Chapter Text
Tyrion
The Small Council chamber was stifling, the heavy curtains drawn against the midday sun. Stale air clung to the room like the breath of a dying man — too warm, too close, too heavy with perfume, sweat, and fear.
Tyrion Lannister pushed open the carved oak doors and let them creak and thud behind him. He could have entered quietly, but what would be the point? Let them flinch. He paused on the threshold, letting his mismatched gaze travel the room like a blade through fog.
Cersei was already seated, back ramrod straight, her hands folded tightly on the table. She looked as if she'd been carved from marble — lovely, cold, and brittle. Rage hummed beneath her stillness like a string drawn too taut. She didn’t look up as he entered.
Pycelle was wheezing over a scroll, beard trailing like some molting bird had died on his chest. He gave a little cough as Tyrion passed, as though to remind everyone he was alive — barely.
Varys lounged in lavender silks, hands folded gently in his lap, face as unreadable as a closed book. He smiled at Tyrion, smooth and unblinking — the kind of smile a man gives while setting snares.
And Baelish, of course, sat as if the room belonged to him. One leg crossed over the other, fingers steepled, that smirk playing at his lips. He looked amused. He always looked amused.
And now—
Joffrey.
The boy king sat in his mother’s chair, lounging with the arrogance of a conqueror, one boot kicked up against the table’s leg. His golden curls were mussed with impatience, and in his hand, he held a slim dagger, idly flicking dirt from his nails with the blade’s tip. He looked like a child playing at kingship — which, Tyrion supposed, he was. The sight made Tyrion’s stomach twist. Not with fear. But with a quiet dread, like watching a wildfire take root in dry woods.
He moved to his seat at the opposite end of the table and climbed into it without haste, letting the silence press in. They were all waiting for him to speak. Good. Let them stew. He poured himself a generous cup of wine and raised it to his lips. The curtains filtered the sun into pale streaks, and dust danced in the light like tiny ghosts. Tyrion took a sip and leaned back in his chair.
Varys was the first to speak, his voice as smooth as cream over glass. He folded his soft hands on the table and inclined his bald head with the grace of a well-trained courtier.
“News from the Kingsroad, Your Graces,” he began, that unctuous tone curling around the chamber like incense. “Ser Jaime has engaged Lord Stannis’s host.”
Tyrion lifted an eyebrow, swirling his wine. Of course he had. Jaime was too restless to wait behind castle walls while war brewed like stormclouds.
“The battle at Blackwater Rush was hard-fought,” Varys continued, “but Stannis has been turned back.”
“Turned back,” Tyrion repeated, setting his goblet down with a soft clink. “Not defeated?”
The distinction mattered. You could turn back a storm. That didn’t mean it wasn’t coming again.
Varys’s expression didn’t shift. “Victory enough, I think, when facing Lord Stannis.”
Pycelle, from his end of the table, made a sound between a wheeze and a harrumph. “Stannis Baratheon is a seasoned commander,” he said, blinking at no one in particular. “To halt his march is a great feat, yes, yes. Very great.”
Tyrion smiled thinly. Great feats. Great graves. He wondered how many bodies were left in that muddy bend. How many had bled against his brother’s army.
Cersei leaned forward slightly. “Jaime will reach the city soon?”
Varys shook his head. “Alas, no, Your Grace. He remains with his forces. Lord Tywin commands it.”
At the sound of his father’s name, Tyrion felt his spine stiffen involuntarily. Ah, yes. Lord Tywin commands. Of course he does.
“Lord Tywin has crossed into the Reach,” said Littlefinger, smoothing a nonexistent wrinkle from his doublet. “Goldengrove, Old Oak, and Red Lake have fallen. The Reach quakes like a maid on her wedding night.”
Tyrion tilted his head. “And the Tyrells? Still sniffing their flowers and sitting on their hands?”
Baelish’s smile curled. “Lord Tywin keeps his distance. The Tyrells are strong, yes — but divided. Renly draws most of their loyalty.”
“Which brings us,” Cersei cut in, “to Renly.”
There was venom in her voice now. She never liked Renly — too pretty, too clever, too popular. She hated all things that drew the crowd away from her.
“Marching south of Storm’s End,” said Varys. “Or he was — until Lord Tywin’s arrival forced his hand. Now he turns west. Racing to defend his own lands.”
Tyrion pictured Renly’s banners retreating in disarray, his crown slipping sideways on that pretty brown head. He imagined the young Baratheon’s smile faltering. That thought, at least, made the wine taste better.
Then came the sound — sharp and childish — of steel striking wood. Joffrey had stabbed his dagger into the table.
“Let them come!” the boy-king shouted, voice shrill with youth and madness. “I’ll kill them all! I’ll put their heads on spikes! I’m the king!”
The silence that followed was thick as boiled wine.
