Chapter 120: The Morning Council
"Yesterday I heard someone cursing the little demon in the streets. Quite a novelty."
In the corridor behind the Great Hall of the Red Keep, a tall figure draped in a golden fleece cloak walked side by side with a much smaller one, speaking casually.
"Oh? Is that so?"
The dwarf's voice carried no ripple of emotion.
"And what did you do about it?"
"I had them all arrested," Podrick replied lightly. "I plan to hand them over later to that Night's Watchman who brought back a dead man's hand. I imagine he'll appreciate the gift."
"If I were you, I wouldn't have done that, Pod," Tyrion said dryly.
"…But since it was the Queen Regent's order, I'll forgive you."
Podrick pursed his lips, shrugged, and looked down at him.
"So—what great matter requires a full council session?"
"Excellent news."
With a faint curl of his mouth, Tyrion stepped through the side door as the red-cloaked guards pushed it open.
Aegon the Conqueror's Iron Throne loomed ahead, bristling with jagged barbs and twisted blades. Only a fool would believe it was meant to be sat upon in comfort.
Standing in the throne room and gazing up at it, Tyrion couldn't help but think so.
Then he lifted his stunted legs and began climbing.
As he ascended, his underdeveloped limbs cramped relentlessly—but thankfully, the throne was tall enough that no one would notice just how absurd and undignified the scene truly was.
Inside the hall, Lannister guards stood grimly at one end, crimson cloaks draped over their armor, lion-crested half-helms gleaming.
Opposite them stood the gold cloaks of Ser Podrick Payne, facing the red cloaks in silent symmetry.
Both formations were solemn and still.
At the base of the throne's steps stood Bronn, Captain of the Hand's guard, alongside Ser Preston of the Kingsguard.
Courtiers lined the hall.
Near the massive oak-and-bronze doors stood the petitioners, their eyes full of expectation.
Among them, Sansa Stark looked especially lovely that morning—though her complexion was pale as milk.
The moment there was movement near the throne, she noticed the familiar figure.
She dared not acknowledge him openly in such a public setting, only stealing a quick glance before hastily lowering her eyes. A faint blush crept onto her cheeks.
Sensing the warmth of that gaze, Podrick looked over and found Sansa among the crowd.
For reasons he couldn't quite explain, his mind flicked back to that sudden, heated kiss that night. He pressed his lips together, lingered no longer, and followed Tyrion toward the seats reserved for the small council.
Once settled into the stiff, high-backed wooden chair, Podrick finally allowed himself to openly survey the hall.
Lord Gyles Rosby of Rosby stood nearby, coughing incessantly. Podrick remembered him well—the letter accusing Cersei Lannister of incest with her brother, sent by Stannis Baratheon, had passed through Rosby's hands.
Now he stood before the Iron Throne, one of the key figures ensuring King's Landing's food supply, alongside Lady Tanda Stokeworth.
Tyrion's cousin, Tyrek Lannister, stood among the courtiers as well, wearing a groom's cloak of white ermine and velvet.
He was not tall, with the same green eyes as his cousin Cersei and long curls of golden hair, looking scarcely older than Sansa Stark herself.
The groom's cloak marked his wedding three days earlier—to Ermesande Hayford.
His bride, Ermesande Hayford, was the Lady of House Hayford—a Crownlands noble house—and its ruling lady. She was still an infant in swaddling clothes.
She was also the last surviving member of her house.
There was no dispute: this was a marriage arranged entirely by family design, a political union meant to secure Hayford lands for House Lannister.
The only price Tyrek paid for marrying little Lady Ermesande was that, from that day on, the other squires stopped calling him "my lord" and began calling him "the nanny."
They even asked him—far too cheerfully—what color of diaper his bride wore on their wedding night.
Worse still, somehow the news had leaked before the wedding. No one knew which loose tongue had done it, but a whole flock of idle cityfolk decided that such an occasion clearly required their presence.
They arrived at the gates of the Red Keep in high spirits—only for their new king, Joffrey, to personally lead troops armed with bows and crossbows and drive them off.
It was dusk when that farce ended.
That very same night, the three remaining small councilors were struck down in rapid succession.
Some were arrested.
Others fled.
And so now, as Podrick quietly observed the courtiers gathered before him, they were also observing him—this impossibly young man seated beneath the Iron Throne, the sole surviving member of the Small Council.
This seat should have belonged to the Imp.
Instead, it had become the Queen Regent's blade—sharp, cold, and pointed directly at her enemies.
The currents of royal intrigue shifted too quickly for anyone to grasp what truly stirred beneath the surface.
No one gave Podrick any particular look. Most of them already understood the situation well enough.
Their gazes merely brushed past him before returning to the dwarf who had just finished climbing onto the Iron Throne.
