The heavy wooden doors of the council chamber swung shut behind him, cutting off the faint murmurs from the gallery.
Tyrion waddled on his short legs, his gaze sweeping across the far end of the long table; the King's seat was occupied by his sister, while Joffrey was likely on some terrace practicing with his crossbow on living targets.
But the seat originally right next to the King, the one belonging to the hand of the king, was empty.
That high-backed chair had been deliberately removed.
Tyrion only let out a barely audible scoff from his nose, showing no sign of surprise or annoyance.
He didn't even stop walking, heading straight for the place where spare chairs were lined up against the wall on one side of the room.
He picked out an ordinary oak chair and dragged it over.
The wooden legs scraped against the stone floor, making a harsh noise that was exceptionally clear in the silent hall.
He dragged the chair to the other end of the massive council table as if no one else were there, sitting directly opposite Cersei, and then scrambled up to seat himself.
At this height, he could just barely see over the edge of the thick tabletop to see everyone's face on the opposite side, especially Cersei's.
"You certainly know how to pick a spot for yourself," Cersei said, her tone sharp and her eyes like poisoned needles stabbing at Tyrion without concealment.
Tyrion adjusted his sitting position in the oversized chair to make himself more comfortable, then spread his hands with a relaxed expression, even carrying a bit of a punchable, provocative air.
"What else should I do, my dear sister? Have me stand? There's no chair..." His gaze swept across the ministers on both sides of the long table, some sitting upright and others intentionally avoiding his eyes.
"When you tall people sit at the table, who can see me across this damned tabletop? Do I have to jump onto the table every time I want to speak? That wouldn't be very respectful to this antique table."
"Enough with the lip!"
Cersei leaned forward abruptly, her hands pressed against the smooth tabletop until her knuckles turned white, her voice low but trembling with agitation.
"Stannis has been reduced to ashes! Not even a scrap remains! The next one to be swallowed by that bastard's dragonfire will be us! King's Landing! Red Keep! And your disgusting dwarf head!"
"Then I very much look forward to your brilliant insights, Your Majesty the Queen Regent," Tyrion said with a slight nod, even forcing a smile that looked quite innocent.
"All the people of King's Landing—no, all the surviving loyal subjects of the Seven Kingdoms—are likely holding their breath, waiting to hear your brilliant plan to turn the tide."
He made an exaggerated "after you" gesture.
Cersei's chest heaved violently as she took a deep breath, as if transforming all her fear and rage into a resolute madness, and then, word by word, she clearly and coldly spat out her "brilliant plan."
"Lock down the entire city!"
The hall fell silent instantly. Even Grand Maester Pycelle's drooping eyelids seemed to twitch.
A desperate light flickered in Cersei's eyes as she looked around at everyone, her voice rising: "Outside the city! Every village, dock, granary, and workshop is to be burned to the ground! Every person and animal is to be withdrawn into King's Landing! Not a single grain of food, a single drop of clean water, or a single roof where his army can rest will be left for that dragon!"
She tapped her finger heavily on the table. "I want him to arrive at King's Landing and see only scorched earth! A lonely city! Let's see how long he can maintain a siege! Let's see if his tens of thousands can fly over our heightened walls!"
"Burn it all..." someone subconsciously murmured.
Tyrion rested his chin on one hand, tilting his head as if seriously pondering an extremely interesting and complex riddle.
He sighed softly, the sound exceptionally clear in the silence.
"Sister," he began, his tone almost gentle, but there was not a hint of a smile in his mismatched eyes, "this plan of yours... is truly filled with our signature Lannister decisiveness."
He paused, his gaze slowly sweeping over the ministers whose faces were beginning to turn pale.
"Decisive enough... that it only takes one fire to burn away what little patience and fear the hundreds of thousands of people inside and outside King's Landing have left for us, leaving nothing but ash."
Varys coughed very lightly at the right moment, raising a pale, fat hand to cover his mouth.
Petyr Baelish lowered his eyelids, focusing on his neatly trimmed fingernails as if he could see the patterns of golden dragons on them, perfectly masking the fleeting amusement and derision in his eyes.
Tyrion acted as if he hadn't noticed these subtle reactions, continuing in his slow, analytical tone.
"Think about it; the farmers, craftsmen, merchants, and fishermen outside the city... they didn't provoke anyone, just working hard every day for a few copper coins and a bite to eat."
"Waking up to find their homes burned to the ground by the Soldiers of the king they serve, their years of savings, winter stores, and livelihoods all gone. Then being driven like cattle into this already overcrowded city where prices are skyrocketing and which is about to be besieged by a dragon and an army..."
He leaned forward slightly, his voice low but like a cold awl, striking Cersei and everyone else's heart word by word.
"Do you think they will be moved to tears of gratitude and then grab their hoes and kitchen knives to help us defend to the death this city that has left them with nothing?"
"Or will they, in the dead of night, or when that dragon actually flies here... rush to open a gate in the wall and kneel to welcome the true dragon who might bring them a new home and a new order?"
