Chapter 73: Interlocking Chains
Back at the Tower of the Hand, Tyrion first went to his chambers to change into the attire befitting an official audience.
His outer robe was black velvet, studded with gold lion-head clasps.
The chain of office—solid gold hands linked finger to wrist—rested heavily against his chest.
Last of all, he fastened a deep crimson silk cloak trimmed with gold, specially tailored for him. On anyone else it might barely have covered their back, but on Tyrion it lent him, at least in silhouette, a measure of the authority befitting the Hand of the King.
The moment he entered, Podrick lifted his chin and announced loudly:
"Presenting the Hand of the King—Lord Tyrion Lannister!"
The Hand's private reception chamber was far smaller than the king's, and could not begin to compare with the Throne Room—but Tyrion preferred it this way.
He liked the Myrish carpets underfoot, the hangings on the walls, and above all the sense of privacy.
He liked Pod's announcement too.
At the sound of it, the blacksmiths, weaponsmiths, and metal merchants Bronn had summoned that morning all dropped to one knee.
Tyrion strode between them with his head held high, climbed onto the raised seat beneath the golden round window, and only then gestured for them to rise.
"Masters," he said, "my apologies for keeping you waiting. I know you are busy men, so I'll be brief."
He glanced at Bronn.
The mercenary stepped forward and handed him a canvas sack. It sagged heavily, metal clinking inside.
Tyrion took it, loosened the drawstring, and dumped its contents onto the carpet. The metal struck the thick rug with a dull, muffled thud.
Podrick's ear twitched at the sound, and he glanced thoughtfully at the carpet, but said nothing, returning his attention to the object now lying on the floor.
Three thick lengths of heavy steel chain lay tangled together.
"This," Tyrion said, pointing at them, though his gaze swept the room, his tone leaving no room for argument, "was forged at my order by the castle smiths. I want one thousand more just like it."
At his words, one blacksmith crouched down to inspect the chains, rapped them with his knuckle, and nodded.
"Extremely hard steel," he said at last.
Tyrion was not surprised. Anyone summoned here would not be a charlatan.
"Hard, yes," Tyrion replied with a nod. "A pity they're too short—rather like myself. Which is why the finished versions I want must be much longer."
He looked at the man.
"What's your name?"
"Begging your lordship's pardon," the smith replied, "they call me Ironbelly."
He was not tall, but massively built. Though dressed only in plain wool and leather, his arms were thick as a bull's neck, impossible to conceal.
His reply was respectful, without a hint of resentment for having been kept waiting half the day.
Tyrion didn't truly care what the man was called, or who he was—it had been a casual question.
More importantly, he had no intention of lingering any longer than necessary.
So he issued his command directly.
"Listen carefully," Tyrion said. "I want every smithy in King's Landing forging chains like these—and I want them all linked together."
"And while these chains are being forged, all other work is to be set aside. I want every man who knows how to swing a hammer working on this—master, journeyman, or apprentice. If he has the strength to lift a hammer, he works."
"When I ride through the Street of Steel, I want to hear hammers striking day and night."
"And one more thing," Tyrion added, turning his gaze back to the smith before him. "I'll need someone capable—someone reliable—to oversee this operation. Master Ironbelly, do you believe you are that man?"
This was no promotion, no path to wealth—only trouble. Ironbelly's brow furrowed.
Yet no matter how skilled a craftsman he was, he was still a commoner. He could not defy the Hand of the King. Perhaps that was precisely why Tyrion had donned his full regalia before coming here.
"Even if I were willing," Ironbelly said carefully, "what of the armor and weapons Her Grace has ordered? What are we to do about those?"
His voice carried genuine distress. The Hand demanded chains; the Queen demanded swords and armor. Whose orders were they meant to obey?
As he finished speaking, another smith quickly added, "The Queen has commanded us to rush production of armor and axes in large quantities, my lord—supposedly for the newly recruited Gold Cloaks."
Tyrion's expression did not change. He merely lifted his chin slightly, indicating the man standing by the door who had announced his arrival.
"The gentleman at the door is the new Commander of the City Watch," Tyrion said evenly. "Perhaps you should discuss the matter with him."
Podrick understood immediately.
His face hardened as he gave a calm, indifferent nod.
"The Gold Cloaks are currently undergoing downsizing," he said coolly. "The new recruits only require training for now. That work is not urgent. You may prioritize the chains first—my business can wait."
None of the smiths had expected the commander himself to be present. Their excuses evaporated instantly.
Several exchanged uneasy glances, faces tight with anxiety.
After all, when gods fight, mortals are crushed. A single word from nobles could cost them their lives—and who would truly believe noble promises?
"My lord, forgive us," one smith suddenly said, dropping to his knees again. "But Her Grace has said that anyone who fails to meet her deadlines will have their hands smashed—"
"—smashed on their own anvils," he finished miserably. "That is the Queen's command."
At his words, several others hurriedly knelt as well, voices overlapping in panicked agreement.
Tyrion's mouth twitched.
Seven hells, Cersei, he cursed inwardly. Always finding new ways to make the people adore us.
But cursing changed nothing. The matter still had to be resolved.
"That will not happen," Tyrion said firmly. "I give you my word."
"But iron prices have been rising," Ironbelly pressed, clearly unconvinced. "Forging these chains will require vast amounts of pig iron—and coke for the furnaces…"
For Tyrion, the problem warranted no more than a moment's thought.
"Whatever the cost," he said, "take it to Lord Baelish."
He made the promise—and silently hoped Littlefinger would not disappoint him.
Podrick, hearing this, raised a thumb in agreement.
Unfortunately, before he could feel pleased for more than a heartbeat, the burden dropped squarely onto his shoulders.
"In addition," Tyrion continued calmly, "I will order the City Watch to assist you in sourcing iron. If necessary, melt down every horseshoe in King's Landing."
His tone was so mild that Podrick could not tell whether it carried even a hint of resentment over his sister—or over certain other transgressions.
With a resigned expression, Podrick nodded his acceptance.
Yet as he did, a new thought surfaced in his mind.
Perhaps this assignment could be… useful.
"In short," Tyrion concluded, rising to his feet, "you may either forge the chains—or wear them. The choice is yours."
With that, he swept his gaze across the room once more and strode toward the door.
He had already wasted far too much time today.