“For hands of gold are always cold, but a woman’s hands are warm…”

Synopsis: Tyrion takes a meeting with a singer, and a meeting with his dad. Neither go well.

SPOILER WARNING: This chapter analysis, and all following, will contain spoilers for all Song of Ice and Fire novels and Game of Thrones episodes. Caveat lector.

Political Analysis:

Tyrion IV is a bit of an odd duck, as chapters go. In terms of plot, very little actually happens and (as I will argue later) what little does happen could be easily lifted out of the manuscript without any noticable loss to the overall narrative. Does this suggest, therefore, that Tyrion IV is ultimately a slight piece of work that deserves a place somewhere at the bottom of those infamous Tower of the Hand lists?

I would argue no, because the thematics and worldbuilding are among the best that we get in any of Tyrion’s POV chapters in ASOS.

An Encounter With Consequences

Speaking of good thematics, the chapter opens with Tyrion confronting the emotional and phsyical consequences of his actions in a way that is fairly uncommon for the especially-privileged-even-for-highborn Lannisters. What makes things different is that Tyrion is here not confronting selfish past mistakes, but his arguably altruistic decisions, taken during his defense of the city during the Battle of the Blackwater:

Nothing remained beyond the King’s Gate but mud and ashes and bits of burned bone, yet already there were people living in the shadow of the city walls, and others selling fish from barrows and barrels. Tyrion felt their eyes on him as he rode past; chilly eyes, angry and unsympathetic. No one dared speak to him, or try to bar his way; not with Bronn beside him in oiled black mail. If I were alone, though, they would pull me down and smash my face in with a cobblestone, as they did for Preston Greenfield. “They come back quicker than the rats,” he complained. “We burned them out once, you’d think they’d take that as a lesson.”

Then again, it’s harder for people who lost their homes and livelihoods to Tyrion’s scorched-earth tactics to accept that the ones who ought to pay the price for the greater good ought to be the poorest in King’s Landing. It also doesn’t help that, as Tyrion’s callous language suggests, their would-be savior is such a thorough-going anti-populist, who just as much as Cersei since the King’s Landing riot can’t help but see the rabble as a threat to his person.

This passage provides some crucial context for Tyrion’s thinking. Unlike Cersei’s pure class snobbery, Tyrion’s anti-populism is grounded in the self-hating belief that, just as he is unworthy of love on an individual level, so too will the masses always hate and fear him because of his appearance. As I’ve talked about before, this is perhaps his greatest weakness as a politician, keeping him from building a popular base of support that could have prevented his downfall. What makes it all the more tragic is that this reinforcing of his worst instincts happens just as Tyrion displays a surprising degree of self-awareness for an ASOIAF POV character, recognizing that this situation is, to a large extent, his fault:

“Leave them be…but if they start throwing up hovels against the wall again, pull them down at once. The war’s not done yet, no matter what these fools may think.” He spied the Mud Gate up ahead. “I have seen enough for now. We’ll return on the morrow with the guild masters to go over their plans.” He sighed. Well, I burned most of this, I suppose it’s only just that I rebuild it.

Speaking of weaknesses, however, another one of Tyrion’s major flaws is that, however good he might be at recognizing his own faults from a safely academic remove in the privacy of his own head, he is completely unable to accept the same critiques from others. For all that he pretends otherwise, Tyrion is in fact incredibly thin-skinned and reacts incredibly defensively to the merest hint of insult:

“Remind me to tell Ser Addam to post some gold cloaks here,” Tyrion told Bronn as they rode between two of the trebuchets. “Some fool boy’s like to fall off and break his back.” There was a shout from above, and a clod of manure exploded on the ground a foot in front of them. Tyrion’s mare reared and almost threw him. “On second thoughts,” he said when he had the horse in hand, “let the poxy brats splatter on the cobbles like overripe melons.”

This is Tyrion in a nutshell: he has a good initial impulse (keep poor children from an accidental death due to poor safety standards on King’s Landing playgrounds), he suffers a moment of embarrassment when his good intentions aren’t greeted with cheers, and his knee-jerk reaction is to not merely react defensely but to lash out violently, to reject others before they have a chance to reject him. It is this raw nerve which Tywin – perhaps because like no one else in the world, he shares with his son the fear of mocking laughter – will so successfully play upon during his trial, manuevering him to willingly assume the mantle of the monster they believe him to be rather than remain a figure of mirth.