Tyrion didn’t rush to break it. He took another long sip and let the boy flounder in the echo of his own absurdity. At last, he said, “Of course, Your Grace.” He set his goblet down and laced his fingers. “And when they arrive, perhaps you will ride out alone and deal with them yourself. I hear Renly weeps at the sound of your name.” Cersei’s eyes snapped to him, narrow and hot.
But Joffrey puffed up in his chair like a bantam rooster. “I will,” he said. “I’ll cut down Renly myself.”
Tyrion nodded solemnly. “I’m sure you will.” And the gods would weep for joy.
Pycelle coughed wetly, rummaging through a tangle of scrolls that rustled like old bones. “Dispatches from Sunspear, my lords,” he wheezed, finally producing a cracked tube and squinting at the wax seal. “Dorne remains... quiet. Prince Doran refuses to move. Their gates are closed. Trade has slowed.”
Closed gates, closed mouths, and open wounds, Tyrion thought. Doran Martell had not forgotten Elia. No Dornishman ever would.
“And the Vale?” Cersei asked, sharp as glass.
Baelish gave a soft chuckle. “Lady Lysa guards her son and her walls. No ravens stir. No swords drawn. She hoards her silence like gold.”
A shame, Tyrion thought. The Vale had knights enough to shift any war — but none brave enough to scale that bloody mountain to fetch them.
“No help from Dorne,” Tyrion said. “No help from the Vale. And yet—” he turned to Varys “—the North?”
Cersei pounced before the eunuch could reply. “The North marches for us,” she said with brittle triumph. “Their banners gather at Moat Cailin, armed and ready.”
Tyrion glanced sideways. “Do they?”
Varys folded his hands like a silent prayer. His smile was vague and smooth. “The wolves gather, yes. But we have yet to hear a cry of fealty.”
“They are bound to us,” Cersei snapped. “Sansa is betrothed to Joffrey.”
“Paper chains, Your Grace,” Varys replied softly. “Strong enough to hold a wedding feast. Not strong enough to hold a kingdom.”
Tyrion studied his sister. Her hands were white-knuckled on the armrests. She clung to the betrothal like a drowning woman to driftwood, as if a promise on parchment could chain the North to her son. But Varys was right — paper was not iron. Ned Stark had made a promise for the sake of friendship, for a king already buried. Robert was gone, and with him, whatever thread had held the wolves leashed.
He turned to Varys again. “Is their more?”
“A whisper here. A rumor there.” Varys shrugged. “Wildlings stirring. The Ironborn growing restless on their rocky shores.”
Tyrion sat back and gave a thin, cold smile. “Excellent. Let every corner of the realm burn at once. At least no one can say we played favorites.”
Joffrey slammed the pommel of his dagger into the table with a sharp crack. "I am king!" he shrieked, voice brittle as glass. "Let them come! I’ll kill them all!”
The room fell still. Cersei’s mouth tightened, her hand drifting toward her son’s arm in a gesture more of control than comfort.
Tyrion took a long, unhurried sip of wine, letting the silence stretch like a taut wire. When it was near to snapping, he set his goblet down with a deliberate click. "Of course, Your Grace," he said, his voice dry as the Dornish Marches.
At the end of the table, Pycelle cleared his throat and raised a shaky scroll. "The city, my lords... the city struggles."
Tyrion leaned forward. “At last, something practical. Go on.”
Pycelle adjusted his spectacles. "The Rose Road is closed. No grain caravans reach us from the Reach. The docks remain open — barely — but with Lord Stannis’s ships prowling the Blackwater, many merchants have fled. The price of bread has doubled in a fortnight."
"And tripled in Flea Bottom," Varys added delicately. “Children fight rats for supper. Riots simmer. Only the gold cloaks keep order — and barely that.”
Cersei made a noise of disgust. “They should be grateful we keep them alive.”
"They’ll show their gratitude with daggers and torches," Tyrion muttered.
He turned to Baelish. “You still call yourself Master of Coin. Any solutions?”
Littlefinger’s smirk did not falter. "The Crown owes more gold than it weighs. Short of squeezing the Faith or taxing breath itself, we are out of tricks."
“So,” Tyrion said, counting on his fingers, “we are starving, isolated, surrounded by enemies, and ruled by a boy with a crown. Did I miss anything?” Pycelle looked scandalized.
The council dissolved soon after, their chairs scraping stone like the whisper of tombs. One by one, they departed — Baelish humming, Varys gliding, Pycelle wheezing, and Joffrey stalking off like a lion cub trying to roar.
Cersei lingered a moment, her gaze hard. But Tyrion offered her only a mocking bow. “Your Grace.”
Then she was gone, and Tyrion was alone. He moved to the window, pushing back the curtain. King’s Landing sprawled below, a city of shadows and smoke. From up here, it still looked like a jewel — glinting in the sunlight, nestled in hills and water.
But Tyrion Lannister knew better. It was a barrel of wildfire, and the sparks had already started to fall.