. “It’s about time he stopped meddling in everyone else’s affairs and accepted the same horrid fate as the rest of us.”


Jaime looked at his sister in genuine surprise. “You... knew?” he asked, taken aback.


Cersei gave an irritated frown, picking up her brush. “Of course I knew. I’m the queen, aren’t I? I didn’t know it would be tomorrow, but I knew he was getting married. It’s that Hetherspoon woman, right? She’s a bastard, you know, but naturalized after Malara died.”


Jaime sat up, jaw tightening into a frown. He watched Cersei brush her hair, the soft waves gleaming. “I have to go,” he said suddenly, standing.


“Tyrion already knows too,” she told him, not bothering to look up at him. She had known exactly what he had been thinking, but she always did. He could never keep anything from her. It was pointless; she seemed to know his thoughts better than he did sometimes. “I’m sorry father didn’t tell you,” Cersei told him. “I’m sure he meant to.”


Jaime wasn’t so certain. He crossed to where she sat, gathering her soft, blonde locks into one hand, pulling the tresses away from her graceful neck as he bent to kiss the side of her throat. She stopped him, raising her hand and putting it between them.


“Not now,” she told him.


“Cersei-”


“No,” she told him firmly. “How can you even be thinking it? You know what people are saying about us! You know what they’re calling me? You? Joffrey?” Her mouth was hard, her eyes harder. “This can’t go on anymore.”


“Things will die down,” he assured her, his voice soothing as he leaned down to kiss her again. She turned and pushed him away, her eyes full of fire.


“Get out of here, Jaime. Go! I will not have this, especially right now.”


They stared at each other for a long moment before Jaime finally dropped his gaze, nodded, and headed toward the door. “One day, Cersei, you’re going to wish I was here for you and I won’t be.”


Varys’s little birds had brought word of treachery in the Westerlands. It was what Tywin had feared, but it came sooner than he could guard against. Robb Stark’s troops were gathering at Ashemark with the assistance of the Marbrands. There was word that they intended to march on Casterly Rock while the Lannisters had their attention focused on King’s Landing and their forces still recovering from the attack on Blackwater Bay by Stannis Baratheon.


He needed to travel to Casterly Rock immediately, and to bring forces to show the Stark boy and the Marbrands that the Lannisters would not be so easy to topple.


“Take this to Lord Baelish,” Tywin ordered a boy who was standing by the door. He handed the lad a folded piece of paper had had just sealed that instructed Littlefinger to gather the rest of the small council together that morning. “And inform Lord Hetherspoon that the wedding will have to wait until other matters have been attended to.”

 

[Lucyfer]

Petyr Baelish had woken early to catch up on news of Cersei and Olenna’s conversations, though he did not hear of them from within the walls of the Red Keep. Rather, his business came to him while he observed the business of one of his brothels, and heard the news from the words of a prostitute who doubled as a maid in the Keep.


Cersei, of course, was still quite opposed to the match. It didn’t matter, though. Joffrey was a strong-willed king, and Margaery had him wrapped around her finger. Olenna, too, was quite strong willed, enough to match Tywin himself. ‘Now that wedding would have been worthy of attending.’ But Tywin had chosen a much more boring girl.


True, rumors circulated, but then, didn’t they always circulate about bastards? Were there not people out there claiming that ‘Jon Snow’ was a Targaryen? Unlikely.


The meeting was interrupted by a knock on the door. “Yes, what is it?”


“Lord Baelish, erm, I—I have a summons from Lord Tywin.”


The boy sounded like he’d just reached puberty and his voice was only just cracking. Petyr found himself amused with the idea as he got up and walked to the door to personally greet the lad. Lannister, of course. Always a Lannister. “I’ll take that summons,” he said, and it was handed to him, the seal clear as day to Petyr. “You can go now, I’ve my own messengers,” and the boy was evidently uncomfortable in his position.


He scurried away, and the woman with the blonde hair pulled herself up languidly from her couch to drape her arms around Petyr as he opened the letter, imagining there would be nothing terribly significant in it. Nothing that the whore herself wasn’t used to, anyway.


A sigh exited him. It was merely directions to gather the small council. “What’s happened?” asked the whore, as Petyr shrugged her arms off of him and folded the paper up nicely.


“No idea,” he lied with a smile on his lips. He had some ideas, more whispers of Varys’s little birds intercepted. Tywin would only want to summon them all if the war had shifted. “I am terribly afraid that I must leave, however, and see what the Hand wants of us all on this happy day.”


