King's Landing.
Looking up from a high altitude, this bustling, crowded city resembled a somewhat irregular square, with seven large gates opened on its continuous walls.
Its population once reached around 500,000.
Within the city, three enormous structures were the most eye-catching.
The Dragonpit, blackened by fire and now a ruin.
Baelor's Great Sept, gleaming white in the sunlight.
And the Red Keep, built on the highest point of King's Landing.
The King lived here, and the Lords who served the King also lived here.
In the council chamber, the atmosphere was like a chilling ice cellar; the King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, the ruler of the Seven Kingdoms, the Protector of the Realm, Joffrey Baratheon's Small Council, had all gathered here.
Only, the King, who was thirteen this year, was not present.
"All in all, David tells us that Lannisport is in danger!"
Tyrion, reading the letter from Lannisport, inexplicably thought of something.
He heard that Joffrey had recently become very interested in the crossbow.
Cersei's beautiful, pale green eyes were full of disbelief as she questioned, "You're saying Robb Stark is stationed with at least twenty thousand troops outside the walls of Lannisport and will launch a full-scale assault in no more than half a month?"
"This is simply absurd!"
After speaking, she looked at her ugly brother, hoping to hear words like "It's false" or "Just a joke."
If Lannisport were in crisis, her father would surely lead his troops back to the Westerlands to relieve Lannisport; that port city was simply too important to the Lannister.
It could not be lost.
But if Lord Tywin led his troops away from Harrenhal, then King's Landing would be like a naked maiden, stripped of all cover.
With only a few thousand Golden Cloaks, they could neither defeat Stannis nor defend against Renly, who had already claimed kingship.
"Sister, I know I'm ugly, but I'm incredibly quick-witted and never make mistakes; all the ladies who have taken money from my hand can attest to that."
Tyrion shifted his backside on the chair.
He was too short, his feet couldn't reach the ground, so he was uncomfortable no matter how he sat.
Varys's smooth, egg-like face remained composed, showing no hint of anxiety, and he said calmly, "This is quite strange, for as far as I know, when Robb Stark led his army out of Karin Bay, their numbers were still less than twenty thousand."
Petyr, looking at his fingernails, chuckled and offered a reason, "Yes, the North certainly doesn't have twenty thousand men, but the Riverlands do. Although their vassals aren't very loyal to the Tully Family, Ser Gregor is brave and skilled in battle, and has done many unspeakable cruel things in the Riverlands."
"Frankly, this would unite the Lords of the Riverlands."
Tyrion and Cersei both looked displeased at the Master of Coin, and she said, "Are you criticizing my father's plan, Lord Petyr!"
Littlefinger paid no mind, but replied with a smile, "No, no, I am merely explaining the reasons. My respect for Lord Tywin is certainly no less than for His Majesty the King, please believe me, Lord Hand and Your Majesty the Queen Regent."
Cersei let out a soft "hmph" and turned her gaze away.
"Regardless, I trust David's judgment."
Tyrion slapped the letter in his hand heavily onto the table.
Cersei retorted, "On what grounds? Just because his father lost ten thousand troops overnight?"
"Sister, I must remind you, Ser Stafford is our uncle, and he gave his life for the glory of the Lannister. You should show him respect, otherwise, Father will not forgive you."
At the mention of Lord Tywin, Cersei sullenly closed her mouth.
"Moreover, Ser David's ability to lead troops in battle far surpasses his father's, and his straightforward nature means he would never speak idly. This news is likely true."
After speaking, Tyrion's two eyes, one black and one green, swept over the Master of Whisperers, the Master of Coin, the Queen Regent, the Archmaester, the Kingsguard, and the Commander of the City Watch, hoping to gain even a little support.
He believed that those present absolutely understood that the crisis had already transformed into a blade, pressed against their necks.
More accurately, it was pressed against the neck of the Lannister.
Only at this moment, everyone was engrossed in their own affairs.
Cersei was emotional, muttering useless words like "May that wolf pup be taken by the gods."
Tyrion shook his head; if curses could kill, then the first to die would likely be his detestable sister!
Look at the foolish things she had done!
Petyr looked up at the ceiling of the council chamber, lost in thought.
