Tyrion did not learn until the next day that the Red Keep had been harassed by a mob the night before. He had spent the night drowning in his own desires and affection. Shae's arms always made him feel much safer; she had doe-like eyes, though her breasts were not large. For that, he also had to thank the fat spider, who let Tyrion enjoy his tryst in peace.
Varys had shown Tyrion a secret passage connecting a stable to a room in Chataya's brothel. With Alayaya as his cover, Tyrion Lannister could slip out at night to visit Shae in secret.
By the time Tyrion's tryst with Shae ended, the lively drama that had unfolded at the Red Keep the previous night was already spreading through the city, along with the heroic deed of his nephew, Joff. The King had personally shot a rioter dead with a crossbow and wounded a woman as well.
"He's playing with fire," Tyrion said to Bronn on the road back to the Red Keep.
"Maybe the King thinks that makes him brave," the Sellsword said with a shrug.
Bronn now had the air of a man who had made something of himself. His black hair was neatly combed, his beard cleanly shaved, and he wore a black breastplate, looking rather like a senior officer of the City Watch. Draped from his shoulders, however, was a Lannister cloak of deep red and gold, marking him as Captain of the Men-at-Arms. It had been a gift from the Imp. "I heard he's not bad with that crossbow of his. Shot some fool dead on the spot."
"Perhaps. But this won't make anyone admire his martial valor. It only proves he's a king who can't control his temper, and a poor performer besides. Now the poor wretches of King's Landing will call him a tyrant. Next time, there'll be even more stones." Tyrion sighed. Politics was a kind of performance, and a king in particular had to learn how to put on the proper show. If Joff simply picked up a crossbow and started shooting into a mob, his troubles in King's Landing would only grow.
"The people of King's Landing aren't easy to provoke. Make them hungry, and they get very angry," Bronn said with a grin.
"And where am I supposed to find food for them? We'll just have to endure a little longer. In times like these, we also have to guard against traitors inside the city," Tyrion said helplessly.
So long as the siege of King's Landing did not end, the city's food crisis would remain. It was the fatal weakness of every commercial city. The army of the Stormlands was now marching north, and the fleet on Dragonstone might already be eager to move.
"Half the food in the city now comes from Stokeworth and Rosby. Those two places north of the Crownlands haven't been touched by the war yet." Tyrion knew King's Landing's supply situation very well. The grain being brought into the city was pitifully little, and most of it had to go to the Red Keep and the barracks. Prices for greens, bread, and fruit were soaring all at once. As for where the meat in the brown soup came from, that was a question better left unasked. Fortunately, for now, they still controlled the sea and the rivers, so there was still a little fish to be had.
"With all due respect, that won't be enough," Bronn said quietly.
Tyrion nodded. "There simply isn't a better option." The supplies transported from the two castles were limited after all. Once famine began to spread, the riots would only grow more frequent.
Thinking of that, Tyrion could not help worrying about Shae's safety. He needed to find his young lover a better hiding place. Besides Shae, there were also Cersei's children. Joff went without saying, but Prince Tommen and Princess Myrcella were also the most important bargaining chips.
"Who are you seeing first? Waiting in the Hand of the King's reception hall, or...?" Bronn asked.
"I'll go see our esteemed Grand Maester first." Tyrion cleared his throat. "Perhaps I can cadge another breakfast while I'm at it."
Before the great battle, Tyrion had to keep a firm grip on King's Landing's highest centers of power. Previously, King's Landing had been in the hands of Cersei, Old Maester Pycelle, Littlefinger, Varys, and Janos, Lord Commander of the Gold Cloaks. Now that Tyrion had removed Janos, he still had to sort out the other four. Leaving aside his dear sister, that meant three more players.
Pycelle was the one Tyrion suspected most. The old man was very likely Cersei's informant. To confirm his guess, Tyrion decided to pay the old man a visit. He knew the backgrounds of the other three chief ministers fairly well. Littlefinger's rise had begun with the recommendation of that foolish woman Lysa and the favor of Lord Jon, along with Littlefinger's gaudy skill at counting coppers, or perhaps his tricks with them. Varys had made his name even earlier. Because the Mad King trusted no one in the world, Varys had secured a place in King's Landing and had remained there ever since, an old courtier whose depths were hard to fathom. Of the three, only Littlefinger could be considered something of a newcomer.
