299 AC - Kingslanding - Third Person POV
Kings Landing buzzed with the uneasy calm of a city spared from Stannis Baratheon's grasp. Tyrion Lannister, clad in a doublet of crimson and gold, limped through the Red Keep's corridors, his steps echoing off the stone. The small council chamber had been moved to the Tower of the Hand, a decision by his father, Tywin, to centralize power. As Tyrion approached the heavy oaken door, his mind churned with the weight of the war, Aemon Targaryen's sorcery, and the fragile alliance with the Tyrells.
He pushed open the door and stepped into the chamber, its air thick with the scent of wax and ambition. At the head of the table sat Tywin Lannister, his golden-green eyes unyielding, his presence a storm held in check. To one side, Petyr Baelish lounged with his characteristic smirk, beside him Varys sat with his hands folded, and Grand Maester Pycelle hunched over, his chains clinking faintly. Tyrion's gaze lingered on them, but a rustle behind him announced Cersei's arrival. She swept past, her crimson gown trailing, and surveyed the room with a predator's gaze. Spotting an empty chair at the table's far end, she dragged it with deliberate force, placing it beside Tywin on the opposite side of the others, and sat with a queen's poise.
Tyrion, not to be outdone, strode to the remaining empty chair, dragged it opposite his father, and settled into it with a defiant thud. The room's tension tightened, a silent battle of wills playing out in glances and gestures.
Petyr Baelish broke the silence, his voice smooth as polished glass. "My lords, my queen, I bring good tidings. The Tyrells are ours—Margaery will wed Joffrey, securing their hundred thousand swords and food for small folk. And I've ensured the Vale remains neutral. Lysa Arryn, swayed by… personal assurances, will keep her knights from joining the Stark-Tully alliance."
Tywin's gaze flicked to Baelish, his expression unreadable. "Well done, Lord Baelish. When this war is won, Harrenhal will be yours."
Baelish bowed, his smile deepening, though his eyes gleamed with unspoken plans. "You honor me, Lord Hand."
Cersei leaned forward, her voice sharp. "And when will the Tyrell army arrive?"
"Within two weeks, Your Grace," Baelish replied. "The Tyrell family themselves—Mace Tyrell and his family will be here in three days."
Nods rippled around the table, the promise of reinforcements a rare spark of hope. Tywin turned to Varys. "Any news worth mentioning, Lord Varys?"
Varys's soft voice carried a chill. "In Essos, King Domonic Augustus of Uruk has conquered Volantis in a single day, shattering its Black Walls with his power. The slaves rose, slaughtering their masters, and the Unsullied now patrol the streets. Braavos has knelt to Uruk, and Pentos, Qohor, and Norvos muster an army—sellswords, a hundred thousand Dothraki of different khalsaars, and sorcerers—to defy him."
Pycelle's chains rattled as he gasped. "Sorcerers? Gods preserve us, this Uruk king is a demon!"
Baelish's eyes narrowed, his smirk fading. "A hundred thousand Dothraki? Even sellswords can't tame that horde."
Cersei's lips tightened, her voice cold. "Another Sorcerer with unnatural power."
Tyrion leaned forward, his voice dry. "A king who breaks cities in a day? Sounds like someone we'd rather not invite to the capital."
In Volantis, the aftermath of Uruk's conquest was a tableau of awe and terror. A surviving Volantene merchant, trembling in the ruins of his manse, whispered to a freed slave, "He came like a god—walls fell, flames roared. No man could stand against him." The slave, now armed, nodded fiercely. "Domonic Augustus is our savior. The masters deserved their end." On the streets, an Unsullied captain surveyed the crowds, his voice flat but firm. "The king's justice is absolute. Volantis is his, and we keep his peace." A young boy, clutching a stolen dagger, shouted to his friends, "I saw him! Fire and thunder from his hands—the triarchs burned like kindling!"
Tywin's voice cut through the council's murmurs. "Watch Uruk closely, Varys. If Daenerys Targaryen looks west to her ancestral seat, we'll face another player in this game."
The discussion shifted to Aemon Targaryen, the sorcerer-king of the North. Tywin's tone was cold, assured. "With the Tyrells, we command one hundred twenty thousand men. Aemon, sorcerer or not, cannot slay thousands at once. Victory will be ours."
The council nodded, bolstered by the numbers, though Tyrion's gut twisted with doubt. Aemon's ice and fire had broken the Twins and Riverrun; underestimating him was folly. But he held his tongue, knowing his father's mind was set.
As the meeting ended, Baelish, Varys, and Pycelle departed, their steps quick and purposeful. Tyrion rose to leave, but Tywin's voice stopped him. "Tyrion, you will serve as Master of Coin."
Tyrion froze, his lips curling in disbelief. "Me? I know how to spend gold, Father, not manage it. Find another fool for your ledgers."
Cersei, still seated, laughed, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "I'm sure you'll do a splendid job, brother. Counting coppers suits you."
Tyrion shot her a withering look but said nothing. Cersei rose, her gown rustling, and swept from the room, leaving a trail of venom in her wake. Tyrion inclined his head to Tywin, who dismissed him with a curt nod, and made his exit.
Outside, Bronn leaned against a wall, his sellsword's grin sharp as a blade. Tyrion approached, his voice dry."Behold," Tyrion said, "the new Master of Coin."
Bronn's eyebrow arched. "You, keeping the books? They'll be bankrupt by next moon."
Tyrion snorted, leading Bronn to his chambers. Inside, he poured Arbor red into goblets, handing one to Bronn. They settled by the hearth, the wine loosening their tongues. "To Cersei," Tyrion toasted, mockingly. "Whose love for me is matched only by her talent for disaster."
Bronn clinked his goblet, grinning. "And to Joffrey, the little prick who'd rather skin a puppy than sit a throne."
Tyrion took a deep gulp, his eyes glinting. "If I could sell Cersei's spite and Joffrey's tantrums, I'd balance the realm's debts in a day."
Bronn leaned back, his voice sly. "Master of Coin, eh? You'll be counting pennies while your sister plots to stab you in the back. And your father hells, he'd sell you for a good horse."
Tyrion chuckled, though it was hollow. "Oh, Bronn, my father thinks me a stain on the Lannister name, but he needs my wits. For now. Cersei, though—she'd sooner feed me to the scorpions than share a table."
Bronn drained his goblet, wiping his mouth. "And this Uruk king? breaking cities like you break bottles. What's your play if he sails west?"
Tyrion's smile faded, his mind turning. "If Domonic Augustus brings his fire to Westeros, we're all fucked—Lannisters, Starks, Tyrells. A man who conquers Volantis in a day doesn't play by our rules."
Bronn shrugged, pouring more wine. "Then you'd better learn to count gold fast. Armies don't march on empty purses, and I don't fight for free."
Tyrion raised his goblet, his voice dry. "To empty purses and emptier promises. May we live long enough to laugh at them."
They drank, their laughter sharp against the Red Keep's stone, but Tyrion's thoughts drifted north to Aemon's ice and fire, and east to Uruk's rising shadow. The game of thrones grew deadlier, and the Master of Coin knew his wits were his only shield.
In the North, Aemon Targaryen marshaled his forces at Riverrun, the Tyrell-Lannister alliance hardening his resolve. Across the Narrow Sea, Domonic Augustus sat in Volantis's conquered halls, his queens Daenerys and Missandei at his side, their eyes on the Free Cities' doomed army—and, perhaps, the distant shores of Westeros.