Varys remained silent, seemingly deep in contemplation.
Archmaester Pycelle, always muddled, awoke from his doze and broke the silence, saying, "Then… then Lord Hand, what do you wish for us to do?"
Tyrion looked at the hypocritical old man before him, his heart filled with disgust.
He knew that this old man, whose face was covered in age spots and whose hair and beard were completely white, could even fight three hundred rounds with a prostitute in bed, but now that it was time for serious business, he looked half-asleep.
"Yes, Archmaester Pycelle, if you open your eyes, I hope you can help me send this letter to Sunspear as quickly as possible."
Tyrion pulled two letters from his bosom, placed them on the table, and said, "One to send, one for backup."
"Very well, very well."
Archmaester Pycelle stood up shakily and took both letters.
At this moment, Petyr seemed to have lost interest in the lavishly decorated ceiling. He smiled and looked at Tyrion, saying, "Lord Hand, do you mean to seek the support of Dorne?"
Littlefinger's eyes narrowed slightly, his expression like a mouse that had caught the scent of cheese.
"Why not? Dorne has long-standing grievances with the Reach and the Stormlands, with countless large and small wars over the millennia. Since the House Tyrell supports Renly, Dorne will most likely choose to stand with the Iron Throne."
Tyrion stated his plan.
Cersei, who had been silent, slowly turned her head and looked over.
She glared at Tyrion with ill intent, a bad premonition already forming in her heart, and asked urgently, "Then what is the price? What price must we pay to make Prince Doran Martell cast aside old hatreds and stand with us?"
Everyone knew that the Lannister's loyal dog had raped and murdered Princess Elia Martell of Dorne.
Such hatred could not be forgotten with time.
Even Cersei understood this truth.
"My idea is to betroth Myrcella to Your Grace Trystane Martell, then invite Prince Doran Martell to King's Landing as a guest, offering him a seat on the Small Council—I believe the Master of Laws position is still vacant—and finally, hand over the murderer of Princess Elia to give the Martell a just trial."
Tyrion rattled off all his arrangements in one breath, then sighed regretfully.
He had originally intended to use this information to enact a small scheme and find out who on the Small Council was his sister's accomplice, but now the situation was urgent, and there was no time for such petty tricks.
Upon hearing such arrangements, Cersei shrieked and stood up.
"You hateful maggot, you abomination fit for the Seven Hells, you are utterly mad!"
"Oh, Seven Gods, Myrcella is only nine years old! She is my only daughter, and I will absolutely not let you sell her off like a beast."
Looking at his sister, who resembled a shrew, Tyrion said with a grin, "Old sister, if you can't give up Myrcella, then you must give up yourself, Joffrey, Tommen, Jaime, Father, me, and everyone in this city loyal to the Iron Throne."
"Once Stannis or Renly break through the city gates, all our heads will be impaled on the walls of the Red Keep, just like Eddard Stark's before."
"And it will be glorified in the Seven Kingdoms under the name of justice."
"I don't care!"
Cersei's eyes were filled with disgust, and she paid no heed to anything else, cursing in a sharp voice, "Then you useless wretch, think of other ways to defeat those enemies, kill them all, instead of putting your twisted thoughts on your family!"
Cersei, herself a victim of a political marriage, vehemently opposed this plan.
"I don't have any other way either."
Tyrion spread his hands, his expression more helpless than a cook with no ingredients.
"Useless, all useless! You cannot do this! If Jaime were here, he would never allow you to do this."
Cersei shrieked and lunged at Tyrion, waving her long-nailed fingers as if to scratch his already ugly face, but was stopped by the iron hand of Jacelyn Bywater, Commander of the City Watch.
"Your Majesty, please maintain the dignity befitting a Queen Regent."
Looking at the stiff, rigid face before her, Cersei glared fiercely at Tyrion, then sat back down, two silent streams of tears flowing from her eyes.
Cersei understood that if her father knew about this, he would most likely agree.
Beside her, Meryn Trant of the Kingsguard also loosened his grip on his sword hilt.
"Your Majesty, please calm your anger. If you ask me, the Lord Hand's strategy is quite brilliant. Prince Martell will absolutely not trouble Princess Myrcella, and there is a very high probability that he will be willing to visit King's Landing. If the two Lords do not mind, I am willing to go to Dorne as an envoy to negotiate."