Unfortunately for our protagonist, he’s stuck dealing not only with the consequences of his actions, but also the consequences of others’ actions:

That task was to have been his uncle’s, but solid, steady, tireless Ser Kevan Lannister had not been himself since the raven had come from Riverrun with word of his son’s murder. Willem’s twin Martyn had been taken captive by Robb Stark as well, and their elder brother Lancel was still abed, beset by an ulcerating wound that would not heal. With one son dead and two more in mortal danger, Ser Kevan was consumed by grief and fear. Lord Tywin had always relied on his brother, but now he had no choice but to turn again to his dwarf son. The cost of rebuilding was going to be ruinous, but there was no help for that. King’s Landing was the realm’s principal harbor, rivaled only by Oldtown. The river had to be reopened, and the sooner the better. And where am I going to find the bloody coin? It was almost enough to make him miss Littlefinger, who had sailed north a fortnight past. While he beds Lysa Arryn and rules the Vale beside her, I get to clean up the mess he left behind him. Though at least his father was giving him significant work to do. He won’t name me heir to Casterly Rock, but he’ll make use of me wherever he can, Tyrion thought, as a captain of gold cloaks waved them through the Mud Gate.

To begin with, we see further unintended consequences of Rickard Karstark’s rashness; because of the murder of his son, Kevan Lannister is out of commission, and thus Tywin Lannister is without his strong right hand and thus “had no choice but to turn again to his dwarf son,” although characteristically he presents this not as an opportunity for advancement but a trial at which Tyrion can only hope to avoid embarrassment.

Moreover, Tyrion is literally left to “clean up the mess” that Littlefinger “left behind him” – and how perfectly characteristic is it of Petyr Baelish that he somehow manages to maintain his reputation as a peerless administrator, despite the fact that every time he leaves a position (and thus can no longer be called to account), all of the sudden the finances seem so shaky all of the sudden? More on this later when we get to Tywin.

Finally, Tyrion also finds himself as Master of Coin having to deal with the broader consequences of Littlefinger’s actions – namely the long-term impacts of the War of Five Kings that he was so instrumental in starting:

Tyrion pulled a big fistful of coppers from his purse and tossed them in the air, and the children went running for them, shoving and shouting. The lucky ones might be able to buy a heel of stale bread tonight. He had never seen markets so crowded, and for all the food the Tyrells were bringing in, prices remained shockingly high. Six coppers for a melon, a silver stag for a bushel of corn, a dragon for a side of beef or six skinny piglets. Yet there seemed no lack of buyers. Gaunt men and haggard women crowded around every wagon and stall, while others even more ragged looked on sullenly from the mouths of alleys.

As Ken Mondschein points out, is is one of the few times that GRRM has given us some price information for staple goods in ASOIAF – GRRM will be more impressionistic when it gets to Jon XI of ADWD, for example. Nevertheless, GRRM is clearly trying to indicate that these prices have been driven quite high by the war, despite the Tyrells bringing in food for Margaery’s sake.

So how high are they? Well, a while back I did some rough calculations between the Westerosi dragon and the medieval English pound (basically a dragon is roughly 4/5ths of an English pound – or 16 shillings) from around 1300) that should give us the ability to make some comparisons with medieval prices of the War of the Roses era. So for example, we know from the passage above that 1 dragon is now worth 6 piglets, and thus that each piglet is now worth 2.6 shillings. This medieval price guide suggests that 2-3 shillings was an ordinary price for a full-grown pig, which suggests that there has been some substantial (albeit somewhat subjective) inflation, because a “skinny” immature animal is now selling for what a full-grown animal normally goes for. Similarly, the fact that 1 dragon is now worth a side of beef is significant: a side of beef is, as you might expect, half of a cow, which means that we can fix the price of a cow at 2 dragons or 32 shillings. This is astoundingly high – given that the previous price guide puts the price of a cow at around 6 in shillings the late 13th century and this one gives us the same price in the early 14th century – and suggests an inflation rate of roughly 533%.

GRRM’s math doesn’t hold up quite as well when it comes to grains, unfortunately, which is unfortunate since in a world in which most people live on bread. A silver stag for a bushel of corn is supposed to be “shockingly high,” but since a silver stag works out to roughly a penny in medieval English coinage, and a bushel of oats cost around 2-3 pennies, a bushel of rye cost around 5-6 pennies, and a bushel of wheat between 6-8 pennies in good times, this is actually a quite low price. Famine prices saw prices rise to 30 or more pennies per bushel, so having the price stated as 4-5 silver moons rather than a single silver stag would suffice.

