Chapter 59 — Attending the Council
"Damn that imp!"
Cersei finally snapped, the curse ripping straight from her throat.
"No matter what excuses you make, he should never have dismissed nearly a fifth of the City Watch in a single morning. And you call that 'decisive'? It's outright stupidity!"
Her voice rose, shrill with fury.
"He's foolish, and you're foolish for appointing a twelve-year-old squire to command the City Watch. Or—" her eyes narrowed with sudden suspicion, "—was that your intention all along?"
The Queen Regent had long abandoned any façade of noble grace. In this moment, she looked less like the ruler of the Seven Kingdoms and more like an enraged fishwife spitting venom.
Varys bowed his head, pretending deafness, regretting only that he hadn't arrived even later.
Fortunately, the council chamber doors opened just then.
Two sets of footsteps approached—
one steady and confident,
the other slow, shuffling, and heavy with age.
Petyr Baelish, Master of Coin.
Grand Maester Pycelle, arching like a decrepit willow.
They entered side by side.
Tyrion's lips curled into a cold smile.
"A clean cut is always better than a slow rot. Tell me, sister—do Renly Baratheon or Stannis Baratheon strike you as men generous enough to wait for us to get our affairs in order?"
He leaned back in his chair.
"So what use are these extra bodies—except to give our dear Master of Coin panic attacks over payroll? Once battle comes, half of them will flee at the first clash of steel."
He swept a hand through the air dismissively.
"So answer me this: do we want soldiers who will defend King's Landing, or a horde of drunkards who will desert you the moment danger appears?"
Littlefinger had just stepped inside, still wearing his calm, pleasant smile—
which froze the instant Tyrion mentioned him by name.
A flicker of confusion.
Then, comprehension.
Baelish smoothly shifted gears.
"Lord Lannister, I'm afraid I must disagree. Our new Commander made quite the promise before the entire Watch yesterday."
He glanced at Cersei.
"He declared that the wages and benefits stripped from those dismissed would be redistributed to the rest. I was planning to bring this matter to Her Grace and His Majesty."
Then, with a polite dagger of a smile:
"I do not believe he has the authority to make such promises."
Tyrion met Baelish's jab with a lazy shrug and a smirk.
"But it does guarantee that the Watch will actually perform their duties, does it not, Lord Baelish?"
"As for money—well, isn't that your department?"
He spread his hands.
"If loyalty can be bought with coin, Seven bless us—what a bargain. But such bargains are rare."
Two sentences—
and the knife had been turned neatly back into Littlefinger's ribs.
But Petyr was not one to leave a thrust unanswered.
"And how, Lord Lannister, do you guarantee this 'loyalty' of yours? A speech? A sack of gold?"
His tone dripped with pleasant poison.
"Simple," Tyrion replied smoothly.
"The disloyal and the opportunistic were expelled yesterday. We all witnessed it."
The imp's deft tongue redirected the conversation in a neat circle, landing once again on the events at the Dragon Gate.
Cersei exhaled hard through her nose, then sank back into her seat.
She hated admitting it, even to herself, but Tyrion's logic was sound.
She had been lashing out for the sake of control—not conviction.
Her voice, when she spoke again, was colder, steadier.
"Fine. Since you insist you're right—what is your plan? I want results."
Her glare promised this was far from over.
Seeing that Cersei had stopped shrieking, Tyrion quietly exhaled in relief.
Seven hells, he hated sparring with her every waking hour—
but it had to be done.
If he didn't claw power back into his own hands piece by piece, how was he supposed to govern?
Leave decisions to Joffrey again, so the boy could decapitate another Eddard Stark?
Or to Cersei?
What difference did it make between the two?
Tyrion straightened in his chair, drew a breath, and addressed the gathered councillors with deliberate calm.
"Pod will deal first with the rot festering inside the City Watch. We need them functional before anything else."
"As for the rest—my plan is to begin recruiting anew. Fresh troops, properly trained, properly equipped. Loyalty and discipline before numbers."
He turned slightly toward Cersei.
"And, dear sister, since you've had the smiths working day and night forging armor for the Watch—now that we have fewer mouths to feed and backs to clothe, that pressure eases. We can redirect manpower to other tasks."
"At the same time, I intend to send parties west and south to gather grain. The kingswood will be opened to hunters to ease the immediate food crisis. And I'll dispatch a force south to learn what Renly Baratheon is planning."
Cersei's brow knit, displeasure deepening.
"That's all?" she asked sharply.
Tyrion spread his hands.
"You eat a fish one bite at a time, sister. Swallow it whole, and the bones tear your throat out. Even these small steps must be done without error."
"Damn it!"
"Indeed," Tyrion agreed pleasantly. "Lord Baelish, I trust you'll ensure we actually have money to spend."
Littlefinger sighed dramatically.
"I only wish I could defecate gold on demand."
"Funny," Tyrion replied, eyes gleaming. "The last man who said that spent a week in my father's dungeon under Casterly Rock. Still alive, if you'd like an introduction."
The sniping escalated, and Varys hurried to slip between them with fluttering hands and a placating smile.
"Gentle sirs, please… we all serve the same crown. Harmony, harmony."
Once the immediate sparks were smothered, Varys turned to Cersei, voice smooth as honeyed wine.
"The unrest in the streets grows daily, Your Grace. Hunger is a cruel master—crueler than any devil. Lord Tyrion is correct: the former Watch accomplished little. I, for one, hope Commander Podrick Payne applies himself vigorously."
The eunuch's words, though slippery, at least steered the conversation away from open warfare.
Cersei rubbed her temples, the fight draining from her.
She understood—painfully well—that once Tyrion had removed Janos Slynt and installed his own man, she had been outmaneuvered.
That damned imp.
Now he held the Watch, the wildlings he smuggled in, and the formal authority of the Hand.
And she… had no leverage left except Jaime—whose rescue depended entirely on Tyrion's diplomatic games.
She had room only to retreat.
"Fine," she snapped. "Handle it. But I do not want to hear of another… incident like yesterday's. And silence those peasants while you're at it."
She rose, intending to sweep from the chamber.
But Tyrion's voice stopped her.
"One more thing."
She turned, eyes narrowed.
"What now?"
"Podrick Payne," Tyrion said smoothly, "as Commander of the City Watch, should have the right to attend meetings of the Small Council. We are desperately short-handed, and believe me—he can be indispensable."
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