King's Landing, the Red Keep, the throne room.
The three remaining senior members of the Small Council sat beside the council table. Behind them, the Iron Throne crouched like a dark beast, its countless spikes, blades, and barbs half-hidden in shadow.
Tyrion Lannister, Grand Maester Pycelle, and Varys the Spider. The Grand Maester had a broad, round forehead and white hair, while the Spider was fragrant all over, smelling faintly of powder. The once-dignified Small Council was now desperately short of men. Only a few great cats and little cats remained. Cersei still had not come.
Tyrion Lannister could faintly feel the weight of the Iron Throne behind him. It was a chair that embodied power and will, but it also carried an ill-omened legend. The Black Queen and King Aerys had both met their ends there.
"I am no traitor," Grand Maester Pycelle muttered softly. "I am King Joffrey's loyal servant. I am your man. Everything I have done was for House Lannister."
Three-quarters of the Grand Maester's beautiful beard had been cut off by Tyrion's savages. Tyrion had deliberately punished the old man for leaking secrets to Cersei. He had stuffed him into the dungeons for a few days, then released him again.
Old scoundrel, Tyrion thought, glancing at the old man with contempt. And yet this is my foundation. He knew Pycelle's words well enough by now, and had more or less uncovered the old maester's true nature. When they found him, he had been bedding a maid, a naked serving girl. A sanctimonious, weak old man. Tyrion had barely needed to torture him before he confessed the truth on his own.
Still, Tyrion had gained no small number of secrets. The Grand Maester had poured them out like beans from a sack, each one clear and detailed. Old as he was, his mind remained sharp.
Everything I did was for House Lannister. The image of the Grand Maester weeping and wailing still echoed in Tyrion's mind. "Always... for years... ask your father, ask him. I have always been his loyal servant... It was I who made Aerys open the gates... I did it for the realm! Once Rhaegar was dead, the war was decided. Aerys was mad, Viserys was too young, and Prince Aegon was still a nursing babe, but the realm needed a king... I had hoped your noble father would take that burden, but Robert was too strong then, and Great Lord Stark moved too quickly..."
Tyrion had learned a great deal of inside truth. This Pycelle had indeed always been Lord Tywin's creature. Tyrion could not help admiring Great Lord Tywin's reach at court, though he had also rather liked Robert, that loud, rough brute.
As for the deaths of King Robert and Jon Arryn, the Grand Maester himself had been involved. Others had spoken of those matters before, but hearing him say it himself was another thing entirely.
"Robert was a shameful king... vain, drunken, lustful beyond measure... He meant to cast aside your sister, his own queen... I beg you... Renly schemed to bring the jewel of Highgarden to court to tempt his brother... By the gods, it is absolutely true..." the Grand Maester had said.
"Lord Jon knew... about Cersei and Jaime. He meant to send his wife back to The Eyrie and his son to Dragonstone as a ward... then take action... Colemon meant to purge the poison from him, so I sent him away. The queen wanted Lord Arryn to die, but she did not say it. She could not say it, because Varys was listening. He is always listening. But I only had to look into her eyes to know what must be done. But I did not poison him. Truly, it was not me, I swear it." Maester Pycelle had been in tears that night. "Ask Varys. It must have been the boy, his squire, Hugh. It had to be him. Ask your sister, ask her."
The Grand Maester's truths were more shocking one after another, including his persuasion of the Mad King to open the gates, King Robert's death, and Jon Arryn's affair. Of course, the latter two had already spread through the Seven Kingdoms with the Storm's proclamations.
In any case, this old maester, hated by so many, was instead a friend of the Lannisters. That was why, when Cersei gave her orders, Tyrion pressed him a little, went along with it, and after a few days released the tormented old man.
"Gentlemen, the Small Council has many vacant seats now. Holding these empty places does us no good. They are only splendid-sounding titles. In my view, we might as well sell them for a good price," Tyrion the Imp said.
"And how would you handle that?" Varys asked with a smile.
"Master of Coin, Master of Laws, Master of Ships, even the Hand's seat above my own head. So long as they can persuade others to enter the game and help us, I think any of them can be offered." Tyrion gritted his teeth. "The Storm gave the Hand's position to his uncle Stannis. I can also persuade my father to give Mace a better post. Master of Coin would be quite suitable. Mace will not forget that the Reach and the Stormlands fought for many years, nor how he nearly starved Stannis to death."
