Chapter 27 – The Red Comet
"Finally," Podrick murmured, tilting his head back to look at the vast city before them.
"We've made it."
He paused, squinting toward the horizon.
"And it's a fine day for it, too."
"Aye," Tyrion replied from atop his horse.
"A very fine day indeed."
It was a fine day.
The sun blazed bright over the hills, a soft wind stirring the banners,
and above them —
cutting across the blue sky like a wound —
blazed the great red comet, its fiery tail stretching through the clouds.
Even through the shifting veil of wind and light, the comet shone like fresh blood.
It had been there for days now, longer than any of them cared to count,
a burning sign seen from every corner of the realm.
Podrick stared up at it, lips pressed tight.
He'd heard the whispers — every camp and tavern had its own tale.
To some, it was the sword of the gods.
To others, a herald of war.
But in his heart, he thought of the stories he'd heard from sailors —
of the far lands beyond the Narrow Sea,
where dragons had once ruled the skies.
If the stories are true, he thought,
then somewhere, far away, those beasts must have spread their wings again.
He wondered what it would be like —
to look up and see a creature of fire and scale blotting out the sun.
---
The Iron Gate stood before them, massive and grim.
Set into the northeastern wall of King's Landing,
it faced the dark waters of Blackwater Bay
and opened toward the Rosby Road that wound its way northward through the Crownlands.
That was the gate Tyrion's small retinue now approached.
Since King Robert's death and young Joffrey Baratheon's ascension,
entry into the city had been more tightly controlled than ever.
The Gold Cloaks guarded every arch and passage,
and only two gates — the Iron Gate and the King's Gate —
were open to travelers.
And of course, the guards noticed them long before they arrived.
A dwarf riding a red courser,
flanked by a sellsword and a solemn young squire —
and behind them,
fluttering proudly in the breeze,
the crimson banner of House Lannister,
its golden lion gleaming in the sun.
It wasn't a sight easily mistaken.
---
A squad of city guards jogged forward to meet them.
Tyrion glanced sideways.
"Pod," he said casually, "raise our banner, would you?"
Podrick obeyed, gripping the staff tightly.
The lion of Lannister unfurled in full,
and even from a distance, the guards recognized the sigil —
and the small, sharp figure upon the horse.
No other dwarf in the Seven Kingdoms
would dare ride beneath that banner.
No one else would have reason to.
"That's him," one of the red-cloaks muttered as they drew near.
"The Imp. The Queen's brother."
They dismounted quickly, bowed low,
and hurried to clear a path.
"Lord Tyrion," their captain said,
"the Queen's Hand awaits you at the Red Keep.
Please — allow us to escort you."
"You're too kind," Tyrion said lightly. "But I know the way."
Still, he let them lead. It was always better to be welcomed into a city,
especially this one.
---
As they passed beneath the gate, Podrick couldn't help but look up —
at the heavy iron portcullis above,
the rows of black spikes,
and beyond them, the red comet burning through the haze.
But the sight that struck him most wasn't above.
It was the stench.
The smell of King's Landing hit him like a slap —
a foul, suffocating brew of rot and sweat and decay.
It was as though a barrel of nightsoil had been left to ferment half a year,
then mixed with sour cheese and a nest of drowned rats
for good measure.
Podrick gagged, covering his nose with his sleeve.
A beggar's corpse lay slumped by the wall, one bare foot sticking from a tattered boot.
Flies clung to his skin like jewels.
A child darted from the shadows,
snatched the dead man's boot,
and vanished into the alleys before anyone could stop him.
"This," said Tyrion with a dry smile,
"is Flea Bottom — King's Landing's beating heart."
He gestured toward the maze of narrow streets and leaning shacks beyond the gate.
"The poorest, filthiest, most lawless place in the city.
A den of beggars, whores, and thieves…
and, if the gods are just, a few honest souls too drunk to notice the difference."
Podrick's eyes went wide as he took it all in —
the leaning tenements,
the smoke-stained windows,
the children barefoot in the muck,
and the women shouting curses from upper floors.
This was not the King's Landing of songs and stories.
This was the real one —
loud, foul, and alive.
"Welcome to the capital," Tyrion said,
his grin crooked beneath the shadow of the red comet.
"Smell that, Pod?
That's the scent of power."
Bronn snorted behind them.
"Smells more like shit to me."
"You'll find, dear Bronn," said Tyrion,
"that in this city, the two are much the same."