Unhappy Families

Moving on from the political to the personal, as if things weren’t bad enough, Tyrion’s home life is just as much a source of misery as his personal life (It’s almost like he’s being put in a pressure-cooker designed to gradually increase his stress levels until he breaks…):

His marriage was a daily agony. Sansa Stark remained a maiden, and half the castle seemed to know it. When they had saddled up this morning, he’d heard two of the stableboys sniggering behind his back. He could almost imagine that the horses were sniggering as well. He’d risked his skin to avoid the bedding ritual, hoping to preserve the privacy of his bedchamber, but that hope had been dashed quick enough. Either Sansa had been stupid enough to confide in one of her bedmaids, every one of whom was a spy for Cersei, or Varys and his little birds were to blame. What difference did it make? They were laughing at him all the same. The only person in the Red Keep who didn’t seem to find his marriage a source of amusement was his lady wife. Sansa’s misery was deepening every day. Tyrion would gladly have broken through her courtesy to give her what solace he might, but it was no good. No words would ever make him fair in her eyes. Or any less a Lannister. This was the wife they had given him, for all the rest of his life, and she hated him.

Given what we’ve talked about above about Tyrion’s fear and hatred of being a subject of mockery, we recognize immediately that his marriage to Sansa has become his worst nightmare. Once again, a sacrifice he could make in private becomes intolerable, once exposed to the public eye. (Incidentally, I’m pretty sure that the spies who’ve revealed Tyrion’s intimate secrets were working for Cersei rather than Varys. Not only is spreading the word to “half the castle” is far more Cersei’s shtick than Varys’, but the specific emotional impulse is so rooted in adolescent sexual humiliation that it really only makes sense coming from someone who grew up with him. Moreover, the motive doesn’t really work for Varys, unless we assume it’s an insanely long play on Varys’ part to alienate Tyrion from House Lannister so he can use him as an assassin.)

It’s yet another reason why Tyrion’s marriage to Sansa is doomed from the start without it really being either of their faults. Indeed, Tyrion’s understanding of himself and others is good enough to allow him to understand why Sansa doesn’t and can’t love him, but his personal pathology means (despite his best intentions) he misinterprets her feelings as one of hatred due to his name and his “foul” appearance. Speaking of which, this passage raises further problematic aspects of Tyrion’s character:

And their nights together in the great bed were another source of torment. He could no longer bear to sleep naked, as had been his custom. His wife was too well trained ever to say an unkind word, but the revulsion in her eyes whenever she looked on his body was more than he could bear. Tyrion had commanded Sansa to wear a sleeping shift as well. I want her, he realized. I want Winterfell, yes, but I want her as well, child or woman or whatever she is. I want to comfort her. I want to hear her laugh. I want her to come to me willingly, to bring me her joys and her sorrows and her lust. His mouth twisted in a bitter smile. Yes, and I want to be tall as Jaime and as strong as Ser Gregor the Mountain too, for all the bloody good it does.

As I’ve said before, Tyrion can be pretty creepy about Sansa, given her age, and the best that can be said about him here is that at least he understands the importance of enthusiastic consent. Underneath that, however, is an obsesssive need to be loved and validated by that love that goes right back to his self-hatred about his body that Tywin stamped into him when he “dealt” with Tysha. Sansa doesn’t have a corresponding obsessive need to fill up that bottomless pit of need (and we know what happens when all of the sudden his partner stops fulfilling that need). It is this mis-match which makes them so perfectly ill-suited, and why their marriage would be doomed even if he wasn’t a Lannister.

And what makes things worse is that, as much as Tyrion recognizes the irrationality of his desires and understands the root causes of his actions – “I want to be tall as Jaime and as strong as Ser Gregor the Mountain too” – he lacks the cognitive tools necessary to stop himself or create new patterns of thought:

Unbidden, his thoughts went to Shae… “I don’t care. She’s only a little girl. You’ll give her a big belly and come back to me.” Some part of him had hoped for less indifference. Had hoped, he jeered bitterly, but now you know better, dwarf. Shae is all the love you’re ever like to have.

Shae’s facsimile of love, available on demand with all the charm and sincerity of the service sector, is like an endless supply of heroin to an addict. No matter that he knows better, no matter that he keeps reminding himself the truth, he’s always going to relapse, because the underlying psychological problems – “Shae is all the love you’re ever like to have” – that are driving his behavior aren’t being addressed. It’s a profoundly unstable situation.

