Tyrion
King's Landing had been weathering a storm of men for a matter of months now. From Dragon's Gate and Iron Gate, people from the Rosby and kingsroad to north flooded the base of Aegon's High Hill, drowning most of the granaries and storehouses of all their food and provisions, and practically clogging up Flea's Bottom to the very rim. From from the Rivergate, at the southern outskirts of the city and coming from the roseroad, refugees swept in; disease and crime on the very winds carrying them. Day and night Tyrion could hear the city crackle with the thunder of their cries for bread and justice; his dreams and thoughts haunted by the prospect of the lightening finally striking King's Landing ablaze; rioters knocking and breaking down walls and burning shops, while butchered the entire the royal families' and small council's and placed all their heads at the ends of pikes, though not before raping the women first.
'People might forget I'm a dwarf if my head wound up on a pike,' Tyrion though to himself as he took a long swig of a deep red wine from his cup. 'It only looks bloated and large because of my body after all.'
He had to admit as much as he didn't like Cersei, hated her in fact; the idea of her, Myrcella, and the Stark girl being brutalized while he and the rest of men where torn limb from limb wasn't appealing in the slightest. Even when he imagined he found a way to save himself or anyone else half way likable among the clods at court, it made his Dornish wine taste a little too sour in his mouth. As much as he hated his sister and the rest of them we was obliged to find them all a way alive out of the war his cruel, idiot nephew started when he cut off poor Ned Stark's head off at the steps of Great Sept of Baelor.
Tyrion turned from his weirwood chair and looked back out of the gold round tipped windows of the Tower of the Hand. Everything looked so small down there to him from up in the red stoned tower. It made him feel like a giant looking down his nose and the clouds when ever he did so, though he'd never admit as such to another human being willingly. Tyrion could guess what japes people would tell themselves if the Imp for a moment thought himself tall. Moreso it depressed him in other ways. As a mass of people massed and moved around the base Red Keep, the black shapes he saw reminded him more of ants than humans, tiny and weak to men like him who stepped all over them with their game of thrones. They were utterly insignificant even in regards to the destiny their own lives; the lords and ladies dictating them distant and utterly removed. 'Even if they weren't starving and dying they had every right to hate me and the rest of them.' Tyrion thought. 'We live in clouds and rule over them like the gods but don't even bother to lie about that afterlife reward for their service'
Thoughts like that made required two things: books or scrolls to block them out and more importantly wine to drown while their were shuffled off. As a Lannister he access to plenty of both, at one time he would have considered endless for all practical purposes, but now as Hand of the King he saw truly knew the breadth of things that money truly couldn't buy. Next to him, on his table made of a sweet bright yellow wood from the Summer Isles and with fine purple patterned silks from Shamyriana, was half empty bottle of a sour Dorinish red wine, a full and utterly fine old vintage bottle of Arbor Gold white wine dating back to King Jaehaery I's reign. He even had a few sweet Butterwell wines on the same table; if he somehow drank through all three on the table he could go over and get two other rare vintages from the large hazel brown cabinet at the corner of his study or just waltz over to the garderobe and grab a wine cask holding hailing from Yi Ti itself. Furthermore, Tyrion had all the paperwork he would ever need at his disposal by snapping his fingers and asking Payne to hand just hand him scroll after scroll. It wasn't even noon but he already had his fill of proposals and reports from court, petitioners, and spies on the street, settleing instead for more sour Dornish wine and a short history on the construction of the Red Keep.
Littlefinger had sent him four new taxes to be implemented that were designed to be extremely detailed and precise, while being vague and up to numerous interpretations. All the easier for the gold cloaks to demand or seize it, while leaving everyone from beggars to merchants to guildsmen flabbergasted and unable to contend in person, where they'd be beaten by the watchmen, or the courts where they would be laughed out, fined, or even thrown into the dungeons for wasting everyone's time. The various guilds throughout King's Landing had already offered counter proposals, of which there were seven. Most of it was jockeying and trying to shift the blame on competitors or those they believed weak or importantly in wartime, though some where fair enough that Littlefinger had already written freplies refuting them or even promising to reconsider. The Tailor's Guild believed the Dyemasters were both useless enough in the coming war and they themselves were so important for example, that only not only did the new taxes should be shouldered by them, but their previous taxes should be utterly frozen until the war was over. With all the backstabbing and betrayal among peers though none dared touch the Rat Catchers Guild; their small but vicious having been used to more than prevent hunting for plague rats or cleaning the sewers.
