Chapter 30 – Wit and Steel
"Lord Tywin truly is the most considerate of men,"
cooed Varys, his powdered fingers delicately turning the sealed parchment this way and that.
"Even the wax gleams like molten gold."
The eunuch's painted lips curved into a smile as he examined the lion-shaped seal.
"In every detail, it appears quite genuine."
"Of course it's genuine."
Before he could finish, Cersei snatched the letter out of his hands, her voice dripping disdain.
She broke the seal, unfolded the parchment, and began to read, her eyes darting quickly across the lines.
Whatever her father had written, she meant to know it first.
She needed to see whether the reinforcements she had begged for were finally on their way.
No one at the table seemed the least surprised by her rudeness.
Even the eunuch, robbed of his prize, retained that same cloying, sweet smile.
From his seat, Tyrion Lannister watched them all quietly, his mismatched eyes gleaming with thought.
So… Cersei sits the council in his place, he mused.
I'd wager Joffrey is as absent as Robert ever was.
With that realization, the dwarf moved without hesitation,
climbing into the high-backed chair at the head of the council table —
the Hand's seat —
and sitting himself down as if he'd owned it all along.
Several councilors flicked uncertain glances his way,
but none dared speak.
Cersei, engrossed in the letter, didn't even notice —
not until her eyes reached the final lines.
Then her face changed.
---
"What?!"
The parchment came down hard on the table with a crack.
"Father has sent my brother to court to take his place!
He commands us to recognize Tyrion as Acting Hand of the King —
until he himself can resume the office!"
Her voice rose in fury,
sharp as shattered glass.
Her teeth ground together so tightly
Tyrion half expected her to swallow them whole.
Around the table, the other councilors exchanged wary glances.
Grand Maester Pycelle, stroking the cascade of his white beard,
tilted his head and muttered in ponderous tones:
"Then it seems… we must formally welcome him."
The old man's words carried just enough weight to draw murmurs of agreement.
Next to him, Janos Slynt, Commander of the City Watch —
and newly made Lord of Harrenhal —
hastened to add his voice, his double chin quivering.
"Indeed, my lord, indeed! We are most fortunate to have you!"
"The city is restless, riots in the streets, omens in the sky —"
He puffed out his chest, eager to please.
But he'd chosen the wrong moment.
Cersei rounded on him like a storm breaking.
"Tell me, Lord Slynt — whose fault is that?"
Her words struck like a whip.
"Maintaining order is your duty — or do your gold cloaks only know how to rob corpses and take bribes?"
The frog-faced lord shrank back, lips quivering, eyes wide.
Having silenced her pet, Cersei turned her venom toward her brother.
"As for you, Tyrion —
I imagine your talents would be far more useful on the battlefield."
Tyrion only smiled.
He had seen that look before —
the way she tried to drive him away with scorn.
"Oh, no, dearest sister," he said,
"I've had quite enough of killing for one lifetime."
He patted the armrest of his chair.
"This seat is far more comfortable than a saddle,
and I find a wine cup fits my hand better than an axe."
He leaned back, all ease and insolence.
"They say the battlefield rings with drums and glory —
the gold of armor shining, the horses neighing beneath banners…"
He sighed.
"In truth, the drums only make my head ache,
my armor cooks me alive like a roast goose,
and the horses…"
He wrinkled his nose.
"They never stop shitting."
That earned a few poorly concealed smirks around the table.
Even Varys's perfumed hand fluttered to his lips.
Tyrion spread his hands dramatically.
"But I shouldn't complain.
Compared to the warm hospitality I enjoyed in the Vale of Arryn,
a little horse dung and flies seem positively delightful."
A soft chuckle escaped across the table.
Then, without warning, it swelled into laughter —
clear, amused, and edged with mischief.
It came from Petyr Baelish,
whose sharp eyes gleamed with quiet delight.
"Well said, Lord Tyrion," he drawled,
"You speak to my very soul."
At Littlefinger's smooth laughter, Tyrion's gaze flicked toward him.
For an instant, a memory surfaced — of a certain dagger, its hilt carved from dragonbone, its blade of Valyrian steel.
He kept his expression perfectly still, a faint smile touching his lips.
Yes, my lord Baelish — I'm sure it does please you.
Though perhaps we should find time soon to discuss that dagger of yours.
"In any case," Tyrion said aloud, turning back to the table,
"I can only beg your indulgence, my lords.
Allow me to serve — even if it's only in the smallest of ways."
The reality of his arrival, of his authority,
was something no one could deny — not even Cersei.
Her glare lingered on him, cold and bitter,
until she realized resistance was useless.
She lowered her eyes to the letter again, scanning the words a second time,
then looked up sharply.
"How many men did you bring?"
"A few hundred," Tyrion replied smoothly.
"All my own.
Father would not spare a single soldier — he's fighting a war, after all."
Cersei's green eyes hardened.
"And when Renly's host marches on the capital?
When Stannis crosses the Narrow Sea from Dragonstone?
What use are your few hundred men then?"
Her words dripped venom.
"I asked for an army, and Father sent me a dwarf."
She leaned forward, her tone turning icy.
"The Hand of the King is appointed by the King,
with the consent of the council —
and Joffrey named Father, not you."
Tyrion smiled faintly.
"And Father, in turn, named me."
He gestured toward the letter still in her hand.
Cersei's voice sharpened to a blade's edge.
"He had no right — not without Joffrey's consent!"
"If you wish to tell him so yourself," said Tyrion evenly,
"you'll find him encamped at Harrenhal.
I'm sure he'd be delighted to hear your opinion, dear sister."
Through it all, his tone remained unfailingly polite —
the very model of courtesy,
which only made her fury burn hotter.
Then Tyrion turned his head slightly, addressing the others seated at the table.
"My lords," he said lightly,
"might I ask a few words in private with my sister?"
At once, Varys rose from his seat, gliding to his feet with serpent-like grace.
"Ah, yes — Her Grace's voice must remind you of home, my lord,"
he said in his honeyed tones,
a smile smooth as silk.
"Come, my lords, let us leave the family to their reunion.
State matters can wait a few moments —
they'll still be in turmoil when we return."
The others hesitated, but one by one they followed.
Janos Slynt stood awkwardly, his armor creaking,
and Grand Maester Pycelle rose with the slow effort of a dying tree,
his long white beard trembling with every breath.
Last of all came Petyr Baelish, ever the picture of graceful amusement.
He adjusted his sleeve, then looked directly at Tyrion.
"Shall I have the steward prepare chambers for you in Maegor's Holdfast?"
he asked, voice silky-smooth.
Maegor's Holdfast — the fortress within the fortress,
a keep of red stone and black iron,
ringed by twelve-foot walls and a dry moat lined with spikes.
The King's and Queen's apartments were there,
at the heart of the Red Keep.
It was, on the surface, the proper place for the Queen's brother.
But Tyrion had no desire to live in that nest of serpents.
"Your kindness overwhelms me, Lord Baelish," he said with a smile.
"But I'll take the Hand's Tower —
the same quarters once held by Lord Stark."
The faintest glimmer of amusement danced in Littlefinger's eyes.
"Bold choice, my lord.
You do recall what happened to the last two Hands who lived there?"
Tyrion's smile widened, cold and sharp.
"I do.
That's why I'll sleep with the door barred and a dagger close at hand."
Littlefinger chuckled softly, bowing his head.
"As you will, Lord Hand.
I pray your luck holds longer than theirs."