As he stepped out of the council chambers, Tyrion Lannister gave a brief nod to Ser Mandon of the Kingsguard before continuing down the long, vaulted corridor of the Red Keep.
His expression was calm, but his mind was anything but.
Defending King's Landing was, without question, a thankless task.
Worse still, he was surrounded by men whose loyalties were uncertain and whose ambitions were anything but pure. Ministers smiled in court yet whispered in shadows, each with their own schemes. And beyond the Red Keep's walls lay a city just as dangerous—King's Landing, a sprawling port of nearly four hundred thousand souls, volatile and unpredictable.
Unlike Storm's End, which was built for war, King's Landing was built for trade.
And trade cities burned easily.
"Still," Tyrion muttered to himself as he walked, "defending is easier than attacking."
Holding ground offered certain advantages. His father, Tywin Lannister, had already shifted to a defensive strategy. Their forces were stretched thin, unable to expand their battle lines further without risking collapse.
The war they had started had come back to ensnare them.
Jaime's army had already been shattered, leaving only Tywin's forces stationed at Harrenhal, watching the movements of enemies from every direction—wolves from the north, trout from Riverrun, and stags from the south.
And Tyrion?
He had only a few hundred men to defend the capital.
A bitter irony.
As he exited the hall, Bronn fell into step beside him, ever watchful.
"Where's our Red Hand general?" Tyrion asked casually.
Bronn shrugged. "Went off to explore. His people aren't fond of standing around in pretty halls."
Tyrion sighed.
"I just hope he doesn't kill anyone important."
The Hill Tribes of the Mountains of the Moon were many things—fierce, loyal, and utterly unsuited for civilized life. Their tempers were short, their pride immense, and their swords quick to leave their sheaths.
Tyrion quickly issued instructions.
Bronn was to locate Timmy and ensure his clansmen were fed, housed, and—most importantly—kept separate. The Stone Crows, Burned Men, and Moon Brothers could not be trusted to coexist peacefully in close quarters.
A single insult could turn into a bloodbath.
Then, almost as an afterthought, Tyrion turned to Bronn again.
"If I asked you to kill the Boy Blacksmith… how would you feel?"
Bronn stopped.
Then laughed.
"You want me to do that? Would you pay me Harrenhal for it?"
"Why not?" Tyrion replied lightly. "A Lannister always pays his debts."
Bronn's grin faded slightly.
"Not worth it," he said bluntly. "I'd like to live a few more years."
He leaned closer, lowering his voice.
"They say the boy is nearly two meters tall. Fast. Strong. Relentless. A perfect warrior."
Bronn's tone carried something rare—
Respect.
"Most strong fighters rely on strength alone. This one… thinks. Your brother was lured into a trap. Surrounded. Broken."
Tyrion's smile faded.
"If Jaime hadn't escaped, he'd be dead," Bronn continued. "Like the others."
Tyrion tried to provoke him.
"You're afraid?"
Bronn snorted.
"Of course I am. I'm not stupid."
After a pause, Tyrion waved a hand dismissively.
"Fine. I'll kill him myself and have the singers write a song about it."
Bronn laughed.
"I'd love to hear that one."
Then his tone turned serious again.
"We've got bigger problems. Stannis. Renly."
Tyrion nodded.
"Yes… and a city that might starve before the war even reaches its gates."
"Where are you going?" Bronn asked.
"To the Broken Anvil."
An inn near the Gate of the Gods. Shae was there… along with the Hill Tribes loyal to him.
Bronn smirked knowingly.
"Ah. Of course."
Tyrion ignored him.
"I'll take a guard escort," he said. "And remind them who they serve."
An hour later, Tyrion rode out from the Red Keep, flanked by a dozen Lannister guards in crimson cloaks.
As he passed beneath the gates, his eyes fell on the heads mounted along the walls.
Rotting.
Blackened.
Unrecognizable.
"Captain Vylar," Tyrion called.
"Remove them tomorrow. Give them to the Silent Sisters."
Even in war, dignity mattered.
"This is where we draw the line," Tyrion thought.
But Vylar hesitated.
"His Grace ordered them to remain… until the last four empty spikes are filled."
Tyrion's eyes narrowed.
"Let me guess. One for the blacksmith. One for Robb Stark. And the other two for Stannis and Renly?"
"Yes, my lord."
Tyrion leaned forward slightly.
"My nephew is thirteen years old. Remember that."
His voice was quiet—but dangerous.
"Remove them. Or one of those spikes will hold something else."
Vylar swallowed.
"Yes, my lord."
Satisfied, Tyrion continued on.
The streets of King's Landing told a grim story.
War had already arrived—just not in the form of armies.
Corpses lay abandoned.
Dogs tore at flesh in alleyways.
Markets were overcrowded with desperate people selling worthless belongings. Food was scarce—and what remained was outrageously expensive.
At one point, Tyrion even saw roasted rats being sold.
He couldn't help but grimace.
"Is no grain coming into the city?" he asked.
"Very little," Vylar admitted. "The roads are blocked. The Riverlands are at war, and the Reach is… uncertain."
Tyrion's stomach tightened.
A starving city was more dangerous than any army.
"I need to solve this," he murmured.
Food.
Gold.
Soldiers.
Information.
Each problem could destroy them.
Meanwhile—
Across from the Red Keep, in a tall, inconspicuous building, Petyr Baelish watched everything unfold.
A cup of wine rested in his hand.
"I chased away a wolf… only to welcome a lion."
Behind him stood Ser Rosso, silent as stone.
Littlefinger smiled faintly.
"The Imp needs help. And so does the Queen."
His eyes gleamed.
"Which means… opportunity."
He spoke of alliances, of mercenaries, of manipulation.
Every move calculated.
Every word deliberate.
Yet beneath his calm exterior—
There was unease.
The war was spiraling beyond his control.
The fall of the Twins.
The chaos in the Claw.
The rise of the Boy Blacksmith.
These were variables he had not accounted for.
"If King's Landing falls…" he murmured, "…everything is lost."
His thoughts drifted.
To the Vale.
To power.
To survival.
And then—
To the past.
To Riverrun.
To a duel that had changed everything.
He could still see him.
The wild wolf.
Brandon Stark.
And her—
Catelyn Tully.
The memory burned as vividly as ever.
The duel had been brief.
Humiliating.
Inevitable.
Brandon had been stronger. Faster. Better.
Littlefinger had never stood a chance.
Steel clashed.
Blood spilled.
And in the end—
He fell.
Broken.
Bleeding.
Calling her name.
But she never looked back.
That was the day the boy died.
And something else was born.
Littlefinger's hand drifted to the scar on his body.
"This world made me a fool…"
His voice was soft.
"…so I will climb higher than anyone."
His eyes hardened.
"Stark. Tully. Arryn."
"You are all gone."
"…but I remain."
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