Chapter 131 — Riot, the Mud Gate Thrown Open
The River Gate was one of King's Landing's seven great gates.
Set into the southeastern stretch of the city walls, it opened toward Fisherman's Square and the docks, facing the Blackwater Rush. Beyond it ran the kingsroad south, all the way to Storm's End.
Its iron portcullis—black and red—rose high and imposing.
Yet despite its formal name, the smallfolk preferred another.
They called it the Mud Gate.
A name well earned.
Tyrion Lannister stood atop the wall, crouched behind the crenellations, cautiously studying Renly Baratheon's army arrayed below.
The fish market and docks beyond the gate had long since fallen into enemy hands. On the Blackwater itself, wooden boats floated in clusters, soldiers concealed within them, waiting.
Among all that, one thing stood out above the rest.
A massive battering ram.
A trunk so thick it took three men to embrace, its iron-clad head dull-black and gleaming faintly.
Tyrion clenched his fist.
He could not help wondering whether the Mud Gate would withstand that ram.
If only he had ordered the city gates reinforced earlier—every one of them—just as Tyland Lannister had done during the regency of Aegon III. Back then, the gates had been strengthened not only against foreign enemies, but against threats from within.
Now he needed that foresight.
And he had failed to think of it.
Just as regret took hold, Bronn appeared at his side as if from nowhere.
He wore an assortment of mismatched armor that looked scavenged piece by piece, though it would probably serve well enough. A dull silver helm sat atop his head.
Bronn glanced at Tyrion, then at the enemy below, before leaning back in and asking casually,
"So, you planning to just stand here and watch?"
Tyrion didn't look away.
"Or I could give you a squad and let you go out there and kill them all. How does that sound?"
Like Tyrion, Bronn wore armor now—ill-fitting, uncomfortable. Tyrion's finely crafted lion-engraved suit still rested safely back in Casterly Rock.
Bronn shrugged at the retort.
"You couldn't pay me enough. I don't like jobs where I earn money I won't live to spend."
This time, Tyrion turned to him, eyes serious.
"Keep me alive, and I'll make sure you never run out of coin."
Bronn hesitated.
Faced with that look, he shook his head slowly and muttered,
"…I'm not promising that."
"If you did," Tyrion replied dryly, "that's when I'd really be worried."
He laughed softly—without humor—and turned back to the battlefield.
The setting sun hung low, stretching his shadow long across the stone, only for it to be trampled underfoot.
Then—
A horn sounded from the west.
Low. Deep.
And the moment it did, the stillness shattered.
"Kill them!"
"Highgarden forever!"
"Long live King Renly Baratheon!"
The army below erupted like water brought to a boil. In seconds, order turned to fury.
The war began without warning.
Tyrion cast aside his doubts and fears, snapping into motion. He barked orders, rallied men, and forced calm into his voice.
Just as at the King's Gate, Renly's soldiers surged forward without hesitation, hurling themselves at the walls.
Tyrion steadied himself.
Commands followed commands.
Arrows rose.
Then fell.
A storm of shafts poured down from the battlements like rain.
Blood and corpses piled up like shoots after a spring rain.
Yet even as the siege raged at full intensity—
Inside the River Gate, not far from the Mud Gate, beyond Fisherman's Square, deep within the narrow alleys packed tight with ramshackle houses—
Figures began to appear.
One by one.
They stood outside doorways and at street corners, cloaks pulled low, faces hidden. Their voices were hushed, their heads bent close together in whispers.
Then more people emerged.
From side streets, from courtyards, from shadowed doorways.
They gathered around the cloaked figures.
Most were ragged—unwashed, poorly dressed, bodies thin and bent by hunger. Yet their eyes were sharp, dark, and burning with anticipation as they stared at the gray-cloaked strangers.
The cloaked men stopped speaking.
They were waiting.
"Is there really bread?"
Someone finally whispered.
The question rippled outward, like raindrops striking still water.
A cloaked man raised his hand sharply for silence. When quiet returned, he spoke in a low, controlled voice.
"This is the king's promise. It will not be broken."
"Outside the walls stand the armies of the Reach and the Stormlands. Forget the Stormlands for now—everyone knows the Reach is rich beyond measure."
