At first light, Tyrion was woken by a knock on his study door.
He'd set up a simple cot in the corner and usually slept there, having given his bedroom to the Stark girls. The study suited him fine—it spared him from the endless chatter of the two little maids.
When he opened the door, Bronn stood there, yawning.
"The man's gone?" Tyrion stepped aside to let him in.
Bronn collapsed onto the carpet.
"Dead tired. I'll need to hit a brothel later and catch up on some sleep," Bronn muttered, sprawled out. "That frog wouldn't stop yapping. Shagga finally punched him, knocked out two teeth before he shut up."
"As long as Lord Slynt is truly gone," Tyrion said, taking his seat behind the desk. "A few missing teeth—or a missing limb—don't matter."
"Then you should've just killed him," Bronn said.
"I can't. I still have to play by the rules," Tyrion replied. "The last man who didn't? My brother ran him through with a sword."
"And his son? What'll you do with him?" Bronn asked.
"I sent them to Harrenhal to serve as squires to Ser Lorch," Tyrion said, flipping through the letters on his desk. "Whether they live is up to fate. Maybe they'll even earn their spurs someday."
"You're a cruel one. So what now? Someone has to take the commander's post."
"I was thinking of you," Tyrion said. "Don't thank me yet. You've no title, so I'll assign you a helper."
"A helper?" Bronn frowned.
"Actually, you'll be the helper—but the lad you'll assist knows nothing, so you'll be the one really in charge," Tyrion explained.
"Varys recommended Jacelyn Bywater. Doesn't matter who he is, but he's said to be honorable and brave. He used to command the Mud Gate garrison and has a good reputation. Promoting him to commander should quiet any talk."
"As for the Mud Gate itself, I plan to appoint my cousin Lancel as its captain. He used to serve as King Robert's cupbearer, so he probably doesn't know much."
"That's where you come in. You'll be there to guide him. Truth is, you'll lead, and he'll follow your lead."
"How old is he?" Bronn asked.
"Sixteen. His father's Kevan Lannister. You must've seen him in the Green Fork camp," Tyrion said, stifling a yawn. "My uncle's a man of honor. Take good care of his son."
"Don't worry. With me around, he won't die," Bronn said. "But what about you?"
"I'm not leaving the city anytime soon. I'll stay here in the Tower of the Hand," Tyrion said. "Once my brother's matters and that troublesome knight are settled, the next problem is the famine."
"Speaking of famine," Bronn said, sitting up, "sending King's Landing's grain to the Night's Watch has made a lot of people angry."
"I've already thought of a solution."
Tyrion looked out the window. The sky was brightening as King's Landing came alive—the streets filling with people, merchants, and craftsmen starting their day.
"I sent Qyburn to fetch something. If I'm right, he should be back today."
Just as he finished speaking, there was another knock on the door.
"Lord Tyrion! Lord Tyrion! Are you awake?"
"Come in!" Tyrion called.
The door opened, and Qyburn stepped inside, a small cloth sack in hand. He was caked in dirt, his face and clothes covered in dust.
"Lord, the items you requested."
Qyburn entered, and Tyrion hastily gathered the letters on the table, motioning for him to set the sack down. Bronn rose from the carpet and leaned forward against the desk.
The sack was untied, revealing... a bag of dirt.
"What is this?" Bronn pinched some between his fingers. "Is this your solution? Can this soil grow grain overnight?"
"This isn't for growing grain." Tyrion took a bit himself. The soil was fine, almost like plaster powder, but yellow—though most soil was yellow anyway.
"Not very pure," Qyburn observed. "At higher purity, it would be white."
"It doesn't matter. Bread's brown, after all." Tyrion wiped his fingers on his clothes. "Bronn, this isn't for planting. It's for eating."
"Eating!?" Bronn stared in disbelief. "This is your plan? Make people eat dirt?"
"The soil of the Seven Gods is edible," Qyburn explained. "According to records in the Citadel, it can cure diarrhea—after refinement, of course."
"Purity doesn't matter. What counts is that it fills the belly," Tyrion said, thinking. "Kaolin. Mix it with water, add grass seeds, powdered bark, sawdust, salt, oil, then stir well. Roll it into balls, dry them under the sun. One ball keeps hunger away for a whole day. I call them famine pills."
"The gods save us." Bronn, the ruthless sellsword, gawked. "You're a devil."
"I am a Lust Demon," Tyrion replied. "People are starving. Who cares what they eat? It'll keep them alive. Once the war ends, everything will be fine."
"Lord is a genius," Qyburn said. "I've found several spots near King's Landing where we can collect the material…"
"Too few." Tyrion waved his hand. "Send men out first. I'll have samples sent to Casterly Rock. The Westerlands are rich in minerals—there should be plenty of the Seven Gods' soil there."
Qyburn bowed, picked up the sack, and left the study.
"Grass seeds, tree bark, sawdust—we've got plenty of that," Bronn said, smacking his lips. "Mix it with salt and butter, and it might even taste good."
"What, you want to try some?" Tyrion said. "I hereby appoint you Chief Taster of Famine Pills. How does that sound?"
"Forget it. I don't want to be shitting chalk," Bronn said with a grimace. "But what if people can't shit after eating it? What then?"
"No problem. Generally, it takes three to five days before they notice anything's wrong," Tyrion said confidently. "By then, who knows whose name the blame will fall on? Besides, I'll have Podrick buy up all the laxatives."
"With famine around, laxatives must be dirt cheap," Bronn said, nodding. "Then we sell them high later."
"Once the war ends and people start feasting again, they'll realize how much they need it." Tyrion grinned darkly.
Suddenly, shouting erupted outside the door.
"Let us in!"
It was the voice of the Little Wolf Girl. The guards seemed to be holding them back.
"What's going on?" Tyrion opened the study door. "Horseface, what the hell are you up to?"