He leaned back in his chair and concluded, "Scorched earth defense has always been a tactic for the stronger power to deal with a weaker enemy deep in their territory..."
He spread his hands in a helpless gesture.
"And right now, we are not the strong ones, sister. We are wild beasts trapped in a cage, with a dragon outside baring its teeth and claws. Your fire isn't to ward off the enemy; you're clearing the last obstacle to the enemy's rule... the hearts of the people."
"You are helping them, forcing everyone outside the city who might be hesitating or watching to become either our mortal enemies or their submissive subjects."
"Then you tell me what to do!" Cersei slammed the table so hard that a gilded wine cup jumped, spilling wine onto the polished surface.
"Are we just supposed to sit here, doing nothing, waiting for that dragon to fly to the spires of Red Keep and breathe fire into our bedroom windows?! Waiting for those Targaryen dogs to smash open the city gates and drag us out one by one to be hanged?! To just sit and wait for death?!"
"Of course, waiting for death won't do," Tyrion said, the last trace of a joke vanishing from his face as his tone turned somber.
"But we can't stab ourselves in the heart before the enemy has even swung their sword, and then expect the enemy to be frightened off by our decisiveness."
He held up a finger. "First, open the granaries; at least let the people flooding into the city and the poor devils already here have something to eat. Only when people have full bellies do they have the strength, and the slightest possibility, of standing on our side—even if only for their next meal."
"Second, the walls. Continue reinforcing them, day and night. Use every stone and piece of wood available. Even if it just makes the walls look a bit higher and thicker, so King's Landing looks a bit less like a lamb waiting in a pen to have its throat slit, it might slightly boost... well, should I say morale, or our own self-deceiving courage?"
He paused, turning his gaze toward Varys and Petyr.
"Third, and most crucial right now, we need allies. Real allies who can bring armies and food, not more mouths crowding into the city to be fed."
Varys looked up, his expression perfectly questioning. "My lord refers to...?"
"Highgarden."
Tyrion spoke those two words clearly. "House Tyrell will not wait on the sidelines forever. Their the golden rose only ever blooms in the victor's garden."
"They are holding their ground now, not out of loyalty to anyone, but simply waiting for the highest bidder."
Petyr raised a question at the right time, his brow slightly furrowed in apparent concern. "But my lord, if I may be so bold, anyone with eyes can see that we... are at a disadvantage."
"That dragon and his Fleet have great momentum. Will House Tyrell choose to stand with us? The risk seems quite high."
"That depends on what kind of chips we are willing and able to put on the table," Tyrion said with great certainty.
"I believe that as long as we give enough, House Tyrell will choose to be the head of a chicken rather than the tail of a phoenix. They are as wealthy as a kingdom and have fine Soldiers and ample grain; what they've always lacked isn't strength, but..."
He turned his gaze toward Cersei, whose face was livid at the head of the table, and said slowly:
"But rather a sufficiently noble bloodline and an unshakable reputation to match. They have always dreamed of marrying the the golden rose into a true royal family."
Meeting Cersei's suddenly icy gaze, he clearly and unmistakably voiced the proposal that had been circling in many minds but which no one dared touch:
"As it happens, His Majesty King Joffrey still lacks a queen of equal status."
"Enough!!!"
Cersei stood up abruptly, the high-backed chair behind her scraping against the floor with a harsh screech.
She leaned forward, hands braced on the table, her blonde curls trembling slightly with rage, her spiteful eyes staring intensely at him as if at a cockroach that had to be crushed immediately.
"I called this meeting to deal with that bastard who crawled back from the Narrow Sea! To deal with that dragon that belongs in hell! Not to listen to a... a dwarf! Giving me orders about my son's marriage!"
"A royal marriage is not for you to meddle in! Much less for you to use my son's bed for your filthy political deals!"
Her roar echoed between the stone walls.
The ministers lowered their heads deeply, eyes to nose, nose to heart.
Grand Maester Pycelle's head hung even lower, his breathing long and slow, as if his soul had already drifted away, completely removing himself from the internal strife between these Lannister siblings.
"A royal marriage?" Tyrion repeated the words softly, his tone carrying a strange calm, even a hint of pity.
He was not intimidated by Cersei's outburst; instead, he sat up slightly straighter.
"Sister," his voice wasn't loud, but it reached everyone's ears with exceptional clarity, "you don't seem to fully understand. Joffrey's marriage is no longer about which pretty face he likes, or which noble lady's bed you favor."
He paused, his gaze slowly sweeping across those bowed heads, as if forcing them to listen.
"It is now the key to whether the walls of King's Landing can be built higher, whether the kingdom's troops can be increased, whether the treasury can last longer, and whether the lives of all of us—including you, including me, including everyone here, and the hundreds of thousands outside crowded in the city—can be saved!"
His voice remained steady, but carried an undeniable power:
"I am not giving orders. I am simply telling you a cold hard fact: if you want to survive, if you want to keep your son's iron throne—even if only for a little while longer—you must have the the golden rose of Highgarden bloom on our side."
"This is the only choice; there is no second path."