Of course Tyrion while he wanted nothing more than to be the done with the pests at court, he could be buried alive in books and tombs here, and die almost as happily as if he died buried in a beautiful woman's breasts. While there was no doubt Oldtown or even some of the Free Cities had larger collections of books, there was enough volumes of work here that Tyrion could spend the next ten years reading them cover to cover and only have worked his way through half of the books here. There had been numerous pogroms and purges of the written word and controversial knowledge here, but even after the likes of King Baelor and Maegor burned anything they thought could be used against the Seven or themselves (which was a whole to the two), a fifth of the library here was enough to make the study in Casterly Rock look like the a dung collector's hovel.
There was the collected remaining works of Septon Barth. Tyrion had noticed (and had his Payne set about coping to both bring back to send to the maesters of the Citadel and home to Casterly Rock) a couple of fragments of Dragons, Wyrms, and Wyverns: Their Unnatural History, which he was completely certain the Citadel hadn't documented, let alone had in it's collection in just the Tower of the Hand's private library, and the long thought lost Higher Mysteries and Alchemy: A Guide to Both the Art and Lore of Magik. Tyrion hadn't completely lost his childhood fascination with dragons and the chance to actually read some of their obscure and downright esoteric lore from on them quickly from such a learned man quickly captured his attention, leading him to discard the normal caution and revere he had for rate books and even carry them into small council meetings to read between sessions or before the other members to arrive. Though Tyrion even from childhood had been utterly skeptical of witchcraft and magic, he had also found himself increasingly drawn to Barth's lesser known but much sought after treatise and documentation on alchemy, the supposed schools of magic, and occult lore.
Tyrion thought, and if he had to guess through the prose so did Barth to an extent, that the beliefs and systems of mysticism was all nonsense; the nonsense was still very compelling. There was a very fascinating and in depth look at the history and use of blood magic throughout Essos and the Further East, with Asshai given a large focused look and Valyria given only the broadest and a promise that a detailed account would be covered in Dragons, Wyrms, and Wyverns and The History of the Valyria Freeholds: A Valiant yet Villainous Country. His commitment to finding and proving facts, offering other well documented speculation for alternate and local assumptions of how the workings of magic functioned and was used, though he often disagreed and made that respectfully clear, was matched with his own theories which were often cynical and offered more rational explanations (though far from always, the book was full of what Tyrion could only regard as whimsy) which was filled with wit and deep insights that would often startle any reader.
He, and by extension of the quality his arguments so was Tyrion, was more forgiving and accepting of the schools of thought about alchemy and the bestiary of monsters and various other snarks. While there was a lot of preening and whining from the maesters, and plenty of genuine fraudulence and pure superstition, alchemy in particular methodology was sound and often produced results even if it went against the orthodoxy and philosophy of Citadel. Turning lead to gold was a jape or scam true, but the potions they brewed and other exercises of their craft often filled the gaps the maesters couldn't or downright did things they deemed impossible. Tyrion was panged with sadness as miracles Barth proved possible with the science were now lost and that even in Barth's time it had begun to disappear with the Fall of Valyria and the corruption and the splintering of the alchemists own guilds and colleges. Likewise the catalog of so called monsters was utterly blistering in it's condemnations of what Barth considered the close mindedness of the Citadel. Yes much of peasants, priests, and sailors talked about was fantasy and even drunkenness. But rarely was what they said outright lies; witness accounts truly did see something. Likewise their own explanations often weak and less 'rational' then the unwashed masses; often denying the existence of creatures who'd not only make sense in that environment but more importantly were similar to those alive on other parts of the world or well known to historical record. Hell now that Tyrion read some Barth offered, they often denied facts when faced with damaged ships or wounded and dead men bearing strange wounds and scars along with the mens' own statements.
