Chapter 54 — Preparation
Things that seem monumental to outsiders are, in truth, sometimes decided by nothing more than a single sentence from someone who sits a little higher.
Just as now — Varys mentioned a name, Tyrion nodded, and suddenly Podrick Payne had become the new Commander of the City Watch — the man in charge of the entire Gold Cloaks.
And the truth was simple: Tyrion was short on people he could trust.
Podrick thought for a moment, then stopped resisting.
Becoming Commander and holding a military force in his hand… perhaps that wasn't a bad thing for him either, even if he didn't yet know how he might use it.
"Very well, my lord," Podrick finally said. "I'll do my best. I only hope I won't disappoint you."
"But as for the Queen… have you made preparations?"
Tyrion finally exhaled — as though a noose at his neck had been loosened by a finger's breadth.
"You don't need to do anything. Just sit in that chair and breathe — I'll sleep better already."
"As for my sweet sister — leave her to me."
He said it casually, completely unworried — confidence was second nature to him. Tyrion Lannister always found a way.
Still, a newly appointed commander ought to achieve something immediately, so Podrick recalled Varys' words before leaving earlier.
"Then the matter of the royal warship planning to defect — should I handle that as well, my lord?"
"Of course." Tyrion refilled Podrick's cup and settled back into his chair.
"No matter what, we need to make an example of him — loudly."
"But best to drag him before the King and make it a public trial. That'll frighten the other captains into loyalty."
"And more importantly, it will keep my dear nephew too busy to meddle elsewhere — and distract my darling sister."
"In short — let him witness Joffrey's 'justice.'"
Podrick had to admit — that was smart.
At the very least, the spectacle would neatly overshadow the small matter of a new Commander of the City Watch being installed. By the time anyone questioned it, the dust would already be settled.
And speaking of defecting captains… it brought to mind the Redwyne twins, and the bribed guards at the Iron Gate.
Podrick continued, "Then I may as well take the opportunity to deal with those gate guards bribed by Ser Horas and Ser Hobber Redwyne.
Three fires for a new official on his first day — I intend mine to burn bright."
"Strike enemies far, reward allies near — once the Gold Cloaks learn who holds the reins, discipline won't be difficult. Everything else can be handled step by step."
Tyrion looked genuinely pleased.
Politics, after all, was like romance — feelings honest, methods shameless.
If Podrick already had an idea of how to move — that was the best outcome imaginable.
"You really are suited for this job. I didn't think that eunuch could read people so sharply."
"But aside from punishing the guards the Redwyne brothers bribed, increase security around the Spear Carrier. If the Redwyne twins buy another guard, we're doomed."
"If Cersei loses her precious hostages, she'll start frothing at the mouth."
Ever since the Tyrells allied with Renly Baratheon, Cersei had kept the Redwyne twins locked in King's Landing as leverage over their father, Paxter Redwyne.
Losing them… especially with the power of the Shield Islands fleet behind him… would be catastrophic.
Podrick understood perfectly — he wasn't naive enough to play the saint here.
"No problem. I'll have them watched constantly. Better to be paranoid than regretful — and our enemies are more than just the Redwynes."
Tyrion grimaced, pinching the bridge of his nose.
"If they have half a brain between them, they'll never risk it — but wanting them to be smart doesn't make them smart. So yes… take precautions."
That matter settled, Podrick mentally took note and moved on.
"And for the city itself, my lord — what's your view?"
Tyrion frowned. "Meaning?"
"Varys mentioned the religious movement. Word spreads faster than wildfire, and that damn red comet has people ready to panic. If we don't prepare, a mob could ignite before we notice."
"Letting it 'run its course' sounds easy — but I don't think we can rely on luck. We need to prepare."
Podrick pressed on with his warning.
The red comet hanging in the sky had drawn every monk, preacher, prophet, doomsayer, and self-proclaimed messenger of the gods into the city.
These people had nothing useful to do. All day long they either begged outside taverns and shops, or clung to pedestrians on the street, raving about the end of the world, the seven hells swallowing mankind, divine punishment, judgment, and total destruction.
And even in peaceful years, such talk held frightening power over common folk.
But now—war across the realm, corpses piling up, prices climbing, despair everywhere—this "the world is ending" hysteria had become the finest narcotic imaginable.
For those who had nothing left—who lived each day in fear and hunger—it was almost impossible not to be swayed.
And if Podrick remembered correctly, the future riot that would engulf King's Landing… would have everything to do with these people.
"And then there's the food shortage," Podrick continued. "That has reached the point where we must act. One spark, and the whole city goes up."
"At the moment we're relying solely on the few Crownlands territories untouched by war—Rosby, Duskendale and such—yet the aid they send isn't nearly enough. A cup of water on a burning cart."
Podrick's concerns came one after another, encompassing things a newly appointed Commander of the City Watch should worry about… and many he shouldn't.
Tyrion, however, didn't mind. He understood perfectly what Podrick was really doing: these weren't complaints—they were warnings, strategic alerts.
But recognizing problems is one thing. Solving them is another.
Tyrion sat in the chair that represented the Hand of the King, palms pressed to his temples, head aching to the point of bursting.
"…Do you have any suggestions?"
The words slipped from his mouth, laden with exhaustion.
He hadn't expected an answer—but Podrick responded without hesitation:
"I have many. Executing them… will not be easy."
Tyrion froze, then looked up sharply.
"Let's hear them."
The tone was exactly the same as last night, when he had asked what Podrick had done at Chataya's brothel—half curious, half afraid.
Podrick didn't joke this time. He simply laid out the plan in an organized, almost unnervingly mature manner:
"Her Grace has taken too many craftsmen off their usual work to build fortifications. We can ease that burden—shift some of them to other tasks. Repair the docks, rebuild and expand the fishing fleet. King's Landing sits on the sea. The quickest food source is the sea."
"No problem." Tyrion nodded without hesitation. "I'll see to it."
"And since you mentioned fishing," Podrick continued, "we might as well open the Kingswood. Any hunter willing to brave the river crossing should be allowed to hunt there."
"While Stannis and Renly are still fighting each other and haven't come knocking—fill the granaries while we can."
Podrick's reasoning was flawless. Tyrion immediately followed the trail of thought. His eyes brightened—he had found a breakthrough.
"Also—have the Gold Cloaks collect food along the western and southern roads. Take what we can. A barrel is a barrel, a sack is a sack."
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