The woman gave him a quizzical look, but Petyr didn’t explain himself as he walked out into the shit-smelling town, and longed to be elsewhere. Still, he made it look as if he did, the little smile of contentment ever on his lips. It broadened as he found Margaery within the Keep, and she walked right up to him, “Ah, Your Grace Tyrell,” he greeted warmly, opening his arms in greeting. “Can I help you with anything at all?” For she had that look upon her face that he knew only too well.


“My grandmother wishes to see you, Lord Baelish.” Margaery informed him.


His smile softened. Ah, Olenna! A troublesome old woman, but useful so far. Their ends were similar enough for the moment. “I’m afraid you will have to tell your dear grandmother to wait, for you see, Lord Tywin has also summoned me and I cannot decline a meeting with the King’s Hand.”


Margaery didn’t look surprised at all, nor upset, but she added rather smoothly, “I believe what my grandmother has to say concerns Lord Tywin.” Now this changed matters. Petyr arched one well-shaped eyebrow, “There was some tear found in Lady Hetherspoon’s room.” It was when the word ‘tear’ was out of her lips, that Margaery realized what it might be.


Petyr blinked, a little surprised. He knew, of course, that the Lady Hetherspoon was familiar with poisons. She had served as a healer, after all, and any healer worth their salt knew how to kill. It was something people did not like to think about, so naturally, Petyr made a habit of it. He stooped a little, “I shall go see your grandmother then, but I must ask a favor of you, Your Grace.” He handed to her Tywin’s letter, since all that was in it were directions to gather the small council. It was something the future Queen could easily be trusted with, and in this way he would not offend Tywin too seriously.


~***~


“Would you stop trying to get maesters fired from their posts?”


Aemilia could only look at Clifton with amusement dancing in her eyes as the man finally returned to see her examining the links of a collar the young maester sitting across from her had taken off. “You aren’t supposed to take the chain off, Tamas,” Clifton scolded, and Tamas took the chains back hurriedly from Aemilia.


She rose to greet him, but when she offered her arm, he shook his head to deny it. “Come along, we shouldn’t keep your lord father waiting.”


“You have had too much coffee already, haven’t you?” Aemilia said, clasping her hands once again behind her back. Clifton led the way out, now clad in the maester’s black robes. He stood several inches taller than her, and it had made Aemilia wonder just where he came from. He seemed Clegane by height, but his disposition was far from it. She had never figured that out about him. He guarded his last name as he should have guarded the maester’s secrets.


“I haven’t slept, and I’m in no mood,” he answered. Lack of coffee, or a crashing from it, if anything. The sunshine hurt as he stepped out into it, and had to shield his eyes with his bell-sleeves. “How are you marrying Lord Tywin?”


“Position. Geographically,” she answered. “We’re at war, Clifton, or don’t you know that?”


He rolled his eyes. He’d long since lost the proper respect he was meant to have for nobility, and had no care that his manners would likely offend most. “I’ve sent enough ravens to know we are at war, Amaia.” Too informal, too. His manners may or may not have been the reason he wasn’t hired on by any other house, and found more work in the Citadel. “I suppose congratulations are in order. He does know you aren’t a maid, doesn’t he?”


“I was married, I think he’s aware of that.”


“Ah, yes,” the maester chuckled. He’d nearly forgotten that. “Well then, congratulations.” The Red Keep came into sight, “Where is your father staying?”


“The Maidenvaults—oh, shut up.” Clifton seemed to find that even more hilarious, considering. He laughed into his sleeve as her blue eyes burned into him.


A few of the gold cloaks glanced their way, but didn’t stop Amaia to find out what the maester was doing there as she led him into the Red Keep, and to the Maidenvaults.

 

[Scriven]

This was a meeting that would occur without Joffrey, if Cersei had any sense. None of the other members of the small council informed Joffrey of their meetings. The boy was volatile, hot tempered, and had much to learn in the way of strategy. Even Tywin, the boy's grandfather, knew this and included the young King as little as possible. Tywin may have let Joffrey sit in the Iron Throne, but it was the Hand who truly ruled the kingdom. Perhaps one day Joffrey would be fit to rule, but he had a long way to go before Tywin would relinquish control.


