[The Crownlands, King's Landing, 3rd Moon, 299AC]
The gates of King's Landing did not open with the same confidence they once had.
Tyrion noticed it immediately.
The City's guards stood a little straighter than necessary, not out of discipline, the fools lacking even a shred of it, but out of nerves. Their eyes lingered too long on approaching riders, hands resting near spear shafts or sword hilts as if they expected trouble to come riding through the gates at any moment.
Even the smallfolk who gathered along the road kept their distance, whispering among themselves instead of pressing forward as they once might have to catch a glimpse of a lord returning to court.
Tyrion shifted slightly in the saddle and glanced sideways at Bronn.
"Well," he said glancing around them, "if I didn't know better, I'd think they were expecting someone important."
Bronn snorted.
"They are," he said. "You, my lord hand," he added with a mocking bow from his mount
Tyrion smiled faintly.
"That's the sort of thinking that gets men killed," he said.
Bronn shrugged.
"Or paid," he replied with a shrug, still a sellsword at heart.
They rode through the gates without incident, though Tyrion felt the weight of eyes following them the entire way. Rumors had arrived long before he had. They always did.
Jaime was dead, killed by Alaric Stark, that ice statue made man, Tyrion could still remember the ice-cold look he had during the royal procession to the North.
And even worse yet, that very same man had been crowned King in the North. The first in almost three centuries.
The very makeup of this war had shifted.
Tyrion did not need to hear the whispers to know what they said.
Still, he listened.
"The Wolf-Lord killed the Kingslayer, they say… cut him down himself…"
"A wolf king now… gods help us…"
"The lions are losing…"
Tyrion exhaled slowly through his nose.
"That didn't take long," he muttered.
Bronn glanced at him.
"Word travels fast when it's bad," he said. "Faster when people want to believe it."
Tyrion nodded once.
"Aye," he said. "That's what worries me."
The Red Keep felt different.
It was subtle, the kind of thing most would miss, but Tyrion had spent enough time there to recognize the change. Servants moved quickly, but not efficiently. Guards stood their posts, but their attention wandered. Conversations died when he passed, then picked up again the moment he was out of earshot.
Order had not collapsed.
But it sure as hell had loosened as of late.
Tyrion climbed down from his horse in the courtyard and handed the reins off to a waiting stableboy. He paused for a moment, taking in the space, the movement, the tension that lingered beneath it all.
"Well," he said quietly, "this should be interesting."
Bronn stepped beside him.
"Want me to kill anyone before we go in?" he asked.
Tyrion glanced at him.
"Not yet," he said. "Let's see who deserves it first."
The two men laughed for a moment, much to the confusion of those around them, not that they cared truly.
After only a moment longer to collect themselves, they finally made their way inside.
Entering the throne room, Tyrion couldn't help but stare at the infamous Iron Throne, wondering what in the seven hells the Conqueror had been thinking, forging such an ugly chair.
His nephew Joffrey Baratheon sat on the Iron Throne like a boy trying to portray himself as a man grown, upright, rigid, and far too unaware of the weight of the throne beneath him. At his side stood his "sweet" sister, Cersei Lannister, her posture controlled, her expression carved from something harder than grief.
They both saw him at the same time.
Cersei's lips tightened.
Joffrey leaned forward slightly.
"Uncle Imp," Joffrey said, his tone venomous. "You've taken your time."
It would seem his lord-father had seen fit to send a raven ahead, telling them of his temporary appointment
Tyrion walked forward at an unhurried pace, Bronn falling in behind him.
"I find it's better to arrive late than not at all," Tyrion replied. "Particularly in times like these."
Joffrey's eyes narrowed.
"You've heard, then," he said.
"I've heard many things," Tyrion said. "Which one would you like me to react to first, your grace?" the last words coming out more wry than he would've intended
Cersei stepped forward before Joffrey could answer.
"Jaime is dead," she said, her voice low but steady, simmering almost, like a geiser ready to blow. "That is the only one that matters."
Tyrion met her gaze.
"I'm aware," he said quietly.