"Only Varys," Tyrion thought. He would certainly have to meet the old man again and test the Grand Maester's true colors.
Tyrion was certain the old maester was loyal to House Lannister. He simply disliked the way the old man's loose tongue made him Cersei's informant.
Tyrion found the Old Maester in a drafty room beneath the Raven's Nest. He had prepared his little trap for him. His sister had two other children. If he gave each of them a different answer, then watched Cersei's reaction, he would know who the real traitor was.
The Old Maester invited him to dine, and the serving girls brought them boiled eggs, stewed plums, and oat porridge. "In difficult times, when many common folk have nothing to eat, I believe we should keep things simple ourselves."
"Admirable," Tyrion admitted. He looked at the old man's spotted head. His words were as false as a High Septon's, and they made Tyrion faintly uncomfortable. Still, Tyrion felt he ought to play along, so he casually cracked open a large egg.
Tyrion looked at the Grand Maester's chain. It was more than ten times heavier than an ordinary maester's, its links strung together and set with gemstones. Most of the links were gold, silver, and platinum. How rotten with luxury he is, Tyrion thought.
Tyrion went straight to the point. He needed to make use of Grand Maester Pycelle's messenger ravens. Tyrion shook the two tightly rolled sheets of parchment at his side, each sealed with wax along the edge, and set them beside the porridge.
"What might these be?"
"Letters to Doran Martell, Prince of Dorne. Two copies. The matter is of great importance, so send them with your fastest birds," Tyrion said with solemn conviction.
"I will see to it as soon as breakfast is finished," the old maester replied after a brief hesitation. Looking into the Imp's mismatched eyes, one black and one green, made him uneasy. What made him more uneasy still was the content of the letters. Relations between Dorne and the Iron Throne had never been good, and under the present circumstances, the old maester naturally wanted to see what was written in letters addressed to Martell.
"Do it now. The plums can wait. Affairs of state cannot." Tyrion glanced at the old maester's expression. The fish had taken the bait.
The Maester turned and left. A moment later, Tyrion quietly turned as well and noticed Pycelle's shelf of medicines. Any maester skilled at saving lives was likely just as skilled at poisoning them.
While the old maester was out of the room, heading to the ravens' rookery, the clumsy dwarf rose onto his toes as best he could and reached for a small, dust-covered jar placed high on a shelf. He read the label clearly, then slipped it into his sleeve.
"The King and the Queen Regent..." Everything was ready. Just as expected, the old Maester stammered when he returned. The letters bound for Dorne concerned matters of great importance, and he could not be sure whether Tyrion had informed the King and the Queen Regent.
"Joff is only a thirteen-year-old boy. I act on his behalf."
Tyrion looked at the old Maester, the answer already clear in his mind. The old fox. It was most likely him. Tyrion declined the Maester's eager hospitality and turned back toward the lower courtyard.
As Tyrion entered the lower courtyard, his misshapen legs began to ache from the stairs. The sun hung high in the sky, while the Red Comet's glow refused to be outdone, and the Red Keep had come alive with activity. Guards stood along the walls, and knights and their retainers honed their fighting skills with blunted weapons.
Tyrion found Bronn, and the two crossed the courtyard together. To match Tyrion's short legs and slow pace, the Sellsword even shortened his stride, which the Imp appreciated more than he cared to say.
"How many petitioners today?" Tyrion asked.
"More than thirty," Bronn replied. By now, he had grown numb to it. "By the way, your pet is back."
Tyrion had little patience for these people. They either came to complain or to ask for something. Only Lady Tanda Stokeworth's requests were different. Every time, she invited Tyrion to enjoy some delicacy, though her real target was the Imp himself. Lamprey pie, boar meat, venison, rich cream soup. It was naked culinary temptation.
"Lady Tanda Stokeworth?" Her family was certainly wealthy enough, but the thought of that foolish fat virgin stirred no interest in Tyrion. It was said the girl was thirty-three and still a virgin, weak, stupid, and fat. Lady Tanda believed Tyrion Lannister was the ideal husband for Lollys, and so she pestered him day after day.
They talked as they walked, and the more Bronn said, the more uncomfortable Tyrion felt. Some petitioners wanted money. Others were bakers, butchers, and greengrocers demanding protection. Then there were lords accusing Lannister men of burning, killing, and looting in the Trident, of torching castles, killing farmers, and bedding their lords' wives.