Most of the small council had already assembled. Varys was sitting on one side of the table, his hands folded calmly together over his belly. Maester Pycelle sat across from him, fidgeting with his robes, his hands, his pitiful beard. Jaime was there too, though the smile on his face vanished as soon as he saw Tywin. Tywin could tell his son was clenching his teeth by the way his jaw muscle jumped. He was apparently holding back from saying something he very much wanted to say. Good. It probably wasn’t worth saying, especially now.


Where was Cersei? Where was Littlefinger? Tywin sat at the head of the table, his fingers gripping the ends of the armrests on his chair, one finger impatiently tapping. It was the only outward sign that anything was the matter. He was the picture of detached calm, his face devoid of emotion and his cool blue eyes blank.


Varys already knew the reason for the meeting that morning, though Pycelle and Jaime didn’t appear to know what the Small Council was gathered for. Tywin waited; he wasn’t going to repeat himself when his daughter and the master of coin decided to show up.

 

[Lucyfer]

Olenna was as understanding as she could be about keeping Tywin waiting. She agreed their talk could be on a walk closer to the meeting place of the small council. Their path crossed the Lady Hetherspoons, as she was ascending the steps into the Maidenvault with a man Petyr had seen a few times at the brothel, a maester he knew. He gave nothing but a smile to the maester, and a polite, “Good day, Lady Hetherspoon,” to the woman, who clearly didn’t know him by her curious expression.


Olenna and Petyr kept up a pleasant chatter until they were outside the Red Keep and walking along it to another entrance closer to the small council, “Your granddaughter came to me with a very strange word on her lips, Lady Tyrell.”


“I bet she did,” Olenna took from her pocket the three tears, rather than just the one, “the Amaia girl is not so good at hiding these things,” the three fell into Petyr’s outstretched hand. “I trust you know what those are?”


Of course he knew what they were. Very rare, and very expensive, not that houses in the Westerlands hurt for money, and particularly not one so close to Lannisport. The Hetherspoons certainly had their own mines to keep them wealthy, and he was aware that the Lady Amaia had done a few decent things to improve trade in the city, mostly with the roads to encourage the travel. Small things. “I don’t suppose you’d know why the Lady Hetherspoon would have them?”


Petyr couldn’t be certain, he didn’t know as much as he’d like to know about her. He did know, however, that in the past Tybolt had been quite curt with Tywin—he answered summons, he sent soldiers, but it was clear he was acting only out of duty and not affection. Grief over Melara, some had surmised. That was when the lady Amaia was naturalized with no protests from his then-living lady wife. “I cannot say I know,” Petyr said as he slid them into his pocket, “but I can say it is worth investigating.”


Olenna’s nose wrinkled, “Investigating? Hah, we have not the time if Tywin is soon to be wed to her, and her intentions are to off him.”


“My lady,” Petyr gave her a reassuring smile, “Nothing of the sort will happen, I assure you I will bring this matter to Tywin’s attentions and she won’t be able to act until everything is sorted.” They were outside the door, “Now, I am afraid, I must leave you.” He lifted her hands with his, and placed a light kiss on the back of one, earning a disdainful look from the thorny woman. “I will speak with you again soon.” He inclined his head, and turned to enter the Red Keep once again.


He took the steps two at a time to the room of the small council, and saw that he was not the only one tardy. “I see Her Grace outdoes me in tardiness,” he smiled, a little, as he moved to take a seat by Varys. He spoke not of the reason for his tardiness, for such gossip was not meant for the entirety of the small council. Just one.


~***~


A strange, thin man was passed along with Lady Olenna on the way to see Tybolt. Aemilia noticed the glare that Clifton passed to the little man, and asked once they were out of earshot, “Who is that?”


“Littlefinger,” he spoke with disdain, “Petyr Baelish. He runs the whore houses here.”


“Sounds like he should be your favorite.”


Clifton shook his head, “He’s naught but a sneak and a tattle tale. He’s almost as knowledgeable as the Spider.”


“Varys?” She’d heard of him, at least.


“Yes.” Clifton said, “But he is at least tolerable. I’m not sure if that makes him better or worse than Littlefinger.” They reached the turn to the chambers of Tybolt and Aemilia, and Aemilia knocked on Tybolt’s door.


“It’s me,” she said, so he wouldn’t rise to open the door himself.


