Julius
"Even rat meat has become a luxury in this city," Tyrell muttered as he rode through the streets of King's Landing. Everywhere he looked, the roadside was lined with haggard, desperate people. "Every bite of food costs five or six times what it used to. Gold dragons are worthless now. Those merchants deserve to die."
He cursed under his breath, surrounded by a dozen Lannister red-cloaked guards. A few members of the City Watch, the so-called "gold cloaks," followed along without much concern. Bronn was now the commander of the City Watch, overseeing a force of roughly 6,000 men.
Janos Slynt, the previous commander, had tripled the guard's numbers during his tenure, swelling their ranks. But in Tyrion's eyes, these so-called soldiers weren't even as useful as the hundred mountain clansmen he had brought with him.
Zira and Shagga, from the Black Ears and the Stone Crows, had come to King's Landing at his side, though he had them stay at a tavern for now. Most of the other free folk were still fighting in the North with his father, or had returned to the Mountains of the Moon.
Thinking of them brought another memory to mind—the boy. Tyrion hadn't learned what had happened to him until he reached the city.
"What a fool. You never even shared my bed. Why act so strong? You should have come to King's Landing with me," he would sometimes grumble when drunk, speaking to no one in particular.
"Move aside! Don't block the way of my lord!" the lead guard barked at a woman clutching a child in her arms.
"Varys, mind your tongue. You're speaking to a defenseless woman," Tyrion said sharply.
The guard hesitated, then lowered his head in silent acknowledgment.
Dismounting from his horse, Tyrion felt his legs twitch as his feet touched the ground. He approached the woman, who stood taller than him, her clothes in tatters, her face smeared with grime, and her hair tangled and unkempt.
"Madam, I am the King's Hand. If you have grievances, speak them, and I will see justice done."
The woman dropped to her knees, sobbing. "My lord, please, save my child. I beg you, save my child."
Tyrion glanced at the bundle in her arms—a frail infant, barely a year old, sleeping soundly.
"Is someone threatening you? Or—"
Before he could finish, the woman interrupted, her cries making her words barely intelligible. But Tyrion understood—she needed food.
He looked around. The eyes of the starving were fixed on him, like ravenous wolves watching prey. He knew that if he so much as pulled out a gold dragon or offered a crust of bread, the desperate crowd would swarm him.
Even reason crumbles before hunger.
"Varys, bring the woman and her child," Tyrion ordered.
Their destination was a tavern near the Gate of the Gods, where he had housed the mountain clansmen—and where his lover, Shae, resided.
Once there, he ordered the cook to prepare a meal for the woman and handed her a few silver stags.
"I thought you fancied her and planned to kiss her flea-ridden hair tonight," Bronn quipped as Tyrion sent the woman on her way. "She's probably from Flea Bottom. Word is, they've started eating each other down there."
"That's a failure on your part, Bronn. I made you commander of the City Watch to keep order, not to spend your days whoring."
Bronn smirked. "Then maybe you should've given the job to your little knight. He seems more eager to prove himself."
"He's already a knight—and a viscount."
In truth, Tyrion knew Bronn had done well with the mess they'd inherited.
"Hunger makes men reckless. They don't care about laws or order—they just want to eat. The whole city is starting to look like Flea Bottom," Bronn said.
"How much food arrived today?" Tyrion asked.
"Not much. The merchants know they can make a fortune selling here, but the other two kings have blocked the roads."
Stannis had cut off the sea routes. Renly controlled the western and southern roads, preventing any caravans from reaching King's Landing. The two brothers had strangled the city's supply lines.
The Riverlands were in chaos. There was no hope of securing food from the North.
"Keep your men in line, Bronn. I won't have King's Landing fall to rioters before Renly and Stannis even get here."
"That'll take a lot of men. We don't have enough to control the whole city."
"Slynt tripled the Gold Cloaks' numbers, Ser Bronn."
"There are a million people in this city."
"That's a bard's tale. Only a fool would believe it."
Tyrion entered the best room in the tavern.
A graceful figure lay on the velvet mattress. Shae's silk nightgown clung to her, accentuating every curve. Under the flickering candlelight, she stretched, draping an arm across her body, one long leg bent, her silhouette visible beneath the fabric.
Tyrion swallowed, his throat suddenly dry.
She smoothed the mattress beside her and murmured, "My mighty lion of Lannister, why don't you come rest?"
Sounds soon filled the room—soft, rising, and falling.
Later, as the quiet settled, Tyrion sat on the pillows, lost in thought. Beside him, Shae shifted.
