It was late, very late. Tyrion rubbed his eyes and poured himself another half-glass of wine as he looked again at the latest tallies of people and food left south of Moat Cailin and north of Dorne. They needed another source of income – or food – and quickly.
Tyrion woke to sunlight shining in his eyes. He'd fallen asleep in his chair, his head cradled in his hands on the table. His limbs were stiff, his fingers and toes were numb from the cold, his mouth tasted like something had died in it, and he needed to take a piss. He painfully swung his legs to the side of the chair and hopped down, then waddled over to the chamber pot in the corner. All the time, the same question to which he'd fallen asleep kept pounding in his head: how were they to get food or the money needed to buy it?
He suspected he smelled as bad as he felt. No one had come by to rekindle his fire that morning – there were precious few servants in the Red Keep, as the few able-bodied people left in the city generally were kept busy tending to the wounded or rebuilding – so he was forced to spend time coaxing some life back into the grey ashes in his fireplace. After he had a small fire burning, he put the now-frozen bowl of water from his washstand on the hearth to melt and stood as close to the fire as he dared while stripping, dabbing some water and soap on his smelliest parts, and pulling on somewhat cleaner clothes. He made a mental note that they would need to do something about the servant situation soon, or soon everyone in the Red Keep would be forced to do their own laundry or risk offending every visitor with their stench.
The Small Council meeting that afternoon started off with more pressing concerns than wash, however. "This morning we had three more ravens asking for advice on food supplies. Two of them," Sam turned to look at Bronn, "were from the Reach. Everyone is asking when we think winter will end as they try to decide what to do with their remaining food stores."
"Don't look at me," Bronn shrugged. "Not my fault Queen Cersei decided to plunder all of the Reach and leave us with nothin' to eat. But as Master of Coin, I will say that the Reach should get priority in receiving the food we secure, otherwise there'll be no one left to plant seeds and tend to 'em if spring ever does decide to return." He scratched his arse.
Tyrion fixed him with a stare. "Might I remind you that not only were you part of the plunderers, your duties as Master of Coin do not include funneling all the coin to your own pocket."
Bronn lifted an eyebrow. "If it's not to play it for their own advantage, then why would anyone waste their time on this miserable job?"
Tyrion had no answer for that. "What we should be doing is figuring out what we have that Essos wants so we can sell or bargain with that."
Silence fell on the table.
"Are you talking about snow?" Sam asked tentatively.
"Nah, he's talking about half-burned cities," Bronn replied with some contempt.
"Land. Empty land," Brienne interjected.
Tyrion nodded at that. Perhaps an investor – or even some settlers – may wish to pay a fee for the ability to get good farmland in return. Of course, there would be much delicate negotiation needed with the Lords Paramount and local lords before handing out land anywhere other than the Crownlands.
"Dead bodies," Casper Waters, the new Master of Whispers, offered.
Bronn snorted and the tension that had been building dissolved. If you can't laugh about dead bodies in these times, you've lost your sense of humor entirely, Tyrion thought.
"Dead dragons," Davos put in.
"One dead dragon," Brienne corrected him. True, the other one was in the North and those at Winterfell after the battle with the dead would not soon forget the effort it took to get Viserion's decomposing hulk out of the courtyard.
Tyrion pondered that for a moment. "Maester Samwell, do dragon parts have any known properties that would make them…saleable?"
Sam understood immediately. "The horns have been turned into…well…horns. The kind that make noise. There are legends of some with magical properties, but it's unclear whether the magic was inherent to the fact that they came from a dragon, or from spells placed on them later. And the scales are strong, as we all know, and fireproof. So is the wing leather. And the claws…." He cleared his throat. "Ground dragonclaw is a claimed ingredient in many, um, tonics to help, um, men with certain maladies…." His face was rapidly turning from pink to fuschia as he trailed off.
Brienne saw Bronn's mouth open and headed him off. "Really. 'Maladies.' For men." The edge to her voice could have cut diamonds.
"Well, if a dwarf's cock is supposed to be magic, one only can assume that a dragon's claw must be even more so," Tyrion quickly interjected. "I think we all can agree that verified dragon parts would be of great interest to many buyers, correct?" Everyone at the table nodded. "Well, then, Ser Davos, what would it take to pull a dragon out of the sea?"
Davos sighed. "Chains, m'lord. Lots of heavy chains and hooks. Luckily Euron shot Rhaegal down near Dragonstone, where the water is not very deep and the tides aren't very strong." He thought for a moment. "Some claim you can see Rhaegal's hulk from the surface."
Tyrion nodded. "Well, here's a fishing expedition for the ages. See what you can do; I anticipate that there are some lords in Essos who would pay enough for even one of those horns to keep the Reach fed for a year. And goodness knows what they'll pay for claws."
The meeting ended on a cautiously optimistic note, a welcome change. After the others left, Tyrion sat for a moment with his thoughts. Too often he expected to see Varys walking through one of the doors, an unctuous "My lord" coming from his lips. His death was something Tyrion never would stop regretting. The eunuch had more balls than the rest of us combined, he thought to himself as he stood and started gathering his things. And you never did tell me what that voice in the fire said, old friend.