A Storm of Swords

behind it scarce looked a danger; a short man — though all men were tall to Tyrion — with thinning brown hair, pink cheeks, and a little pot pushing at the bone buttons of his doeskin jerkin. In his soft hands he held a twelve-stringed woodharp more deadly than a longsword.

Tyrion sat across from him. “Symon Silver Tongue.”

The man inclined his head. He was bald on top. “My lord Hand,” he said.

“You mistake me. My father is the King’s Hand. I am no longer even a finger, I fear.”

“You shall rise again, I am sure. A man like you. My sweet lady Shae tells me you are newly wed. Would that you had sent for me earlier. I should have been honored to sing at your feast.”

“The last thing my wife needs is more songs,” said Tyrion. “As for Shae, we both know she is no lady, and I would thank you never to speak her name aloud.”

“As the Hand commands,” Symon said.

The last time Tyrion had seen the man, a sharp word had been enough to set him sweating, but it seemed the singer had found some courage somewhere. Most like in that flagon. Or perhaps Tyrion himself was to blame for this new boldness. I threatened him, but nothing ever came of the threat, so now he believes me toothless. He sighed. “I am told you are a very gifted singer.”

“You are most kind to say so, my lord.”

Tyrion gave him a smile. “I think it is time you brought your music to the Free Cities. They are great lovers of song in Braavos and Pentos and Lys, and generous with those who please them.” He took a sip of wine. It was foul stuff, but strong. “A tour of all nine cities would be best. You wouldn’t want to deny anyone the joy of hearing you sing. A year in each should suffice.” He reached inside his cloak, to where the gold was hidden. “With the port closed, you will need to go to Duskendale to take ship, but my man Bronn will find a horse for you, and I would be honored if you would let me pay your passage…”

“But my lord,” the man objected, “you have never heard me sing. Pray listen a moment.” His fingers moved deftly over the strings of the woodharp, and soft music filled the cellar. Symon began to sing.

He rode through the streets of the city,
down from his hill on high,
O’er the wynds and the steps and the cobbles,
he rode to a woman’s sigh.
For she was his secret treasure,
she was his shame and his bliss.
And a chain and a keep are nothing,
compared to a woman’s kiss.

“There’s more,” the man said as he broke off. “Oh, a good deal more. The refrain is especially nice, I think. For hands of gold are always cold, but a woman’s hands are warm…”

“Enough.” Tyrion slid his fingers from his cloak, empty. “That’s not a song I would care to hear again. Ever.”

“No?” Symon Silver Tongue put his harp aside and took a sip of wine. “A pity. Still, each man has his song, as my old master used to say when he was teaching me to play. Others might like my tune better. The queen, perhaps. Or your lord father.”

Tyrion rubbed the scar over his nose, and said, “My father has no time for singers, and my sister is not as generous as one might think. A wise man could earn more from silence than from song.” He could not put it much plainer than that.

Symon seemed to take his meaning quick enough. “You will find my price modest, my lord.”

“That’s good to know.” This would not be a matter of thirty golden dragons, Tyrion feared. “Tell me.”

“At King Joffrey’s wedding feast,” the man said, “there is to be a tournament of singers.”

“And jugglers, and jesters, and dancing bears.”

“Only one dancing bear, my lord,” said Symon, who had plainly attended Cersei’s arrangements with far more interest than Tyrion had, “but seven singers. Galyeon of Cuy, Bethany Fair-fingers, Aemon Costayne, Alaric of Eysen, Hamish the Harper, Collio Quaynis, and Orland of Oldtown will compete for a gilded lute with silver strings… yet unaccountably, no invitation has been forthcoming for one who is master of them all.”

“Let me guess. Symon Silver Tongue?”

Symon smiled modestly. “I am prepared to prove the truth of my boast before king and court. Hamish is old, and oft forgets what he is singing. And Collio, with that absurd Tyroshi accent! If you understand one word in three, count yourself fortunate.”

“My sweet sister has arranged the feast. Even if I could secure you this invitation, it might look queer. Seven kingdoms, seven vows, seven challenges, seventy-seven dishes… but eight singers? What would the High Septon think?”

“You did not strike me as a pious man, my lord.”

“Piety is not the point. Certain forms must be observed.”

Symon took a sip of wine. “Still… a singer’s life is not without peril. We ply our trade in alehouses and wine sinks, before unruly drunkards. If one of your sister’s seven should suffer some mishap, I hope you might consider me to fill his place.” He smiled slyly, inordinately pleased with himself.

“Six singers would be as unfortunate as eight, to be sure. I will inquire after the health of Cersei’s seven. If any of them should be indisposed, my man Bronn will find you.”

“Very good, my lord.” Symon might have left it at that, but flushed with triumph, he added, “I shall sing the night of King Joffrey’s wedding. Should it happen that I am called to court, why, I will want to offer the king my very best compositions, songs I have sung a thousand times that are certain to please. If I should find myself singing in some dreary winesink, though… well, that would be an apt occasion to try my new song. For hands of gold are always cold, but a woman’s hands are warm.”

“That will not be necessary,” said Tyrion. “You have my word as a Lannister, Bronn will call upon you soon.”

“Very good, my lord.” The balding kettle-bellied singer took up his woodharp again.

Bronn was waiting with the horses at the mouth of the alley. He helped Tyrion into his saddle. “When do I take the man to Duskendale?”

“You don’t.” Tyrion turned his horse. “Give him three days, then inform him that Hamish the Harper has broken his arm. Tell him that his clothes will never serve for court, so he must be fitted for new garb at once. He’ll come with you quick enough.” He grimaced. “You may want his tongue, I understand it’s made of silver. The rest of him should never be found.”

Bronn grinned. “There’s a pot shop I know in Flea Bottom makes a savory bowl of brown. All kinds of meat in it, I hear.”

“Make certain I never eat there.” Tyrion spurred to a trot. He wanted a bath, and the hotter the better.

Even that modest pleasure was denied him, however; no sooner had he returned to his chambers than Podrick Payne informed him that he had been summoned to the Tower of the Hand. “His lordship wants to see you. The Hand. Lord Tywin.”

“I recall who the Hand is, Pod,” Tyrion said. “I lost my nose, not my wits.”

Bronn laughed. “Don’t bite the boy’s head off now.”

“Why not? He never uses it.” Tyrion wondered what he’d done now. Or more like, what I have failed to do. A summons from Lord Tywin always had teeth; his father never sent for him just to share a meal or a cup of wine, that was for certain.

As he entered his lord father’s solar a few moments later, he heard a voice saying, “… cherrywood for the scabbards, bound in red leather and ornamented with a row of lion’s-head studs in pure gold. Perhaps with garnets for the eyes…”

“Rubies,” Lord Tywin said. “Garnets lack the fire.”

Tyrion cleared his throat. “My lord. You sent for me?”