Fortunately, Tyrion had a clever head on his shoulders, so he had some idea how to deal with these matters.
Those asking for money, whether from Braavos or anywhere else, could go to Littlefinger.
As for those asking for protection, Tyrion racked his brains and settled on appeasement. During yesterday's riot, a baker had been roasted alive by the mob because, so the people said, his bread was too expensive. This was a city in famine. He could not drive all these people away, so all he could do was convince them that the King understood their suffering and would provide proper protection.
As for that poor Lord, Tyrion resolved to offer him a proper show of concern, but today he would first need to give the Lord a better room, a hot meal, and a good pair of boots.
"There's also a black brother from the Wall. The steward says he brought a jar with a rotten hand inside," Bronn said.
"I don't have time for..." Tyrion was in a hurry to reach the Tower of the Hand. As for the black brother's request, it would have to wait for another day.
As Tyrion crossed the courtyard, he also saw Cersei leaving the castle to inspect the fortifications. Naturally, the two of them traded another round of sharp words. Cersei was still displeased over the matter of that toad-faced Lord Commander of the Gold Cloaks.
...
Tyrion returned to his Tower of the Hand. Today's visitor was unusual as well: Littlefinger, the Master of Coin, Lord Petyr, a man Tyrion had been intending to deal with.
Littlefinger sat by the window in a plum-colored long-fur coat and a yellow satin cloak, gloved, languid, and elegant. Though slender, he did have a measure of good looks.
Tyrion went to the window and saw the King outside, shooting rabbits with his favorite crossbow.
"Lord Petyr, would you like something to drink first?" Tyrion looked at Littlefinger, wondering why the Master of Coin had chosen to appear at just the right time. Even if Littlefinger had not come to him, Tyrion had meant to seek him out.
"Thank you, but no." Littlefinger smiled wryly. "They say if you drink in a dwarf's company, you wake up at the Wall. I am frail enough already. Black would make me look even worse."
Tyrion understood the meaning behind his words. Everyone knew that the man closest to Janos, the Lord Commander of the Gold Cloaks, had been Littlefinger, the Master of Coin. It was Littlefinger who had introduced Janos to Cersei in the first place, and Tyrion had been the one to send the toad away. In a sense, that made this a matter of old favors and new grudges.
Tyrion sat down in his own chair, piled high with cushions. Though he hated Littlefinger and a hundred thoughts raced through his mind, Tyrion decided to stay calm. He praised Littlefinger's refined attire, and the two men exchanged another round of flattery.
At last, Tyrion mentioned the dragonbone Valyrian steel scimitar. Littlefinger drew the scimitar and looked at Tyrion as though it meant nothing. "If it interests you, I'll give it to you."
"Give it to me?" Tyrion looked at Littlefinger meaningfully. This arrogant Littlefinger not only understood, he understood that Tyrion knew he was lying. For the moment, however, moving against Littlefinger would not be wise.
Tyrion decided to speak plainly with Littlefinger. Both of them needed to see the other's bargaining chips.
Tyrion knew Littlefinger's chips: the Vale, his group of financial men, and that mad woman Lysa, who obeyed him in everything. As for Tyrion's own chips, he felt that only his niece Myrcella remained as his last option. Next came the most important part, the exchange. That was politics. Politics was a game of trades.
Tyrion knew Littlefinger's past. Once, as a foster son at Riverrun, he had been on very friendly terms with House Tully. But all of that had ended because of that duel.
"Lady Catelyn may have some slight misunderstanding about me," Tyrion said, looking at Littlefinger.
"Oh? Start at the beginning."
"Many things that had nothing to do with me have been laid at my feet," Tyrion explained. He did not know who had spread all those lies, but Littlefinger was, without question, a master of jokes and falsehoods. He had lied in King's Landing about sleeping with the Trout's two daughters. If so, then lying about Tyrion sending an assassin with a dagger to kill Bran was entirely possible as well.
"So I need to trouble you," Tyrion said, looking at Littlefinger. "Neither of Lord Hoster's daughters has any fondness for me, but the same words, coming from you, would surely sound very different."
"Oh, I would love to hear more," Littlefinger said with a smile.
"I want to restore friendship with the Starks. I will find Arya. I have already sent people to search for her."
