Chapter 132: Hell
The mob surged like a tide.
No one knew where they came from at first. They appeared from nowhere—dribbling out of alleyways, swelling through streets—until at last they merged into a roaring flood.
They shouted:
"Bread! Bread!"
Then—
"Long live King Renly!"
And finally, voices rose from somewhere unseen:
"Open the gates! Let the southerners rule us!"
The words no longer mattered.
Curses, boasts, pleas, slogans—everything blended into a single deafening roar until nothing could be distinguished anymore.
The mass grew thicker, heavier, unstoppable, rushing toward the Mud Gate like a living torrent.
And atop the Mud Gate's walls, the dwarf—still desperately resisting the enemy outside—could never have imagined that the very people he was defending would become the knife plunged into his back.
Enemies without.
Disaster within.
Caught between the two, the City Watch—once the shield of King's Landing—became the softest layer in a crushing sandwich. Two or three waves were enough to tear them apart completely.
Thus, the gate that Renly Baratheon's army could not break with blood and steel was opened effortlessly—from the inside—by the city's own people, eager to welcome the ruler they desired.
"So I don't have to regret neglecting the gates earlier after all."
Watching it unfold, unprepared, Tyrion felt a bitter, almost absurd taste rise in his throat.
He saw the great black-and-red inner bar lifted by citizens and thrown aside.
He heard the groan of hinges as the massive gate creaked open.
And in that instant, the burning heart of the Hand of the King turned to ice.
Tyrion Lannister knew it then.
King's Landing was finished.
Like a flawless egg—once a crack appeared, collapse was inevitable.
He watched as his soldiers were swallowed by the crowd, drowned beneath a sea of bodies.
Watched as Renly Baratheon's troops—wolves scenting blood—poured through the opening, flooding naturally into the city.
Despair.
Rage.
Regret.
Grief.
Panic.
All thrown together like the worst cook's spices, stirred into a single foul stew and served steaming hot.
"Dwarf, it's time to go."
Bronn's voice was cold, merciless.
"You can still escape while you have the chance."
As he spoke, Bronn drew his sword, scanning the chaos—soldiers, rioters, stunned gold cloaks alike.
But Tyrion's eyes cleared.
His mind snapped back into focus.
He had never truly feared retreat—only used it when necessary.
He had survived impossible situations before.
The Eyrie.
The Vale.
He had always clawed a path out of dead ends.
"No!"
The dwarf roared.
"We haven't lost yet!"
Tyrion vaulted onto a wooden crate—once meant to store wildfire—and stood tall.
From there, he looked taller than any man around him.
His voice rang out—hard, fearless, unwavering.
"We haven't lost!"
"Drive them back out—and victory is still ours!"
"My father—Tywin Lannister of Casterly Rock—is already marching to our aid!"
"Hold the line, and victory will be ours!"
"Now I order this—ignite the wildfire!"
"From this moment on, turn the Mud Gate into the mouth of hell!"
"I want Renly Baratheon and his army to never set foot in King's Landing through this gate!"
In chaos, the worst enemy is indecision.
The gold cloaks were stunned by the sudden uprising behind them—but not broken.
Yes, the gate had opened.
Yes, the reserves had scattered.
But Renly's army could not simply march in and take the city.
Not yet.
Because the very mob that opened the gate now became another obstacle.
The gate stood half-open—neither closed nor fully breached.
Renly's soldiers wanted in.
The city's people wanted out.
Two floods collided at the same narrow mouth.
They crashed together, shattered into spray, bleeding off their crushing force.
Inside the gap, bodies packed tight—soldiers and citizens crushed together, unable to move forward or back.
But those behind them didn't know.
The army outside saw only an open gate.
They smelled victory.
Honor.
Wealth.
Glory.
Things once intangible now seemed within reach.
So they clenched their teeth, gathered every ounce of strength—
And surged forward again.
To crown Renly Baratheon king—
if they won this battle, it would be a deed worthy of being written into legend, the merit of those who "followed the dragon."
Opportunity lay before them.
Behind it—endless rewards.
And so, outside the Mud Gate, Renly's soldiers—no matter what doubts or motives they had carried moments before—lost all restraint the instant they saw the gate crack open.
They surged forward on instinct, like beasts scenting blood.
Breaking into King's Landing was far easier than properly entering it.