“Come in,” he sounded huffy. Aemilia opened the door to see him sitting, coffee now replaced by tea since he was awake. In walked Clifton a step behind, and Tybolt’s lips curved up into a smile. He rose, and Clifton came forward to accept the offered embrace. “My boy,” he chuckled. The maester had been like a son of sorts to him, for a while. He had paid for him to return to the Citadel those years ago.


When they parted, Tybolt reached for the chain. He didn’t remove it, but he did turn it, and gave an approving nod as his fingers lingered over the ‘iron’ one. “Good. I’ll need you for that.”


“Your daughter claims you need me for this,” he turned it around so the silver was dead center. “You should tell me why.”


“Well, yes. That one, too,” he admitted, and took a seat, and motioned for Clifton to sit on the bed, which he did. Aemilia took a seat on the chest. “Ami, go see if you can get more cups and drink for Clifton and yourself, we’ve much to catch up on and all day.”


“All day?” Aemilia looked bemused. “Not quite all day.”


“Oh, you weren’t told?”


“I was out…what?” Worry crossed her countenance.


“The wedding is being postponed. The Marbrands joined the Starks,” Tybolt spoke the name Marbrand with disgust.


“Oh.” A single syllable held all the surprise she could find, which was some. Nothing the Marbrands did really surprised her, though. It was the fact the wedding was being put off that was concerning, more than anything. “Very well…I suppose we do have all day, then.”

 

[Scriven]

Good thing, since she’s a queen and you’ve no title to speak of, Jaime thought, but didn’t say. He gave Littlefinger a nod of greeting, impatient for the meeting to start. His father clearly was as well. The lines in his weathered face seemed to deepen by the moment, his scowl becoming more and more pronounced. When Cersei entered, his father raised his white brows, his mouth a thin line.


“How kind of you to finally grace us with your presence,” Tywin remarked, his tone icy.


Cersei kept her shoulders back, tossing one long braid over her shoulder. “Good morning, Father,” she said in return, ignoring the comment. She sat across from Jaime, well away from him, leaning toward Maester Pycelle. Jaime frowned across the table at her.


“Is this about your wedding?” Jaime asked, straightening up from the relaxed position he’d assumed in his seat while they waited.


“Oh yes, I’m sure he’s come to get our opinion on the color of his robes, or the type of pie being served,” Cersei commented, her words scathing but admittedly en pointe. Jaime’s eyes flicked up to give her an aggravated expression. She was supposed to be his ally, he thought. Not mocking him before the Small Council.


“This is about the Marbrands and how they’ve sworn their oath to Robb Stark. Stark’s forces will soon be gathering at Ashemark, which gives them an easy path through the Westerlands. Nothing will stop them from taking the Gold Road right to King’s Landing if we don’t go and put this to an end right now. We will keep the garrison and the City Watch in King’s Landing, but send the Lannister and Tyrell reinforcements to protect the Westerlands, overthrow Ashemark, and keep Robb Stark’s forces at bay.” Jaime was sitting forward and nodding in agreement until Tywin added that Jaime would be leading the vanguard.


“My place is here,” Jaime protested. “With the Kingsguard, doing my duty to protect the king!”


“Your place is where I send you,” Tywin told him in a tone that would have ended any argument with most people. Jaime was not most people though and he didn’t back down.


“Perhaps you forget, Father, but I do not take orders from you. I will stay here, protecting Joffrey.”


Cersei had a deep line between her delicate brows, as if she was deep in thought about something.


“You will be protecting Joffrey by ensuring Robb Stark and his army never reach King’s Landing,” Tywin said sharply.


“I think you should go,” Cersei added. Jaime looked at her in disbelief. What in the Seven Gods was she up to now? “The King has more than enough distractions in the capital right now, and the rest of the Kingsguard to protect him. I’m sure it would set his mind at ease to know that the fate of the Westerlands was in the capable hands of his uncle.”


Jaime’s frown finally resolved itself, understanding reaching his eyes. She wanted him gone because she detested the rumors of their incest. If he was out of sight at Ashemark or Casterly Rock, people would be more likely to forget about what was being said about the Queen Regent and her twin brother.


“My place is here,” Jaime ground out. He would not leave Joffrey, and damnit, he wouldn’t leave Cersei either.


“The matter is settled whether you like it or not, Jaime. When our forces leave, you will be leading them.” Tywin looked at the other members of the Small Council. “Now, moving on from the matter of the vanguard. Are there other matters of this move we need to discuss?”

