Hand of the King Tyrion Lannister stood atop the walls of King's Landing with Ser Jacelyn "Ironhand," Lord Commander of the Gold Cloaks. Together, they watched several hundred new recruits drilling in the square below, forming loose ranks as they practiced a spear formation.
This age did not lack for soldiers. Too many refugees had flooded into King's Landing, and many volunteered for the City Watch in exchange for food, warmth, and a straw bed in the barracks. The city's food was supplied first to the Red Keep and the camps, and to save grain, even feasts inside the Red Keep had begun to be forbidden. But Tyrion placed little hope in this rabble. Faced with a hard battle, they would likely thrust a few times with their spears and then run.
"Change the drill. Use what matters most, the fire-lances."
"Yes, my lord." Ser Jacelyn nodded. The Alchemists' Guild would send large numbers of clay jars to every city gate, and those jars were needed to train the men who would operate the fire-lances and scorpions.
The fire-lance crews began taking the field. As Tyrion had instructed, they filled the jars with green paint and practiced loading and firing. The crossbowmen began their attack, and green paint poured out like a true green dragon.
Tyrion watched the crews drill. On the whole, they were not bad, though a few fools fumbled in panic and spilled the paint.
Ser Jacelyn cursed from the wall. "Who spilled the 'fuel'? Do you not want supper tonight?"
Tyrion added to him in private, "Once they are used to the paint jars, switch them to lamp oil. Have them light the oil jars first, then fire them. When they can handle that smoothly without hurting themselves, they can use wildfire in battle."
"I have no interest in anything the alchemists piss out," Ironhand Jacelyn said with a nod, admiring the Imp's quick thinking. He had no love for those pyromancers or their wildfire, but this was wartime.
"Nor do I. But I use what I have."
"There is new news you need to hear. A raven brought it." Bronn hurried toward Tyrion with a letter in hand.
"Arryn. This is an ultimatum from House Arryn." Tyrion looked at the blue sealing wax on the envelope, and a dreadful feeling rose in him at once.
"Read it yourself. I thought the Grand Maester was going to jump out of his skin." Bronn pointed at the envelope.
Lady Lysa had always remained unmoving as a mountain, reading letters but never replying. For a letter to come from The Eyrie now was unprecedented, and it was unlikely to be good news. Littlefinger had always been sly. He would have haggled with Tyrion, not acted so bluntly. This did not fit the unspoken rules of politics.
Tyrion took his leave of Ser Jacelyn, Lord Commander of the Gold Cloaks. "Ser, I have urgent business."
The Lord Commander did not say much, merely letting them leave with respect.
On the way out, Tyrion could not wait to open the letter from The Eyrie. The bird had brought black news.
"Littlefinger and Lysa are both dead? The Vale has formed its own Council of Seven Guardians, to govern as regents until Lord Jon's frail son comes of age, and they mean to attack King's Landing." Tyrion skimmed the letter, his whole body trembling slightly. "Fuck. We were fooled. It was the Storm. He played us all."
"What exactly is going on?" Bronn looked at Tyrion, who was almost incoherent.
"It is a declaration of war. A new declaration of war. The Vale is entering the game." Tyrion felt as though a fire had been lit in his throat, every word coming with a sting.
The so-called march south of the direwolf army had been a lie from the start, meant to draw everyone's eyes. The Blackfish was not on the front at Riverrun either. The true killing move had been the Storm and the Blackfish crossing the Bloody Gate, then taking control of The Eyrie and turning it. That Lysa had died so mysteriously was most likely tied to some scheme of Littlefinger's, though the letter had not gone into detail out of consideration for appearances.
"How is that possible?" Bronn was also shocked. "That madwoman Lysa Arryn was timid as a mouse, and she always trusted Littlefinger."
"Read it yourself." Tyrion handed the letter to Bronn.