Though what haunted Tyrions dreams and stray thoughts, even more than fine wine or rare books or even ravenous mobs out for blood, was the simple small illustration of a face like fetish. It was nothing special, Barth had been a talented artists along with a genius scholar, but had made hundred or so such portraits of monsters or items professed to possess mystic power, and Tyrion knew dozens of better artists on a personal basis. The explanation next to the egg shaped carving was likewise brief and unremarkable; it just noting it was a religious artifact found in the Andal hills said to allow select people to visit the Seven in person. Was it the facsimile of the eyes, one drifting from the nose to bottom side of what would be it's cheek? The mouth on the crown on the head? Why was it that he imagined it rearranging it's features to that of a man, crying and screaming like a madman. The Beherits seemed like they were such unimportant little things.
Tyrion had made it half way through the tenth page and all the way through his half cup of dark red wine before he hopped off his chair, deciding it was better to get a head start on whichever Kingsguard dupe Joffery or Cersei sent to help him inspect the walls yet again. Tyrion didn't bother to put back his chair or do more than close his book as he exited the rooms, just wanting to get his trip down the stairs over with already. All the more time to compose himself and put a careless and bored look on his face, now showing a single sign of weakness was key.
Sure enough the walk down the winding staircase was a quiet and subtle agony. It was a long spiraling staircase, high enough that it felt like one of those trick optical illusion woodcut pieces from Essos he had seen before, that appeared like it never ended. This one felt like it would never end either, which given the ache spreading throughout both of his thighs could go from unpleasant to downright dangerous. He could have went through the secret passage hidden behind one of his chamber's bookshelves but even if it was much shorter walk, it was not only less traveled but narrow enough that Tyrion felt like he was being squeezed when he walked through it. While all the walkways, hallways. and staircases were relatively narrow throughout the Tower of the Hand, none came close to those hidden of Mageor and his architects. Even in the staircase Tyrion was in, another man could have walked abreast with him, though not a man of normal stature. Ducking, walking sideways, and even crawling was necessary in long parts of the castle not listed in any official map. Here is Tyrion fell or had to stop, a wandering sentry would find and help in short order. There he could be trapped for days before Varys found him in the dark, dusty red halls. Maybe it would take even years; a new hand finding him only after he had been installed by either Stannis or possibly the Starks.
Luckily when he finally made it down the staircase right before his knees gave out, he found both Bronn, a couple of Gold Cloaks, and Captain of the Unbroken Shields Nicomo Cosca sitting at small table playing cards and gambling away all their silver. They all had been laughing, and in Cosca case drinking, and taunting another as they had done so. The watchmen hadn't noticed him as Tyrion stopped, but both Bronn, and Cosca had. Both looked him over quickly and realizing he was in pain, rather subtly approached him to help. Bronn approaching like an old friend, a hand clasped on his shoulder actually there to help hoist him up; Nicomo laughing and pretending he was cutting his loses and getting back to work as he gathered up their horses.
He would have thanked them, but he paid them more than enough to warrant such consideration.
Nicomo hoisted Tyrion up to his horse, a spotted brown mare. Far from a war horse, it was a perfect palfrey to make one look aristocratic, yet serious. With a dwarf on it, he had no doubt it looked silly but it was presentable enough most would hold their tongues. Cosca likewise road on an all silver palfrey, completely with a tabard with his personal coat of arms and that of the Unbroken Shields. He himself wore a fine yellow and red doublet mixed with fine dark chest plate armor, depicting himself fighting off a dragon and the like. He gave the appearance of being a handsome but roguish high lord or at the very least an ancient and wealthy family of knights. That he was as low born and more foreign than Bronn didn't really matter to anyone, especially Nicomo himself. Bronn himself had an all black, flea bitten destrier that was missing a chunk of of it's left earlobe. Like it's owner it wore mail and had an easy going but nasty look in it's eye. Both were unassuming and even mangy looking, but top of the line as it was.
All three of them got looks as they rode; Nicomo getting fluttered glances and happy cried from young and older women, rich nobles and serving girls, and young men lined next to desks in front of the Red Keep and the little guard outposts and barracks throughout the city; looking onto to sign onto the gold cloaks or selling fruits and vegetables from impromptu stalls lining the castle walls or near the keep to the passing city watch or courtiers. Tyrion and Bronn just getting apprehensive looks of either disgust or at best a very reproachful, fear breed respect.
Tyrion did notice just how little produce there was, how ripe or raggedy it was, and just how expensive it was. The actual nobility ignored the peddlers, but as Tyrion galloped through King's Landing he noticed that the gold cloaks, higher placed servants, and knights and lower ladies went straight up to them and handed over their money with barely a second thought. Sure there was some haggling involved and they had grimaces on their faces as they left, nursing their pockets and purses but they kept their mumbling and insults to themselves.