For a moment, something flickered in her eyes, grief, anger, something sharper, madder even, but it was gone just as quickly.
"And yet you rode here at your leisure," she spat out.
"I rode here as quickly as the roads allowed," Tyrion replied. "Unless you would have preferred I flew."
Joffrey scoffed.
"You should have come sooner," he said. "We need to strike back. Immediately. Call more banners, send the armies north, burn their lands—"
"And which armies would those be?" Tyrion interrupted calmly.
The room went still.
Joffrey stared at him.
"Our armies," he said, agitated, almost scoffing.
Tyrion tilted his head slightly.
"The one currently under your grandsire's command, as dwindled as it is?" he asked. "Or the ones that no longer exist, smashed by Alaric Stark and his wolves?"
Joffrey's face flushed.
"You will not speak to me that way," he snapped.
"I will speak to you as your Hand," Tyrion said, his voice still calm. "And as the only man in this room who is not pretending the situation is better than it is."
Cersei's gaze sharpened.
"You presume much," she said slowly, eyeing him not as an ally, but as something lesser, expendable even.
"I presume necessity," Tyrion replied, not giving her look any thought. "Something this court seems to have misplaced."
Joffrey leaned back in the throne, his jaw tight.
"I want their heads," he demanded. "The Stark who dares call himself king, The Tullys, Riverlords, the northmen, all of them! I want their banners torn down, their women taken, and their lands burned!"
"And you may have that," Tyrion said. "If you survive long enough to see it."
Silence followed.
Bronn shifted slightly behind him, one hand resting near his sword, though his expression remained almost bored.
The Kingsguard around them were as stoic as ever, looking at Tyrion and his companion as mere bugs.
Cersei stepped closer.
"You will not threaten the king," she said.
"I'm not threatening him," Tyrion said. "I'm reminding my nephew that wanting something and achieving it are two very different things."
Joffrey's fingers tightened on the arm of the throne.
"Then achieve it," he said. "That's why you're here, isn't it?"
Tyrion held his gaze.
"Yes," he sighed, pinching the ridge of his brow, "It is."
[The small council chambers]
The council chambers were quieter than he would've thought, given the situation.
Varys was already present when Tyrion entered, standing near the window, hands folded into the sleeves of his robes. Petyr Baelish lounged at the table, looking entirely too comfortable, while Grand Maester Pycelle hovered nearby, as if unsure whether to sit or stand.
Bronn took position near the door, his presence casual but unmistakable.
"Ah, Lord Tyrion," Varys said smoothly, turning to face Tyrion. "How fortunate that you've arrived when you have. The city has been most… unsettled in your grandsire's absence."
Tyrion took his seat at the head of the table.
"I find cities are often unsettled when no one is steering them," he shrugged. "It tends to happen."
Littlefinger smiled faintly.
"And here I thought chaos was an opportunity," he said.
"It is," Tyrion replied. "Just not for the people living through it."
Pycelle cleared his throat.
"The realm faces grave dangers," he said. "The death of Ser Jaime, the crowning of this… northern king—"
"Alaric Stark," Tyrion said.
Pycelle hesitated.
"Yes," he sputtered, ever playing the image of a frail old man. "Alaric Stark… These are troubling developments."
Varys stepped forward slightly.
"Troubling," he echoed. "Though not entirely unexpected."
Tyrion glanced at him.
"No?" he asked.
Varys smiled faintly.
"The realm has been… unstable for some time," he said. "It was only a matter of time before someone took advantage of that."
"And you believe Alaric Stark has done just that?" Tyrion asked.
"I believe he has recognized an opportunity," Varys replied calmly. "And acted on it decisively at that, the first King in the North since the days of the conquest, how… intriguing."
Littlefinger leaned back in his chair.
"Decisive men tend to do well in times like these," he said. "Provided they survive, and Alaric Stark is nothing if not decisive," Baelish added, a hint of a shudder not going unnoticed by either of the other two men present
Tyrion folded his hands on the table.
"And what of us?" he asked. "Just how do we intend to survive this plight of ours?"