Symon Silver-Tongue

And so GRRM immediately acts to make it even more unstable, by introducing Symon Silver-Tongue. Now as I’ve said at the beginning, I don’t really care for Symon: we don’t learn anything in seeing Tyrion deal with him that we don’t already know, he doesn’t usefully escalate the narrative in the same way that Tyrion’s trial escalates to his parricide. Ultimately, I would argue that Symon could be completely lifted out of the chapter without losing anything of value:

“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.” …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.” “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…”

Part of the reason why the scene is so unsatisfying is that both halves of the two-hander aren’t really putting in a good performance: Symon isn’t the world’s best flatterer or the best blackmailer, given how thuddingly obvious he’s being, but at the same time Tyrion isn’t doing much better when he limply offers a mixture of empty threats and bribes to get Symon out of town for a good long while. It’s such a poor move that even a non-entity like Symon is able to push back against it:

“…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…you will find my price modest, my lord.” “…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.”

Symon’s blackmail is a weird cross between the conventions of noir – incriminating photography is crucial to The Big Sleep, Chinatown, and even Who Framed Roger Rabbit – and the conventions of Celtic culture, where it was believed that a bard’s satire (a glam dicenn) was so powerful that it could manifest boils on the face of a ruler, which sounds minor unless you keep in mind that kings were supposed to be physically perfect – a true bard, in other words, could topple a tyrant through the magic of art.

Speaking of which, Symon’s song is far more important than Symon himself. As we’ve seen before, Tyrion has very strong associations between songs and relationships. This song not only encapsulates the internal dilemmas of his relationship with Shae – crucially the association between shame and love, and the tensions between Tyrion’s ambitions and his desires to be loved – but also becomes his new internal soundtrack throughout ADWD as he wrestles with her murder. Symbolically, the song that foretells his murder of his lover displaces the earlier song which spoke to a love which was innocent and true, at least at the outset, as Tyrion begins his dark turn in that book.

But to conclude about the song’s creator, for a second, one reason why I’m so emphatic that he can lift out of the narrative is how easily he actually does:

“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.”

And that’s where the story ends. Symon’s body isn’t found, raising suspicions and causing Tyrion to become paranoid; Tyrion isn’t blackmailed by Bronn; the murder isn’t raised at Tyrion’s trial, proof of his murderous nature; Tyrion never runs into his grieving widow and orphaned children; nothing. He simply vanishes off the page with nary a consequence for our protagonist, and that’s never satisfying.

Tywin’s Freudian Phase

You know what is immensely satisfying? Everything having to do with the following scene where Tywin brings in Tyrion to show off his new acquisitions:

“…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.” “…Come have a look at this.” A bundle of oilcloth lay on the table between them, and Lord Tywin had a longsword in his hand. “A wedding gift for Joffrey,” he told Tyrion. The light streaming through the diamond-shaped panes of glass made the blade shimmer black and red as Lord Tywin turned it to inspect the edge, while the pommel and crossguard flamed gold. “With this fool’s jabber of Stannis and his magic sword, it seemed to me that we had best give Joffrey something extraordinary as well. A king should bear a kingly weapon.” “…Valyrian steel?” “Yes,” Lord Tywin said, in a tone of deep satisfaction.

To begin with, I love everything about how over-the-top Tywin’s fashion choices are. The scabbards have to be red leather with pure gold studs, because Lannister; they have to use cherrywood, when that’s a wood way more suited to musical instruments than scabbards, because Lannister; they have to use rubies rather than garnets, because garnets aren’t Lannister enough. And yet, what’s underneath all of this isn’t what we might expect – the overweening pride and vanity of House Lannister – as much as it’s aching insecurity. (In this, as in so many things, Tywin and Tyrion really are kindred spirits.)

Tywin’s laying on the branding with a trowel because he doesn’t want to admit where he got the swords from, as if he could through force of will get people to believe that these swords are Lannister property and have always been, and to never question or wonder about their provenance. After all in a world in which Valyrian blades are jealously guarded keepsakes, the sudden appearance of two swords ex nihilo would normally be a subject of gossip and controversy. This attempt to brazen it out with an ostentatious display of Lannister opulence is standard operating procedure for Tywin, no different from how he handles the rumors about Cersei.

Another sign that these swords are ultimately a display of insecurity is Tywin’s comment about Joffrey and Stannis: however much he might publicly disdain “fool’s jabber” about magic swords, and even though he’d never outwardly acknowledge it, it is a source of embarrassment for Tywin that Stannis cuts a better figure as a warrior-hero king than his cowardly grandson. So even as he pretends that nothing is wrong, he acts to remedy the situation.

