"No. I will never agree to it."
In the Tower of the Hand at the Red Keep, Tyrion Lannister was just beginning a council meeting on recruiting new troops when Queen Cersei burst through the doors, storming into the room and shouting at him.
Tyrion wasn't surprised in the slightest. He waved Varys and the other officials out, telling them to return later.
Then he instructed Bronn to keep guard outside with his men and ordered the two Kingsguard who had followed Cersei in to leave the room as well.
Once the siblings were alone, Tyrion took a wine bottle and two goblets from the cabinet, poured a glass for each of them, and said, "You should have a drink—calm down..."
Before he could finish, Cersei grabbed her glass and flung the wine straight into Tyrion's face. Then, as if that wasn't enough, she snatched up the wine jug and dumped it right over his head.
Tyrion licked the wine dripping down to his lips and said with a pained expression, "That was flintwine from the Summer Isles. Ever since the city was sealed off, not a single ship from the Isles has docked at King's Landing. This might've been the last bottle in the entire castle. What a waste."
Smack!
Before he could wipe the wine from his face, Cersei slapped him hard, sending most of the liquid flying off. Then she went to slap him again, but Tyrion ducked just in time.
He jumped down from his chair and backed away a few steps. "Calm down, gods damn it! Can't you think straight for once?"
"You damned little wretch! Last time, you sent my daughter to Summerhall—Lynd Tarran shipped her across the Narrow Sea! I'll never see my Myrcella again! You said that was Father's decision, so I let it go," Cersei snarled through gritted teeth. "But now you've gone behind my back to negotiate reestablishing a marriage pact with House Tyrell—planning to have Joffrey marry that woman who got her own fiancé killed. Do you want Joffrey dead too?"
As she spoke, she began hurling whatever was within reach—candlesticks, documents, anything—forcing Tyrion to dodge frantically.
Outside, guards heard the chaos and tried to enter, but Bronn blocked the door.
He sneered at the two Kingsguard and said, "Don't bother. Just a brother and sister having a talk. Best keep out of it."
Even though they were Kingsguard, these two weren't what the order used to be. Most of today's Kingsguard were for show. Bronn, on the other hand, had seven or eight capable fighters with him. He could take the two of them out before they even drew their swords.
The Kingsguard sensed the threat. They didn't press forward and slowly removed their hands from their weapons, backing away to signal they wouldn't interfere.
Inside, the once order-filled desk was now completely cleared, the floor a mess of scattered documents and broken items. Cersei stood at the edge of the table, panting heavily, gripping it for support and glaring at Tyrion. His cheek had swollen from the slap, and a cut on his forehead—likely from something she threw—was bleeding slightly, making him look even more disheveled.
Tyrion had had enough. Wiping the blood from his brow, he no longer avoided her. He stepped forward and said coldly, "If you don't want to marry into House Tyrell, fine! I'll send someone to retrieve the envoy right now. I'll resign as Hand of the King, pack up my people, and leave King's Landing. I'll head back to Casterly Rock and leave this mess to you and your sisterhood to handle."
His voice turned sharp.
"You want to know what's going to happen? I'll tell you. Stannis will unite the Stormlands' armies and march on King's Landing. You won't have any reinforcements. Father's forces will be tied up in the Riverlands by Robb Stark. The Vale? The wildling unrest has died down, and now their armies are regrouping. The Tyrells? After we withdraw the envoy, they'll see us as enemies for breaking the pact again. They'll join forces with Stannis to besiege the capital."
He leaned in.
"Do you know what happens to you then? I'll tell you. You'll be hanged from the gates of the city. Your son Joffrey will have his head chopped off and mounted on the walls—just like he did to Eddard Stark. Father will be surrounded by four armies and die on the battlefield. And me? I'll surrender the moment those armies reach the Westerlands. Then I'll go to Summerhall—Lynd and I get along well enough. He'll offer me protection. I'll live comfortably while you rot. If that's the future you want, I'll hand in my resignation right now."
