Tyrion Lannister only learned of the riot at the Red Keep the following morning. The previous night had been lost in wine, warmth, and the comforting arms of Shae. In her presence, he could almost forget the dangers closing around him. She had gentle doe-like eyes, a soft laugh, and a way of making the cruel world seem far away.
Their secret meetings were only possible because of Varys.
The eunuch had shown Tyrion a hidden passage connecting a stable to a brothel where Shae stayed under the name of Alayaya. It was a clever arrangement, allowing the Hand of the King to visit unnoticed. By dawn, however, the city was already buzzing with fresh scandal.
The king himself had fired a crossbow into a crowd.
One rioter was dead. A woman had been wounded. The tale spread through King's Landing faster than fire through dry grass.
"He is playing with fire," Tyrion muttered as he rode back to the Red Keep beside Bronn.
"Maybe His Grace thinks himself brave," Bronn replied with a shrug. "I heard he hit the man cleanly."
Bronn had changed since Tyrion first met him. His black hair was neatly combed, his beard trimmed, and he now wore polished black armor fit for an officer of the City Watch. Draped over one shoulder was a crimson Lannister cloak embroidered with a golden hand—the mark of Tyrion's service.
"Bravery has little to do with it," Tyrion said sourly. "Politics is performance. A king must know when to roar and when to smile. Joffrey only showed the city he is a child with a weapon."
Bronn smirked. "The people here are simple enough. Make them hungry, and they throw stones."
"And where exactly am I supposed to find grain for them?" Tyrion snapped. Then he sighed. "We must endure a little longer."
King's Landing was starving.
That was the curse of every great city dependent on trade. The roads were unsafe, war raged across the kingdoms, and enemies gathered on every side. Renly's former host marched north beneath Stannis and the Tyrells maneuvered in the south. Dragonstone's fleet could sail at any moment.
Only Stokeworth and Rosby still supplied the capital, and their grain was pitifully small compared to the need. Most of it went to the Red Keep and the barracks. Bread prices had tripled. Vegetables vanished from the market before noon. Meat in the flea-bottom stew was best left unidentified.
At least the river and sea still yielded fish.
"That will not be enough," Bronn said quietly.
"No," Tyrion admitted. "It will not."
He thought then of Shae, hidden in the city among desperate men and desperate women. If riots worsened, she would not be safe. Neither would Tommen or Myrcella, the two royal children who might one day become bargaining pieces in the game of crowns.
"Who first?" Bronn asked. "Petitioners wait in the Hand's hall."
"The Grand Maester first," Tyrion said. "And if I'm lucky, breakfast."
Before war came to the gates, Tyrion needed control of the court.
When he had arrived in King's Landing, power had rested in four hands besides Cersei's: Grand Maester Pycelle, Littlefinger, Varys, and Janos Slynt of the City Watch. Janos had already been removed and sent to the Wall.
Three remained.
Of them all, Tyrion distrusted Pycelle most.
The old man was too eager, too oily, too willing to serve whoever seemed strongest. Tyrion suspected he carried every whisper to Cersei. If true, the Grand Maester would soon expose himself.
He found Pycelle in a chamber beneath the rookery, warm and airy despite the season. The old man had arranged a modest breakfast: boiled eggs, stewed plums, and oatmeal.
"In troubled times," Pycelle said piously, "the smallfolk starve. We who serve the realm should also live simply."
"How noble," Tyrion said dryly.
He studied the man's heavy chain of office. It glittered with gold, silver, platinum, and gems—more ornament than scholarship. A humble servant indeed.
Tyrion produced two sealed scrolls and set them beside the porridge.
"Letters for Prince Doran Martell of Dorne," he said. "Send them by your swiftest raven."
Pycelle hesitated. "At once… after breakfast."
"Now," Tyrion said sharply. "Plums can wait. Affairs of state cannot."
The old man bowed and shuffled away toward the rookery.
The moment he was gone, Tyrion moved.
His twisted legs protested as he climbed onto a stool and reached toward a shelf crowded with jars. At the back sat a dusty container labeled carefully in a maester's hand. Tyrion read the name, smiled faintly, and slipped it into his sleeve.
When Pycelle returned, Tyrion resumed his meal as if nothing had happened.
"The king and the queen regent…" Pycelle began nervously.
"Joffrey is thirteen," Tyrion said. "I act for him."
That single glance of panic told Tyrion enough.
Yes. Pycelle was one of Cersei's creatures.