The streets ahead were a twisting maze —
a tangle of unpaved alleys and crooked crossings,
where every building leaned drunkenly against the next,
as if the city itself could barely stand under its own weight.
Pigsties and stables pressed shoulder to shoulder with tanneries,
the sour stench of boiled leather mingling with the fumes of cheap ale
and the perfume of brothels that promised more disease than pleasure.
That was the smell Podrick had described earlier —
and now, surrounded by it, he realized he hadn't exaggerated nearly enough.
He caught sight of a cluster of ramshackle stalls tucked into a narrow corner.
Someone had built a fire there,
and above it hung a blackened iron pot that glistened with soot and grease.
Inside, something boiled.
A slick film of oil floated on the surface,
and a cracked wooden ladle stirred through the murky brown broth,
lifting chunks of vegetables that might once have been carrots or turnips.
As Podrick watched,
a woman came hobbling up with a basket,
tossing in a handful of barley, a few onions,
and what looked alarmingly like two skinned rats.
Then, for good measure,
she dropped in a pair of pale, long-tailed fish
— though Podrick, to his horror, knew full well those weren't fish.
His throat tightened.
He turned away quickly, fighting down the nausea.
The blood and butchery of the battlefield had never made him feel half as sick as this.
Tyrion said beside him, his mouth curling into a wry smile.
"I do hope you'll grow to love this beautiful city."
The dwarf's face was weary and road-dusted,
but his tone was light — almost amused —
as he watched his young squire struggle to keep a straight face.
Over the course of their journey, Tyrion had learned something curious about the boy.
Podrick Payne had… peculiar habits.
Not fear of dirt, exactly — but a strange insistence on cleanliness.
He would only drink boiled water.
He always washed his hands before meals.
And anything that passed his lips had to be meticulously clean.
A rare trait in Westeros — and an even rarer one in Flea Bottom.
---
"I think I'll grow to like it here," Pod said at last,
though the stiffness in his throat betrayed him.
Then he added under his breath,
"And if I can't like it… maybe I'll make her like me."
Tyrion chuckled — a low, genuine laugh —
and even Bronn, riding just behind, cracked a grin.
"Don't worry, Pod," Tyrion said.
"The gifts I promised you — I'll see to it they're scrubbed at least three times each,
perfumed with roses,
and delivered fresh to your bed."
Pod gave a small, embarrassed cough.
"I think… I regret my request, my lord.
I rather prefer something more… natural."
That made even Bronn bark out a laugh.
---
Tyrion let them have their amusement,
but as their laughter faded, he turned his gaze forward —
to the city he hadn't seen in nearly a year.
King's Landing.
It smelled the same,
sounded the same,
and beneath the same old filth,
still pulsed with greed, rumor, and hunger.
Flea Bottom would always be Flea Bottom,
no matter who sat the Iron Throne.
But the Red Keep that crowned Aegon's Hill —
that looked different.
There were banners fluttering on the towers,
bright as fresh blood under the light of the comet.
"What's going on up there?" Tyrion asked suddenly,
his sharp eyes narrowing.
"Some festival, perhaps?"
The red-cloaked guard riding ahead turned in his saddle,
face bright with excitement.
"It's the King's Name Day, my lord.
King Joffrey is holding a grand tourney at the Red Keep."
He pointed upward toward the blazing red streak in the sky.
"And look there! The comet!
It shines over the city on His Grace's Name Day!
The people say it's the gods' own banner,
raised in honor of our king!"
"They call it the King Joffrey's Comet."
Tyrion arched an eyebrow.
He didn't bother to hide the smirk that tugged at his mouth.
He doubted any commoner had ever uttered that name.
It reeked of courtly sycophants and small-minded flatterers.
From what he'd seen on their ride through the city — the chaos, the hunger, the fear —
the smallfolk likely had other, less flattering names for it.
But in King's Landing, truth was whatever power said it was.
And power, for now, belonged to his sister's whelp.
As they finally reached the Red Keep,
Tyrion looked up to find the great iron gates closed tight.
Chains clanked as the portcullis creaked into motion,
a groan of metal on stone echoing through the courtyard.
"Well," Tyrion said dryly,
"it seems we've arrived at a splendid beginning.
Always encouraging to be locked out of one's own home."
The gates shuddered open.
And as the red comet burned above the city's smog-choked sky,
the Imp of House Lannister rode once more into the lion's den.