Tyrion had long thought this through. If the Lannisters failed, these high offices would become castles in the air, left for others to enjoy. Better to sell them now in exchange for real support.
"Lord Tyrion, I think you are indulging in fantasy. Your gifts may be tempting, but these men are all greedy and quick to turn with the wind. Great Lord Highgarden has always been insatiable and has long coveted the Hand's office. The lords of the Reach are eager as well. But under present circumstances, they will not offend four kingdoms for an empty title," the old maester analyzed.
"In fact, two kingdoms," Tyrion corrected. "My father has tied down the Riverlands and the North for us, and I have shown the North considerable goodwill. Right now, the only ones we face directly are the Vale and the Stormlands."
"And Myr and Tyrosh, my lord," the old maester said doubtfully. "Everyone knows the slaves fight for their god, the Breaker."
"A new storm will come soon. I want this war thrown into complete chaos," Tyrion said. "Once Lys and Volantis enter the field, let this war become evenly matched."
"My lord, you are truly wise," Varys praised.
"Spare me the praise. Is your intelligence accurate?" Tyrion asked the Spider.
The Spider spoke as if he were about to weep. "My good lord, I never lie, and my little birds are ever so clever. I have friends Across the Narrow Sea, and their news will not be wrong. A little storm will rise in Lys. As for Volantis, their Lord Governor has been thinking it over for quite some time."
"That is good." Tyrion looked at the old maester, Pycelle. "I want you to send letters out, to the Reach, Dorne, and the Iron Islands. So long as they can move troops and delay the Storm's advance, whether the Reach sends men or the Dornish send men, so long as they help, I have many bargaining chips ready. Seats on the Small Council, for instance, or Joff's marriage."
"As you command, my lord," the old maester answered, squirming.
"Be honest. If you spout nonsense again, I will send you to the Black Cells," Tyrion threatened.
"As you command," the old maester said fearfully. Tyrion's savages had left him with many unpleasant memories.
"No matter how we seek allies, the condition is that we must withstand the most dangerous wave of battle. Once we gain victory in war, we will have the terms to exchange for allies afterward," Tyrion said firmly. Defend King's Landing first, then create room to seek allies.
Mace, Warden of the South in the Reach, was a greedy man. Once he saw a weakness in the Storm, it would be hard for him not to feel tempted. As for Prince Doran of Dorne, Tyrion knew him to be far too cautious, and Dorne had pitifully few cards to play.
"First, extend the curfew and reduce food supplies. Aside from the army, everyone else eats less. These people are no longer ordinary citizens. We must guard against them. If they violate this rule again, they are traitors." Tyrion announced the curfew first. With famine spreading and the army of Gendry the Storm approaching, King's Landing was growing more and more violent, like a powder keg.
"My lord, those frenzied people will drag you down and eat you," the old maester said in fear.
"I have no choice, Lord Pycelle. If King's Landing falls, we will have no place to bury our bodies. Think of how Robert's son will treat us. A thousand cuts, then impaled on the walls." Tyrion panted heavily. "Better to die in battle than starve to death."
"This..." Pycelle slumped back into his seat.
"It is time to release my savages as well," Tyrion said. "They will enter the Kingswood, help me eliminate the Storm's scouts, and burn their supply wagons."
"Lord Tyrion, how is your chain coming along?" Varys asked.
"Mostly finished. I only hope the Storm and Stannis have grown proud from too many victories, proud enough to overlook everything I have prepared," Tyrion prayed. "I have prepared not only a chain for them, but fruit as well, wildfire."
"I also hope they will see your gift," Varys said, his bald head shining and his smile bright.
"Lord Varys," Tyrion said to him, "I need your help. I want you to help me see King's Landing clearly. How many people are willing to become the Storm's men and fight for him?"
"It is a difficult task, but I am willing to serve you," Varys said with perfect respect.
There is still one final step, Tyrion thought. Send away my sister's two children, Myrcella and Tommen. The boy to my father, the girl to Braavos.