Bronn quickly read through it, and when he finished, he felt as if the sky had collapsed. The first matter in the letter declared the cause of Lord Jon's death, the execution of the traitor Littlefinger, and Lysa's sudden passing. The second was that the Vale would temporarily be protected and led by a seven-member Council of Seven Guardians, acting as regents for the young Lord. The Guardians swore loyalty to Gendry, the lawful heir to the Iron Throne, and were determined to raise a great army, rebuild the alliance of wolf, fish, falcon, and stag, sweep away the Lannister puppet court, and avenge Robert Baratheon and Jon Arryn.
"Littlefinger will never laugh again. Those two were the reason the Vale stayed out of everything."
"Now they are both dead. It turns out old Jon Arryn was poisoned by Littlefinger, and the Vale men also believe Grand Maester Pycelle delayed his treatment. In any case, they blame us," Tyrion said, despair creeping into his voice.
Once the falcons chose to enter the game, the Storm had brought all three northern kingdoms fully to life.
The Storm's army was coming fiercely. Its left army was the fish and wolves of Riverrun, its right army was the falcons of the Vale, and its center was the stags, crabs, and wolves of The Twins. Once the falcons took the field, the combined strength of those houses would be several times that of the Lannisters. If ravens flew across the realm, news of the Lannisters' predicament would spread through the Seven Kingdoms, and the already wavering rose and Martell would not let the chance slip by.
"I need to return to the tower," Tyrion said, his heart heavy with worry. The Arryn armies were sharpening their blades. Perhaps, as in The Dance of the Dragons, they would land in batches at Maidenpool or Duskendale. Whatever they chose, King's Landing had no strength to resist.
Tyrion walked on. He had no time to mourn Littlefinger. He had wanted to kill Littlefinger himself anyway. But Tyrion could feel the situation pressing tighter and tighter, until he could hardly breathe.
Tyrion had been biding his time, waiting for his chain and his wildfire, waiting for his brother Jaime and their cousin Ser Stafford to ready weapons and train a new army at Casterly Rock. Once they were prepared, they could strike the Storm, Tully, and Stark from front and rear alongside Great Lord Tywin.
But the Storm had not been idle either. If anything, he had moved like a sudden tempest. Now, if House Arryn's fleet landed from the east, the whole situation would slip away. Details could not change the larger course of a war.
Tyrion opened the door to his study in the Red Keep, only to find someone already there.
Cersei, tall, golden-haired, and blue-eyed, turned from the window, her skirts swaying around her slender hips. "I summoned you, and you dared not come!"
"Who allowed you into my tower?"
"Your tower? This is my son's royal castle!"
"So it is," Tyrion said, very displeased. He would have to discipline Crawn later. His Moon Brothers were supposed to be guarding the door today. "As it happens, I was just about to look for you."
"Were you?"
He shut the door. "What, you do not believe me?"
"Of course I do not, and I have every reason not to."
"How wounded I am." Tyrion had little desire to trade barbs. Instead, he limped to the wine cabinet, found a good bottle, and poured himself a cup.
"Enough, you disgusting little maggot! Myrcella is my only daughter. Did you truly think I would let you sell her off like a sack of oats?" Cersei finally came to the point. She had come to confront Tyrion over the girl.
The two began arguing over it. Tyrion looked at his sister. "How is it treating her like a sack of oats? Myrcella is a Princess. In a sense, she was born for this sort of thing. Or were you planning to marry her to Tommen?"
The Queen Dowager slammed her cup down. It shattered on the floor, wine spilling everywhere. "For that alone, I could have your tongue pulled out, brother or no. I am Joff's regent, not you. And I will never agree to have Myrcella put on a ship and sold to that Dornishman, the way I was sold to Robert."
"Enough!" Tyrion looked at Cersei and shook wine drops from his hand. "We both know that Dorne, the Vale, anywhere would be safer than staying here."
"Are you incurably stupid, or have you truly lost your mind? We both know House Martell does not like us, and Lysa Arryn did not like us either."
"There is no Lysa Arryn anymore. She is dead, and so is our envoy, Petyr Baelish." Tyrion looked at Cersei gravely.
"What?" Cersei paled in shock. She had been waiting here for Tyrion, and the old Maester had not found her. He had given the letter to Tyrion first.