But there’s another reason why Tywin is particularly sensitive on the subject of Valyrian swords:

At long last, Father? Valyrian steel blades were scarce and costly, yet thousands remained in the world, perhaps two hundred in the Seven Kingdoms alone. It had always irked his father that none belonged to House Lannister. The old Kings of the Rock had owned such a weapon, but the greatsword Brightroar had been lost when the second King Tommen carried it back to Valyria on his fool’s quest. He had never returned; nor had Uncle Gery, the youngest and most reckless of his father’s brothers, who had gone seeking after the lost sword some eight years past. Thrice at least Lord Tywin had offered to buy Valyrian longswords from impoverished lesser houses, but his advances had always been firmly rebuffed. The little lordlings would gladly part with their daughters should a Lannister come asking, but they cherished their old family swords.

All of Tywin’s life, it’s been a source of embarrassment that House Lannister doesn’t have a Valyrian sword when even “impoverished lesser houses” do. What made it even worse was that the reason why House Lannister lacks this ultimate status symbol is because Tommen II lost it in a “fool’s quest,” and the parallel between Tommen II and Tywin’s least favorite, most unserious brother, because there’s nothing Tywin hates more than looking foolish. Similarly, the fact that lesser houses had the nerve to “firmly rebuff” him when he deigned to “offer to buy Valyrian longswords” speaks to a lack of control over his environment and an inversion of the social hierarchy that Tywin would mentally associate with the misrule of the Reynes and Tarbecks, as well as the only other time in his life when he’s been refused by lesser Houses, namely when he tried to marry off Tyrion.

I don’t think it’s going too far to say that, at least subconsciously, Tywin sees the creation of these (rather phallic) swords as the reversal of a symbolic castration that his House suffered due to the foolishness and weakness of his father and Lannisters like him.

There’s just one problem for Tywin. See, despite his reputation as the arch-Machiavellian, Tywin isn’t willing to admit (even to his own son, let alone publicly) that he blatantly stole the Valyrian sword of House Stark, because that would be unworthy of his self image. So all of this display is a cover-up for the disappearance of Ice (which, incidentally, is a sign that Tywin knows peace with House Stark will not be necessary). Unfortunately for him, Valyrian steel is magical and magic isn’t cooperating:

Tyrion wondered where the metal for this one had come from. A few master armorers could rework old Valyrian steel, but the secrets of its making had been lost when the Doom came to old Valyria. “The colors are strange,” he commented as he turned the blade in the sunlight. Most Valyrian steel was a grey so dark it looked almost black, as was true here as well. But blended into the folds was a red as deep as the grey. The two colors lapped over one another without ever touching, each ripple distinct, like waves of night and blood upon some steely shore. “How did you get this patterning? I’ve never seen anything like it.” “Nor I, my lord,” said the armorer. “I confess, these colors were not what I intended, and I do not know that I could duplicate them. Your lord father had asked for the crimson of your House, and it was that color I set out to infuse into the metal. But Valyrian steel is stubborn. These old swords remember, it is said, and they do not change easily. I worked half a hundred spells and brightened the red time and time again, but always the color would darken, as if the blade was drinking the sun from it. And some folds would not take the red at all, as you can see. If my lords of Lannister are displeased, I will of course try again, as many times as you should require, but—” “They have an ominous beauty…”

Here, GRRM goes straight for the poetic concept that “blood will out,” which reaches all the way back to Shakespeare, Geoffrey Chaucer, and arguably the Book of Genesis. The swords themselves, stained with the blood of Ned Stark, are shouting out that a crime has been committed, and nothing that Tobho Mott can do will silence them. This doesn’t bode well for the fact that these swords also work as synecdoche for Tywin’s broader plans for his Lannister dynasty:

“…and they make this blade unique. There is no other sword like it in all the world, I should think.” “There is one.” The armorer bent over the table and unfolded the bundle of oilcloth, to reveal a second longsword…This one was thicker and heavier, a half-inch wider and three inches longer, but they shared the same fine clean lines and the same distinctive color, the ripples of blood and night. Three fullers, deeply incised, ran down the second blade from hilt to point; the king’s sword had only two. Joff’s hilt was a good deal more ornate, the arms of its crossguard done as lions’ paws with ruby claws unsheathed, but both swords had grips of finely tooled red leather and gold lions’ heads for pommels. “It is meant for my son.” No need to ask which son. Tyrion placed Jaime’s sword back on the table beside Joffrey’s, wondering if Robb Stark would let his brother live long enough to wield it. Our father must surely think so, else why have this blade forged?

