Chapter 48

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"Well?"

I looked at Tywin. "I sent him to the Stranger's hall, grandfather."

He contained his expression as much as he could, but I could see he was surprised. Maybe he thought I was getting too murder-happy at this point. "And the men who saw him leaving the city unmolested? Did you have him murdered the same way Ser Boros will meet his end tomorrow?"

I waved a hand his way. "That would be terribly unimaginative on my part. No, I killed him with a crossbow to the heart. I'm sure Joffrey would have appreciated it, mad as he was." Addam the sellsword was still sprawled on the carpeted floor, bleeding from his head wound. It would definitely stain. "And can you get some of your men to carry him off? Take him to Qyburn, if you will."

He frowned. "Not Pycelle?"

"I trust Pycelle as much as I trust a rat's flea, and he's just as fickle, too. No. Qyburn will do for the hedge knight. He's good at ferreting a man's secrets, no matter how deep he's buried them."

"And what secrets would a nameless sellsword possess?" Tywin's face darkened. "A secret big enough to have our seven-damned master of whisperers murdered."

"Oh don't play the justice knight with me, Lord Tywin." I was starting to get annoyed with his game. "How many men have you sent to the headsman for a whiff of treason? I'm just following family tradition, clearly."

Tywin gazed at me for a moment longer then shook his head. "And here I thought you were a Baratheon, not a Lannister," he said mockingly. He reached for the bell again, and the same men who'd come to escort Addam showed up at the door. They seemed completely nonplussed with the bloodied hedge knight on the floor.

I wasn't sure what that said about them, or about Tywin.

"Take him to the cellars," he said to them. "To that chainless maester who worked on my son's golden hand. Tell him to make him talk."

The guards nodded and scooped Addam off the floor with the gentleness of a raging dragon. Tywin sipped the rest of his wine, got up, and took the one that I'd served for the hedge knight. It seemed the day's events had gotten even to him. "So it was treason, then?" he asked.

I scoffed. "Of course there's treason. This is King's Landing and he's the fucking master of whisperers."

My mind was racing, and I started pacing the room. If Addam had made it as far as a room with the King and the Hand, which looking back was a ridiculous oversight on my part, did it mean that there's others out there, in the Red Keep and in the city, waiting and plotting for the dragon's—red or black—return?

"Tell me, grandfather. When they brought you the corpses of the children wrapped in those crimson cloaks, what did the boy look like?"

"What children?"

"What other children? Elia's get, with that fool Rhaegar. I want to know about Aegon. What did he look like? Was it truly him? Did you make sure of it?" I was near asking him for the forensics of it before I realized my mouth was running before me.

I didn't get an answer right away. When I turned to look at him, Tywin was looking off to the side, a far away look on his face. At that moment I realized that he'd done it, and he'd do it a thousand times again to guarantee his Lannister dynasty, but even Tywin thought it distasteful to speak of those dead children. "The boy was unrecognizable," he finally said, sitting back down. "His head was caved in, but there were chunks of silver hair there. It was him."

"And did you check to see if it was dyed?" I pressed him. "What about the rest of the body? Any birthmarks or spots that marked him the fucking heir to the Iron Throne?"

His lips were pursed thin in annoyance. "What are you saying, Tommen?"

He really wanted me to spell it out for him. "I'm saying Varys supposedly smuggled the real Aegon Targaryen out of King's Landing and left a decoy in his place. Or that's all a lie, and the kid leading the Golden Company in the east is a Blackfyre pretender. Only it makes no matter. So long as he has the looks, he has the claim."

Tywin had gone still as a statue, only the muscles on his cheek clenched and unclenched as he worked things out in his mind. "And if Dorne believes him, he has their spears."

"Yes, and we have a dagger on our back. That and every Targaryen loyalist in the Seven Kingdoms, or any house who's even slightly unsatisfied with my rule."

My stunt against the shadow-demon would go a long way in stamping out loyalists, but not nearly long enough.

Tywin's mouth twisted in anger. He wasn't a fan of being uninformed on matters such as these. "And how do we know what Varys said is true, and not just something said out of spite in his last breath? We can't change all our plans based on something as brittle as that."

"The same way I knew of Littlefinger's involvement in Joffrey's muder," I lied. "Varys only confirmed it to me, though I believe he had no idea I would have an inkling of his plan. The boy was supposedly raised to be a king, with the finest education gold can buy. He has one of the richest pentoshi magisters on his back as well as the Golden Company. And Jon Connington rides with him. He was Rhaegar's best friend. If he vouches for the pretender…"

From across the room, I could hear Tywin's teeth grinding. "We will need the Tyrells," he said, though it seemed a hard thing to admit. "Now more than ever. You must wed as soon as possible."

I nodded. "I'll leave that with you. Lady Olenna is taking care of the specifics. Speak with her and sort it out. The sooner we get married, the steadier will be our alliance."

"A child, Your Grace. You need to put a child in that girl."

He wasn't wrong. "Yes. And until then, no one can know of this other possible Targaryen. We don't want Mace Tyrell getting ideas of silver-haired grandchildren."

Tywin grunted his agreement. "The fool has always been enamored with the idea of tying his line to the Targeryens."

I walked back to the chairs and sank back down on my seat. "Stannis in the North; the Dornish and the Golden Company in the South; the Krakens in the West, and the Targaryen girl and her dragons in the east. How do we win this, Lord Hand? We can't beat them on the field, not with our hold on most kingdoms still weak and our forces dispersed. We shall have to work on that. Taking back control of the Stormlands, pouring money into the Riverlands, securing the North. We must also speak with the Vale lords. They are a fresh force, forty thousand strong."

"Exactly," Tywin said. He had a small smile on his face. "How many battles did the Young Wolf take from me? How many men died at his sword? How many songs were sung of his bravery?" He shook his head. "Battles are won in the field, Your Grace, yes. But wars… wars are won right here, with the swish of a pen, or with a blade in the night, a drop of poison in the right cup."

I glanced at him. "Or with a massacre in a wedding."

He hummed and swirled the wine on his cup. "Do you think me wrong for orchestrating it? Or for how I ended the line of the red lions?"

A laughable idea. "No," I said. Turning to the hearth, I stared into the lit fire, watching the flames whirl and lick at the stones surrounding it. "I'll devise a thousand Rains of Castamere if it means victory, my lord."

Tywin nodded. "Then I look forward to hearing what they'll sing of you, Your Grace."