Tyrion Lannister admired the grandeur of the Tower of the Hand, yet the responsibilities that came with it weighed heavily on him.
He was dressed in black velvet, fastened with golden lion-head clasps. Around his neck hung a chain of linked golden hands, each finger clasping the next wrist. Podrick draped a crimson silk cloak over his shoulders, trimmed in gold and specially tailored to fit his smaller frame. On another man, it would have looked absurdly short.
These were matters of life and death for House Lannister, yet Tyrion's thoughts wandered to the innkeeper of the Crossroads Inn—her dried corpse swinging from a rope like dead brush in the wind.
As Hand of the King, he had to focus on what mattered most, ignoring the lesser problems. Unfortunately, everything now seemed important.
"Your father won a great victory at the Trident," Bronn said casually.
"A great victory?" Tyrion snorted. "Perhaps it sounds grand enough for songs in King's Landing. But what did it truly achieve? It was a Pyrrhic victory."
He paced slowly.
"Anyone with sense will soon learn that among the dead of the northern host, only old Rickard Karstark perished. Maege Mormont escaped, and most of the others killed were old men, cripples, and second sons. Winter wolves—men eager to die in battle. They charged the river crossings, failed to force them, and died gladly."
He shook his head.
"And after facing those sacrifices, my father crawled back to Harrenhal."
Bronn shrugged. "A victory is still a victory. It lifts spirits."
"For now," Tyrion replied. "But the Storm Lord grows more dangerous with every campaign. Three victories already, perhaps preparing a fourth. The boy understands war—ambushes, deception, hard strikes. But his real gift is fortifying his position and striking when least expected."
The winter wolves had only been bait. The real question was how long the enemy would remain entrenched while continuing to gather strength.
"We can worry about that later," Bronn said. "For now, Stannis and Renly are nearer threats."
Tyrion nodded reluctantly. "Even a bitter victory can be useful if sung loudly enough."
He entered the Hand's private audience chamber. It was smaller than the throne room, but Tyrion preferred it. The Myrish carpets, rich wall hangings, and enclosed warmth made it feel less like a court and more like a place where power could be exercised quietly.
The steward announced loudly:
"Lord Hand Tyrion Lannister!"
Tyrion sat in the high chair and allowed himself a small smile. Once, as the king's uncle, he had mattered only when convenient. Now Joffrey rarely attended council, leaving Tyrion to shoulder the kingdom's burdens.
Power, he thought, truly did reside where men believed it did.
Soon the steward announced another arrival.
"The High Septon, voice of the Seven!"
The man waddled into the chamber with solemn dignity. He was broad and heavy, dressed in flowing white robes, wearing a jeweled crystal crown that scattered rainbow light with every movement.
Tyrion studied him.
Fat, gilded, and hollow.
"The gods bless you, Lord Tyrion," said the High Septon warmly.
"And bless us all, poor suffering lambs," Tyrion replied with equal politeness.
"I regret the bloodshed at the Great Sept," Tyrion began. "What happened there should never have occurred."
He already knew Joffrey had ordered the execution on impulse. Janos Slynt had merely obeyed.
The High Septon sighed deeply.
"Blood spilled in the Great Sept of Baelor is an insult to the gods. Yet our king is but a child. The gods are merciful and will forgive youthful folly."
You are generous when cowards bleed instead of you, Tyrion thought.
"You are gracious indeed," Tyrion said aloud.
The priest launched into a sermon about kindness, charity, prayer, and the burdens of rule. Tyrion endured it with practiced patience.
Finally, he interrupted.
"If you listen to the streets, Your High Holiness, you will hear that King's Landing cries from hunger."
"Because men are sinful, they suffer," the High Septon declared. "Such trials are the will of the gods."
"Bread would be more useful than prayer," Tyrion said dryly. "If the people starve, they will stop caring for gods and kings alike."
The priest spread his jeweled hands.
"They are unfortunate souls, yes. But their lives are as grass before the divine order."
Meaning he would spend nothing.
Tyrion forced a smile.
"Surely the Faith wishes to aid its devoted followers?"
The High Septon leaned forward.
"The late King Robert borrowed many golden dragons from the Faith. Arranged, I believe, through Lord Baelish. We are not rich in coin, nor stores. In truth, we are still waiting for repayment."
"Littlefinger," Tyrion muttered.
That name seemed to hide behind every locked door in the kingdom.
Still, he could not afford open conflict with the Faith.
The priest continued.
"However… many devout men and women still give alms at the Sept. Some modest portion of those offerings might be redirected."
At last.
"You are most charitable," Tyrion said.
It was little enough to matter, but symbols fed loyalty nearly as well as grain.
When the High Septon departed, Tyrion remained alone.
He reviewed the board before him.
Varys still cooperated—for now.
Littlefinger smiled too easily and caused no open trouble.
Bronn gave him muscle, and the hill tribes provided a small but fierce force.