Here we have foreshadowing of both the Red Wedding – Tywin doesn’t fear Robb Stark’s vengeance, because he’s set plans in motion for Robb’s death – and Tywin’s attempt to bribe Jaime into becoming the perfect Lannister heir that he’s never given up on for nineteen long years. This, in a nutshell, is Tywin’s plan for his dynasty: securing Joffrey on the Iron Throne through bloody murder and dynastic alliances while he holds down the fort as Hand of the King, while Jaime goes back to Casterly Rock to become a perfect golden lord as he was always meant to be, and sires the next generation of Tywin Lannisters who will be the power behind the Iron Throne forever and ever. Such a pity that these blades will fail House Lannister utterly: the only time Joffrey (whose murderous nature is foreshadowed by Tywin’s off-handed mention that “if you have need of a dagger, take one from the armory. Robert left a hundred when he died.”) will use his will be to cut up books, as he’ll be unable to even draw Widow’s Wail in self-defense when he’s struck down at the union of House Tyrell and House Lannister. Jaime will refuse Tywin outright, and give the blade away, which would have given Tywin a heart attack had he not already been dead.

A Note on Tywin’s Economic Policy

Beyond the merely symbolic, there’s are a number of material weaknesses at the heart of Tywin’s burgeoning empire. As I discussed at the beginning of the essay, there’s something very wrong about the fact that, the moment Littlefinger leaves town, all of the sudden the treasury he was responsible for is empty:

“Before we can open the port again, the Blackwater’s going to have to be dredged, the sunken ships broken up or raised. Three-quarters of the quays need repair, and some may have to be torn down and rebuilt. The entire fish market is gone, and both the River Gate and the King’s Gate are splintered from the battering Stannis gave them and should be replaced. I shudder to think of the cost.” If you do shit gold, Father, find a privy and get busy, he wanted to say, but he knew better. “You will find whatever gold is required.” “Will I? Where? The treasury is empty, I’ve told you that. We’re not done paying the alchemists for all that wildfire, or the smiths for my chain, and Cersei’s pledged the crown to pay half the costs of Joff’s wedding—seventy-seven bloody courses, a thousand guests, a pie full of doves, singers, jugglers . . .”

This moment is particularly revealing, because for someone whose supposedly so fiscally conservative, here Tywin is refusing to make a choice between guns and butter, between the good of the realm and the reputation of his house:

“Extravagance has its uses. We must demonstrate the power and wealth of Casterly Rock for all the realm to see.” “Then perhaps Casterly Rock should pay.” “Why? I have seen Littlefinger’s accounts. Crown incomes are ten times higher than they were under Aerys.” “As are the crown’s expenses. Robert was as generous with his coin as he was with his cock. Littlefinger borrowed heavily. From you, amongst others. Yes, the incomes are considerable, but they are barely sufficient to cover the usury on Littlefinger’s loans. Will you forgive the throne’s debt to House Lannister?” “Don’t be absurd.” “Then perhaps seven courses would suffice. Three hundred guests instead of a thousand. I understand that a marriage can be just as binding without a dancing bear.” “The Tyrells would think us niggardly. I will have the wedding and the waterfront. If you cannot pay for them, say so, and I shall find a master of coin who can.”

Here we see Tywin for who he really is; beneath the image of the brutal genius of statecraft, we see a quite conventional aristocratic mind, who can’t see that a man he’s dismissed as a threat due to his low birth is robbing him blind, because he doesn’t understand finance and looks down on those who do. There’s a reason this chapter features so heavily in my “Who Stole Westeros?” essay: Littlefinger’s scheme works because he understands the mentalité of Westerosi aristocrats and their blind spots, because a Braavosi merchant would know that something was wrong the moment someone told them that “incomes are ten times higher” and yet “they are barely sufficient to cover the usury.”

Beyond class bigotry, there’s another reason why Tywin is refusing to make any compromises here, either when it comes to how magnificent the wedding is or the crown repaying its debts to House Lannister (even when this amounts to part of his regime repaying other parts). Because in his mind, everything that should happen during the Purple Wedding is Tywin’s payoff for decades of investment in Aerys II and Robert Baratheon. Tywin may have an aristocrat’s mentality when it comes to the purpose of wealth, but he knows how to count out political debts, and he wants what he feels he’s owed, down to the penny. (Even if it means trying to have his cake and eat it too.)

Tywin’s Interest in Tyrion’s Sex Life

So far, Tywin’s obsessions this chapter have remained within the realm of the political. Now we’re about to depart those safer topics, because Tywin takes this opportunity to get really weird about his son’s sexuality. (You really begin to see where Tyrion’s issues with sex come from here.)