No matter how fiercely the Lannister siblings clawed at one another, one fact was beyond dispute:
The Iron Throne now belonged to House Lannister.
No matter how rotten the stew, it was still in their pot.
From the throne, Tyrion Lannister looked down upon the hall.
And to his own surprise… he found the view rather pleasant.
It was the first time he could remember ever looking down on others like this.
His face hardened. He lifted a finger.
"Summon Ser Cleos Frey."
The Hand's command echoed through the hall, carried swiftly to the petitioners gathered by the towering oak-and-bronze doors.
As the order was given, Podrick suddenly felt something was missing.
Tilting his head, he glanced back toward the Iron Throne—and only then realized the Queen Regent was absent.
No wonder Tyrion had convened court so decisively.
As the thought sank in, Podrick shook his head with a quiet, amused smile.
If he wasn't mistaken, the Queen Regent hadn't chosen to skip the session.
She simply couldn't leave her chambers.
Or more precisely—her privy.
…Which made him wonder: how was it that the story seemed to move along just fine whether he was here or not?
Hadn't he done quite a lot already?
Why did everything feel like it had slid right back onto its original track?
Seated among the council, Podrick frowned faintly, lost in thought.
At the summons, Ser Cleos Frey stepped out from the petitioners without glancing aside, walking the long aisle between red cloaks and gold cloaks alike.
As he knelt, Podrick's attention was briefly caught by his increasingly thin hair.
From the throne, Tyrion did not speak at once.
Instead, he glanced toward Podrick—who was staring into space.
The look jolted Podrick upright. He cleared his throat quickly and followed the procedure Tyrion had drilled into him earlier.
"Ser Cleos," Podrick said formally,
"we thank you for bringing us the peace terms proposed by Lord Stark."
"The Queen Regent, the Hand of the King, and the Small Council have carefully considered the terms offered by the one who styles himself King in the North."
"Regrettably, Ser, these terms are unacceptable. You are instructed to convey our reply to the North."
As Podrick finished, Tyrion Lannister immediately continued.
"And these are our terms."
His voice was calm, measured, unhurried.
The hall fell silent.
"First: Robb Stark must lay down his arms, swear fealty, and return alone to Winterfell."
"Second: he must release my brother Jaime unharmed and place his armies under Jaime's command, to march against the traitors Renly Baratheon and Stannis Baratheon."
"Furthermore, every lord who has sworn to House Stark must deliver one son as a hostage. Houses without sons may substitute daughters."
"So long as their fathers do not rebel again, these hostages will be treated with honor and rewarded with rank."
The demands were outrageous.
But then—lions were known for their appetite.
And in King's Landing, all power now rested squarely in Tyrion's hands.
"Hand of the King," Cleos said weakly,
"Lord Stark will never agree to such terms."
He wasn't wrong.
Tyrion had never expected Robb Stark to accept.
That was the point.
"Then inform him," Tyrion continued evenly,
"that a new Lannister army is being raised at Casterly Rock and will soon march into the Riverlands."
"At the same time, my father will strike from the east."
His words rang with cold certainty.
"Stark stands alone. He has no allies left."
"Stannis and Renly Baratheon are already at one another's throats."
"And Dorne will wed into the royal family—Prince Doran Martell has agreed to betroth his son Trystane to Princess Myrcella."
"Tell Stark this plainly: he has no path to victory. Persist, and only defeat awaits him."
As he spoke, Tyrion noticed Sansa Stark standing among the courtiers, her lips parted in shock.
After a brief hesitation, he continued anyway.
Podrick, too, was startled.
So this is the 'good news' Tyrion mentioned?
But could events truly have moved so quickly?
Days—only days—had passed.
Were Renly and Stannis truly at war?
Had Dorne truly agreed?
Or was this all calculated bluff?
And yet Tyrion spoke with absolute confidence.
The hall erupted in murmurs—shock, hope, disbelief tangled together.
Tyrion ignored it all.
"As for my kin," he continued,
"we offer Harrion Karstark and Wylis Manderly in exchange for Willem Lannister."
"Lord Cerwyn and Ser Donnel Locke in exchange for your brother, Tyrek."
"Two Lannisters," he said coolly,
"are worth four Northmen—at any time."
Laughter rippled through the hall.
Tyrion waited for it to fade before delivering his final concession.
"And we will return Lord Eddard Stark's remains, as a sign of King Joffrey's goodwill."
Cleos frowned.
"Lord Stark also demands his sisters… and his father's sword."
Among the courtiers stood Ser Ilyn Payne, silent as ever, Ice's hilt rising over his shoulder.
Podrick's gaze flicked toward it.
"As for the sword Ice," Tyrion said, fingers tapping the iron spikes of the throne,
"it will be returned—after peace is concluded. Not before."
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