Tyrion blinked and set the letter on the table, staring at his father in disbelief.
—This can't be real.
Varys sighed, wearing the expression of someone who would've much preferred it to be just an exaggerated rumor.
—Unfortunately, it is, my lord, —he said gravely—. My little birds and all the North are whispering about it. The Frey bloodline has been cut off—impaled, if the rumors aren't exaggerating.
Tywin Lannister kept his face unreadable while Joffrey stomped like a spoiled child.
—This is a declaration of war! —the young king shouted, slamming both hands on the table—. We should march to Essos immediately. I want that savage's head and the whore of a wife he has!
Tyrion, already fed up with his nephew's tantrums, raised an eyebrow and gave a mocking smile.
—I'm afraid, my king, the Crown can't afford a war. It can barely afford your wedding.
Joffrey opened his mouth to hurl an insult, but Tywin's sharp, firm voice cut in before he could speak.
—Furthermore —the Lannister patriarch said with the patience of a man addressing a fool—fighting on the enemy's home ground is foolishness.
Joffrey pressed his lips together, visibly frustrated, but dared not reply.
—The problem goes beyond the loss of the Frey's —Tywin continued, steering the conversation back to what mattered—. Losing the Twins is a devastating blow to our control over the passage to the Trident, but apparently, we've also lost Roose Bolton.
The room fell silent for a moment.
—Bolton? —Tyrion asked, surprised—. What happened to him?
Tywin narrowed his eyes.
—We don't know for sure, but everything points to Vlad Drakul having eliminated him along with the Frey's, or that Bolton, seeing the shift in power, decided to betray us and disappeared. Either way, we can no longer contact him.
Tyrion let out a low whistle.
—That's a problem.
—The only good news —Tywin went on— is that Robb Stark is isolated as well. He lost almost all—if not all—of his Bannerman at that wedding, so he can't afford to march south either. We're at a stalemate... and all because of one man across the sea. A man who has Daenerys Targaryen as a wife and dragons.
—Very small dragons —Cersei said arrogantly.
Varys, who had been silently observing with his usual inscrutable expression, finally spoke.
—I'm afraid not anymore, my lady. —He paused, as if savoring the weight of his words—. My little birds sing that the dragons are now of considerable size, my lords. And he has four.
As if that wasn't troubling enough, what he said next was even worse.
—He conquered Qarth, taking its wealth and fleet. Conquered Astapor, gaining 8,000 Unsullied. Took Yunkai, claiming its gold and men. And just today I received word that Daenerys Targaryen herself is besieging Meereen.
A tense silence fell over the Council chamber.
—I believe it is fair to say that Daenerys and Vlad now have more than enough men and forces to launch an assault on Westeros.
Joffrey turned pale and looked at his grandfather, eyes wide.
—Grandfather! —he shouted, panic creeping into his voice—. Didn't you say your experts claimed the dragons wouldn't grow like the ones of old?
His voice rose higher, trembling slightly.
—They're already the size of horses!
Tywin Lannister didn't respond immediately. He merely gave his grandson a cold look—the kind that had silenced men far more dangerous than Joffrey Baratheon. Then he exhaled calmly and ran a hand over his face, as though Joffrey's very existence were a bigger problem than the armies in Essos.
—I believe the king is too tired. Maester Pycelle, I'm sure you can give the young king something to help him sleep.
Pycelle bowed at once with exaggerated politeness.
—Of course, my lord, a bit of laudanum will ease his nerves…
Joffrey protested, but had no choice as Ser Meryn Trant began escorting him out of the room. Cersei followed in silence for once, her face tense, lips pressed tight.
When the door closed behind them, Tyrion let out a sigh of relief and poured himself more wine.
—Well, with the shouting gone, we can get back to important matters. What do we do now? —he asked, leaning on the table with his fingers interlaced.
Tywin looked at him expressionlessly.
—What we've always done. Protect the realm.
Tyrion raised an eyebrow, incredulous.
—Of course. What we've always done.
Tywin ignored the remark and turned to Varys.
—Lord Varys, do any of your little birds have access to the young Targaryen?
Varys stroked his chin, wearing his usual cryptic look.
—In fact, yes, my lord. Jorah Mormont was our informant... once.
—Was? —Tywin's voice took on a dangerous edge.
—Yes. Was. —Varys paused, tasting the word—. He stopped sending letters over a year ago. It seems he's grown quite devoted to the young princess.
Tyrion clicked his tongue.
—Which means we're blind in Essos. We need a way to reach the young Targaryen. Without her, Vlad Drakul has no legitimate claim to the Iron Throne.
Varys nodded with a faint smile.
—I will do what I can, my lord.
Tywin drummed his fingers on the table in thought.
—Very well. As for Vlad Drakul, what do your little birds sing about him?
Varys's face turned contemplative.
—Very little, my lord. He is a complete unknown. No one had heard of him until he began conquering khalasar's. But we do know he's not Dothraki.
—How do you know that? —Tyrion asked, intrigued.
—He has blond hair and a strong build. And he appears educated.
—A Blackfyre? —Tywin interrupted.
Varys gave a slight bow.
—It's possible, my lord. That would explain how he commands dragons.
Tyrion poured another cup of wine and smiled cynically.
—Maybe. But it doesn't matter whether he's a Blackfyre, a bastard Targaryen, or just a lucky wanderer. With the young Targaryen giving him legitimacy, he could claim to be descended from Rhaegar himself and people would believe it.
Varys shivered. Tyrion was treading dangerously close to one of his most perilous schemes.
—His lineage isn't the issue —Tyrion continued, his tone biting—. The problem is how to stop the man who impales his enemies from decorating the walls of King's Landing with our heads.
The council went quiet for a moment.
—We now need the support of the Reach and Dorne —Tywin placed both hands on the table—. It's imperative that the last known allies of House Targaryen stand with us.
—The Reach is already secured through our dearly beloved king's wedding —Tyrion said dryly—. That only leaves Dorne.
—Exactly. Myrcella is already in Dorne. She is the appropriate candidate.
Tyrion smirked.
—Cersei's not going to like that.
Tywin looked at him harshly.
—I don't care for her tantrums. They used to be annoying; now they're a luxury we can't afford.
Tyrion raised his cup with mock enthusiasm.
—I'm sure she'll see it that way. I'm sure she'll be reasonable.
His tone dripped with sarcasm.
Tywin clenched his jaw in fury. He never quite got used to his son's insolence.
—This meeting is adjourned. —His voice was as cold as steel.
One by one, the council members rose and left the Hand's chamber, leaving Tywin alone. His mind churned, seeking a way to preserve his family's power... and stop the Iron Throne from once again falling into dragon hands.