Janos Slynt had been removed. In his place stood Jacelyn Bywater, a harder and more trustworthy commander of the City Watch.
Cersei had hated that decision, which made it likely the correct one.
He had also ordered chains forged by the blacksmiths. If wildfire existed in the quantities rumored, those chains might become decisive.
Yet none of it solved the true crisis.
Grain.
The Riverlands were ravaged. The Reach waited and watched. Ships could not easily reach port. The Vale hid behind mountains and mourning.
Even with gold, food could not be conjured from empty fields.
"For now," Tyrion muttered, rubbing his temples, "we endure."
Then there were the councilors.
Varys. Littlefinger. Pycelle.
One of them was certainly feeding information to Cersei.
Perhaps all three.
He needed a trap.
He gazed out the window at the blazing red comet overhead.
Then another thought came.
Myrcella.
He would never surrender Tommen, second in line and too valuable as a safeguard.
But Myrcella could be married.
To the Reach, Dorne, or the Vale.
Each alliance might bring soldiers, food, or security.
And if he gave each councilor different information about her destination, whichever tale reached Cersei would reveal the spy.
Tyrion smiled grimly.
At last, a move worth making.
Night covered King's Landing in black velvet.
But the city did not sleep.
"Bread! Bread!"
The cry rose first from Flea Bottom, then spread through the streets like fire through dry brush.
Doors slammed shut in richer districts. Merchants barred windows. Grain now cost more than swords.
The hungry gathered in swelling numbers—beggars, refugees, laborers, widows, thieves, children with hollow eyes.
They surged toward the Red Keep.
War had driven thousands into the capital. Many survived through robbery, prostitution, or murder. Now even that failed.
One starving man was nothing.
Thousands together were a flood.
"We want bread, King Joffrey!"
"We want bread!"
"Bread from the Queen Mother!"
"Bread from the little monkey Hand!"
The chants thundered through the streets.
Inside the Red Keep, alarm bells rang. Soldiers rushed to the walls.
The sudden chaos created gaps in the castle's security.
And Sansa Stark noticed.
With guards drawn away, she slipped quietly through shadowed corridors, avoiding spying servants and prying eyes.
Her heart pounded.
The note she had found still burned in her memory.
If you wish to go home, come to the godswood tonight.
Was it a trap?
Or salvation?
Had the gods finally answered her prayers?
Perhaps a noble knight meant to rescue her. Ser Balon Swann? One of the Redwyne twins? Some hidden champion of songs and stories?
Clutching hope like a candle in darkness, she hurried toward the godswood.
Meanwhile, in the stables, King Joffrey raged.
"These insects dare shout outside my walls?"
"If they are hungry, let them find bakers!"
"Do they think the Red Keep is an inn?"
He stamped his foot.
"Bring my armor!"
Servants rushed to obey. Kingsguard knights helped fasten gleaming red plate over him.
"And my sword! My crossbow!"
Then he frowned.
"Where is the Hound?"
No one answered.
Sandor Clegane was likely drinking somewhere, and none dared say it.
Unable to wait, Joffrey stormed to the battlements under escort.
Below him stretched a dark sea of ragged faces.
"King Joffrey! We want bread!"
"We heard of wedding feasts! Spare us scraps!"
"Feed your people!"
Their desperation only enraged him further.
"This is what I give you!"
He raised his crossbow and fired.
The bolt struck a man in the throat.
Blood sprayed. The man collapsed without a sound.
Joffrey grinned.
At last, a target larger than kittens.
"Tyrant!" screamed a barefoot woman below.
She hurled a stone upward.
Joffrey snarled and fired again. This time the bolt tore through her arm. She shrieked and fled.
"Loose arrows!" he screamed.
Archers obeyed.
A rain of shafts fell into the crowd.
Panic exploded.
People scattered in every direction, trampling one another in terror.
Several bodies remained in the street.
Yet even fleeing, the people still cursed him.
"Monster!"
"The gods see you!"
"The red comet burns for your doom!"
"Spawn of sin!"
"May a true warrior kill this tyrant!"
Stones clattered harmlessly against the walls.
"What are they shouting?" Joffrey demanded.
No one answered.
He fired wildly into the darkness, shrieking:
"Come back! I'll have your heads!"
No guards moved to pursue.
Even trained soldiers knew better than to charge desperate mobs.
Starving men feared nothing.
From an upper window nearby, Petyr Baelish watched everything unfold.
He smiled and applauded softly.
"Excellent."
He had known unrest was brewing.
He had encouraged it where possible.
King's Landing was now a furnace packed with dry timber.
All it needed was the right spark.
The foolish king supplied plenty of sparks.
The people supplied rage.
And chaos, Littlefinger knew, was a ladder.
He watched the mob dissolve into alleys and darkness.
Then he smiled to himself.
How might he profit from the fire to come?
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