 

[Lucyfer]

While history and conversation was shared in more pleasant company in the Maidenvault, Petyr Baelish took a glance towards Varys as Tywin explained the situation did, indeed, have to do with the Marbrands. ‘Right again.’


House Hetherspoon had a good position to assist with their own bannermen, if they weren’t swayed towards the Marbrands. ‘There is hostility there.’ Petyr recalled, but then, there seemed to be hostility towards Tywin, too. None towards the Starks, that Petyr knew. Enemies often joined with enemies, against greater foes. The enemy of my enemy…Petyr knew that strategy well. Perhaps, he knew it best.


Barely aware of it, Petyr found himself lifting his hand to his chin and idly stroking it, thinking what might be better to say. Tywin seemed intent to go himself. Little mention was made of his future bride, nor her father-in-law, so far as where they would go in all of this.


No, the arguments came in regards to Jaime, who didn’t want to leave. Tywin shut it down quick enough, and Petyr decided that matter was of little concern to him. He said instead, “Lady and Lord Hetherspoon are here in King’s Landing,” he lowered his hand from his chin, “Are you intending to take them along, or just Lord Hetherspoon, to let your future wife remain safe here, Lord Tywin?”


Petyr decide he’d let his words rest on where the Lady was meant to be. There would be reason to take her along, the very reason Petyr was here—she was a medic, and had been in the field before in such a role, alongside the bannermen that served Tywin. She, more than Lord Tybolt, likely had repertoire with those soldiers.


He imagined Tywin would be annoyed at the question, considering how this began, but Tywin had to know by now his leading questions often had a purpose.

 

[Scriven]

The question seemed neither here nor there, but there was that glint in Petyr’s dark eyes that Tywin recognized.


“Tybolt Hetherspoon is well past his prime. The man can hardly climb the stairs; I’ll not be ordering him to climb a horse and ride into battle. The Hetherspoons are already my bannermen. He will send his men to fight against the Starks and Marbrands unless he wants to bring the battle to his own doorstep.” Which he clearly didn’t. The man was looking to strengthen his ties with the Lannisters, not invoke their wrath. “As for his daughter, she will better serve me here where I know she is safe, until our wedding, than out in the field putting herself at undue risk.”

 

[Lucyfer]

Petyr smiled at the answer that was given, as if indicating it was correct. “That is a wise decision, Lord Tywin. I should not have worried,” he let his relief be evident. Tywin might ask more, here, but Petyr would hope that he would instead ask more, later, when all of these ears weren’t around.


Given, the news would spread to all of them soon enough. “That was my only concern, I’m certain that Lord Hetherspoon can dictate orders well enough. I did not want any tragedies to happen while you were off to battle in the westerlands,” Petyr said, glanced around, and shrugged.


Battle strategy was not his thing, and so to offer more would be above his station. Tywin had spoken his piece, Jaime was set in place like the knight on a chessboard, and the one black queen among the white pieces was going to be securely trapped in the Red Keep. Things were looking well enough.

 

[Scriven]

Jaime’s eyebrows rose, his gaze centered on Littlefinger. “That was... cryptic,” Jaime muttered. The matter of whether he would be marching with his father and the Tyrell’s men wasn’t settled, but he wouldn’t argue it here any further.


Tywin looked around the table, waiting to see if anyone else spoke up. “Then the matter is settled. Varys, see to it that the orders are given for the troops to prepare. We will travel at first light. Cersei, inform Joffrey of the decision the Small Council has reached. Jaime, I will be expecting you to be ready tomorrow. I will not tolerate acts of defiance from you, particularly not now.”


Tywin stood, signalling the others that they were dismissed. He had much to do.

 

[Lucyfer]

Petyr gave Jaime just a quick glance, and then looked away. His business wasn’t with Jaime, after all, unless Tywin saw fit to change his orders and leave Jaime here to guard a prisoner. ‘If we tell him now.’ A Hetherspoon dead or in prison would be bad for morale.


Petyr wanted Tywin to win this battle, after all.


Petyr rose to leave with the others, and even put a hand over his heart in the beginnings of a bow, when another thought came. ‘But a dead queen is just as bad.’ That stilled his back from bending. The thought came with other recollections of the Hetherspoon house, and the idea that Tywin might not be the target of Lady Amaia’s wrath.