Cersei's chest heaved violently, her face turning from livid to flushed red, her lips trembling, but for a moment she was left speechless by Tyrion.
Anger burned in her eyes, but it also seemed mixed with a hint of panic at having her vital point struck.
Tyrion, seeing this, knew the timing was right.
He stopped pressing and leaned forward slightly, hands folded on the table, finally tossing out the specific countermeasure he had long considered for the greatest crisis at hand.
"However, an alliance with Highgarden is a long-term plan that needs time to negotiate." He changed the subject.
"For now, we indeed should first resolve the imminent crisis... that dragon, and its Fleet."
"We can't have ourselves burned to cinders by dragonfire, or struck into ash by that rumored golden thunder, before the reinforcements from Highgarden arrive."
He looked back at Cersei, his gaze calm:
"Since your strategy of clearing the fields and defending a lone city won't work, and a head-on battle with the enemy is like striking a stone with an egg—self-destruction..."
He paused to ensure everyone's attention was focused, then said clearly and calmly, one word at a time:
"Then, we are left with only one path."
"Negotiation."
"Not surrender, not a submissive show of weakness to sue for peace."
"It is contact, it is testing the waters, it is playing for time, it is buying ourselves enough precious time to win over Highgarden, to contact The Vale which might still be watching from the sidelines, to reinforce every section of the wall, to stockpile every grain of food, to..."
He paused meaningfully, his gaze sweeping over Cersei, as he slowly spat out the last half-sentence:
"...to wait for our Lord Tywin to extract himself from the quagmire of Harrenhal. Let him deal with that dragon, and everything behind it."
Hearing the word "negotiation," Cersei was first stunned, as if she hadn't heard correctly.
Then, an expression mixing absurdity, rage, and extreme contempt appeared on her face, as if she had heard the most ridiculous and cowardly joke in the world, and she began to sneer sharply:
"Negotiation?!"
Her voice was shrill and distorted with excitement:
"You want our people to leave the safety of the walls and deliver themselves to that bastard's doorstep? What do you think? Do you think that Targaryen remnant will sit down with you over wine to chat about the weather and taxes just because you sent an eloquent envoy?!"
"He will only use a breath of dragonfire to burn the poor wretch you send, along with the last bit of our Lannister dignity, into a pile of ash that scatters with the wind!"
She suddenly pointed at Tyrion, her fingertip trembling with force:
"This isn't negotiation! This is sending people to feed the dragon! You want to use other people's blood to prove how absurd your submissive theory is!"
A suppressed commotion rose in the hall again.
Although many feared Cersei, they also harbored great doubt and fear regarding "negotiation."
The tragic state of the waters outside Dragonstone had long been painted as a divine punishment through various channels.
Tyrion was in no hurry to retort, nor did he get angry.
He just waited quietly for Cersei to finish venting, until her shrill voice echoed off the stone walls and gradually subsided.
He even had the leisure to lightly tap the smooth tabletop with his knuckles, making a soft thud-thud sound, his gaze calmly sweeping over the faces filled with terror, doubt, or deep thought.
When the noise in the hall subsided slightly, he finally spoke slowly, his tone even carrying a hint of perfectly timed, irritating banter:
"Who told you that my so-called 'negotiation' means having our people take a small boat to Dragonstone, kneel before that dragon lord, and present a letter of surrender with both hands, begging for his magnanimity?"
He slightly raised one eyebrow.
"Dear sister, I may be short, but I'm not so stupid as to... use someone else's head to feed that ravenous, man-burning dragon of your imagination."
"Furthermore, I believe that dragon lord probably isn't that interested in roasted human flesh—at least not as a primary interest."
Varys looked up at the right moment, a perfectly timed look of confusion and curiosity on his round face: "Then what does My Lord mean... how should this negotiation proceed?"
Tyrion leaned forward slightly, his voice lowered, yet ensuring every word reached everyone's ears clearly:
"We don't talk at Dragonstone, not on his turf, not surrounded by his Fleet."
"We demand that he send a representative of equal status to a middle ground between our spheres of influence... for example, a place like Raventree Hall. To meet, to talk, to exchange terms."
"Using the ancient and sacred guest right as the most basic guarantee."
"As long as he sets foot on the agreed neutral ground, as long as he accepts bread and salt, then at least for the duration of the meeting, he is bound."
"This might not completely stop him from turning hostile, but it would at least increase the cost and public pressure of doing so, so our people aren't burned to ash the moment they show their faces."
His gaze became sharp, and his voice grew clearer, calmer, and more calculating:
"What we want has never been a hollow negotiation document or an unrealistic peace."
"What we want is time."
"As long as he is willing to sit down and talk with us for one day, we have one more day to build the walls of King's Landing a foot higher."
"As long as he is willing to waste ten days or half a month on back-and-forth bickering and a long, drawn-out negotiation, we have ten days or half a month to persuade the roses of Highgarden, to contact that little hawk in The Eyrie who hasn't left the nest, and to quietly twist all the forces we can unite into a single rope."
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