All his authority derived from his father, the girl had to understand that. "You won't be far," he promised. "You'll have a house, with guards and servants, and I'll visit as often as I'm able."

Shae kicked shut the door. Through the cloudy panes of the narrow window, he could make out the Great Sept of Baelor crowning Visenya's Hill but Tyrion was distracted by a different sight. Bending, Shae took her gown by the hem, drew it over her head, and tossed it aside. She did not believe in smallclothes. "You'll never be able to rest," she said as she stood before him, pink and nude and lovely, one hand braced on her hip. "You'll think of me every time you go to bed. Then you'll get hard and you'll have no one to help you and you'll never be able to sleep unless you"—she grinned that wicked grin Tyrion liked so well—"is that why they call it the Tower of the Hand, m'lord?"