Tyrion was pleased by the Hand's grandeur, but more troubled by the Hand's duties.
Tyrion's outer garment today was black velvet, adorned with golden lion-head clasps, and his necklace was made of solid gold hands linked together, finger to wrist.
Podrick then draped a deep red, silk, gold-trimmed cloak over him, tailored specifically for him; for an ordinary person, it would likely be considered a short cloak.
Now was a matter of life and death for the Lannisters, and Tyrion thought of the innkeeper at the Crossroads Inn, hanged, her dried corpse swaying like a tumbleweed in the wind.
As Hand, he had to prioritize the important and overlook the minor, but he also had to be personally involved in everything.
"Your father achieved a great victory at the Trident River," Bronn praised.
"A great victory? It's certainly worth trumpeting in King's Landing, but what was the result of that victory? A Pyrrhic victory.
Anyone with sense will soon realize that among the noble dead of the Northern Army, there was only Rickard, the Old Wolf; another old woman, Maege the Bear, escaped; and almost all the others who died were old men, cripples, and second sons—these were the winter wolves who tried to force their way across, and when they couldn't cross the river, they fought to the death.
And my father, after clashing with this wave of enemies, slunk back to Harrenhal," Tyrion said with a frown.
"If the storm continues to rage, it will soon surpass many people's entire military careers.
He has already achieved three victories, and I suspect he is brewing a fourth.
That boy is good at war—ambushes, sneak attacks, frontal assaults—but his specialty is fortifying defenses and striking later."
The winter wolves were just cannon fodder and a diversion, but what about the storm? Would the storm stay indefinitely at Riverrun, allowing the North to continue recruiting soldiers?
"You're right, but a victory is a victory; it can boost morale, and we should let others know of our success.
Besides, we are currently out of reach, so we can only deal with Stannis and Renly first," Bronn replied.
Tyrion nodded, "A bitter victory still has propaganda value."
Tyrion entered the Hand's reception room; today he was inviting arrogant guests.
The Hand's private reception room was much smaller than the King's, and incomparable to the Throne Room, but Tyrion liked the Myr carpets, the tapestries on the walls, and a certain intimate atmosphere within it.
As Tyrion entered, the steward announced, "Welcome, Lord Hand Tyrion Lannister!"
Tyrion felt a little lightheaded; in the past, as the King's uncle in King's Landing, he was considered a figure of some importance.
But the treatment he received then couldn't compare to the glory of being Hand; Joffrey rarely attended court, so Tyrion was busy with everything.
Perhaps this was what Varys meant by power stemming from the hearts of men, allowing a small person to cast a huge shadow.
Not long after Tyrion sat on the high seat, the steward shouted again, "Welcome, the High Septon, the Gospel of the Seven Gods on Earth!"
The short, stout High Septon also unhurriedly entered the reception room; he was advanced in years, with gray hair, and was corpulent, dressed in a pure white robe, wearing a huge jeweled crown made of gold foil and crystals that emitted a rainbow of colors with his movements.
"This fat High Septon looks so extravagant on the outside, but is like straw on the inside; he'd better not be chopped up by those commoners," Tyrion thought as he looked at the fat High Septon, but these words could not be spoken aloud.
Monks of the Faith must relinquish their family names, and the newly appointed High Septon must relinquish his secular name.
Therefore, distinguishing High Septons can be very difficult; everyone just uses nicknames, such as the fat High Septon.
"The gods bless you, Lord Tyrion," the High Septon said with a smile.
"The gods bless us all, we suffering little lambs," Tyrion also said with a smile.
"My Lord, I am very sorry about what happened last time," Tyrion first expressed his apology. "For the bloodshed in the Great Sept last time."
Tyrion already knew that the public beheading in the Great Sept of Baelor was Joffrey's impromptu decision, and Janos, the commander of the gold cloaks, was just a lackey; everyone else was unaware beforehand.
"Lord Tyrion, I'm not saying this to be critical, but shedding blood and killing in the Great Sept of Baelor is an insult to the gods above, and this matter was hidden from me, defiling the Great Sept with blood.
But what can we do when our King is a Child? For his sake as a Child, the gods will forgive him."
"You are truly too kind; I believe the world will understand your good intentions," Tyrion praised.
On religious matters, Tyrion appeased the High Septon's emotions, letting this corrupt fat man continue to be self-righteous; the foolish miser should really lose some weight.
"Goodwill is what the gods demand, and the gods also demand that we fulfill it.
We must care for all people, care for our brothers and sisters around us.
If you have leisure, you can also come to the Great Sept to worship; I see that your heavy duties have made you look weary..." The High Septon was as fat as a house, and even more pretentious and verbose than Pycelle.
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