Cersei went pale.
She wasn't the sharpest tactician, but even she understood just how dire their situation was. Collapse was a very real possibility. That had been why Tyrion quietly sent Myrcella to Summerhall—she'd been furious, but ultimately said nothing.
But this time, Tyrion's decision to send envoys to Highgarden had brought her thoughts back to the prophecy. She was certain it would be fulfilled through Margaery Tyrell. Renly's death only reinforced her belief that Margaery was cursed—an ill omen. If the engagement was renewed, she feared Joffrey would suffer the same fate.
And with Jaime still missing and her anxiety mounting, her emotions had spiraled out of control. She needed an outlet—somewhere to vent. So she'd come storming into the Tower of the Hand to unleash everything she'd been holding back.
After venting her rage, Cersei finally calmed down and sank into a nearby chair. Her voice was low and heavy as she asked, "Is our situation really that dire?"
Tyrion let out a cold laugh. "Dire? Have you still not figured it out? Your foolishness—and Joffrey's—has been dragging us step by step toward the abyss. We're standing at the edge of a cliff, and the slightest breeze could send us tumbling to our doom."
The room fell silent. Neither of them spoke.
After a long pause, Cersei abruptly stood up from her chair, making Tyrion instinctively take two steps back. She stared at him coldly, head held high.
"Then even if we die," she said, "we'll die with dignity."
With that, she turned and strode out of the room, hurrying away from the Tower of the Hand with her Kingsguard in tow.
...
Moments later, Bronn stepped into the chamber, eyeing Tyrion's disheveled state.
"As much as I'd like to give you time to tidy up," he said, "the report that just came in won't allow it." He handed Tyrion a scroll. "News from Dragonstone. It's not good."
Tyrion quickly unrolled it and read, his expression darkening as he scanned the contents.
Just as Bronn had said, the situation had taken a sharp turn. Stannis had borrowed a fleet from the Sealord of Braavos—enough ships to carry a full army. Those ships were now filled with troops. It was clear Stannis intended to bypass the Westerlands forces stationed at the Vale of Arryn and sail through Blackwater Bay to attack King's Landing by sea.
"I'd say four days at most before they're off our coast," Bronn said gravely. "Your situation's looking pretty grim."
"Mine?" Tyrion arched a brow at him. "Aren't we in this together?"
Bronn snorted. "Don't even start. If you think I'm dying for you, think again. If things look bad, I'll be the first out the door. That said, if you've got the coin, I wouldn't mind bringing you along."
Tyrion made a mock-hurt face. "I thought we were friends."
Bronn shrugged. "We are. That's why I'd run instead of turning you in to Stannis for a reward."
Tyrion gave him a crooked smile, then said, "Fine. Fetch Littlefinger—Petyr Baelish."
Littlefinger hadn't gone far. He arrived quickly and paused when he saw the state of the room and the mess Tyrion was in. A smile played at his lips.
"My lord Hand, shall I summon Grand Maester Pycelle? I'm sure he has something suitable for bruises."
"No need," Tyrion said curtly. "What I need is for you to ride immediately to Bitterbridge and speak with Lord Mace Tyrell. If you can convince him to renew the betrothal and send troops to aid King's Landing, I'll grant you Harrenhal. I'll have His Grace name you Lord of Harrenhal."
"Truly?" Littlefinger's demeanor changed at once. His tone turned serious.
"I can sign the appointment myself right now as Hand of the King," Tyrion said firmly. "Complete the task, and Harrenhal is yours."
Littlefinger didn't accept right away. He paced the room in silence for a moment, then nodded in agreement—but with one condition: the appointment couldn't be signed by Tyrion alone. It had to be jointly issued by the Hand, the King, and the Queen, with official seals.
He had good reason to be cautious.
There had already been one Janos Slynt, who was publicly named Lord of Harrenhal at a council meeting, but mysteriously never received a formal writ of appointment. Whether it was a Lannister oversight or a deliberate trick, the result was that when Tyrion became Hand, he was able to strip Janos of the title without difficulty and send him off to the Night's Watch.