Bronn had been glancing over at the walls and the people by them himself and Tyrion felt his eyes on him now. "It's only to get worse. The city gets fish and even some other food by sea trade, but that's about it now."
Tyrion snorted. "Please I knew that before I ever set foot in the Crownlands. Renly his Tyrell toadies stymied all contact and trade from the Reach. Even if the Tullys hadn't thrown in with the Starks or bent the knee tomorrow the Riverlands were on fire. Sure we've been having food coming into King's Landing from either the sea; from the ocean or from the closest Free Cities: Tyrosh, Pentos, and Lys, or the surrounding countryside in the Crownlands but that will come to an end soon too. Some mercenaries called the Band of the Millennium Falcon or something and Tyroshi free riders have been harassing Dun Fort now for a couple of weeks now. Soon what little food it could produce would no longer be able to even reach my father in Harrenhal. Any day now Stannis ships will join his brother and the Tyrells in chocking us off completely and form a complete blockade out at sea. It isn't a matter of our stores of food running empty with too little to supplement it. It's a matter of no food coming in as more people do and the city starving even before the Starks or the Baratheons bother to start a proper siege".
"Well that's what you paid me for: taking care of rioters and lawlessness. I promise you on my honor, nay my life, that you and your family is safe from such lowborn treachery." Cosca jumped in merrily, blowing a kiss to a plumb cook her forties bringing up a large cauldron of stew up into a guard tower.
"Um, I seem to remember that you'd say your men would be here to defend against a siege. Or am I remembering that wrong?" Tyrion said, rubbing his chin. "Mayhaps I'll forget to have Littlefinger's men to bring your dragons from the treasury next with the way my mind is slipping these days. Or even to send a raven to father about the gold I owe you in particular."
"My Lord if I might be so bold to advise the Hand, you should carry around with you a ledger or notebook. I told you that as of right now what the royal treasury paying us right now is to police the city and what you are paying me and bribing my officers privately with is to bust the skulls of whoever you tell us to within the city. In the event an army comes upon us, you are to pay the Unbroken Shields double plus expenses, if you wish to pay us those rates ahead of time to spare yourself the paper work I completely understand and think I can get the men to agree to that. Even over in Essos and Styria we know your word is good as gold, and that your lot practically shits it." Cosca said laughing, Bronn soon joining him.
"The Thousand Swords were fools to ever let you go." Tyrion said, galloping up ahead of him and next to Bronn. "How did you ever find this man?" Tyrion said softly to him. "And am I the only one who has the feeling soon as the Stark boy or the Baratheons' show up he'll cut and run?"
"I told you before, the same place as the rest, a tavern. Admittedly most the sell swords I found there didn't put up half the fight or get half as hammered as he was. Also the whole 'I run a free company' bit was a little new too." Bromm said not bothering to lower his voice. "And I doubt the whole cut and run thing, he wants to get paid and I don't think he'd mind having his men fight if he knows their going to win. He just likes taking his time, saves money and lives. It's only lost causes he runs from; that's sensibility not cowardice."
"And I'm sure the last three employers he betrayed would back that up."
"Of course. They'd all admit the wisdom of ensuring that they had paid him more. Well that and giving him and his men better assignments. Last thing an experienced lot of mercenaries like them wants to do is fight, unless they absolutely have to."
"See to me someone like me, some snotty noble, that only tells me something different: they're unreliable and unwilling to fight."
"And I'm telling you as someone who wandered around place to place, country to country, killing for a living, that opinion is wrong. Picking your battles is just as important as winning them; Cosca just does plenty of both. The man's seen even more battle than I have, especially in a command position. He's tucked tail and ran, sure, but he's fought and won in the thick of it; Cosca killed his way out of battles where he was outnumbered seven to one. He outlasted a siege that lasted a year and a half. He's a man you want at your side," Bromm said smiling. "Of course you don't want him at your back, you can't see him there. He'd be more than liable to stab you in it, leaving it all nice and exposed for him. In front of you he'd a head start. At your side he's stuck with you and had to be content with just picking your pockets clean."