"Open the gates. Welcome the true royal host into the city."
"King Renly Baratheon has sworn that every one of you here will receive food."
"The whole of King's Landing will benefit from your courage."
"Your families—your children, your wives—will never fear hunger again."
His words swept through the crowd like a rising gale.
Ripples became waves.
Then came the thunder.
"For example—now."
At his signal, the wooden door of an unremarkable house behind him creaked open.
Crates were carried out.
Crates filled with bread.
The crowd's eyes ignited.
---
At the King's Gate, Podrick Payne had just repelled Renly's first assault.
And something felt wrong.
The fighting had been brutal—bloody beyond question.
Yet something about it did not sit right.
A siege like this should not reach such intensity in the first attack. Not unless the attackers intended to break the gate outright in a single stroke—and that was rare.
Normally, the first assault tested defenses. Then came exhaustion. Then attrition.
A long, grinding struggle.
But Renly's attack on the King's Gate defied that rhythm.
It was savage. Furious. Relentless.
Everything had been thrown in at once.
If not for Podrick's presence—if not for that terrifying, inhuman efficiency—those half-trained recruits might truly have lost the gate.
And that was the problem.
Because the ferocity at the front made the calm at the rear stand out all the more.
The battlefield felt… split.
As though two wars were being fought side by side.
The rear formations—supposedly the main force—looked almost relaxed.
Unconcerned by losses.
As if this assault were merely a formality.
A test.
A distraction.
It was wrong.
Utterly wrong.
Skilled, yet careless.
Fierce, yet strangely indifferent.
Podrick watched the retreating army and told himself he was overthinking.
Then he noticed how cleanly they withdrew.
No frustration. No rage. No sense of failure.
His scalp prickled.
Night had fallen. Clouds swallowed the moon.
Yet along the Blackwater's banks, countless pinpricks of flame traced the darkness—an ocean of torches.
Then—
The horn sounded again.
The signal for attack.
The retreating troops vanished into the darkness of the central formation.
But the flanks moved.
From the walls, Podrick saw them clearly—like mountain streams forced through narrow channels, thinning yet accelerating as they flowed.
The left and right wings curved forward.
Merged.
A fresh army was born.
"Night attack…?" Podrick murmured.
No one answered.
The horn sounded again.
They charged.
"Everyone, prepare!"
Podrick's roar shook the wall.
"Reserve units forward! Follow your training—don't panic!"
"Archers ready!"
"Supplies up! Now!"
"Move, damn it! All of you—don't fail me now!"
Compared to the enemy's precision, the walls were chaos.
But chaos could still fight.
Rotations shifted. Second-wave troops took the line. Third-wave units stood ready.
No one truly rested.
Those pulled from the front became porters, hauling ammunition and supplies up the walls.
Then—
Podrick noticed something.
The torchlight stream rushing toward him felt… angled.
Minutes later, realization struck.
They weren't coming for him.
Ten thousand men curved smoothly past the King's Gate, ignoring the corpses, the wreckage, the blood-soaked ground.
Their destination—
"The Mud Gate!"
"Damn it!"
"Renly's target was the Mud Gate from the start!"
The torch-river vanished toward the fish market and docks.
And at that exact moment—
A runner burst up the stairwell.
"Podrick Payne! Podrick Payne!"
"Urgent report from the River Gate!"
"Requesting aid!"
The messenger screamed as he ran, wings bobbing atop his helm.
Podrick's blood ran cold.
He shoved past stunned soldiers and crossed the wall in seconds.
"What happened at the Mud Gate?!"
"Where is Tyrion Lannister?!"
He seized the runner by the breastplate and lifted him off the ground.
The messenger barely noticed.
"Riot! A riot broke out inside the city!"
"Lord Tyrion is fighting the enemy outside—but behind him, chaos erupted!"
"Mobs poured out of the alleys—too many! The reserve forces couldn't stop them!"
"They were shouting 'Long live King Renly!'"
"They smashed through the defenses—"
"And opened the gate!"
"The Mud Gate has fallen!"
"The Hand of the King orders immediate reinforcement!"