Tyrion finished his breakfast, thanked the old fraud politely, and departed.
The lower courtyard blazed beneath the midday sun. The red comet still burned overhead, glaring like a wound across the sky. Guards patrolled the walls while squires and knights practiced with blunted steel below.
Tyrion's legs ached descending the steps, and Bronn slowed his stride to match him.
"How many petitioners?" Tyrion asked.
"Thirty, maybe more."
"Gods preserve me."
"And your pet is back."
Tyrion groaned. "Lady Tanda?"
Bronn grinned.
Lady Tanda Stokeworth persistently offered Tyrion meals, invitations, and endless hints regarding her daughter Lollys—a woman of thirty-three, timid, plump, and still unwed. Tyrion had no desire to marry for boiled eels and cream pies.
"What else?"
"Moneylenders asking repayment. Bakers wanting guards. Butchers wanting guards. Greengrocers wanting guards. Some lord from the riverlands says your father's men burned his lands and bedded his wife."
Tyrion rubbed his brow.
Anyone demanding coin would be sent to Littlefinger.
Those asking protection would be soothed with promises no one intended to keep.
As for the dispossessed lord, he at least deserved a decent room, hot food, and proper boots before being ignored.
"There is also a black brother from the Wall," Bronn added. "Brought a jar with dead hands inside."
Tyrion blinked. "Dead hands?"
"So I'm told."
"I have no time today."
The Wall could wait. Whatever horror had crawled out of the north would need to wait behind famine, treason, and war.
As they crossed the yard, Cersei emerged to inspect the city defenses. She and Tyrion traded sharp words, each smiling while trying to wound the other. Then Tyrion climbed to the Tower of the Hand.
There he found Petyr Baelish waiting.
Littlefinger lounged by the window in elegant layers of plum velvet and yellow satin, gloved hands folded as if he owned the room.
Outside, King Joffrey was amusing himself by shooting rabbits with his crossbow.
"Lord Petyr," Tyrion said. "Wine?"
"They say one drinks with a dwarf and wakes at the Wall," Littlefinger replied pleasantly. "I am too vain for black."
A reminder of Janos Slynt.
Tyrion smiled thinly. "Then let us both remain colorful."
He lowered himself into his cushioned chair. Littlefinger was dangerous in ways swords never were. Tyrion hated him, but hatred was useless. Better to trade with vipers than step on them.
After some shallow compliments, Tyrion mentioned the Valyrian steel dagger that had once been used in the attempt on Bran Stark's life.
Littlefinger only smiled.
The lie still stood between them.
Tyrion changed course.
"I need your help with Lady Lysa Arryn."
Littlefinger's eyes sharpened. "Do you?"
"I wish to restore peace with House Stark and the Vale. I am searching for Arya Stark. I will find Jon Arryn's killer and give him justice."
"Bold promises."
"I am generous when friendship is offered."
Now they had reached the true business.
Tyrion needed the Vale neutral at least—better yet, allied. Its knights were fresh, its granaries full, and its mountains nearly impregnable.
Littlefinger needed advancement.
"If Lady Lysa bends the knee," Tyrion said, "the boy Robert Arryn keeps the Eyrie. He may even be named Warden of the East in time."
Littlefinger said nothing.
"And to show trust," Tyrion continued, "Princess Myrcella could be fostered in the Vale until she comes of age."
That caught his interest.
"You are bold," Littlefinger murmured. "And what of the queen regent?"
"She need not love every necessity."
Littlefinger's smile widened. "And what gift for me?"
"Harrenhal."
For the first time, genuine hunger flickered in his eyes—though only for an instant.
Then he scoffed theatrically. "A cursed ruin. Half-melted towers and rebellious river lords."
"Then tear it down and rebuild it," Tyrion said. "When we win this war, its lands will be yours entire."
Littlefinger paced slowly, pretending reluctance.
Tyrion knew bargaining theater when he saw it.
Finally the master of coin sighed. "You ask much."
"I offer much."
"I would need time. Two weeks, perhaps."
"You have one."
Littlefinger laughed softly. "Always in haste, my lord."
"The enemy does not wait."
"No," Littlefinger agreed. "Neither do opportunities."
He bowed.
"I shall find a ship," he said. "And I shall speak sweetly in the Vale."
Tyrion watched him go, unsure whether he had purchased an ally or armed another enemy.
With Littlefinger, the difference was rarely clear.
Still, chips had been placed upon the board.
Now all Tyrion could do was hope the road ahead was not already a dead end.
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