"I don't want to be stuck with those barbarians all day," she said.
He realized it was unwise to leave a girl like Shae among men like Shagga.
"I'll find you a house," he promised.
She seemed pleased. In the darkness, Tyrion felt her delicate hands start to move again.
Tyrion's Return to the Red Keep
Tyrion and his men returned to the Red Keep early the next morning. He could have stayed at the tavern, but he had already had his quarters in the Tower of the Hand cleaned. Of course, the place had an ominous history—recent Hands of the King hadn't met the best of fates.
Jon Arryn of the Eyrie had been murdered, and somehow, Tyrion had been accused of it. Eddard Stark of Winterfell, once the new Hand, had become a wanted man and was likely dead in some gutter by now.
As soon as Tyrion entered the inner city, a messenger approached him.
"My lord, the queen requests your presence in the council chamber."
Tyrion frowned but made his way there. When he arrived, the rest of the kingdom's ministers were already seated. He was the last to enter.
Taking his seat at the long table, he greeted them with a smirk.
"Good morning, gentlemen." He turned to his sister. "And good morning to you, dear sister. I was wondering if I might have some breakfast. Perhaps some crispy bacon? A glass of wine would be even better."
Cersei met his gaze with an icy look before turning to the others. "Now that we are all here, Lord Varys, tell them the news."
The Spider stood, his silk robes flowing as he moved. His powdered face was unreadable as he pulled a letter from his sleeve and handed it to the nearest council member—Lord Petyr Baelish.
Littlefinger, as people called him, was slender, not particularly tall, but undeniably handsome. His gray-green eyes flickered with amusement as he read the letter before passing it to Tyrion.
At first, Tyrion was still half-distracted, but as he skimmed the letter, he sat upright, his expression sharpening.
"Stannis has taken Storm's End," Cersei announced, confirming what the letter said. "He will now march on King's Landing."
"This may not be bad news, Your Grace," Grand Maester Pycelle murmured.
Indeed, they had feared that Renly and Stannis might unite against them. But now, the Baratheon brothers were at war with each other. If they destroyed each other, King's Landing only had to watch from the sidelines.
"Lord Renly is already marching with a large host toward Storm's End," Varys added.
Tyrion placed the letter down, his thoughts still racing. One name in the message had shaken him. A name he had never expected to see.
"No matter who wins," he said finally, "their eyes will turn to King's Landing next."
"Lord Tywin will bring his forces to aid us," Pycelle assured.
"The real problem isn't Renly or Stannis, Grand Maester," Tyrion countered. "It's food. If you can conjure up enough provisions to feed the whole city, then even ten Stannises and ten Renlys wouldn't breach our walls."
"Renly commands sixty thousand men. Nearly every noble house in the South follows him," Littlefinger pointed out.
Cersei's patience wore thin. "I did not summon you all here to listen to tales of how powerful Renly and Stannis are."
"Sister," Tyrion said dryly, "are you suggesting we take sides in their war? We have only six thousand Gold Cloaks, and we can barely keep order in the city as it is."
"Lord Lannister, I must remind you that Stannis's army also numbers only six thousand," Varys chimed in.
"They won't defeat Renly," Littlefinger mused. "It's only a matter of time before Renly retakes Storm's End. We should focus on making sure that takes as long as possible."
Tyrion kept his thoughts to himself. That's not necessarily true.
The council deliberated for a while longer, but as expected, no real solutions emerged. Tyrion wasn't surprised. His father had little regard for these ministers, and neither did he. Given the choice, he'd rather hold counsel with a pack of mountain clansmen than waste time listening to these scheming foxes.
When the meeting finally adjourned, Tyrion stayed behind, stopping Varys before he could leave.
"Dear Hand, you'll miss your breakfast," Varys remarked, moving with his usual eerie silence—like the Spider he was named for.
"The cooks in King's Landing are never short of food. I doubt my dear sister would let her Hand starve," Tyrion replied, handing over the letter. "How much do you know about Cole?"
Varys feigned ignorance. "My lord, you surely know this knight better than I."
"But he's dead. My father burned him himself."
Varys shook his head. "Then I fear you ask too much of me. I never saw him with my own eyes. But they say he wielded two swords and called himself Cole Julius—a rather cumbersome name, if you ask me. Stannis knighted him personally after he captured Storm's End. His sigil is a fire-breathing white bird."
Varys paused, considering. "Perhaps the Cole who took Riverrun is not the same man. But the minstrels prefer to sing of them as one."
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