Chapter 58 — The Damned Imp!
Bang!
"Tyrion! Do you even know what happened yesterday at the Dragon Gate barracks? Our City Watch suffered forty-three casualties! Someone must answer for this outrage—Podrick must answer!"
"And since he is your appointment, your creature, your own personal squire—you must answer as well!"
It was the same familiar council chamber.
Cersei Lannister, acting as Queen Regent and the one who had called this meeting, had arrived early. Now she sat in the King's chair, posture regal, expression venomous.
As Tyrion pushed open the door, she slammed her palm on the long table hard enough to rattle the goblets, her voice echoing like a whip crack.
Tyrion, used to his sister's spittle-laced rages, showed not a flicker of concern.
He waddled calmly to his seat, climbed into it with practiced ease, and straightened his doublet.
"That was not a conflict, my dearest sister," he replied smoothly.
"That was a riot. There is a difference, and an important one."
"So no one needs to 'answer for' anything. The new Commander was simply putting down a mob—and quite effectively, I might add."
He spread his hands, smile mild and infuriatingly pleasant.
"In fact, I rather think we ought to be grateful. We should be rewarding him. Podrick Payne has handled a rather unpleasant problem for us."
Cersei's face contorted in rage.
Hearing Tyrion calmly twist black into white only made her angrier.
But hearing him talk of rewarding Podrick was too much—her restraint snapped.
"Tyrion, shut your mouth! You do not get to decide what is and is not a riot!"
She stood abruptly, jabbing a finger toward him.
"That wretched boy has been Commander for one day and already caused bloodshed—and you dare defend him?"
Cersei's voice rose, shrill with fury.
"I will tell you plainly: we do not need such a reckless, criminal commander. The King agrees—and I agree!"
"Podrick Payne must be handed over immediately. He will answer for this with his life!"
"I want his head removed, and a seasoned, steady commander put in place!"
She was beautiful even in fury—golden curls, emerald eyes, skin still smooth despite three children—but beauty did little to soften the madness twisting her features.
Tyrion, watching her, very much wanted to call her a hysterical fool.
Or a shrieking fishwife.
Or simply: idiot.
But this was not the place.
Besides, he knew perfectly well that her anger had nothing to do with the deaths of a few dozen useless Gold Cloaks.
This was retaliation.
Retaliation because he had sent Janos Slynt—her obedient thug—to the Wall.
Retaliation because she was desperate to claw back control of the City Watch.
Retaliation because power, to Cersei, was oxygen.
So Tyrion met her rage with cold calm.
He even had time to nod a greeting to Varys, who slipped into the chamber with his usual silken quiet, before turning back to Cersei.
"Oh, my dear sister, whether this was a riot or not… that, too, is not for you to decide."
"And as the new Commander of the City Watch, Podrick Payne does indeed have the authority to impose certain reforms."
"Unfortunately, some… parasites… did not appreciate their privileges being interrupted. Even parasites grow bold after feeding on the Kingdom long enough."
"So forgive me, but I will not allow us to punish a loyal commander because a few blood-sucking leeches objected to losing their meal."
As Tyrion spoke, he tapped a knuckle lightly against the tabletop—tok, tok—each tap sharpening the steel in his voice.
Varys glided to his seat like a perfumed ghost, the air shifting with his powdery sweetness. He blinked innocently, as though baffled by the Lannister siblings' escalating quarrel.
And escalate it did.
Sparks all but crackled in the air between them—needle against whetstone.
Cersei's breath came sharp and furious, her chest rising and falling like storm waves.
This time, Tyrion did not wait for her to spit out another insult.
He struck the table twice—hard.
Then he spoke, every word clipped with purpose.
"Listen, sister. I have no interest in bickering over trivialities. We all know what Janos Slynt did during his time in command. Podrick's actions are nothing more than a long-overdue correction."
"King's Landing is surrounded on all sides—Renly pressing from the south, Stannis glaring from Dragonstone, and inside these walls riots, hunger, and unrest simmer like a kettle about to boil over."
"So tell me, dear sister—"
He leaned forward.
"—is it truly your wish to defend King's Landing with a force of drunkards, gamblers, and corrupt parasites?
Is this the army you would trust to defend Joffrey's Iron Throne?"
Janos Slynt's reputation needed no embellishment.
Before he bought himself the commander's cloak, he was merely the Captain of the Iron Gate. When the previous Commander died unexpectedly, Slynt slipped into his place like a rat finding an opening.
And from there?
Bribery. Selling officer posts. Gouging soldiers' wages.
By the end of his tenure, more than half the officers in the City Watch were paying him for the privilege of serving.
Jon Arryn, the former Hand, had tried to bring him down.
He even found witnesses—two brave fools who agreed to testify.
Both were murdered before they could speak a single word.
Arryn still intended to dismiss Slynt…
But Robert Baratheon simply waved it off:
"Better a man who steals out in the open than one who hides it.
Replace him and you might get someone worse."
And so Slynt stayed.
The rot stayed with him.
Cersei opened her mouth, ready to explode again—
But no words came out.
She could not argue the facts.
And worse—Tyrion's words carried an unspoken threat.
She felt it.
She hated that she felt it.
Her teeth ground together, the sound sharp as broken glass.
Because he was right.
Because she could not fix it.
Because she had written to Father for aid—
In Joffrey's name, in her own—
And received nothing.
No soldiers.
No gold.
No reassurance.
Only… him.
The imp.
This damned imp!
The thought screamed through her skull like a curse from the Seven themselves.