Varys's eyes met his.
"That depends," he said, "on how wisely we act in the days to come."
Later, Tyrion found Varys alone.
The eunuch stood in a quiet corridor, as if he had been waiting.
"I wondered when you'd seek me out," Varys said.
"I imagine you wonder about many things," Tyrion replied.
Varys inclined his head.
"Only the important ones," he said.
Tyrion stepped closer.
"Tell me," he said, tone turning serious, "who do you serve?"
Varys did not answer immediately.
"I serve the realm," he said at last.
Tyrion smiled faintly.
"Well, that's a very convenient answer," he said.
"While it may be convenient, it is also a true one," Varys replied.
"And just what does the realm need, in your opinion, of course?" Tyrion asked, curious as to what the Mast of Whisper may say.
Varys's gaze drifted slightly, as if considering something beyond the walls around them.
"It needs stability," he finally replied. "It needs a ruler who understands what must be done… and is willing to do it." All of his aloofness vanished from his face as he spoke.
Tyrion studied him.
"And you believe we have that?" he inquired, not quite sure what he was looking for in this encounter.
Varys looked back at him.
"I believe," he said carefully, "that we have what we have. Whether it is enough remains to be seen."
Tyrion's eyes narrowed slightly.
"You speak as if you expect something else," he said.
Varys smiled, that damned smile of his that never quite reached his eyes.
"I always expect something else," he replied. "It is safer that way."
[Later that night, the Hand's Chambers]
That night, Tyrion stood alone in the Tower of the Hand.
The city stretched out before him, its lights flickering against the dark, its streets still alive with movement and noise. Somewhere out there, people were already telling stories about what had happened.
A Stark declared King in the North.
The Kingslayer, once feared, reviled, and awed, lay dead, killed by the same Stark.
The war that was no longer contained, much less straightforward.
Behind him, Bronn leaned against the wall, arms crossed.
"You look like a man who's thinking too much," he said.
Tyrion let out a quiet breath.
"I fear that I am," he said.
Bronn shrugged.
"That's the problem with lords, always worried about some grand picture," he shrugged simply. "I just need to kill whoever you point at, quite a simple job, I would say, you should try it sometime."
Tyrion smiled faintly.
"I may take you up on that," he said.
Bronn grinned.
"Good," he said. "I was starting to get bored."
Tyrion looked out over the city again.
Somewhere, far to the west, the war was moving.
And here, in this rancid, shit-smelling city of intrigue and fake faces, and hidden daggers it was just beginning.
He rested his hands on the stone and stared into the dark.
"I came here to help rule a kingdom," he said quietly, almost as if trying to reassure himself more than anything else.
Tyrion's eyes narrowed slightly as he watched the lights below.
Instead, he had inherited something far more fragile.
And far more dangerous.
[The Next day, the Tower of the Hand]
The Tower of the Hand was quieter than Tyrion would've liked.
Not empty, but quieter in the way a place became when too many decisions had been delayed for too long. The corridors held fewer voices, fewer purposeful footsteps, and more whispers that cut off the moment anyone approached.
Tyrion turned from the window at last.
"Come," he said to Bronn. "If I'm to hold this city together, I suppose I should start by finding out how badly it's already falling apart."
Bronn rose from his chair, sheathing the dagger he was fiddling with.
"That bad, is it?" he asked.
Tyrion gave him a look.
"When Varys starts speaking in riddles, and Littlefinger smiles too much, it's always that bad," he said.
Bronn grinned.
"So… normal, then."
Tyrion snorted.
"Unfortunately."
[Down in the city]
The Goldcloaks' barracks smelled of oil, sweat, and stale ale.
That much had not changed.
What had changed was the discipline, or rather, the lack of it.
Men lingered where they should have been drilling. Armor was worn loosely, straps unfastened or poorly secured. Conversations didn't stop when Tyrion entered, though they quieted enough to show that his presence had been noticed.
The commander of the Goldcloaks, Slynt's replacement, a tall man with salt and pepper hair, stepped forward, Ser Jacelyn Bywater, former captain of the Mud Gate.
