Joffrey stumbled backward, nearly falling, a vivid handprint blooming across his cheek. Mixed with Eddard's blood, it made him look both pitiful and grotesque.
He clutched his face, eyes wide with disbelief and fury, unable to comprehend that this dwarf had actually struck him.
"You... you dare hit me?! You monster! You filthy dwarf! I'll have you killed! Gold Cloaks! Kill him! Cut him to pieces!"
Joffrey screamed hysterically, his voice cracking from rage and humiliation.
The Gold Cloaks on the platform exchanged uneasy glances, hesitating as they took a cautious step forward.
Bronn and the sellswords who had come with Tyrion instantly drew their blades, forming a protective wall in front of him. The air grew taut with imminent violence.
Unfazed, Tyrion pulled a parchment from his cloak, its thick wax seal glinting crimson. He raised it high for all to see, his voice cutting through the chaos.
"Open your damned eyes and look carefully! This is the sealed order of the Warden of the Westerlands, Great Lord of Casterly Rock, Hand of the King—Lord Tywin Lannister himself! By this decree, Lord Tywin appoints me, Tyrion Lannister, to act in his stead as Hand of the King during his absence from King's Landing, while he commands the war at the front. I am charged with maintaining order in the capital and handling all royal affairs until his return or further command. This order carries the full authority of Lord Tywin himself!"
Tyrion's cold gaze swept across the hesitant Gold Cloaks, then fixed squarely on Joffrey—who stood trembling with rage, one hand pressed to his cheek, yet cowed into silence by the weight of his grandfather's name.
"Now," Tyrion said, each word deliberate and sharp, "as Hand of the King, I command you to escort our frightened king back to the Red Keep—at once."
...
Red Keep, Council Chamber.
The heavy oak doors slammed shut behind Tyrion with a resounding thud.
He marched straight across the chamber toward Cersei, his short frame brimming with fury.
She sat rigidly in a high-backed chair, struggling to maintain the dignity of the Queen Regent.
"My dear sister," Tyrion's voice rang coldly through the hall, "look at what you've done. Look at the fine son you've raised!"
His words echoed off the stone walls.
Cersei shot to her feet, her voice shrill. "Enough! What right have you to shout at me here?! Joffrey is the king—he has every right to make the final decision! He was defending the majesty of the crown! Eddard Stark was a traitor who deserved to die!"
She was desperate—clinging to her defense, even as it crumbled.
Tyrion let out a sharp, mocking laugh, tilting his head back to glare at her. "The majesty of a boy who swung a greatsword taller than himself—hacking at a man's neck three or four times like a butcher's apprentice before finally cutting through?! Open your eyes, Cersei! The entire city saw it! They saw a mad king butcher a disarmed, captive noble before their eyes! Now every soul—from the beggars in Flea Bottom to the lords of the Seven Kingdoms—laughs at the Lannisters. They mock us for our public savagery! His madness only proves the rumors true..."
"You—!"
Cersei's face blanched, then flushed crimson, her chest rising and falling violently. She had no retort. Tyrion's words had struck at her deepest fear—her utter loss of control over her son.
Tyrion drew a long, weary breath, his voice softening with bitter exhaustion. "What do you think I've been racing back to King's Landing for, riding day and night like my ass was on fire? To admire your precious boy's 'greatness'? To collect Eddard Stark's corpse? I came for Jaime. Do you know what Father told me after Jaime's capture? He said that, if it serves the interests of House Lannister as a whole, Jaime can be sacrificed."
Cersei froze, her entire body trembling. She staggered back, hitting the chair behind her. Her green eyes filled with terror. "No... no, that's impossible. Father would never abandon Jaime. He's—"
Her voice faltered, the color draining completely from her face. All defiance vanished, replaced by sheer panic. Her lips trembled soundlessly.
Tyrion watched her, his gaze cold but edged with faint pity. "Now," he said flatly, "we're left with one pitiful bargaining chip—the Stark girls. Perhaps they can buy us a sliver of negotiation with Robb Stark."
Cersei's expression twisted, a flicker of unease crossing her face. "...Arya... she... disappeared the day Eddard Stark was arrested. Our men have searched everywhere, but she's gone. We only have Sansa now."
Tyrion went still, then burst into a harsh, incredulous laugh.
"Ha! Ha! Ha! Wonderful! Perfect! Cersei, you truly manage to make every disaster worse! Eddard is dead, Arya is missing, and the last scrap of leverage we had is gone. Father told you to guard the hostages—and this is how you guard them?"
Cersei flinched under the force of his words, her face burning with shame as Tyrion's bitter laughter echoed through the hall.
Tyrion stopped laughing and turned away from Cersei. He walked to the table, poured himself a glass of wine, and took a slow sip.
"Now," he said, his tone turning cold, "let's deal with another disaster of your making. Renly's army is still camped at Bitterbridge, moving slower than a crippled turtle. But the Reach is the granary of the Seven Kingdoms, and here in King's Landing, food prices are rising so fast the people are on the brink of revolt. If this keeps up, we won't need them to attack us—we'll be torn apart by our own starving mobs."
He looked up sharply, his gaze cutting into Cersei. "We must secure grain. At any cost."
After a pause, he added, "And Myrcella—she must leave King's Landing at once."
Cersei reacted like a cat whose tail had been stepped on. "No! Myrcella is still a child. She stays with me! The world outside is chaos—"
"Stay with you?!"
Tyrion spun around, his mismatched eyes blazing. "Stay in this festering city that could be besieged any day now? Cersei, use your head. If—and I say if—the city falls, what do you think the soldiers who storm the gates will do to a beautiful, golden-haired princess? Send her to Dorne, to Prince Doran. Dorne is mostly independent. They've had their quarrels with us, but they're not our mortal enemies. Sending Myrcella there keeps her out of the war—and perhaps, just perhaps, earns us a future ally. That's how you protect her."
Cersei's face drained of color. The picture Tyrion painted—of her daughter's possible fate—made her body tremble uncontrollably. She tried to protest, but no words came.
At last, she collapsed back into her chair and gave a small, powerless nod.
Tyrion didn't look at her again. He turned toward the door and called out, "Fetch our dear Lord Baelish—immediately!"
...
Before long, Littlefinger arrived in the council chamber. His usual courteous, calculating smile was in place, as if the carnage outside the Red Keep had nothing at all to do with him.
He gave a graceful bow. "Lord Tyrion, you sent for me?"
Tyrion faced him without a trace of pleasantry. "Lord Baelish, I need grain—vast amounts of it. King's Landing won't last much longer. The Reach is no longer an option."
Littlefinger arched an eyebrow, affecting polite hesitation. "Ah... my lord, in times of war, grain is worth more than gold."
"Then price is no issue," Tyrion cut in. "I hear the Easterners have taken the Three Daughters, and that the lands there are rich and fertile. You'll go yourself and buy grain from them. The sooner, the better—understand?"
A glint flickered in Littlefinger's eyes before he bowed deeply. "As you command, my lord."
Cersei snapped, "Tyrion! That Easterner killed one of our own—have you forgotten?"
Tyrion downed the rest of his wine and let out a quiet belch. "My dear sister, I remember perfectly well how our Uncle Stafford met his end in Tyrosh. But the whole realm is at war. The Riverlands and the Reach—our richest grainlands—are either burning or beyond our reach. Tell me, besides the Easterner, who exactly do you think will sell to us?"
Cersei's lips moved soundlessly. She had no answer.
Tyrion watched Littlefinger's figure disappear through the doorway, then looked back at Cersei slumped in her chair. A heavy exhaustion settled over him, followed by an even deeper chill.