King's Landing, the thirtieth day of the siege.
Gale-force winds carrying the Blackwater Rush's salt stung against the high walls of King's Landing. The sky was leaden gray and suffocating.
Outside the walls Renly Baratheon's hundred-thousand-strong host blanketed the fields and hills to the horizon. Campfires glimmered like stars. Smoke from cooking rose in thin veils. Inside the city, life felt dead.
Tyrion Lannister stood behind the battlements, his misshapen face darker than the stone, eyes fixed on the camp.
For days Renly's catapults had not flung stones. They hurled bulging linen sacks into the city instead. The sacks burst in midair, showering golden wheat, coarse chunks of black bread, even dried salted fish like manna from the sky. Each volley set the city into a roaring frenzy.
Starving folk, like hyenas at blood, poured from filthy alleys, rolling and clawing in mud and filth. For a few kernels they beat one another bloody. They sunk teeth into flesh. Tyrion watched a gaunt old woman trampled to death over a palm-sized piece of black bread.
Worse were what came hidden with the grain. Each sack held parchment slips, crudely written and inciting:
"The Lannisters would rather see you starve than open their granaries!"
"Queen Cersei uses the city's stores to feed her dogs while your children gnaw at the dirt!"
"King Joffrey feasts on roasted peacock and mead every day in the Red Keep!"
"His Grace Renly is the merciful sovereign. He brings grain to save you, overthrow the lion, welcome the stag, open the gates!"
Those scraps spread through the desperate like wildfire and rooted deep. Tyrion could see it in the eyes of those who grabbed the grain. As they tore it down the green hunger in their gaze burned along with a raw hatred for the Lannisters.
"Hand of the King!"
A Gold Cloak officer came panting up to the walls, helmet askew, panic on his face.
"Flea Bottom—there's a mob. They're shouting 'Lions eat men,' 'Bread, not lions.' They've even raised Renly's banner!"
Tyrion felt the ground drop under him. Renly's psychological trick was worse than an army at the gates.
...
Red Keep, the Tower of the Hand's council chamber.
Maester Pycelle broke the silence first, flattering smile in place. "Lord Tyrion, Lord Renly's methods are…vicious. Distributing grain to the starving—this was not expected…"
The chamber fell silent. All eyes turned to Pycelle.
The old man shifted and his voice faltered. "Er… I mean… his tactics are…most despicable…"
"Yes. Most despicable."
Tyrion's voice was edged with scorn. "So despicable that a few sacks of grain have turned hundreds of thousands of starving 'loyal subjects' in King's Landing into a rabid throng that would eat Lannister flesh. Grand Maester Pycelle, shall we condemn Lord Renly's perfidy or figure out how to keep our own heads?"
Petyr's face went the color of liver. He stammered and could not answer.
"Bronn!"
Tyrion did not look at him. He barked the order.
The sellsword captain who'd been leaning by the door straightened slowly. "At your service, Lord."
"Gather every Gold Cloak you can. Ride at once to the grain-drop points. Recover every sack that hasn't been looted. Leave no scrap of paper. Anyone who resists is to be slain on sight."
He had to cut this hatred off at its root, even by bloodier means.
"Aye."
Bronn grinned, white teeth flashing, and strode out.
Just then the council chamber doors were thrown open.
A blood-soaked messenger, his armor shattered, stumbled into the chamber, voice warped with terror.
"My... Lord! It's... it's terrible! The Great Sept of Baelor... has been breached by the mob!"
"What?!"
Tyrion leapt to his feet.
"Those mobs who got the grain and the leaflets... they've been stirred up by a Septon called the 'Great Sparrow'!"
The messenger gasped for breath, face smeared with blood and fear. "He... he said the gods' wrath has fallen upon King's Landing because the King and Queen have committed adultery, offending the divine! He accused the clergy of hoarding grain and letting the people starve, calling them hypocrites! They... they stormed the Great Sept like madmen, killing anyone in sight! Even... even the High Septon was dragged out and beaten to death! They... they're eating people! Eating the flesh of the septons!"
A deathly silence fell over the council chamber. Even Littlefinger's smile froze in place.
Grand Maester Pycelle collapsed in terror, a wet patch spreading down his trousers.
Eating people.
By the gods.
King's Landing... the proud capital of the Seven Kingdoms... had fallen into the abyss of madness, consumed by hunger and hate.
Pycelle, sprawled on the floor, suddenly remembered something. Trembling, he fumbled a letter from his robes. "My... my lord... this... this is a secret letter... delivered by Lord Tywin's raven this morning... I... I hadn't yet presented it..."