“…see if you can find your wife’s bed as well.” “…Tell me, why is it that all of Sansa’s maids are women in Cersei’s service? I am sick of being spied upon in my own chambers.” “If you mislike your wife’s servants, dismiss them and hire ones more to your liking. That is your right. It is your wife’s maidenhood that concerns me, not her maids. This…delicacy puzzles me. You seem to have no difficulty bedding whores. Is the Stark girl made differently?”

To begin with, Tywin’s curiousity about a twelve-year-old’s body is deeply creepy. Not much better is the fact that he implicitly equates consensual relations with sex workers with rape – given what we’ve surmised about the identity of the Hand who built the tunnel to Chataya’s brothel, this makes me feel really sorry for any women who had him as their client – and being very puzzled about why Tyrion isn’t committing marital rape. And while all of this is wrapped up in a putdown of his son for not conforming to conventional sexuality…but underneath that putdown is a prurience:

“Why do you take so much bloody interest in where I put my cock?” Tyrion demanded. “Sansa is too young.” “She is old enough to be Lady of Winterfell once her brother is dead. Claim her maidenhood and you will be one step closer to claiming the north. Get her with child, and the prize is all but won. Do I need to remind you that a marriage that has not been consummated can be set aside?” “By the High Septon or a Council of Faith. Our present High Septon is a trained seal who barks prettily on command. Moon Boy is more like to annul my marriage than he is.”

As Tyrion points out, Tywin’s interest is particularly weird, because while it’s true that Sansa has a claim to Winterfell (and he’s very much pre-hatch-counting the chickens when it comes to the Red Wedding), Tyrion has a point that as long as the Lannisters control the Iron Throne and through it the Faith of the Seven, Tyrion’s marriage is rock solid. (Hmm…it’s almost as if the rise of an independent High Septon might be relevant to Sansa’s story.)

That being the case, why is Tywin being so weird? Well, the truth is that Tywin is lashing out at his son to make him feel better about himself:

“…why is it that I hear nothing of my sister’s impending nuptials? As I recall—” Lord Tywin cut him off. “Mace Tyrell has refused my offer to marry Cersei to his heir Willas.” “Refused our sweet Cersei?” That put Tyrion in a much better mood. “When I first broached the match to him, Lord Tyrell seemed well enough disposed,” his father said. “A day later, all was changed. The old woman’s work. She hectors her son unmercifully. Varys claims she told him that your sister was too old and too used for this precious one-legged grandson of hers.” “Cersei must have loved that.” He laughed. Lord Tywin gave him a chilly look. “She does not know. Nor will she. It is better for all of us if the offer was never made. See that you remember that, Tyrion. The offer was never made.” “What offer?” Tyrion rather suspected that Lord Tyrell might come to regret this rebuff. “Your sister will be wed. The question is, to whom? I have several thoughts—”

Again, insecurity creeps back into the narrative, because Tywin’s perfect daughter has been rejected for marriage, and that wasn’t supposed to happen again after he got his revenge against Aerys II. Similarly, his alliance with the Tyrells that is supposed to keep his dynasty secure forever doesn’t seem to be as firm as he thought, and now the heir to Highgarden is a loose end. And so Tywin does what he always does: pretends it doesn’t happen and keeps moving down the one track in his mind, but he doesn’t mind a detour to give Tyrion a verbal kick.

Bad News from the Wall

After that deeply creepy interlude, we get a final scene with confirms how hollow Tywin’s reputation as a steward of the realm really is.

Pycelle cleared his throat, which involved a deal of coughing and hawking. “The letter is from the same Bowen Marsh who sent the last. The castellan. He writes that Lord Mormont has sent word of wildlings moving south in vast numbers.” “The lands beyond the Wall cannot support vast numbers,” said Lord Tywin firmly. “This warning is not new.”

To begin with, Tywin shows himself to be both ignorant and arrogant, assuming that he knows better about a realm that he’s never set foot anywhere near than someone who lives and works there, and that there can be no truth outside his understand. But this next part is even worse:

“This last is, my lord. Mormont sent a bird from the haunted forest, to report that he was under attack. More ravens have returned since, but none with letters. This Bowen Marsh fears Lord Mormont slain, with all his strength.” Tyrion had rather liked old Jeor Mormont, with his gruff manner and talking bird. “Is this certain?” he asked. “It is not,” Pycelle admitted, “but none of Mormont’s men have returned as yet. Marsh fears the wildlings have killed them, and that the Wall itself may be attacked next.” He fumbled in his robe and found the paper. “Here is his letter, my lord, a plea to all five kings. He wants men, as many men as we can send him.” “Five kings?” His father was annoyed. “There is one king in Westeros. Those fools in black might try and remember that if they wish His Grace to heed them. When you reply, tell him that Renly is dead and the others are traitors and pretenders. “No doubt they will be glad to learn it. The Wall is a world apart, and news oft reaches them late.” Pycelle bobbed his head up and down. “What shall I tell Marsh concerning the men he begs for? Shall we convene the council…”