Inside the city, many didn't even know what was happening. They simply followed the flow—drawn along by noise, bodies, fear—until they too became part of the torrent.
And when they saw the gate opening, memories of hunger flooded back.
Days of empty bellies.
Parents. Wives. Children waiting at home.
Then came the voices again—praise of Renly Baratheon, promises of bread, justice, abundance—repeated louder and louder until thought itself dissolved.
Hunger became momentum.
Every person swept into the surge became a rioter, a single flake in an unstoppable avalanche.
And so the Mud Gate became the collision point.
If one looked down from above, it was unmistakable.
This was a siege.
Those inside wanted out.
Those outside wanted in.
And thus, disaster began.
A catastrophe without precedent.
A stampede.
Beneath the Mud Gate, Renly's soldiers and the city's mob—once clearly divided—were crushed together into a single mass.
Under such pressure, flesh and bone meant nothing.
Even steel failed.
Breastplates—whether scavenged, patched together, or bought at great cost—creaked and warped, deforming under the crushing force, until they killed their wearers from within.
Those at the very front—soldiers and civilians alike—lost their voices first.
Their curses cut off mid-breath.
The pressure squeezed the last air from their lungs, snapped their bones, and turned them into corpses lifted off the ground, feet dangling uselessly.
And Tyrion—who only minutes earlier had feared the gate would fall from outside—now saw hope with his own eyes.
Cold, ruthless hope.
And so he issued the cruelest command yet.
Wildfire would burn at the Mud Gate.
He would make it the gate of hell itself and fulfill his vow.
No matter the cost.
Clay jars—rough, uneven, patterned—were carefully lifted from crates filled with sand and sawdust.
With trembling care, the gold cloaks carried them to the parapet.
Then, with all their strength, they hurled them down.
Below, Renly's troops—driven mad by the sight of an open gate—charged forward, only to be trapped by the crush, packed so tightly they resembled boiling stew thick with bodies.
The jars fell easily.
Heavy jars filled with wildfire oil were no different from stones.
Even helmeted soldiers were smashed senseless by the impact; skulls split, blood sprayed, lives ended instantly.
In the darkness, those packed below had no idea what had been thrown.
Only that something shattered.
Something soaked them.
Something stung.
And then—
Whether from a dripping torch, or from the oil itself splashing into flame—
The Mud Gate became a green inferno.
In an instant, the ground below transformed into hell.
Wildfire burned long and hungrily.
It seeped into cloth, wood, leather—even steel—and set all of it alight.
It burned atop water.
It could not be smothered.
A weapon worthy of gods.
And now, the Imp had unleashed it.
The Mud Gate became the devil's threshold.
The black-and-red gate glowed green.
Flames crawled across it, consuming it, until it truly became the gate of hell.
Bodies burned.
Flesh melted like wax, sloughing from bone.
Blood boiled away into black smoke.
Bones endured a moment longer—then cracked, collapsed, and fell apart, reduced to ash.
Packed together like preserved meat, no one could escape.
Those crushed to death earlier were the lucky ones.
They vanished quietly.
The living burned.
They felt it.
They screamed—briefly.
Then silence.
Everything burned.
The world turned green.
The color of death.
The color of hell.
The whisper of a demon's weapon.
On the walls above, Tyrion stood frozen.
Smoke choked him to tears.
Heat scorched his face.
Yet he did not look away.
Some things must be witnessed to be understood.
Only when everything that could burn had burned did the flames begin to die.
The crisis ended as the fire ended—suddenly, completely.
But the memory remained.
The towering green flames, hissing louder than screams, carved themselves into every witness's soul.
The battle had ended—no one knew when.
No one dared approach the scorched wasteland where hell had briefly touched the earth.
Then—
Hooves thundered in the distance.
Podrick Payne arrived.
Clad in black plate, gold helm gleaming, a heavy golden cloak whipping behind him, he ran faster than any horse along the wall-walk between the King's Gate and the Mud Gate, war hammer in hand.
But what he found was not what he expected.
Tyrion stood motionless, hollow-eyed.
Bronn beside him, the same.
Gold cloaks stared in silence—some collapsed to the ground, faces buried in their hands.
Outside, Renly's army had withdrawn far back, unwilling to advance.
Between the two sides lay a shallow depression of fused black glass and pale, unidentifiable residue.
The Mud Gate was gone.
The rioters were gone.
Nothing remained.
Only hell's footprint.