Tyrion could do nothing but sigh and continue their ride to the River Gate. As he went from the heavily sanitized portrait of the city streets next to the Red Keep, he soon saw the real deal. Gone were practically sparse and clean streets, and here was the screeching loud, dirty mob. Where vendors sold just ripe vegetables and fruits to a handful of well dressed or armored, almost relieved people, here they sold to a sprawling mass of men and women in rags who screamed and cursed at the merchants selling them browning little things that were a day from being called rotten. A crier yelled happily that a butcher was selling fresh rat to subdue and entice the crowd. Someone near the back throw a handful of dung at one of the vendor, missing wide and hitting the sign of his stall. It was just as Tyrion had suspected, though that did little to comfort him. It was only going to get worse as the war went on.
It took almost an hour to make it to Fishmonger's Quarter and the River Gate. As unpleasant and unnerving as it was, Tyrion made sure to take his time as he went through the sprawling streets of King's Landing to it's very edge near the Blackwater Brush. The city had other stories outside of the desperation of the refugees and the poor to tell him and it was as much as his job to listen as it was Varys'. What he saw from the layout and maintenance of the city troubled him deeply; what Tyion saw of how the patrols acted sent a chill down his spine.
While there was no doubt the bailey's and the parapet walls were sturdy, well provisioned and staffed, only the opposite could be said of the winding streets and from the flow of traffic from them. Not that he could blame Bywater what so ever, as narrow as the streets were they had no real defense built in naturally or otherwise. Nothing the narrow stone and wood structures did more than mildly stymie dozen of ways an army could quickly march to other vital parts of the city. Besides it was totally outside of the City Watch's purview to handle the brown water overflowing from the sewers or night soil festering in piles throughout the city. 'How many of the city's laborers had Ceresi fired to pay for more men to man in the walls in a vain attempt to control costs?' Tyrion thought.'The city will be overrun with rats and drowning in shit and disease in a month.' Just how many sewers where backed up he couldn't fathom. This oversight had only drained more their coffers than keeping them on in the first place would have.
Though as much as that mattered, it did only half so as the patrols in the River Gate's behavior did. Men who should have been riding on horseback through the roads, sit drinking and playing various games of chance at stools and tables near taverns, watch towers, and the stables around them; their horses looking their owners shoulders in some cases and eating off their tables to the laughter of the gold cloaks. Some merchants with wagons of various goods coming with from the either the sea or the wharves from the south are quickly set upon by various guards, each looking for a quick, somewhat subtle bribe or yelling various made up taxes they had somehow forgotten to pay. Tyrion say one of the gold cloaks plant the butt of his spear into the stomach of one of the sailors, ripping some piece of jewelry from the man's neck as he fell to his knees. It seemed the legacy of Commander Bywater's predecessor still ran strong though the City Watch.
At one of the sinkholes catering to sailors and merchants, sat two members of the Kingsguard sharing drinks. Tyrion cursed to himself, there was only one face outside of Jamie's among the Kingsguard he could bear and Oakheart wasn't here. Ser Preston Greenfield was sipping at a cup of mead, pawing playfully at their serving girl who swatted at him and giggled in return, while Ser Mandon Moore loomed over him with just a glass of what looked like water in his hand and large grimace over his face. He would have preferred Trant and Blount over those two. While Trant wasn't half bad with either a mace or sword in his hand, he was almost as craven as Blount; a knight who somehow squeaked through bribery and political maneuvering onto the Kingsguard despite being having as much skill in personal combat as he did. Greenfield was as half the size and twice as cruel as those two, but was born with steel in his hand and as much Tyrion didn't want to admit it, in the spine to match. Moore...was just hard to read all together and along with his martial prowess, was why Jamie had called him the deadliest of the Kingsguard.
More than that he didn't seem to have anything to read at his all besides his commitment to his words and duty, even his previous dedication to Jon Arryn and the Vale long discarded. For most of the Kingsguard, their oaths were bad jokes or at the very least came second to their foibles and vices and emotions. Trant, Blount, and even Jamie had their women outside their duty; Greenfield despite his cutthroat demeanor attended mass at the Great Sept of Baelor or the personal sept in the Red Keep around five to six days a week, no doubt wishing to go every single mourning if possible; and Oakheart might have been as serious as Ser Mandon when he took his vows, but even he had his honor and his and chivalry to go with, a knight who tried to emulate his heroes from the songs. Moore had none of that, all had he had was his white cloak and the dead glassy look in his eyes, a shark's eyes. 'Could you even kill or outplay someone who's already as cold as a corpse?' Tyrion asked himself.