The others were clearing out, so he approached Tywin, “Might I have you for a moment or two? I do have some information to share that did not concern the council as a whole.” And he’d already implied he knew something about the Hetherspoons. If the queen turned up dead of poison, or anyone, he’d see some blame for it.

 

[Scriven]

Jaime was lingering near the door, though he left with a slight frown when he saw Baelish also wanted to have words with his father. Later, he thought to himself. He had no intention of leaving Joffrey’s side, Tywin be damned. Another man could lead the vanguard into battle. Other men could muster morale just as well as he could. Of course, most of them were already leading troops elsewhere, Jaime conceded, but his role in the Kingsguard took precedent.


He needed to clear his mind after that meeting. He took the stairs two at a time down the tower, crossing the keep toward the stables. The white cape he wore fluttered behind his shoulders, a gleaming reminder of what he was. Reaching the stable, Jaime greeted his horse with an affectionate pat before leading the courser out to the paddock.


There was a slight breeze, though it was marred by the stench of the city. He needed to take the horse out of the city to really let it stretch its legs. Perhaps he’d do just that.


Tywin waited until Jaime had left the room before looking at Littlefinger. So there had been more to his question, Tywin thought, unsurprised. With Littlefinger, things were rarely so simple, and never so straightforward.


Passing to the window, Tywin looked out through the leaded glass into the courtyard of the Red Keep below. “I thought you might have more to say. Does this concern Hetherspoon?”

 

[Lucyfer]

The hall cleared of even Varys. Petyr spared a thought for what Varys might do, what he might know, as he took his steps cautiously towards the imposing man that was Tywin. Ordinarily, Petyr wouldn’t mind seeing such a man taken down a peg or two, but Tywin was essential for all of his own plans to move forward.


“I am afraid that it does,” Petyr answered him. He put a hand into a pocket and found the three tears. He drew out only two.


They were expensive. Petyr wasn’t a Lannister.


“My information is hearsay, but the source is good. Lady Olenna meant to pay your future wife a visit, but found her not available this morning. It seems she went to visit a maester,” Petyr took his hand out of his pocket as he paused at the window, “but while she was within your lady’s chambers, she happened upon these.” He let the two tears fall on the windowsill.


“Tears of Lys,” he offered, not expecting Tywin to know the look and feel of all poisons, “Very deadly poison, just one is enough to give a man—or woman—a slow death that looks like only a stomach illness.” Funny, that was how Jon Arryn seemed to go, wasn’t it? Oh well. “Very expensive, too, something you might think twice about purchasing. I can’t claim to know her intentions, but I know that your relations with Lord Tybolt have not always been the best, considering where and how his daughter died.”


Drowned in a well, of course. That was all that was ever said on it. How the lady got in the well was up for speculation—and there was much speculation.

 

[Scriven]

Poison found among the possessions of his betrothed.


Found by Olenna, a woman who had much to gain in the marriage of Margaery to Joffrey, and much to lose if it should be called off. He had to consider whether Olenna, who was as wiley as they came, might have reason to place suspicion on Amaia Hetherspoon or her father, Tybolt.


His doubt on Olenna didn’t mean he could afford to trust Amaia either. There seemed to be daggers in every direction he turned, all the points aimed at him. What could the Hetherspoons stand to gain from poisoning someone within the Red Keep? Politically he could see no benefit, but there were old grudges even between allies.


What could the Tyrells stand to gain from casting shadow on the Hetherspoons? Olenna’s story seemed a flimsy one, thought Tywin. If Amaia or her father really did intend to poison someone in the Red Keep, they would surely keep the poison hidden. Olenna wouldn’t just happen upon such a thing, like a pair of stockings tossed on the bed.


“The death of Lord Tybolt’s daughter has nothing to do with me or the Lannisters,” Tywin reminded Littlefinger coldly. “And he has been wise enough to never imply otherwise. Where did Lady Olenna say she found these? I’m guessing Amaia didn’t leave any other deadly, expensive poisons lying around where curious eyes might see them?”

 

[Lucyfer]

“I am not at all saying the Lannisters were behind Melara’s death, but you know how the smallfolk talk.” It was on Petyr’s lips to remind Tywin of how they talked of Cersei, Jaime, and Joffrey, but he held his tongue. There was no need to truly upset Tywin with the facts about how the sheep liked to lie.