Tyrion snatched it from his hands and read quickly.
He recognized Tywin's familiar, firm handwriting.
Tywin had dispatched ships from Duskendale to the sea wall below the Red Keep, ordering them to hold for ten more days before retreating.
Tywin was abandoning King's Landing.
Tyrion's heart pounded violently. If Father dared to abandon the capital, he must already have a plan. He forced himself to steady his breath.
"Father commands us to retreat."
Tyrion's voice was unnaturally calm. "When the time comes, the ships from Duskendale will meet us. Cersei, Tommen, and the rest of us... we'll all leave."
...
At dawn on the tenth day, ships slowly approached across the sea.
But Tyrion's joy didn't last long before the dreadful news arrived.
His fears had come true—faster than he had imagined.
Bronn's Gold Cloaks could no longer suppress the waves of rebellion rising within the city. Hunger and hatred spread like wildfire.
When Tyrion was forced to deploy the last of the Lannister guards from the Red Keep to hold the walls, the city fell completely out of control.
From the Great Sept of Baelor, the riots swept through Silk Street, Flea Bottom, and even the nearby noble districts.
The Septon known as the Great Sparrow had become the mob's spiritual leader.
Raising a crude wooden staff carved with a seven-pointed star, his hoarse voice thundered with zeal:
"Behold! The halls of the gods have been cleansed with the blood of hypocrites—but it is not enough! The true sinners—the bastard usurper, the lions who feed on the people's flesh—still cower within the Red Keep! They brought divine wrath upon us! They caused the famine! They turned King's Landing into hell itself!"
"Take up whatever weapons you can find—stones, clubs, kitchen knives! Follow me to the Red Keep! Drag that bastard king out and make him face judgment before the gods! Appease their wrath with his blood! Fill your bellies with his flesh! Charge! For the gods! For your very lives!"
"Charge! Seize the bastard king!"
"Kill him! Sacrifice him to the gods!"
"Eat lion's flesh!"
The roar rose like a tidal wave, tens of thousands of starving, hate-driven rioters surging toward the Red Keep.
They smashed shops along the way and set fire to every symbol of wealth and power. Anyone who tried to resist was instantly swallowed by the mob.
...
Red Keep, the Great Hall.
The Iron Throne's jagged silhouette cast a vast shadow under the daylight. The hall was chaos.
Cersei Lannister's face was pale as chalk, her grip tight around young Tommen's hand.
The lords of the Small Council clustered together, their usual composure gone, replaced by raw panic.
Outside, the clamor of battle cries, steel, and screams pounded against the doors like waves. The entire Red Keep trembled under the assault.
"They... they've breached the gates!"
A bloodied guard stumbled through the Great Hall doors, shouting hoarsely, "We can't hold them! Your Grace! Lord Hand! You must flee!"
"Flee?"
On the throne, Joffrey Baratheon shot to his feet.
Clad in ornate armor, his face flushed red with fury.
He drew his sword and stepped down from the Iron Throne, voice shrill with anger.
"I am the King! King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men! Ruler of the Seven Kingdoms! I will not flee! Never! Where are the Gold Cloaks? Where are my guards? Slay them all! Cut down every last one of these wretched maggots! I'll mount their heads on pikes and line the walls of King's Landing!"
His roar echoed through the vast hall, but it rang hollow.
The only answer was the deafening pounding outside.
The heavy oak doors bent under the pressure, hinges shrieking.
"You fool!"
Tyrion finally lost control, shouting at his nephew. "This is no time for heroics! They'll tear you apart! Come with me now—there's still a chance!"
"Shut your filthy mouth, you disgusting dwarf!"
Joffrey's eyes bulged in rage like a cornered cat. He swung his sword toward Tyrion. "You want me to run like a stray dog? Never! I am the King! I will—"
CRASH!
A thunderous explosion split the air.
The Great Hall's massive oak doors, battered by the mob's relentless assault, collapsed inward.
Dust filled the air. Splinters flew.
A human tide surged into the hall.
They were ragged and gaunt, their eyes burning with hunger, hatred, and a madness that devoured reason.
At the front, a mobster clutched a bloody, severed limb—no one could tell whose.
"Seize him! That bastard king!"
"That blond bastard!"
"Drag him out! Make him face judgment!"
Countless bloodshot eyes locked on the trembling blond youth frozen in the center of the hall.
The fury on Joffrey's face vanished, replaced by sheer, suffocating terror.