"Lord Imp, surprised to see you here. We thought you would have just sent Bronn or Commander Bywater." Greenfield said, mug in hand and milky foam mustache to go with his trim little, red beard. A mean little grin spread across his face, but his eyes couldn't meet Tyrion's for more than a moment; Preston could barely stand to look at Tyrion's face for that matter. He couldn't blame the man, even for a dwarf he wasn't much to look at, with his misshapen head and mismatched eyes.
"Imp? Try Lord Hand or Lannster; or at least Tyrion," Tyrion said, plopping down on a spare chair across from Preston, offering a smile and waving his hand in the air to call for a serving girl "Anyone else here can do it mind you, but you're what? A foot taller than me? Half a foot?"
Ser Mandon just stared at the two of them blankly while Cosca and Bronn laughed aloud. For a moment Tyrion feared Ser Preston would draw his sword or at least slam down the table and get into his face, with the knight just sitting there frozen for a moment, mug hanging limply from his hand. But it appeared his mouth hadn't gone to far this time, as Greenfield looked around at Tyrion's sellswords and then at Mandon and let out of a burst of laughter to exceed that of the other two men. He raised his cup of mead to Tyrion and then downed the entire thing in one glup.
"Well I walked right into that one didn't I folks?" Preston said, smile softening a bit, but the menace not disappearing whatsoever. "Somewhere in the middle to be a little more exact. I'm a couple inches over five feet at best. Still I think it doesn't hinder me that much on the battlefield or the melee when I have my sword or mace in my hand, but that might just because they can't see me down here. I fear not only shouldn't I be talking, but I should be trying to test your patience at all and find my only advantage countered."
Tyrion and his men offered laughs of their own at Greenfield's self deprecating joke, but Tyrion's eyes bore into Preston's, who once again looked away. He was brave enough when Cersei was around and he knew he had the queen's protection, but he was smart enough to realize that not only he was he a pawn to her but between a battle between a Hand and a Queen, find herself lacking when the opponent was some honorable fool like Ned Stark.
"Don't worry, I'm not about to join the lists yet Ser Preston. On my honor as a Lannister the last thing I'd want to do is embarrass my dear brother Jamie and reveal that I got the brains and brawn in the family," Tyrion added, a false polite little smile on his face. "Though a more important benefit of being small is having a better perspective on what's going on the ground level of the city, don't you think so Ser Preston? What's your opinion about the state of the city?"
"Smelly and overcrowded; though it's not bad to look at." Ser Preston said, as he attention was broken by the arrival of their server coming to pour Tyrion's drink and her ass. "That's not what the queen sent us out for though, just to inspect the walls and the security. The walls are made of hard gray stone that could have catapults throw rocks for a week straight and not dent; the gate is another matter, a serious battering ram team could make relatively quick work out of it if the defenders just sit around and let them go to work. Security is pretty good. This lot seems pretty good at knocking heads and have keen eyes for tax cheats. Smugglers are going to have a hard time getting…."
"Men after my own heart. Outside of that, do they seem to care like professional soldiers? Do they do their mourning drills properly? Are they orderly? Do they perform regular patrols?" Cosca interjected.
"They like to break if charged when it formation? Think any of them won't open the gates if surrounded?" Bronn continued for the mercenary captain.
"Of course they would," Preston snorted. "Few of these men are professional soldiers and almost none could be called men-at-arms. These men are hear to make sure merchants and sailors don't rob the king, and that nobody robs them. Their doing a good job of that."
"I can see that. Between the grift and bribes these fine men have ensured that they have nothing left to hide or even show to our tax collectors and bailiffs," Tyrion said. "Luckily I have just the men for the job to help them along the path to being sufficient soldiers. Ser Preston from now on you and Commander Jackelyn Bywater be in charge of training this contingent of the City Watch. There are eight hundred men stationed in this unit...so you have my permission to take with you up to a half of dozen knights and twice that in men at arms to beat them into decent fighting shape."