Littlefinger had no intention of sharing that fate. He needed a fully signed and sealed appointment to ensure the Lannisters wouldn't betray him once the deed was done.
Tyrion hesitated for a moment but ultimately agreed. The truth was, he had considered doing exactly what Littlefinger feared. As temporary Hand, any writ he signed lacked long-term authority. Once a new Hand was appointed, his orders could easily be overturned.
But with Littlefinger's added requirement, that loophole was closed. No matter what happened next, so long as the Iron Throne remained under current control, Littlefinger's title would be secure.
With the official writ in hand, Littlefinger departed for Bitterbridge at once. Meanwhile, Tyrion issued orders to begin recruiting soldiers within the city, even emptying the last of the royal treasury to fund the effort.
Even so, the number of soldiers recruited remained low, and some had already begun to suggest enforcing conscription. Though Tyrion knew it was the most practical solution under the current circumstances, he was concerned that forcing the people into service would stir resentment within the city. If that resentment erupted when Stannis launched his assault—if the people sided with him from within—it would spell disaster. So even if they resorted to forced conscription, it would have to wait until the fighting began and the citizens had no way out.
...
While Tyrion was troubled by the looming siege, far off in the Westerlands, Robb Stark was equally worried—about his younger brother left behind in Winterfell, and his missing mother.
Exhausted from constant battle, burdened by old injuries and the mounting anxiety for his family, Robb had fallen ill. To prevent the Westerlands' forces from realizing it, he arranged for someone to impersonate him—complete with Grey Wind—riding across the region as if searching for an opening to strike at Casterly Rock, while he himself remained hidden away in the Crag to recover.
"It's no use talking anymore—we should send someone to take back Winterfell at once," Greatjon Umber said. "Let Dacey lead the troops north! With her strength, she can take Winterfell easily and capture that traitor Theon."
"No."
Roose Bolton, who had been holding Tywin's forces at bay in the Riverlands, had come all the way to the Crag after hearing of Robb's illness. He had come to assess Robb's condition and had chosen to stay and take part in the council discussing Winterfell's fall. He rejected Greatjon's suggestion outright.
"Dacey's forces from Bear Island are critical," he said. "It's because of her presence that the army at Harrenhal is locked down. If she returns north, her movements will be exposed, and Kevan Lannister at Harrenhal will undoubtedly move to support Tywin. That would place Riverrun in grave danger."
"Yes. Dacey must not move," Robb said weakly, his fever burning high, though his mind remained sharp. He agreed with Roose Bolton's assessment.
Just then, a nurse dressed in noblewoman's garb entered the chamber without obstruction. She walked straight to Robb's side, removed the warm towel from his forehead, and replaced it with a fresh, cool one. Then she undid his collar, pulled out a small jar of ointment, and gently applied it to his chest.
The Northern officers around the room didn't bat an eye—they seemed used to the sight by now. Only Roose Bolton, newly arrived from the Riverlands, cast a meaningful glance at the woman.
Rickard Karstark, aged and sorrowful after the death of his son, had grown visibly older, but his temper had only worsened. He barked, "So we're just going to let King's Landing fall to a pack of pirates? Do nothing?"
One noble offered, "Of course we need to act. But right now, we simply don't have the forces to spare for Winterfell. We'll have to rely on those still in the North to organize a rescue."
Someone countered, "But the ones left in the North can't muster a proper army. The Ironborn have over five thousand men—well-armed, battle-hardened."
Another suggested, "What if we ask the Night's Watch at the Wall for help?"
Heads shook at once.
"No good. The Wall won't help us," someone replied immediately.
Suggestions kept coming, but one after another, they were dismissed.
At that moment, Roose Bolton gave a soft cough, drawing the room's attention to himself. Then he said calmly, "I still have some men at the Dreadfort. I can send my son Ramsay to lead them. Perhaps he can help us drive the Ironborn from Winterfell."