King's Landing was always loud, always crowded, and it always smelled like a dumpster fire in a swamp.
People flocked here from every corner of the Seven Kingdoms, looking for a shortcut to power or a gold dragon in the gutter. But these days, the usual bustle had a jagged edge to it. The city hadn't forgotten the last time Lannister soldiers "saved" them during the Rebellion, when Tywin's men had turned the streets into a slaughterhouse.
In a cramped backroom on Silk Street, the shadows were thick with treason.
"When is Stannis finally going to hit the walls?" a man rasped, his hood pulled low. "I heard he's taken Storm's End. Twenty thousand men are sitting under his banners, just waiting for the wind to turn."
"He better hurry," another whispered urgently. "Littlefinger's tax collectors are breathing down my neck. If the 'Stags' don't get here soon, the Gold Cloaks will seize my shops and throw my daughters into Chataya's brothel."
The leader of the group, a man with a voice like grinding stones, cut them off. "Shut it! Times have changed. Before, the city only had a few thousand Gold Cloaks, trash who only knew how to shake down merchants. But now? The Old Lion is back. Tywin brought ten thousand veterans with him. These aren't city guards; they're killers. Stannis is smart to wait until he has the numbers."
The shadowy figures nodded, then dispersed through the side exits of the "Gilded Lily," trying to look like regular patrons who'd just finished their business with the girls.
None of them noticed the little girl with the muddy face sitting in the alleyway. She was one of Varys's "Little Birds," and she moved through the labyrinthine shortcuts of the city like a ghost. Minutes later, she slipped through a hidden panel into a room that smelled of heavy lavender and expensive powder.
Varys, the Master of Whisperers, took the note from the child and tossed her a handful of copper. "Keep watching them," he purred. "Tell me the moment they mention a date."
As the girl vanished, Varys sighed and tossed the note into a brazier. He looked at his reflection in a polished silver bowl. He'd just finished telling Tywin Lannister everything Tyrion had been up to, including the presence of a certain camp follower named Shae.
"I hope you don't hold a grudge, Lord Tyrion," Varys muttered to the empty room. "But a man must keep his seat when the world starts to shake."
The Small Council meeting was a depressing affair.
Tywin Lannister sat at the head of the table, looking like he'd been carved out of granite. Tyrion sat to his right, officially demoted from Hand to Master of Coin. Littlefinger was gone, having sprinted out of the city the moment Renly died to go play matchmaker with the Tyrells. Cersei was there, of course, looking smugger than usual, along with Pycelle and Varys.
"This isn't a Small Council," Tyrion muttered to himself. "It's a Lannister family dinner with a eunuch and a lapdog."
"Cough." Tywin's soft sound silenced the room instantly. "Gentlemen. A raven arrived from Lord Baelish this morning. The negotiations with Highgarden are complete."
Cersei leaned forward, her green eyes flashing. "And?"
"Margaery Tyrell is coming to King's Landing to marry Joffrey," Tywin said. "And she's bringing her dowry: fifty thousand Reachmen."
Cersei actually gasped, a triumphant smile breaking across her face. "That's it then! Once the roses get here, we march north. We burn the Riverlands to ash, behead the wolf pup, and bring Jaime home."
Tywin just stared at his daughter until her smile faltered.
"Dear sister," Tyrion sighed, looking at her with genuine irritation. "Do try to use that space between your ears for once. Even with fifty thousand men, we have Stannis Baratheon sitting at Storm's End. The moment our army leaves the city, Stannis takes his fleet and sails into the Blackwater. We'd be handing him the Iron Throne on a silver platter."
Tyrion pointed to the map. "And the North isn't a burning field anymore. The Blackfish has five thousand men in Harrenhal. Robb Stark is in Riverrun with twenty thousand. And the Karstark kid has turned the Golden Tooth into a meat grinder. The Westerlands are cut off, Cersei. Lannisport is a pile of cinders. We aren't in a position to 'march' anywhere."
Tywin turned his cold gaze toward his son. "It seems your mind isn't entirely occupied by your little courtesan, after all. So, tell me, Master of Coin, what's the move?"
Tyrion felt the sting of the "Shae" reference but kept his face flat. He remembered Tysha. He remembered what happens when his father decides to "teach a lesson."
"We negotiate," Tyrion said firmly. "We have Sansa Stark. We have the leverage of the Tyrell alliance. We buy time until Stannis moves. We make the North think we're willing to talk, then we let the Baratheons and the Starks exhaust each other."
Tywin didn't praise him. He didn't encourage him. He just leaned back, his pale eyes unreadable.
"Negotiate," Tywin repeated, as if the word tasted like sour wine. "We shall see."