Chapter 108 – If You Want Alliances, Start with Marriage
"Clap, clap, clap."
After only a few seconds of thought, Tyrion smoothly wiped the surprise from his face and began applauding.
"Truly far-sighted planning, my dear sister… and a shining display of mercy—no, of King Joffrey's mercy."
His tone was light, even cheerful, and he wore a polite smile.
But his eyes were cold.
"However…" he continued—just as Cersei's expression began to brighten—"have you considered whether Dorne is willing to accept such kindness? The Baratheons and the Martells already have… misunderstandings."
"And the Vale lords—once they learn the truth of Jon Arryn's death—how do you think they will react?"
"As for the Iron Islands and the Balon Greyjoy lot? The ironborn are more than capable of producing a response that leaves us speechless. No one truly trusts them."
Cersei had barely proposed three grand ideas before Tyrion dismantled all of them in a breath.
Her smile froze.
She wasn't completely witless; after a moment's strained thought, she realized the trap in her own words. Her mouth opened as if to argue—but nothing came. Her face darkened.
Podrick, seeing she wouldn't be able to claw her way out alone, stepped smoothly back into the conversation.
"Then perhaps Lord Tyrion has a better solution?" he asked, tone perfectly measured, as if playing the supporting partner in a performance.
Even the simmering Cersei couldn't help turning her eyes toward her brother.
Tyrion felt both their gazes on him. He shot Podrick a brief look, then turned to Cersei, his expression sharpening into something wholly serious.
"First, one fact: Dorne has not yet entered the war. Prince Doran Martell has called his banners, yes—but stopped there."
"Yet his hatred for House Lannister is no secret. Most of the realm assumes he will side with Renly Baratheon."
He tilted his head slightly.
"So, sister—do you truly think such a stingy offer will satisfy them?"
"Believe me: the moment your 'command'—or Joffrey's—reaches Prince Doran, he'll take it as an insult and ride straight into Renly's arms."
Cersei sat in tight-lipped silence.
Podrick clapped once, stepping in smoothly. "So it's obvious that won't work. Then tell us, Lord Tyrion—how do we change Dorne's mind? What do we trade for Prince Doran's alliance?"
"As I understand it," he added with theatrical feeling, "His Grace is a man of deep sentiment. He still mourns his sister Elia… and her children."
Tyrion shot him a look that said don't overact, then cleared his throat.
"Our father once told me: a ruler must never let private feelings steer public policy. A council seat is valuable—but it won't make a proud man forget his sister's murder."
"Then how do we make him forget?" Podrick prompted.
"Why should he forget?" Tyrion smiled faintly. "Before Podrick decided to throw our esteemed Grand Maester into a cell, I had already sent a letter south."
"In it, I promised Dorne the killer of Princess Elia. Alive or dead—his choice."
"After the war, of course."
Cersei's eyes flickered. She knew the story. Everyone in the west did. The one said to have butchered Elia Martell and her children: the Mountain, Gregor Clegane.
"He's Father's man," she said. "Would he agree?"
Tyrion's smile didn't waver.
"If Father were here, he'd be the first to say: trading one rabid dog for fifty thousand Dornish spears is a bargain."
Cersei's hesitation faded.
But Podrick—playing innocent—pushed further. "And if Prince Doran wants not just the killer… but the one who gave the order?"
Tyrion shrugged lightly. "The rebellion's leader was Robert Baratheon. In the end, all commands trace back to him."
Blaming a dead man was a tactic as old as politics.
Podrick frowned. "But Robert wasn't in King's Landing at the time."
Tyrion spread his hands. "Nor was Doran."
He continued smoothly, "Blood for blood to soothe his pride. A council seat to satisfy ambition. Gold. Lands. Gifts."
"Still," he added, "if I were the prince…"
Podrick leaned in. "You would?"
"I'd ask for one more token. A sign of good faith. Insurance against betrayal."
He let the silence stretch—then turned deliberately to Cersei.
She understood at once.
"What token?" she asked.
Tyrion met her eyes.
"Myrcella."