Cersei snatched the letter from his hand, her face turning white at once. She read every word on it carefully, one by one.
"We have lost another ally. The falcons have taken wing, and they fight for the Storm now." Tyrion sighed.
"You got Littlefinger killed too. He could still have squeezed a few gold dragons out for me."
"How is that my fault?" Tyrion shot back. "Littlefinger needed the Vale and that old cow's support. He wanted to go back himself, and he even abducted our sweet Sansa."
"Shut up. I threw all those maids into the black cells."
"In any case, we have lost Sansa, lost Littlefinger, and lost the Vale. Those Vale knights, who only know how to sleep with sheep, are all stubborn old fools." The Queen Dowager gritted her teeth.
"It was the blacksmith who ruined everything. I had hoped to win over House Martell, House Arryn, or House Tyrell. We need allies, and all three houses are of great value. As for House Greyjoy, they are weaker.
"But now House Tyrell has not sent a single soldier. Most likely they are waiting for someone else to name a price. They are far too mercenary. Yet the rose has the most soldiers and the most grain. House Martell does hate us bitterly, but Prince Doran's hatred for House Lannister only goes back one generation, while the wars between Dorne, Storm's End, and Highgarden have lasted for a thousand years. They could still stir up trouble along the border. As for House Arryn, that stupid woman Lysa was once our best supporter. If she had simply kept the Bloody Gate shut, she would have done us a great service. But now The Eyrie has changed sides, Lysa and Littlefinger are both gone, and the Vale's mainstream faction wants war. Because the Vale has turned, the Storm is fiercer than ever. I think your Myrcella can no longer be sent away."
"She would be a hostage wherever she went," the Queen Dowager said through clenched teeth.
"And also an honored guest. Only now, she is an honored guest we cannot send away." Tyrion looked at his sister. "I had arranged for Ser Arys to escort her. Myrcella is nine, Trystane Martell is eleven, Robert Arryn is seven, and Willas is simply too old. But now, we have very few bargaining chips left."
"Bargaining chips, my sister." Tyrion spread his hands helplessly. "Originally, we could have traded. We could have promised them high offices, the Crownlands, or several castles in the Marches or the Stormlands. But now, I fear that no matter how much we offer, they will not be moved. After all, no one likes to sit at the same table with a loser."
"We have not lost. The Prince of Dorne, the supreme commander of the Reach, and House Arryn, Wardens of the Vale, is that it? What do you intend to give them, besides my precious daughter? You are not only offering too much, but without my consent, none of it has any force."
"How much we give can be discussed. What I fear most is that they will not accept talks at all."
"How much? You want me to bow and scrape before those traitors and beg them to lend us a hand? We are proud lions."
"What would you offer them instead? The hole between your legs?" Tyrion snapped.
Cersei slapped Tyrion across the face so hard he felt as though his head had been knocked crooked.
"My dear sweet sister," he said, "I promise you, that is the last time you will ever lay a hand on me."
"I asked you to find a way, you little fool. Is your answer to humiliate me?" the Queen Dowager snapped. "Do not threaten me, little man. Do you think Father's letter makes you untouchable? It is only a thin sheet of paper. Eddard Stark had one too. Look what became of him."
Lord Eddard did not have my troops, Tyrion thought. He had the City Watch, Bronn's Sellswords, and the mountain clans. That also meant he had to trust Varys the Spider, Ser Jacelyn Bywater, and Bronn. In such a storm, they could only pull together.
"What do you want me to do? King's Landing is dangerous. I need to find somewhere for the girl to go, an ally who speaks of honor." Tyrion looked at Cersei. "Or should I send the little girl across the Narrow Sea to some cheese seller or butter seller in Lys or Volantis, assuming they would send troops for us? In any case, if King's Landing falls, how can Myrcella be safe? By then, I fear the Storm will hang her head beside yours. We both know how vicious that man can be."
The Queen Dowager began to cry.
Tyrion was thrown into confusion. Cersei crying was a rare sight indeed. He had not seen his sister cry since their childhood at Casterly Rock.
