"Good." Tyrion looked at the old maester, Pycelle. "I want you to send letters to the Reach, Dorne, and the Iron Islands. As long as they can send troops to delay Storm's movements, whether the Reach sends troops or the Dornish do, as long as they help. I have prepared plenty of bargaining chips to secure their cooperation. Seats on the Small Council, for instance, or Joffrey's marriage."
"As you command, my lord," the old maester answered, squirming.
"Behave yourself. If you spout any more nonsense, I'll send you to the Black Cells," Tyrion threatened.
"As you command," the old maester said fearfully. Tyrion's Wildlings had given him plenty of unpleasant feelings.
"Whatever allies we seek, we must first withstand the most dangerous wave of fighting. As long as we win the war, we will have something to offer allies afterward," Tyrion said firmly. Defend King's Landing, then gain room to seek allies.
Mace, the Reach's Warden of the South, was a greedy man. If he saw a weakness in Storm, he could hardly resist coveting what he saw. As for Prince Doran of Dorne, Tyrion knew he was excessively cautious. Dorne had pitifully few cards to play.
"First, extend the curfew and reduce food rations. Everyone except the army will have to eat less. These people from last year are no longer ordinary citizens. We must take precautions. If they break these rules again, it will be treason." Tyrion announced the curfew measures first. With the famine and Storm Gendry's army advancing into the region, King's Landing was growing increasingly volatile, like a powder keg.
"My lord, those frenzied citizens will drag you off your horse and eat you," the old maester said fearfully.
"I have no choice, Lord Pycelle. If King's Landing falls, none of us will even