"Littlefinger" Petyr Baelish's eyes gleamed with a thirst for power.
If this matter succeeded, the credit would certainly be substantial.
"No need, Lord Petyr, I hope you can prepare to receive Prince Martell in advance; everything must be grand enough."
Tyrion refused Littlefinger's request, ignoring his sister's curses of "You made a decision without my consent, this is absolutely invalid, you damned scoundrel," and continued to Petyr, "If you have time, I would like to ask you to make a trip to the Vale."
Petyr's expression stiffened, and he said, "My Lord, the first matter is no problem, but for the second, please allow me to refuse, because no one can persuade Lysa Tully to oppose Riverrun. Kinslaying is an act abhorred by all, and the stubborn vassals of the Vale would never agree."
Regarding impossible matters, Littlefinger spoke with absolute certainty, without hesitation.
"What if their target is Baratheon? I can appoint her child as Warden of the East and investigate the murder of Jon Arryn, giving justice to her and her son."
Petyr still shook his head.
What justice? The previous King's Hand, Jon Arryn, was poisoned by Lysa Tully at his instigation.
As for other conditions.
In the Vale, although he had some influence, at such a chaotic time, Littlefinger would not put all his eggs in the Lannister basket.
Unless the Iron Throne was willing to send Tommen Baratheon to the Eyrie as an adopted son.
With King Joffrey having no heirs, Tommen was the first in line of succession to the Iron Throne.
This hostage was precious enough.
Unfortunately, Tyrion had never had this idea, and seeing Petyr's swift refusal, he temporarily abandoned the plan to win over the Vale.
He nodded reluctantly, indicating he understood, then said to the Master of Whisperers, who had remained silent, "Lord Varys, I hope that during this period, you can pay attention to the roads leading to Sunspear and find a safe sea route or land route, to facilitate the future transfer of Princess Myrcella."
Varys nodded; this was the Master of Whisperers' duty.
After everything was arranged, Tyrion jumped down from the tall chair in the council chamber and said, "My Lords, if there is nothing else, please allow me to take my leave. I still have matters to attend to."
"What matters?" Cersei asked subconsciously.
"Sister, that is none of your business."
"None of my business? You big men just tried to sell my only daughter to Dorne, and now you say it's none of my business?"
"Alright, I'm preparing a gift for Joffrey. It might come in handy in the upcoming battles. Consider it a surprise."
"What is it?!"
Tyrion smiled and did not elaborate.
Cersei looked at her brother suspiciously, then turned her head and no longer insisted. The King's Hand bowed, then wobbled away.
His legs were not good, so he couldn't walk very steadily.
...
Looking at the tall, sturdy city walls before him, Edward took a bowl of broth and gulped it down.
At this moment, he was staying at a safe distance, directing several teams of archers to supervise the captive Westerlands commoners digging trenches below the city walls.
He did not truly intend to attack this port city.
However, to make Ser David on the walls believe this, a show was necessary.
More than a week ago, Robb Stark ordered his army to build a massive camp, capable of accommodating 20,000 men, not far to the southeast of Lannisport.
Then, following Edward's suggestion, they prepared banners of various Houses in the forest beforehand.
On the first day, eight thousand cavalry escorted nearly three thousand captives to build the camp, creating a grand spectacle, as if afraid the enemy on the walls wouldn't see them.
When night fell.
Two thousand cavalry, led by Brendan Blackwell, stealthily slipped out of the camp under black cloaks and rested briefly in the forest.
Until the next morning, they shed their cloaks, then carried the pre-prepared banners and swaggered back.
The first banners to appear were from the North.
Umber Family, House Carter, Manderly Family, House Mormont, House Hornwood.
After that came the various lords of the Riverlands.
Mellister family, House Piper, House Frey, House Blackwood.
Their banners took turns appearing outside the Northern camp, as if each House truly had one to two thousand infantry, entering the Westerlands via a secret path and arriving outside Lannisport.
In this way, eight thousand cavalry plus nearly three thousand captives, using a bluffing technique, disguised themselves as over twenty thousand men.