It was enough that he knew, that they did, and that sometimes—sometimes—their words were influential. After all, Stannis used their lies to turn people on the Lannisters'. “That is all. Olenna told me that she found these on the vanity,” where a woman might prepare for the day, where a woman might forget something during those preparations if rushed. “She noted no other poisons, I’m afraid.”


Littlefinger didn’t know if that meant there were no others. “It wouldn’t be unusual for a medic to have a poison or two,” Petyr conceded that point to Tywin, “but it did seem…prudent to make you aware of this particular incident.”


It was now in Tywin’s hands. Petyr had done what was necessary to make sure that, if someone died of poison, he had warned Tywin of the little poisoner in the Keep. Well, besides Pycelle, but Pycelle was harmless.


~***~


Margaery had tended to the chores of gathering the people for Petyr, and then went to see her betrothed. However, she was curtly dismissed when Cersei went to him with news of the small council, which she was not meant to hear, it seemed.


So Margaery made her way back to the Maidenvault, dying for information, when she heard the chatter from a partially-opened door. With a curious smile on her lips, she walked down that way and wrapped her fist on the door when she saw three figures within Lord Tybolt’s room, sharing tea and stories.


Aemilia rose to her feet to get the door, and she smiled politely at the woman, “Good morning, Margaery,” for it was still quite early in the day. She asked no permission to use her first name. As she expected, Margaery lit up at that touch of familiarity, “Might I help you with something?”


“No, no,” she looked Aemilia over, and laughed, “I am amazed at how calm you are! Are you not to be wed soon?” She had heard it was that day.


“No,” Aemilia shook her head, “It seems that has been delayed due to the activities in the westerlands.”


“Marbrands,” Clifton clarified.


“Oh! Then,” she reached out with her hands, and Aemilia set her own pair atop them. Margaery immediately touched the back of Aemilia’s hands with her thumbs and pulled her, just a little, “might I show you the gardens?”


Aemilia could feel Tybolt’s glare, “So your grandmother can snoop about more?”


Aemilia looked over her shoulder, about to ask what he meant, when Margaery laughed and filled in, “Oh, no! I’ll let her know I’ve found Amaia,” Margaery said, and pressed her thumbs down more firmly, “We were looking for you, earlier,” Margaery explained as if innocent of all malign thoughts, “My grandmother thought you might not have heard us, so she went into your chambers. I hope you do not mind!”


For someone who had a tear, Margaery thought the red-head looked rather calm. In fact, she shook her head and said, “I understand.” The hubris was unreal. “I would like to see the gardens.”


Margaery smiled, “Then, come along,” she urged, and Aemilia followed with a wave to Clifton and Tybolt, one hand released by Margaery as she turned to lead.

 

[Scriven]

“She is no longer a medic,” Tywin murmured, more to himself than to Littlefinger. He took the tears of Lys from the small, thin-bodied man, looking at the innocuous poison with a frown. Amaia Hetherspoon had no reason to have such a thing among her belongings. As a young woman during Robert’s Rebellion, she had worked as a field medic, but knowing how to saw off a limb was far more important than being able to detect a poison. He would be wary of anyone possessing such a poison, even his own Maester, though that was excusable. But his fiance, come to King’s Landing to finalize the details of their marriage? There was no conceivable excuse to have any kind of poison on her.


“Wherever she is now, I want the door guarded. Neither she nor Tybolt Hetherspoon are to move without my knowledge. Have someone go through her belongings and see if there are any other surprises waiting for us.”


Unfortunately, he couldn’t make the same orders regarding Olenna or any of the other damned Tyrells. “Find out what you can about the Hetherspoons. If they do bear the Lannisters a grudge for the death of Tybolt’s daughter, I want to know how strong. I want to know the rumors that circulate about them. If they’re in works with the Marbrands and this marriage was an attempt to pull the wool over my eyes, I want to find out.”

 

[Lucyfer]

Ah, how quickly things were about to be complicated. Petyr nearly relished the way the chaos would sweep the Keep. He was not sure how it would all wind out with Tywin soon to leave for Casterly Rock, leaving Joffrey and Cersei in charge of these affairs, but he didn’t suspect it would be too bad.


Joff had a penchant for beheading, but the Hetherspoons weren’t high lords or ladies. Such a thing could be overlooked, particularly with treason as a charge. “I will see it done immediately, Lord Hand,” Petyr said, and there he completed his earlier act of bowing, placing a hand to his heart as he stepped away, and then inclining his head, before he turned to walk off and see Tywin’s orders fulfilled.