The temper Preston contained and Tyrion had excepted earlier finally went off. The serving girl and nearby patrons, either dove under their seats and tables, or ran from the premises; as their tables was sent flying into the air by Preston. Both Tyrion's and Preston's drink spilled into his lap, while Moore's cup of water shattered and spilled on the floor next to three sailors whom were brave enough to just standby and watch the scene unfold with bemused smirks on their faces. Tyrion just used a napkin in his trouser pocket to wipe himself dry as Preston went red in the face and had steel in his. "I will not be insulted dwarf. My duty is to protect to the king and his family, not to train some peasants what side of the spear to use!" Preston spat, so hard that a large spittle of honey yellow phlegm found itself on Tyrion's cheek. Tyrion just blinked in return and cleaned his cheek now.
Ser Mandon hand snapped out like a snake out and twisted Preston's weapon hand behind his back, prompting him to drop his sword. His face was as cold as the coming winter snows as his face leaned next to Preston's. "That's the Queen's brother your waving your weapon at. The King's Hand. He has every right to command you to clean up the king's privy with your tongue, let alone train his armies to protect the boy. Now shut up and go back to the Red Keep before I have to tell the queen about this." Ser Mandon whispered, his voice like rusty steel drawn hard from its scabbard. To be honest Tyrion had never feared Greenfield. Far from it. The man was far from the embarrassment to the Kingsguard Blount was; he truly was a skilled knight with many melee victories under his belt. But both Cosca and Bronn were much deadlier and much faster draws with their weapons if their intervention was needed. Tyrion noted Moore's gesture gladly though. If the man was more tractable that would only make this next task easier to delegate.
"I know it's not as prestigious as beating a little girl but the realm will thank you regardless. Ser Mandon is right, you're dismissed." Tyrion said, as Bronn and Cosca gathered everything and reset the table. Moore held Greenfield as his face got redder and redder, hissing underneath his breathe, and finally let the man go as when he went quiet. Greenfield didn't even bother to stand around to pout and give the Tyrion the evil eye. He just shuffled off onto his horse, cursing underneath his breath.
Moore tuned to face Tyrion, offering a curt but polite nod to the man. "My lord, how can I serve?"
"Do you concur with Ser Preston's assessment of the gold cloaks?" Tyrion asked.
"No, it's worse than he makes out. Maybe a sixth of them could be reliable soldiers and the rest for certain are downright craven or stupid. They aren't being subtle with the brute work or even with the kickbacks their demanding, everyone's tense and you can hear the merchants whispering about much better things will be under Renly or Stannis." Moore answered, his delivery dry for the bad news he was delivering. Not that Tyrion wanted any honey to cover the truth.
"I see," Tyrion said, sighing. "My mountain clansmen are currently scouting the kingswood for any paths or any villages not on any of the maps, and any blind spots where guard or watchtowers could be built to ensure Stannis, Renly, or even bloody Robb Stark. I want you to help them in that duty, you also have my authority to issue gifts and bribes to ensure those little hamlets' loyalty to the crown."
"My lord, I will join them immediately." Ser Mandon said, his voice drowned out by the screams of a old man.
Ser Mandon Moore never bothered to turn around or gawk like the rest of them did, it wasn't the duty bound knights purview. To rest, from Tyrion, to cynical sellsword Bronn, to the legendary solider of fortune Nicomo Cosca, the sight of two guards beating an elderly man in his late seventies with the flat of their blades was a little too much. From the looks of it he wasn't even wealthy, wearing only a simple brown threadbare wool tunic, that one time might have cost slightly more than a pittance. The only things on him besides it and a pair of shoes older than the hills that look like they'd been eaten, was a bronze chain and a tattoo on his left bicep of a black ship, that was common among saliors who fought in the War of Ninepenny Kings.
"Hold on a moment Ser Mandon, we have one further matter to discuss, but I must first deal with this. Bronn? Cosca?" Tyrion said, pointing at the gold cloaks.
"Nothing like a bit of violence to take care of a bit of violence." Cosca chuckled, lifting his sword, sheathe and all, over his shoulder.
"For same reason it works so well we can make a living on it." Bronn said, just cracking his knuckles and following him.
The two approached the duo of guards with a poised posture ready to fight but with the smiles and tones of septons trying their best to save fools about to damn themselves. Tyrion couldn't hear their exact words from over here, and knew nothing of how to read lips like some mummers could, but he thought the situation unfolding plain enough not to need words to understand. At first the two guards leaned over the old man and yelled some obscenity, and then went back to beating him. Cosca tried some joke that only Bronn laughed at, and then gestured towards Tyrion. The two watchmen then did the incredibly stupid thing of stopping their beating for a second time and then strut over towards the two sellswords, pointing their weapons at them.