"My lord Hand," he said, bowing stiffly. "We weren't expecting—"
"No one ever expects me," Tyrion interupted. "It's part of my charm."
Bronn moved to stand slightly behind Tyrion, arms loose at his sides, his presence enough to make a few of the nearby Goldcloaks straighten without being told.
Tyrion looked around slowly, taking it all in.
"How many men do you have?" he asked.
"Near five thousand, my lord," the commander replied.
"And how many of them would you trust to hold the walls if the city came under siege?" Tyrion asked.
The man hesitated.
Bronn chuckled quietly.
"Not many then," he muttered.
The commander cleared his throat.
"We've had… issues with morale," he said carefully. "Rumors. News from the Riverlands."
"Aye, so I've heard," Tyrion said. "The sort of news that tends to make men question whether they're standing on the right side of things."
He stepped closer.
"Let me be clear," Tyrion continued, his voice even. "You are standing on the side that still holds this city. That matters. But if your men begin to forget that, we'll have problems."
The commander nodded.
"They won't forget," he said.
"They already have," Tyrion replied. "Or they wouldn't be standing like this."
He gestured toward a pair of guards who quickly straightened, adjusting their armor.
Tyrion's gaze hardened slightly.
"Fix it," he said. "Drill them. Rotate the watch more frequently. Keep them busy. Idle men start thinking, and thinking leads to doubt."
The commander swallowed.
"Yes, my lord."
"And one more thing," Tyrion added.
The man waited.
"If I hear of bribes being taken, gates being left unwatched, or messages being passed that shouldn't be…" Tyrion paused, then smiled faintly. "I'll let my friend here decide what to do about it."
Bronn stepped forward just enough to be seen clearly.
"Depends on the day," he said casually. "Some days I'm quick. Some days I'm not."
The commander nodded quickly.
"Understood."
Tyrion held his gaze for a moment longer, then turned away.
"Good," he said. "Let's hope you meant that."
Leaving the City Watch with his words, Tyrion turned and left, Bronn right behind him, onward to their second stop.
The air in the treasury felt colder than the rest of the castle.
Or perhaps that was just Petyr Baelish.
He stood behind a table covered in ledgers, quills laid out neatly, inkpots aligned as though the numbers within demanded that same level of order.
"My lord Hand," Littlefinger said as Tyrion entered. "To what do I owe this… pleasure?"
Tyrion approached slowly.
"I wanted to understand just how much trouble we're in," he said. "I thought I'd start with the numbers."
Littlefinger smiled faintly.
"Ah," he said. "A dangerous curiosity."
Tyrion gestured toward the ledgers.
"Show me."
Littlefinger hesitated just long enough to make it noticeable, then turned one of the books toward him.
Tyrion scanned the page.
His brow lifted slightly.
"That much?" he said.
"And growing," Littlefinger replied pleasantly. "Wars tend to have that effect."
Tyrion flipped a few pages.
"Loans from the Iron Bank, the Faith, various houses…" he muttered. "And we're still spending."
"Of course," Littlefinger said with too much mirth to go unnoticed. "A crown cannot simply stop spending. It would look… weak."
Tyrion looked up at him.
"We are weak," he said.
Littlefinger's smile didn't change, but it sure did falter for a half-second.
"Perception is everything," he said.
Tyrion closed the ledger.
"No," he said. "Reality is everything. Perception just delays the consequences."
He leaned slightly on the table.
"How long?" Tyrion asked.
Littlefinger tilted his head.
"Until what?" he asked.
"Until we can't pay, and from just a brief look over, I assume not long," Tyrion said.
Littlefinger considered that for a moment.
"Indeed, not long at all, my lord," he said. "Assuming nothing changes."
Tyrion nodded slowly.
"Then something will," he said.
Littlefinger's eyes gleamed faintly.
"I look forward to seeing what you come up with," he said.
Tyrion straightened.
"So do I," he said.
He took one last glance at Littlefinger and the ledgers, before turning on his way.