He’d no doubt have to see if Varys would be useful in obtaining information on grudges and the Marbrands, but he would go to him last, after everyone was put in place, and Amaia’s room was being looked through.


~***~


By the time Tybolt noticed the sound, Amaia and Margaery were outside the Red Keep. He wrinkled his nose, “Makes quite a ruckus for an old woman,” he suspected Tyrell servants rather than Olenna. Unsubtle ones. He rose with Clifton’s help, only to find that outside his room were not Tyrell servants, but men in gold cloaks.


“What is the meaning of this!” Tybolt blustered out, his voice booming down the hall.


One of the gold cloaks just gave him an irked look. “Return to your room, Lord Hetherspoon.” The disdain was apparent, and Tybolt bristled. “Lord Tywin wishes you and your daughter confined for the time being.”


Tybolt’s cheeks heated in anger, “For what reason?” He demanded.


“That is none of your concern.” Something broke in the room. Someone cursed. Tybolt pushed forward in the turn of the guard's head to see just what was going on in Aemilia's room, Clifton a step behind him, and a man to be between Tybolt and the guard, which proved useful. When the guard reached to grab Tybolt, Clifton shoved him against the opposite wall. He wasn't sure what was going on, and in truth he didn't want to get in trouble, but the old ties were strong--and Tybolt was frail. He didn't want to see him man-handled.


~***~


The gardens were beautiful, Aemilia would confess, and despite all of her father’s warnings about Tyrells, she found Margaery to be pleasant company. Although, the woman was a touch clingy, holding Aemilia’s arm almost constantly and letting her body lean into Aemilia’s, exerting control with exuberance.


“You know quite a lot about flowers, don’t you?” Margaery spoke as Aemilia finished explaining the properties of one. She knew a little about quite a few of the plants in the garden.


Still, she shook her head, “Only the useful ones. I couldn’t tell you a thing about most roses, except that they smell good and taste good in tea.”


“Oh!” Margaery laughed, taking the hint, “I did promise you, didn’t I? The tea is rose, too.”


No surprise, considering who Margaery was. She pulled Aemilia along to a rather ornate gazebo, decked out with golden roses. The gazebo wasn’t new, but Aemilia imagined the décor was since it screamed ‘Tyrell’.


Lemon cakes and teas were there, and Margaery couldn’t help but notice now, the way Aemilia paused with the drink near her nose. “What is the tea’s blend?” Aemilia asked, lowering the cup a little.


Tea was difficult. “Oh, it’s a white tea blend with rose and berry,” yet Margaery found she couldn’t drink just yet.


Aemilia gave a nod, reflected, and then sipped the tea. “I wasn’t sure what I was smelling,” berry wasn’t what she expected in the tea, though it did add a nice taste. “This is quite good. Thank you,” she said, and Margaery finally drank, relieved by the way Aemilia had relaxed.


The tea had been left alone a little while, Margaery reflected. But, not unguarded. There were Tyrell knights in the gardens, and they knew to monitor things as this was the favored place of Olenna. “I am glad that you like it, I shall have to introduce you to others.”


Aemilia nodded her consent to this idea.

 

[Scriven]

Though he wanted to get to the bottom of the possible plan for assassination by the Hetherspoons, it was more important for him to get the reinforcements from the Westerlands that had recently arrived at King’s Landing back into the Westerlands to defend their home. There were countless decisions to be made, people to be spoken to, and marching orders to give. The forces would split, half taking the Gold Road, the others taking a less direct route.


It wasn’t until late in the afternoon that Tywin had time to even consider the poison Olenna had either found in Amaia Hetherspoon’s room or planted there. The last thing he needed right now was another traitor in the Westerlands, but the treachery of the Hetherspoons was still far preferable to treachery from the Tyrells, on whom they currently so heavily relied.


There was a room high in the Tower of the Hand that was sometimes used to house guests of the royal family. Tonight it would house Amaia though, a gilded cage where she would be kept, not allowed to leave the beautiful chamber until he had gotten to the bottom of the issue.


Tywin motioned to one of the guards and the man came over. “Find Lady Amaia of House Hetherspoon and see her to the room that has been prepared in the Tower of the Hand,” he instructed. He would go and speak to her himself, not to determine her fate, but to see if he could detect any secrets hidden in her eyes.