GOT: Khal — Chapter 112 - Wear Your Armor to the Privy

At the Small Council's long table, Tyrion Lannister slouched against the back of his chair, yawned enormously, and rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand.

"Must we really start this early? I didn't get to bed until very late."

The scar slanting across his face from the Battle of the Blackwater made an already unremarkable face look outright menacing.

After that battle, he had not only been named Master of Coin, he'd also received Sansa Stark as his reward.

Tywin occupied the head of the table. "I have matters this afternoon. This morning is all I have. We begin now."

"My lord," Varys spoke first, his voice smooth and unhurried. "Sandor Clegane has been spotted in the Riverlands."

"Coward! Traitor!" Cersei cut in almost simultaneously, her voice cold as a blade scraping across ice.

She sat at Tywin's right hand, golden hair loose over her shoulders, a barely-contained fury burning in her green eyes.

Varys ignored her and continued at the same unhurried pace. "My little birds report he is protecting Arya Stark. Given the route they're traveling, I believe he intends to deliver her to the Eyrie for a reward."

Grand Maester Pycelle coughed, his clouded eyes blinking slowly. "Her aunt is there. If Arya Stark enters the Eyrie, matters will grow complicated."

Tywin's fingers tapped once on the tabletop. "How much coin would it take to get common soldiers to bring Arya Stark back and kill the Hound while they're at it?"

Tyrion rolled his eyes. "The war is over. The North belongs to the Boltons. Arya Stark is a little girl. What possible threat does she pose?"

No one paid him any attention. Every eye on both sides of the long table stayed fixed on Varys.

Varys considered a moment, then extended two fingers. "Twenty silver stags. Generous enough."

"Gold dragons." Tywin's voice carried no inflection. "I want to hear about Dragonstone. That Targaryen girl's army has crushed the garrison Stannis left on the island. They crossed the Narrow Sea, and we received not a single piece of intelligence."

Varys drew a letter from his sleeve, unfolded it, and read aloud:

"Dragonstone has fallen. The garrison is routed, the island's residents have all evacuated. Barristan Selmy has assumed command. Former commanders Nimiz and Jorah Mormont have been stripped of rank and imprisoned for the massacre of fishermen..."

Before he could finish, Cersei snatched the letter off the table, scanned it, and tossed it back.

"Barristan is clearly struggling to accept his dismissal from the Kingsguard more than we expected. The old fool has gone senile — running off to serve some savage girl."

Tyrion tilted his head and looked at her, the corner of his mouth twitching, the scar slanting from cheekbone to jaw twisting slightly with the expression.

"This is all your precious son's doing. The common folk revere Barristan. When they see Barristan the Bold standing at Daenerys Targaryen's side, what do you suppose they'll make of that?"

"He's too old to protect the king. He must answer for Robert's death."

"Ever since Robert died, you've eaten boar every single day."

"He could not protect my son!" Cersei's voice cracked upward sharply.

"Robert's death was not due to any failure on his part." Tywin's gaze settled on Cersei's face. "Dismissing him was discourteous. It was also foolish."

Cersei's face soured. "Don't tell me you're worried this old man will actually defeat us."

"Barristan Selmy and Jorah Mormont have helped that Khal govern a vast territory stretching from Slaver's Bay to the Lhazareen lands," Varys said. "That territory is larger than all the southern kingdoms combined."

Cersei scrambled to deflect. "Why does it have to be their doing? And besides, Mormont is our informant."

Varys shook his head. "Not anymore. It seems he now serves her wholeheartedly. That is precisely why I have had no intelligence from the east for months — until I recently managed to place a new informant close to Khal Drogo."

He elaborated: "The khals of the Dothraki Sea can barely count. To rule that much territory that successfully, they must be the ones advising him."

Tywin's expression remained blank. "What else?"

Varys glanced back at the letter. "Dragonstone's remaining strength is sixty-six hundred. The Unsullied account for sixteen hundred. The freedmen took heavy casualties. Supplies depend on Pentos. The dragons have grown to the size of calves but have not yet joined the army."

Cersei let out a sharp laugh, contempt curling her lips. "Only sixty-six hundred? We'll crush them in no time."

Varys lifted his eyes from the letter. "This is only the advance force. Khal Drogo commands a hundred thousand warriors. They haven't set out yet because they are forging armor for the full army."

Silence settled over the chamber.

Tywin reached into his sleeve, drew out a letter, set it on the table, and slid it across to Varys with one finger pressed to the seal.

"This is a letter Khal Drogo wrote to me."

A flicker of surprise crossed Varys's face. He took the letter, unfolded it, and read aloud:

"I deeply regret that I cannot attend King Joffrey's wedding. Bear this in mind — see to it that he drinks no wine at the ceremony, or the old rose will poison him. And Lord Tywin, do wear your armor when you visit the privy."

Grand Maester Pycelle stroked his snow-white beard and let out a dry chuckle, the sound like an old hen being throttled.

"It seems Jorah Mormont has taught that savage Khal quite a few things. He even knows how to sow discord between us and Highgarden." He paused. "It is quite possible he has already planted someone in King's Landing as well."

Cersei had always looked down on Pycelle. Now her face was filled with outright disgust.

"If there is a mole among the five of us, it can only be you. After all, you served the Mad King Aerys. Perhaps you'll go the way of Barristan, pledging your loyalty to his daughter."

Pycelle opened his mouth. His face went crimson. Not a single word of rebuttal came out.

"Enough." Tywin's voice was a blade, clean and sharp, cutting the squabble dead.

"We must accelerate the alliance with Highgarden. Joffrey and Margaery Tyrell are to wed as soon as possible." He finished and turned his gaze to Cersei.

Cersei's expression darkened. "I will not marry Loras Tyrell. Everyone knows he's a..." She bit down on the last word. "Sword-swallower."

"Which is precisely why," Tywin said, "Loras has no interest in you. The man you are to marry is Mace Tyrell."

Color flooded Cersei's face, surging from her cheekbones to her ears. She shot to her feet. The chair legs shrieked across the floor. "I refuse! I would rather die!"

Tyrion burst out laughing. "So would Joffrey call you Mother, or good-mother?" He kept laughing.

Cersei whipped her head around and glared at him, lips trembling. Then she turned back to Tywin. "I am the Queen Regent. I will not submit to your arrangements, Lord Tywin."

"I have already decided." Tywin didn't look at her. "Myrcella's betrothal to Prince Doran Martell's youngest son, Trystane Martell, must also be expedited."

He raised his head and swept his gaze across every person at the table. "When the Khal invades Westeros, I will need their support."

Cersei's chest heaved. She wanted to curse him, to flip the table, to storm out and slam the door behind her.

But she looked at her father's face, hard as stone, and she knew. The words he spoke were never taken back.

The fists she'd clenched slowly opened. She sat back down, turned her face away, and said nothing more.

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