Boltons. The sigil of the flayed man. Well there was a sign and no mistaking it, though would even the the Northmen be so blunt as that?
"Lady Kyra." He remembered Lilyanna had mentioned her once. "She's your cousin as a matter of fact," Tyrith said thoughtfully. "Her mother was the child of my uncle Rodrick- that match was arranged as father's plan to give us more ties to the North." It hadn't worked quite to their advantage with Arwyn dead so soon after and he had sworn that the Boltons sent word the child died with her. "Perhaps you should take an opportunity to become acquainted with your lost cousin. She might be well-placed to know the moods of the Tyrells and perhaps she could give you insight to that of the Dreadfort as well."
"Hester Arryn would be a useful acquaintance as well," he acknowleged. "Well done, Tymor. I think it would serve us well if you were to pursue that particular friendship. Dinner would be an excellent step."
He prayed the boy didn't bore the maid to tears with dusty tomes and tales... or end up with Arys Arryn's sword at his throat in a few months. Either seemed equally likely when it came to his eldest.
Perhaps Lys would bear fruit. "Does your uncle know of these happenings as yet?" Lysene vendettas were perhaps not something the assassins had considered.
"As for Haine... I propose we wait and see what course the whisperer sets." It would be costly to hire a Faceless Man and no end of bother to find a new Master of Whispers but such matters had been arranged before. Tyrith's eyes settled into a calculating stare as he regarded the younger men at the talbe with him. He would have given much to have Paegon back, and even Percival Tully would have been a relief to see. But the gods were never over kind- at least he would not be crowning a mad king or another Robert Baratheon.