A Vow Without Honor

The Refuge

A third scroll found its way onto the desk. This one bore the sigil of their house.

"That is from Casterly Rock," Tywin continued, his voice clipped. "Sent to us after Kevan accepted all the Northern prisoners from the Twins whom your brother promised sanctuary."

Never mind then.

"Well, Jaime should be in for a wonderful stay," Tyrion said, picking at the chair arms. "After all, the Martells hold our house in such high regard."

Ah, there it was, the focus of all his father's disappointments on him. He was starting to feel lonely without the sensation.

He took solace in the fact that Jaime might have enjoyed his jest, although his brother was growing harder to read by the day.

"Your brother is alone amongst men and women who would rather see him hanging from the gates of Sunspear than take another free breath in their midst and here you sit, safe in King's Landing, making jokes," Tywin started, not giving him the chance to counter. "And the only reason he is still alive and you are able to joke is because Prince Doran is guided by intellect, unlike most of the country. Had that reckless brother of his been in charge, our armies would be on the march at this very moment."

Yes, Oberyn Martell. He knew of the man's reputation. He also knew that he and his intellectual brother had every cause to hate their family, ever since their father had allowed Gregor Clegane to murder Princess Elia and her children.

And now his son and heir had marched straight through their doors, no strings attached.

"I have to wonder why they aren't already," Tyrion mused, watching his father grab a piece of parchment. Furious, curved words flowed across the paper, and he struggled to read what it said. "You burned the Riverlands when Catelyn Stark took me, and I am not Jaime."

"You were her prisoner. Your brother is not theirs, not yet. The instant our banners make a move the Martells don't like, Jaime is as good as lost. Dorne is not the Riverlands. They are not open; they are not weak. They do not suffer threats lightly. Most would prefer open conflict over allowing Jaime back into our hands."

"So, they're insane."

"They're Dornish."

He seemed to recall Bronn having a similar point once.

"It seems that we are at an impasse then," Tyrion noted, glancing around the room. "So, why summon me here? Surely it wasn't just for the political banter. I'm certain there are others you'd prefer to speak to, not sure who, the entirety of King's Landing seems to have the intelligence of a flea, but they're all not me, of course."

His father did not reply, too preoccupied with his writing.

So, Tyrion waited, silent and bored, eying the room for any sign of wine. Of course, there was none. His father had masterfully hidden every drop away – probably somewhere high – in preparation for his arrival. Then he began to count the number of lions that decorated the space. He was somewhere in the twenties when his father finished writing and sealed the letter with the sigil of the Hand.

"Do I ask what that is for?"

Tywin Lannister wrote his words carefully. He wasn't Cersei. Every syllable had its purpose. Someone's life hung in the balance behind that wax seal.

"It is a message for Prince Doran about how we should proceed next, to be delivered directly to him," Tywin replied, handing over the letter. "Upon your arrival in Dorne."

Tyrion stared at his father's hand as if it had turned into a viper itself, ready to strike if he dared to move any closer.

"No."