With in a second, Cosca had managed to disarm the two of them by lighting fast strikes Tyrion knew had to happen in the blink of an eye. From the way the two guards rubbed at themselves, it appeared if he had struck their sword hands and then their helms. While they were recuperating, Bronn kicked the feet out of one, sending him down hard to the stone road, and wrestled the other into a hold with one arm behind his back and the other almost around his neck. As Cosca unsheathed his swords and pointed it at man's throat right as he motioned to get back up, Bronn dragged and half carried the other guard and brought him to Tyrion, as he cursed and when he saw Tyrion's face, wept.
"Milord….I apologize I didn't know..." The man said, his face paler than Moore's eyes.
"Not to steal and murder from an old man in the middle of a crowded street? Common thugs in Flea's Bottom know better. Maybe we should hire them to enforce the King's Justice, eh?" Tyrion asked, letting his disgust show openly on his face. "What possible treasure did you except to fall out of pockets of an old seadog like that? Even if he was a pirate, I doubt they let the oarsmen bury the treasure."
"But he did have monies. I know he did..." He said, as Bronn began to choke him with his right arm, twisting it hard as a vice. His face was a deep purple before he managed to get out more words. "In...in...my...pocket my..pocket..lord."
Tyrion looked at his napkin for a moment, crushed it into a ball, and then nodded at Bronn, who finally let the man's right arm go. The man wheezed loudly, like boiling tea, as Bronn's now free hand went through his pockets. Tyrion knew the man wasn't lying, but for a moment thought in the commutation that he might have dropped or even lost it; so when Bronn finally found it Tyrion was sure of the two of them, he was the one had felt more like he dunked into the ocean and wouldn't ever taste air again. A familiar twisted face on gem greeted him.
The Beherit.
"Where did you get this?" Tyrion demanded, Bronn once again resuming his hold on the man.
"I told you the old man….he must have gotten it from the Narrow Sea. Diamonds go for a lot of money, you can't blame you for wanting my beak to get a little wet." The man said.
"I sure can," Tyrion said "All you did is prove your cruelty and stupidity was within human limits, not legal ones. Call some guards who are actually trustworthy and send them to Bywater. As for you Cosca bring the old man over here. I'd like to ask him a few questions."
"The first one should be how an old man could run so damned fast," Cosca said, shrugging with the tip of his blade still pressed at the prone man's throat. "He's long gone. Want some of my men to snoop around for him. You're paying us enough, but I honestly think it'd be a waste of time. How about that, some honest advice free advice from me. Am I going soft" Cosca asked, turning to Bronn.
"No, it just sounds like a waste of an afternoon." Bronn answered.
"Far be it from me to look a gift horse in the mouth," Tyrion said, laughing but his eyes still on the Beherit. It was a coincidence to be sure, but it still rubbed him the same way coincidences did fisherwives, who than took it as an omen or some other nonsense. "Leave the old fart be Cosca, the man's been through enough as is and I don't care about some grave robbery from before my father had any hair on his chest."
"You want it?" Bronn said, dangling it front of Tyrion. "It goes with your family's colors really well. You'll need a chain for it though, old man left with the original."
"Funny." Tyrion said, gaze still transfixed on the gem. "But you can keep it, you found it. "
Bronn just shrugged and shoved the pendant into his pocket. As it left his sight ended, so did his fascination with the supposedly mystic trinket. It would make a decent religious gift to grant to the High Septon, but his Holiness would probably prefer lamb breast, covered a fine gravy, with burnt greens and crunchy lemon cakes. Besides the chain he had in mind would be much to large for it, as much as he would like to present the Egg of the King to Stannis if he ever came by sea.
"Now where were we Ser Mandon? Ah that's right...at the end of the sword pointed coasts of Blackwater Rush past both the King's Gate and the Mud Gate, no matter what I'd like to build two small keeps that align. I'll give you the specifications I drew up, I'll trust you to find laborers and architects who could keep their mouths shut. I'll be joining you over the coming weeks and months, and will find the sailors for the job; because we need them to have the tightest lips of all."