"Do not touch me!" the Queen Dowager said, twisting away. A fragile lioness only liked others to see her shining side.
Tyrion should not have felt hurt, yet this hurt him worse than any slap. Cersei's face was flushed, grief and anger mingling as she gasped for breath. "Do not look at me. Do not... look at me like that... I will not allow it!"
"This is war. I have already decided to live or die with King's Landing. Success, or death. Also, truly, I promise you, nothing will happen to Myrcella."
"Stop boasting. What is Jaime doing?"
"At Casterly Rock. I hear he is recovering well, though he has become a clumsy left-handed swordsman. But my golden brother is now being called the Cripple and the Disfigured," Tyrion said.
"If you speak nonsense again, I will have your tongue pulled out."
Cersei sniffed. "If only I were a man. I would not need any of you. I could solve these problems myself. Jaime actually lost to that little brat, and so miserably. And Father, what is he doing now? Hiding behind Harrenhal when I need him."
Perhaps that is not necessarily a bad thing, Tyrion thought. Jaime has never had patience, just like Cersei, my dear sister. If defeat can temper his temper, he will become even more dangerous. Provided, of course, that my brother can walk out of that shadow instead of sinking into it.
"Father is fighting a war. But I feel the situation is not good, if you will believe me."
"What do you mean? He is hiding behind the high walls of Harrenhal. After beating the direwolves, he has not moved."
"Robb Stark is now at Riverrun. The Storm was originally at The Twins, but now he has forced his way to The Eyrie, while Father remains at Harrenhal. Father's original plan was to wait, but now it is becoming very hard to keep waiting."
"Because of the falcons?"
"Exactly." Tyrion nodded. "Harrenhal is strong as iron and perfectly placed. Even the Storm's cavalry, Robb's northern army, and the remnants of House Tully might only be enough to match our main force. But once fresh troops from the Vale land in the rear, everything changes."
"Or he could come to King's Landing. King's Landing is far more dangerous than Harrenhal. The three Storm forces and the Vale army could attack from both sides."
"We will have to rely on ourselves. Hold out a little longer. A capital this grand will not fall at once. From Harrenhal to here, the Kingsroad is straight and fast. And the three Storm forces are divided. That is King's Landing's only chance. If Renly or Stannis comes alone, or the Arryn army comes alone, we can hold until Father rides to our relief. To put it another way, Father's army is the hammer, and we are the anvil. That is the loveliest fantasy. May the gods protect us. Once we win, we will have room to breathe and the right to bargain." Tyrion said. He also thought this was the most perfect hope. The problem was that the enemy had too many men.
Cersei nodded. The situation now was a hopeless tangle. At times, even she had to admire Tyrion's little mind.
"The blacksmith, Robb Stark, Renly, Stannis. Which of them is more troublesome?"
"All of them. The Storm is as fast as thunder now. I had thought Stannis and Renly should have arrived by now, but they have been strangely slow, which has given us some time," Tyrion said. "Harrenhal is close to the crossings of The Trident, perfectly placed to stop the Storm's cavalry and the northern infantry from crossing the river and joining the Young Lord and Edmure's cavalry at Riverrun. But Harrenhal is easy to defend and hard to attack. Even the Storm's army, the northern army, and the remnants of House Tully are only barely enough. Our original plan was for Father's army to rest and recover in the fertile Riverlands, while Jaime and the others gathered a new army. Then the two armies would strike the Storm from both sides as he marched south. But now that House Arryn has entered the field, Father's army risks being surrounded on three sides."
"What do we do now? How do I not know any of this? Did Father tell you all his plans?"
"No. I merely looked at a map."
"You little Imp. Your head is full of wild thoughts, a misshapen great head full of them," Cersei said with disgust.
"But none of that is what truly frightens me," Tyrion said, his worry deepening.
"What is?"
"That the Storm is playing with us like a cat with a mouse. Instead of facing us in open battle, he means to starve us alive."
"Then why have you not hurried to send ravens to Rosby and the other towns, and to Father?"
"It is too late."