"My Lords, may I have a private word with my sister?" Tyrion Lannister asked politely, facing everyone. He needed to talk to Cersei to discern what was truth and what was lies in King's Landing.
Tyrion looked at the four important ministers before him, implicitly telling them to leave. Grand Maester Pycelle was responsible for strategy, Varys for intelligence, Littlefinger Petyr Baelish for finances, and Janos Slynt for the soldiers. The first two were veterans, having served the country since at least the Mad King's reign, while the latter two were upstarts. But Tyrion felt these four were terrible; perhaps only the Old Maester was truly loyal to Lannister, the others were hard to read. This lineup clearly lacked an army and a fleet, and had also lost Dragonstone and the Stormlands.
Although they didn't show Tyrion enough respect, Duke Tywin's orders were absolute. Tyrion couldn't trust these important ministers before him. Moreover, for the more intricate truths, he needed to have a good talk with his sister, Cersei.
Varys smoothly stood up, revealing his usual fawning smile. The master of whisperers was the most astute and had the most pleasant way of speaking, slippery as an eel. "Your sister's sweet voice must fill you with longing. My Lords, how about we let them have a moment alone? It won't be too late to deal with these turbulent state affairs later."
Tyrion watched as they all began to leave one by one. The Old Man with a waterfall-like white beard, Pycelle, walked with a tottering gait. Janos, the upstart whose father was a butcher, hesitated for a moment. Littlefinger was the last to stand up. "Should I go and ask the steward to prepare some rooms for you in Maegor's Holdfast?"
"Lord Petyr, I appreciate your kindness, but I will be staying in Lord Stark's former residence in the Tower of the Hand," Tyrion said nonchalantly.
Tyrion knew what Littlefinger meant—he was referring to the curse of the Tower of the Hand. Unfortunately, Littlefinger's intimidation was useless. The Imp had at least two strengths: first, his extensive knowledge, and second, his lack of superstition.
Littlefinger indeed joked, recounting the unfortunate fates of the two previous Hands of the King who resided in the Tower of the Hand: Lord Jon Arryn and Duke Eddard Stark, the Eagle and the Wolf.
Tyrion directly spoke of those past events, "Aerys Targaryen's last hand of the king was killed when King's Landing fell. I doubt he even had time to move into the tower, having served as Hand for only fourteen days (Rossart, the Pyromancer of the Alchemists' Guild). And the one before him (Lord Cortnay Penrose of the Crownlands) was burned alive. Before that, two were stripped of their lands and titles (referring to the elderly Lord Owen Merryweather of Longtable and the young Lord Jon Connington of Griffin's Roost), dying penniless in exile, and considering themselves lucky. I believe my father was the last hand of the king to leave King's Landing unscathed."
Littlefinger immediately replaced his awkwardness with laughter, his smile benevolent. "How interesting. Is the Tower of the Hand not as safe as the Black Cells? I know the taste of the Black Cells." Although Littlefinger's face appeared amiable, his mind was racing. Catelyn had released The Imp, and The Imp might have heard some rumors. Dwarves and bastards are generally meticulous and hold grudges, so he wouldn't have an easy time.
"I really want to shove you into the Black Cells," Tyrion thought bitterly, but for now, he still needed Littlefinger's coin. As a magnanimous interim hand of the king, Tyrion made a joke about himself. There's a fine line between courage and foolishness. "Whatever curse the Tower of the Hand holds, my small stature always manages to escape its grasp."
Tyrion watched them all leave. Janos laughed heartily, Littlefinger smirked, and the Old Maester's face was solemn.
Once everyone had left, regent queen mother Cersei Lannister's expression indeed changed. The regent queen mother certainly started to rant; she didn't care for historical tales. What she needed now was an army.
"You don't know how much I missed your sweet voice," Tyrion sighed to her.
"You don't know how much I want to pull out that eunuch's tongue with hot pincers," the regent queen mother retorted. "Has my father lost his mind? Or did you forge the letter?"
The regent queen mother read the letter again, growing more annoyed with each line. "Why did he dump you on me? I want him here himself." She crumpled Duke Tywin's letter in her fist. "I am Joffrey's regent queen mother, I issued a royal decree to him!"
"And he ignored you," Tyrion calmly countered his sister, his expression unchanged. While the regent queen mother was intimidating, true power came from commanding a large army. Moreover, in chaotic times, King's Landing's decrees could barely cover one or two geographical areas, the Crownlands and the Westerlands.
"I need loyal and capable young warriors, even if my father doesn't come, I need them," the regent queen mother complained.
"I know what you mean, sister. The Boy Blacksmith has had three victories, and everyone outside is saying he is the true king and warrior. It stands to reason that young men should face young storms; back then, the Mad King found a Griffin to be Hand and fight Robert. But our Joffrey, hearing these messages, would fly into a rage, pull out people's tongues, as for going to war…
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