King's Landing. The Old Gate stood to the north.
The muddy road swarmed with people, but under the shouts of the Gold Cloaks, soldiers and commoners alike stepped aside to make way for the queen's procession.
Children with hollow eyes clustered along the roadside—some silent, some crying for alms. Tyrion pulled a handful of copper coins from his purse and scattered them, just as he had when he first arrived in King's Landing. The children immediately dove after them, shoving and yelling, fighting over the few coins.
The lucky ones might eat a piece of moldy bread tonight.
The market square had never been so crowded. House Tyrell had brought in endless supplies to replace the so-called famine relief pellets, yet food prices were still outrageous.
Six coppers for a pumpkin. A silver stag for a heap of corn. A golden dragon for a slab of beef ribs or six scrawny piglets.
Even so, the buyers kept coming. Gaunt men and women crowded around every cart and stall, while the most desperate stood at the alley mouths, watching in silence.
Outside the Old Gate stretched a wasteland—nothing but mud, ash, and burned bones. Tyrion had ordered the bodies buried or dumped in the river, yet the homeless had already rebuilt their tents beneath the shadow of the walls.
They needed the corpses—to strip them of anything valuable. First jewelry and coins, then armor and weapons, then tattered clothes and worn shoes. In the end, they even knocked out the teeth to sell. Tyrion feared some had already turned to eating the rotten flesh.
Charred meat—impossible to tell what it once was.
The warriors of the Burned Men embraced Tyrion one by one in farewell, while the people of King's Landing watched from a distance. They feared the mountain clans, yet they also looked longingly at Tyrion—Lord Lannister, the handsome one—who always tossed coins as he passed.
No one knew those coins came from the profits of his laxative trade.
After embracing nearly a hundred warriors, the last to come forward was Timett, son of Timett.
He looked far cleaner than when they'd first met. His hair was trimmed, his beard neatly combed, and his single eye was a striking blue. Looking closer, Tyrion guessed he was no more than twenty. He imagined the missing eye a different color—then they could have been mismatched brothers.
"Leaving for good?" Tyrion asked.
Timett nodded. "I don't belong here. The lords don't like us. No point staying where we're not wanted."
"You could go to Darry, like Shagga and Chella," Tyrion said. "The Mountain and Bolton have fought over it three times—the land's been turned over completely. No one rules there now, and the war's not done."
"Thank you, Tyrion." Timett gave him a brief hug. "The Burned Men have their own ways. We won't live under anyone's nose. May the Old Gods guide us to meet again in the Mountains of the Moon."
Tyrion watched the mountain warriors drive their ox carts north, piled high with loot.
"Is that what you rely on now—savages?" Cersei approached only after the crowd had dispersed, trailed by her retinue: knights in white cloaks and red armor, Gold Cloaks, Lancel, and Bronn among them.
Tyrion ignored her. Podrick fetched a chair and placed it in the shade.
"Sending off one fighter and greeting another?" Bronn remarked behind him.
"Jaime Lannister is a great knight," said Lancel, who had long idolized him.
"Yes, Commander, yes," Bronn drawled. "The great Jaime Lannister, the Kingslayer. I've heard it till my ears ache. But watching you two swing swords, I'd never have guessed a Lannister could be so fearsome with a blade."
"He has no talent?" Tyrion pointed at Lancel, glancing back at Bronn.
"Cousin—of course I do," Lancel stammered.
"Out here, address me by my title," Tyrion said.
"Yes, my lord," Lancel corrected quickly. "I think I've trained quite well."
"Is that true?" Tyrion asked Bronn.
Bronn lifted an eyebrow.
"Or maybe you're just a poor teacher," Tyrion said, crossing one leg over the other. "That's why I'll have him learn from you, while I train with my brother."
"Your brother may be better than me," Bronn said, "but look at him now—defeated and taken captive. And me? I'm Ser Bronn of the Blackwater."
He flicked back his cloak to show the iron chain on his armor, burning with green enamel flame—his badge of honor from the Battle of the Blackwater.
"Quite right, Bronn," Tyrion said. "I'm half-tempted to change my sigil to a roaring river."
"And the words? Not planning to change those too?" Bronn's dark, cunning eyes gleamed.
"You look like you've already thought of something," Tyrion said. "Go on, let's hear it."
"Let the women break the dam!"
"Ha!"
The lion and the sellsword burst into laughter.
The sunset spilled across the sky like molten gold, dyeing the horizon in deep orange and red. Its fading glow washed over their faces, softening their features and casting them in quiet depth.
Their shadows stretched long behind them, mingling with the heavy gates, the moss creeping up the city walls, and the fleeting silhouettes of birds returning home—together forming a tranquil yet faintly lonely picture.
Tyrion turned his gaze to his sister. In the golden light, she looked almost divine.
Time seemed to hold still, broken only by the distant tolling of Baelor's bells, reminding the city that the day was nearly gone.
Then, at last, a column appeared on the far edge of the road where it vanished into the horizon.
Seven long-tailed peace banners fluttered high in the wind, the seven-pointed stars atop them gleaming in the sun.
The column drew closer, until Tyrion could make out the flaring nostrils of the lead horse.
"Is that Lord Tyrion?" someone called.
"It is I," Tyrion replied, stepping forward. Gods, he thought for a moment Timett's men had returned. What a pitiful sight—this was a troop of beggars.
Every man was ragged. Tyrion watched them dismount, scanning their faces for his brother while his sister stayed back, covering her mouth and nose with her hand.
"Tyrion."
Someone called to him.
"Brother!" Tyrion finally recognized the voice. The Kingslayer, without a doubt. He was tall, his face smeared with mud, his hair matted, his trousers torn nearly to shreds.
Jaime Lannister strode up and crushed his brother in a fierce embrace, squeezing the breath from him. Thank the gods he was still strong—both hands whole and unharmed. That alone made the Faceless Men's contract worth the price.
"Cersei." Jaime had seen her.
"Who—?" she began, then gasped, "Jaime?" She shot to her feet, eyes filling with tears. "Is it truly you?"
Jaime pulled Tyrion with him as he hurried toward her.
"You should have come back sooner," she whispered when he took her in his arms. "Why didn't you come back sooner?"
"You're so thin... and your hair, your golden hair..."
For now, Father's marriage schemes could go to the Seven Hells, Tyrion thought. To interrupt this moment of joy would be the greatest sin on earth—even if this joy itself was a sin.
"My lord."
A rough, gravelly voice sounded behind Tyrion.