King's Landing, the Red Keep, the Tower of the Hand.
Tyrion Lannister sat behind an oak desk far too large for him, his short legs dangling in the air.
Documents covered the desk.
Treasury accounts, supply lists, reports on the city's defenses-every one filled him with anxiety.
He raised his heavy gold cup and took a sip. The wine was tart, with a faint sweet aftertaste, but it did nothing to quell his irritation.
"Four thousand men!"
Tyrion slammed a parchment scroll onto the desk. "A force of six thousand, and barely more than two thousand can actually hold a blade or stand guard! The other four thousand names are all false, bleeding the treasury dry every month. Slynt, that beast, turned the Gold Cloaks into his own money-making tool. I should never have sent him to the Wall. I should have cut his head off!"
Bronn leaned against the window, merely twitching his lips into a cynical smile. "As expected, my lord. In King's Landing, drawing pay for nonexistent soldiers is more common than the plague. After all, dead men's money is easy to take. Living men's money is even easier."
He raised his own cup and took a long swallow, his throat bobbing. "But what do we do now?
"Count on those two thousand cowards to defend the city?"
Tyrion raked his fingers irritably through his tangled blond hair. "Bronn, you're commander of the City Watch now. You should be giving me ideas."
Bronn raised an eyebrow and drawled, "My lord, my advice is to recruit some new men first. But where are we going to find any?"
"New men?"
A gleam flashed through Tyrion's small eyes. He walked to the window and gazed down at the filthy, chaotic city below. "Look down there, Bronn. If there's one