The study of the Hand of the King.
"Is that all?" Tyrion asked, glancing over the list on the table before looking at Qyburn seated across from him.
"Yes, my lord," Qyburn replied respectfully. "Lord Petyr Baelish proved no hard nut to crack. These are the assets he confessed to before I even resorted to torture."
Tyrion counted on his fingers—three brothels, a few warehouses.
"Everyone in King's Landing knows these belong to Lord Baelish. It's far too little," he said. "Our dear Littlefinger is a slippery one. When I return, I'll see to it that his little finger gets plucked."
"Isn't that how interrogations go? Beat first, ask later."
"You're well-practiced, my lord," Qyburn said with a bow. "I assumed perhaps you meant to keep him alive."
"Not in the slightest," Tyrion replied. "My only goal is to squeeze him dry—down to the last drop."
"As you command, my lord."
"Any letters from Tarbeck Hall?"
"Yes, my lord." Qyburn bowed again and produced a sealed letter. "I've read it. The message from Casterly Rock reports that repairs on Tarbeck Hall are over eighty percent complete, and production can soon resume."
Tyrion took the letter and skimmed it as he spoke. "No need to continue the repairs. Send the mountain clans to Castamere instead. I want its mineral resources working again."
Castamere, near The Crag and Tarbeck Hall, held rich gold veins. It had once belonged to House Reyne, vassals of the West. The Reynes had been wiped out by Tywin Lannister after daring to defy their liege. Since then, Castamere had been flooded and left to ruin.
Even with gold, distant wealth wouldn't solve immediate problems. The coin he'd scraped together with his clever tricks might cover some extravagance, but royal expenses were a bottomless pit.
Why did I ever agree to this? Tyrion rubbed his temples, irritated by the hammering of metal outside. What options remained? From a modern man's point of view—
Salt and iron monopolies? Impossible. Agricultural expansion? That would take years to yield results. Distant water doesn't quench present thirst.
Taxation?
Tax whom? Prostitutes? They'd comply easily enough—but Littlefinger's brothels now belonged to him, which meant he'd be taxing himself.
"Forget it, Qyburn," Tyrion said, rising from his chair. "Deal with Castamere first. I'll think of something else."
Maybe another loan from the Iron Bank? It'd go on the crown's account anyway.
Or perhaps raise every minor tax just a little—not much, a few coppers each. But with enough categories, even small amounts would pile up nicely.
He left the Tower of the Hand and stepped into the Red Keep's courtyard, where familiar faces awaited.
Lancel Lannister stood there, gleaming in armor of pale gold, its surface painted with a proud golden lion. In his hand, he held a long sword—slender and razor-sharp—its edge catching the sunlight with a cold glint.
It was a new set of armor, crafted by his father—Tyrion's uncle, Kevan Lannister—as a reward for his son's valor during the Battle of the Blackwater.
Perhaps I should borrow a bit from him.
Opposite Lancel stood Bronn, clad in dark bronze scale armor, its surface etched with the small scars of battle—a record of victory and survival from the same war.
He wielded a one-handed sword, not heavy, but every swing cut through the air with a low hum. His other hand gripped a round shield.
A deep horn sounded. The sparring began.
Lancel moved first, stepping forward in a fluid motion. His sword carved an elegant arc toward Bronn's shoulder, graceful yet precise, almost like a dance.
Bronn stood his ground, raising his sword to block the blow with unshakable steadiness. Using the force of the clash, he countered instantly—his blade flashing across Lancel's chest. It didn't strike the armor, but the sheer sharpness of his movement carried a chill that needed no contact.
They traded blows, blade against blade, the courtyard echoing with the clang of steel. Their movements alternated between swift as wind and solid as stone. Sweat rolled down their foreheads, splattering against the dry ground.
After several long exchanges, they finally noticed Tyrion standing nearby, quietly watching.
"Cousin—no, Lord Tyrion." Lancel hurried over.
"We're alone, there's no need for titles," Tyrion said, eyeing his cousin's new armor. "Very fine."
"Thank you, cousin," Lancel replied.
"Ah, Bronn!" Tyrion turned, as if recalling something. "Has the Blackwater battlefield been cleared?"
"Long ago," Bronn said. "Armor, weapons, clothing—all taken. Broken planks were hauled off by the poor to build shacks, drowned horses butchered for meat. Everything of value, except the bodies, was stripped clean."
"The riverbanks, the shores, the forest—we searched them three times over," Lancel added. "Nothing's left."
"There's one place they haven't searched," Tyrion said, grinning slyly. "And I'd wager the best spoils are there."
"Where?"
"The riverbed."
Bronn barked a laugh, sliding his sword back into its sheath. "Sharp thinking, Lust Demon. You drowned ten thousand men—most of the loot's down there. Armor and steel, all rusting away on the bottom of the Blackwater."
"What a waste," Tyrion said. "No one's tried salvaging it?"
"No," Lancel said, shaking his head. "Who'd dive into the river for spoils? Certainly not the Gold Cloaks."
"Knights won't either," Bronn added. "Nor mercenaries. What about the mountain clans?"
"They won't," Tyrion said. "But someone will—the starving folk who live along the banks outside the city."
"True enough," Bronn nodded. "They'd risk their lives for it. But if they bring anything up, the guards seize it, tell them the spoils belong to the soldiers. Who'd bother after that?"
"We can't let all that rot at the bottom," Tyrion said. "I'll give those people the right to salvage it. I need the coin."
"Good idea," Bronn said. "How do we set it up?"
"Send the poor into the river to retrieve armor, weapons, and whatever else they can find," Tyrion said after a pause. "Then have our armor dealers buy it on the spot—or send it to smiths for melting."
"Good plan."
"We'll split the profits—twenty percent to the salvagers, the rest to us," Tyrion continued. Even that much, he thought, could feed a poor family for months with a single gauntlet. "And since the merchants and smiths are our own people, they can mark it down further depending on how rusted or damaged it is."
"Twenty percent's too generous," Lancel said. "They'd fight each other to death for ten."
"I only need eighty," Tyrion said. "Any extra you squeeze out—split it with the Gold Cloaks, or whoever you like. Just make it happen. I want coin flowing back, fast."
...
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