Here Tywin blatantly ignores a serious threat to the realm, that the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch might have been killed in the field and the Wall undefended from a major assault, all because of a picanune breach in protocol that offends Tywin’s pride. As if Tywin hadn’t openly talked about making an alliance with Mance Rayder, a far greater breach of his responsibilities as Hand. Even Pycelle, a reliable toady, at least tries to make an excuse for Bowen Marsh and move the policymaking process. And yet, Tywin can’t even manage that:

“There is no need. The Night’s Watch is a pack of thieves, killers, and baseborn churls, but it occurs to me that they could prove otherwise, given proper discipline. If Mormont is indeed dead, the black brothers must choose a new Lord Commander.” Pycelle gave Tyrion a sly glance. “An excellent thought, my lord. I know the very man. Janos Slynt.” Tyrion liked that notion not at all. “The black brothers choose their own commander,” he reminded them. “Lord Slynt is new to the Wall. I know, I sent him there. Why should they pick him over a dozen more senior men?” “Because,” his father said, in a tone that suggested Tyrion was quite the simpleton, “if they do not vote as they are told, their Wall will melt before it sees another man.” Yes, that would work. Tyrion hitched forward. “Janos Slynt is the wrong man, Father. We’d do better with the commander of the Shadow Tower. Or Eastwatch-by-the-Sea.” “The commander of the Shadow Tower is a Mallister of Seagard. Eastwatch is held by an ironman.” Neither would serve his purposes, Lord Tywin’s tone said clear enough…”I recall what I told you. Castle Black is not Harrenhal, however. The Night’s Watch is not the king’s council. There is a tool for every task, and a task for every tool.” Tyrion’s anger flashed. “Lord Janos is a hollow suit of armor who will sell himself to the highest bidder.” “I count that a point in his favor. Who is like to bid higher than us?”

It bears repeating that the Night’s Watch is an institution that has lasted eight thousand years as a neutral institution respected by all; even the worst Targaryen tyrant at least respected the importance of maintaining harmony with that tradition. But Tywin cannot think about the Night’s Watch as anything more than patronage politics, sees no politics beyond personal advantage. As far as he’s concerned, it’s ok to put “a hollow suit of armor” at the head of an institution under siege, because he clearly doesn’t consider a “pack of thieves, killers, and baseborn churls” important, and encouraging corruption is perfectly acceptable because it’s good for House Lannister – nevermind the good of the realm.

Honestly, it’s probably best for Westeros that Tywin hasn’t long to live, because I don’t know how much more of this they could have survived.

Historical Analysis:

When we last off from our history of the House of Atreus, Agamemnon and Menelaus had overthrown their uncle Thyestes and forced their cousin Agisthus into exile, attaining revenge for the murder of their father Atreus. In many ways, this period would represent the height of the Atreusi’s power: Agamemnon became King of Mycenae, his brother Menelaus became King of Sparta, and they married the famously beautiful daughters of Tyndareus of Sparta, Clytemnestra and Helen:

credit to Eric Shanower

But the wrath of the heavens is not so easily avoided, especially when the daughters of Tyndareus bore a curse of their own from the slighted goddess Aphrodite…

If you’re at all familiar with the story of the Trojan War, you know what happens next. Aphrodite causes Helen to fall in love with Paris (as a punishment for her and reward for him), and his abduction causes the Achaeans to honor their suitors’ vow and declare war on Troy. When the ships are assembled at Aulis, Agamemnon angers the goddess Artemis and she curses the fleet with contrary winds unless the High King sacrifices his daughter Iphigenia. This he does, at the cost of alienating his wife Clytemnestra, who in Agamemnon’s absence takes the exiled Aegisthus as her lover, and who plots her revenge when Agamemnon returns…

What If?

There’s no what if for this essay, because Tyrion doesn’t make a significant decision. That’s right, I said it.

Book vs. Show:

As we might expect, Symon is cut entirely, which is probably a good idea. The only thing that was adapted from this chapter was the business with Tywin and the swords, which was so memorably used for the prologue of Season 4. Probably a good idea.

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