[Later that day]
The chamber felt tighter this time.
Perhaps because the illusion of control had already begun to slip.
Varys stood as before, composed, watchful. Pycelle hovered. Littlefinger took his seat with ease, the other seats empty, a problem that would need a remedy soon enough.
Tyrion sat at the head of the table.
"We're going to begin with the obvious," he said. "Our position is worse than it was a moon ago."
No one argued.
"Jaime is dead," Tyrion continued. "The Riverlands are stabilizing under Stark control. And we have reliable reports that their king is moving west."
Pycelle shifted uneasily.
"Surely that is a hasty declaration?" he asked quickly, almost forgetting to stutter.
"No," Tyrion said. "It isn't."
Varys stepped forward slightly.
"It would seem," he said, "that our northern friend prefers to dictate the pace of the war."
Tyrion glanced at him.
"Aye," he sighed, remembering the once Lord, now king, and the resolve he had shown. "He does."
Littlefinger leaned back.
"A bold strategy," he said. "But risky nonetheless."
"Risky, yes, but hopefully it will prove effective," Tyrion replied.
He folded his hands.
"We need to respond," he said. "Not react. Respond."
"And how do you propose we do that?" Pycelle asked.
Tyrion's gaze shifted to Varys.
"That depends on what we know," he said. "And what we don't."
Varys inclined his head slightly.
"My little birds have been quite busy," he answered, unfurling a scroll. "There are whispers of movement through the hills, away from the Golden Tooth. Unusual routes."
Tyrion's eyes narrowed.
"He's avoiding the obvious path," he said.
"Yes," Varys replied. "Which suggests he intends to be somewhere unexpected."
Littlefinger smiled.
"I do enjoy a man who refuses to follow the rules," he said.
Tyrion ignored him.
"How long before my lord-father knows?" he asked.
Varys spread his hands slightly.
"That depends on how quickly the information reaches him," he said. "And whether he believes it when it does."
Tyrion leaned back slightly.
"He will," he said. "My father has no choice but to take this at face value."
"And when he does?" Pycelle asked.
Tyrion's expression hardened.
"Then he'll have to choose," he said. "Stay at Harrenhal and lose the west… or move and risk everything else."
Silence followed.
It was not a comfortable silence.
Later, Tyrion found himself back in his chambers.
Bronn sat near the window, sharpening a blade with slow, steady movements.
"Well?" Bronn asked without looking up. "Just how bad is it?"
Tyrion poured himself a cup of wine.
"Much worse than it looks," he sighed as he took a sip.
Bronn nodded.
"That's usually the case."
Tyrion took another sip of his wine.
"My father is trapped," he said. "The West is no doubt going to be hit. This damned city is unstable. And I'm supposed to hold all of it together with a king who wants to burn everything and a council that's already planning for what comes after."
Bronn finally looked up.
"And you?" he asked.
Tyrion met his gaze.
"I'm planning for what comes next," he said.
Bronn grinned.
"That sounds expensive."
"It will be," Tyrion said, rubbing his temple.
He set the cup down, already empty of its contents.
"And dangerous."
Bronn shrugged.
"That's why you keep me around."
Tyrion smiled faintly.
"Aye," he said. "That's exactly why."
[Brief POV shift]
Elsewhere in the Red Keep, Varys moved quietly through a dim corridor.
A small figure stepped from the shadows as he approached, a child, silent and waiting.
Varys crouched slightly.
"What do you have for me, little bird?" he said softly.
The child quickly handed him a rolled parchment.
Varys quickly unrolled it, reading then rereading the words, making sure to digest all of it.
"Good," he said. "Very good."
He straightened, his expression thoughtful.
"So," he murmured to himself, "the board shifts again."
He paused, looking out toward the darkened city, the light catching on his eyes, glowing a faint dark indigo.
"Let us hope," he said quietly, "that the right pieces are in place when the time comes."
'The time shall come when the Black Dragon returns,' he thought to himself, not daring to utter the words aloud.
And then, without ceremony, he disappeared into the shadows once more.