"Searching and finding are two different things."
"That is not important. What I truly mean is that I want you to persuade Lady Lysa." Tyrion laid his cards on the table. "My friendship is very generous. I can offer a handsome gift."
Littlefinger looked at Tyrion. "Lysa is more obedient than Catelyn, but she is more timid as well, and she hates the Lannisters."
"I will find Jon's killer and deliver him to her."
"You have found him?"
"As you said, that too is still on the road. But before befriending Lysa Arryn, I think I should first let her see my gift and my generosity." Tyrion wanted the Vale's loyalty, and he wanted its army.
Then Littlefinger began bargaining without a change in expression. "Lysa has troubles of her own. The wildlings in the Mountains of the Moon..."
Tyrion looked at Littlefinger. He could help, provided House Arryn acknowledged the King on the Iron Throne. They did not have to send troops to attack Riverrun or the North, but they could support King's Landing.
"So long as she is willing to swear loyalty to us, and so long as she is willing to send troops to attack the Three Storms, I will see justice done for Jon Arryn, restore peace to the Vale, and grant the boy the title of Warden of the East in return. And to show my generosity, I will give away my niece." Tyrion looked at Littlefinger. This was his greatest hope. He was offering the Vale three gifts, and adding one of his own.
"When the Princess comes of age, she can marry the Great Lord. Until then, she will be Lady Lysa of the Vale's foster daughter."
"You are very bold. What about the Queen Dowager? ... Of course, I can sing to Lysa. I can whisper in her ear."
...
"What do you intend to give me?"
"Harrenhal." Tyrion was certain this gift would please Littlefinger greatly, because it was a grand one. The castle there belonged to the King. Its lands were vast, its soil fertile, and it could easily make a man one of the realm's most prominent great lords.
"You misjudge me." Littlefinger deliberately let his expression shift, making sure Tyrion could clearly see the greed and exaggeration on his face, the hunger glinting across his sly features. The castle was certainly magnificent, but what did it have to do with him? It had never been what he truly wanted.
Even so, Littlefinger still made a show of haggling, all to make the game more convincing and to make Tyrion believe more firmly in his greed.
The two began to bargain. Littlefinger scoffed at Harrenhal, yet behaved like a man who wanted it and could not have it. He started quibbling, bringing up old matters: the lords of the Riverlands were always fickle, the place was ill-omened, and House Tully still existed besides. And then there was Littlefinger's unlucky friend, Janos, the butcher's son.
"It is an ill-omened place, but if you wish, you can raze it and rebuild from the ground up. As for the lords of the Riverlands, they are indeed fickle. Once we win this battle, I believe they will have a new master, and those men will swear fealty to you. As for Riverrun, if we are victorious, House Tully will have to bend the knee as well," Tyrion answered in kind. He believed Littlefinger had taken the bait.
Littlefinger seemed to taste the sweetness of Harrenhal, yet still hesitated. "I must thank you for your generosity. You are raising me into the ranks of the realm's most illustrious nobles. But why?"
Tyrion did not take that seriously. For now, there was only that toad standing between them, and how could the toad's worth compare to Littlefinger's?
"I want you to persuade Lady Lysa," Tyrion told Littlefinger. "But I do not need Janos commanding my army. Sending you to Harrenhal is far better than sending him there. Besides, I do not want the Three Storms cutting off my head."
"For this task, I will need to... get into bed again."
"I am certain you are up to it."
"Give me two weeks. I will finish the matters at hand and arrange a ship to take me to Gulltown."
"No. I do not have that much time. Within a week. I trust you have your own channels for finding a ship," Tyrion said firmly, leaving little room for bargaining.
It was a bold attempt, but he had to try. He had considered Highgarden and House Martell before, but those two sides were now entangled with each other. No matter which family he sent the girl to, the other would be furious, meaning he was bound to offend one of them. As for those fools of the Iron Islands, they had little value as allies. In the end, only the Rose, the Falcon, and the Sun-and-Spear remained as choices.
"You truly are in a hurry. I will squeeze out the time myself. I will find the ship myself as well. I think if it sails under Braavos colors, even Dragonstone would not dare attack it."
"Then we have no problem." Littlefinger rose, smiling at Tyrion. As it happened, he also needed to make a trip to the Vale.
***
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