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Chapter 69: Tyrion
Tyrion Lannister stood atop the city walls of King's Landing, the hot sun gleaming off the Red Keep's crimson towers. Behind, the teeming city stretched endlessly, a tangle of alleys and crooked streets roiling with the weight of hunger and fear. Beside him stood Queen Regent Cersei and King Joffrey, both garbed in silks too rich for the times. Tyrion observed his sister's tightly drawn face and his nephew's sneer of contempt directed at the city behind them.
They were not here out of concern for the common folk or admiration of the city's grandeur. No, they were here because fear gnawed at their heels—and rightly so.
"Where are the new scorpions being mounted?" Cersei asked tersely, shielding her eyes against the sun.
"On the battlements above the Mud Gate and Iron Gate," Tyrion replied. "And more along the riverwalk. Though I suspect they will do little if Renly's host hurls siege stones or scales the walls with ladders."
"You think this rabble could withstand a siege?" Joffrey scoffed, his voice cracking slightly. "They should be grateful we haven't turned them out into the wilderness."
Tyrion resisted the urge to roll his eyes. He knew the truth, however bitter. "Gratitude is rare in starving men, Your Grace," he muttered. "Especially when they are told their bellies are less important than your banners."
Joffrey didn't hear—or chose not to. Tyrion turned his gaze outward again, surveying the preparations. The city was bursting at the seams. Thousands of refugees had poured in from the Riverlands, spreading tales of Daeron Targaryen's dragon and Tywin's death. The smallfolk whispered the name "Daeron" like a prayer—or a curse. The fire of rebellion had been lit in their hearts, and fear could turn it into fury at any moment.
Renly Baratheon and his host of over a hundred thousand men were drawing ever closer, a green tide from the Reach, their banners fluttering like spring blooms. Stannis, though quiet of late, remained brooding on Dragonstone. Daeron was encamped at Riverrun with a dragon the size of a hall—Lyrax, they called it. The walls were closing in on House Lannister from every side.
Their one hope—if one could call it that—was wildfire.
Tyrion's face darkened as he remembered his recent conversation with Wisdom Pollitor of the Alchemists' Guild. The ancient man had practically drooled with excitement as he described the growing cache of wildfire beneath the city. Thousands of pots, hidden in vaults, buried in tunnels, ready to rain green hellfire on any enemy foolish enough to breach their walls.
But when Tyrion had pressed him about its use against dragons, the old man's tone had shifted. Wildfire, he had admitted, was born of men's futile attempts to imitate dragonflame—and failed attempts, at that. No man had ever seen a dragon's scales burn. "You could drown the beast in green fire, my lord," Pollitor had whispered, "and she would fly out of it laughing."
That single sentence haunted Tyrion more than any siege engine or cavalry charge. If the dragon came to King's Landing, there was no defending against her. Wildfire would burn men and buildings, but the dragon would remain unscathed, a flying force of fire and death.
As they descended the stone stairs from the walls and made their way down the Hook, Tyrion rode beside his sister and nephew, both of whom remained lost in their delusions. Cersei murmured about grain reserves and bribes to the Faith. Joffrey alternated between insulting the city's people and dreaming aloud of skewering his uncle Renly on a lance.
They were nearing the foot of Aegon's High Hill, where the crowd had thickened. Tyrion noticed the sullen faces, the hollow eyes, the desperate glares. This wasn't the usual muttering tide of King's Landing. This was a storm waiting to break.
Then a woman stepped forward.
She came from nowhere, ragged and wild-eyed, cradling something in her arms—a bundle too small, wrapped in dirty cloth. The guards tried to push her back, but she stood firm, right in the path of the royal party.
"It's my babe," she cried, lifting the bundle. "He died last night—no food, no milk—just like the others."
Joffrey recoiled with a look of disgust. Tyrion's heart twisted, but he hid it well. "Give her a silver stag," he told the boy-king. "Show them you care."
With a theatrical flourish, Joffrey tossed the coin into the crowd. The mother ignored it, tears streaking her dirt-caked cheeks. Around them, men and women began shoving and yelling, clawing for the coin like wolves.
"Let's move on," Cersei said tightly.
But the woman didn't move. Instead, she turned on the queen and spat. "You did this! All of you! May the Stranger take your bastard son!"
Joffrey's face went scarlet. "I am the king! The true king! Someone arrest this hag!"
Then it happened.
A wet splat. Joffrey reeled back, his cheek covered in brown filth—dung hurled from the crowd. For a moment, there was silence.
Then chaos.
"Kill them all!" Joffrey shrieked, drawing his sword. "Sandor! Cut them down!"
Sandor Clegane stepped forward, massive and armored, but even he hesitated at the sheer number of people pressing forward, roaring with rage. Shouts filled the air—not just curses at Joffrey, but chants.
"Bread! Bread!"
"Renly is king!"
"Stannis will save us!"
"Daeron has a dragon!"
Tyrion pulled at the reins of his horse. "Fall back! To the Red Keep!"
But it was too late. The press of bodies surged forward like a wave. Stones and fists flew. A man with a broken staff swung at a gold cloak. Another hurled a melon that burst against a knight's helm. A woman shrieked and grabbed at Joffrey's cloak.
Then the riot truly began.
Tyrion lost sight of his sister and nephew in the chaos. The royal party fractured, guards drawing blades, horses screaming. Somewhere to his right, Sandor bellowed a curse as he swung his sword in wide, brutal arcs. The mob was upon them.
And Tyrion Lannister, Hand of the King, thought grimly to himself:
The dragon hasn't even come yet—and already this city burns from within.