In the distance, flames shot into the sky, like the grimace of the God of Fire. It seemed the bakeries and goldsmiths were in danger. Below the city walls were hundreds of tired, shouting faces; they didn't want a king, they wanted bread.
Tyrion Lannister was burning with anxiety. His greatest fear was that this unruly mob would raid the Pyromancer's quarters, causing King's Landing to utterly boom, to explode.
"Fire a round of crossbows first, as a warning," Tyrion gasped, shouting.
"Yes."
The Crossbowmen on The Red Keep's walls pulled their triggers, sending a volley of bolts into the ground below, not to kill, but to warn.
"Bugles, and heralds, quickly! Read my decree, loudly! I want these fools to hear it clearly!"
Tyrion looked at the angry commoners of King's Landing below. He truly wished he could turn into a titan and crush them with one slap. But he couldn't; he couldn't abuse power, especially with a strong enemy nearby.
Lancel Lannister was constantly sending glances to Queen Dowager Cersei Lannister. The Queen Dowager's eyes were as green as the emerald necklace on her pale neck. Tyrion had long noticed that the relationship between these two was not quite ordinary; it was a bit strange.
"Jaime, look at the rotten slut you found. She ruined you, ruined your life. You lost your hand, and she's sleeping with other men." Tyrion lamented for his brother, but now was not the time to delve into that matter.
The mournful sound of bugles echoed across the sky. The Red Cloaks' heralds stood on the city walls, while Longspearmen and lance cavalry were already prepared in the courtyard.
"Now hear the decree of Lord Tyrion Lannister, the hand of the king: Curfew begins immediately. All good citizens, return home, return home. After the last bugle call and war drum sound, anyone remaining in the streets will be killed without mercy!" The herald shouted loudly, looking at the rioters below.
The herald read the curfew order several times consecutively, followed by the sound of bugles, each more chilling than the last. War drums echoed the bugle calls, rumbling like thunder. The Crossbowmen lined up, their crossbow bolts gleaming with cold light.
The crowd was now on the verge of breaking, seemingly about to face a massacre. In The Red Keep's courtyard, the lance cavalry and Longspearmen were also ready, their spear tips sharp and new, symbolizing slaughter.
"Half-man!"
"Bastard!" the rioters shouted, then threw one last volley of pebbles and rubbish at the city walls, before loosely looking for escape routes. The human wall thinned out and receded.
"Bronn, take enough men and ensure the safety of the water carts. In an absolute emergency, you can abandon Flea Bottom, but under no circumstances allow the fire to spread to the Alchemists' Guild," Tyrion instructed. He was extremely tired but had to summon his remaining courage.
"And you all, each take a herald and men. It's the same order as before: after the bugle call, anyone still in the streets will be killed without mercy."
"Yes." This time, the Kingsguards were obedient. The Hound, Ser Meryn, Ser Boros, they each took a squad and began the clearing operation.
"Look at these two cowards! Do they deserve to be Kingsguards? They're not even as good as the King's dog!" Cersei cursed, watching Meryn and Boros hurry downstairs.
"They insulted me, attacked me! I'll chop off their heads!" the King was still yelling, and the Queen Dowager had to comfort her foolish son.
"Alright, I just hope the wildfire doesn't ignite all at once," Tyrion said, troubled. Weak Kingsguards, hungry commoners, a volatile King, an arrogant Queen Dowager—this was all he had to rely on right now.
Ser Allar remained silent. He had to admit that this was the lowest point for the Kingsguards' reputation. Barristan and Jaime had both fled, one following the storm, the other returning to the Westerlands.
"What exactly is going on?" Cersei felt indignant.
"There are rumors that Rosby has been burned down, and the commoners will no longer have grain to eat. The Red Keep is also going to confiscate grain and implement a rationing system, first for the nobles and soldiers," Tyrion said, watching the dispersing crowd as The Red Keep's gates opened.
"The traitors who said that, chop off their heads!"
"Words are like wind, good sister," Tyrion had to admit there was a venomous part to this rumor, but it also reminded him of the security of the grain-producing areas.
Sansa Stark thanked the gods; her luck today was not bad. Tonight, The Red Keep in King's Landing was even livelier than before. A poor Child's evening prayer sounded quite normal.
"No, King's Landing is not my home." Sansa touched the scars on her wrist. The beatings made her determined to run away. She was a soft-hearted and appearance-obsessed person; if a handsome Knight appeared (like the Tyrell's empty promises, she would be willing to marry Willas), perhaps she wouldn't run. She also didn't like the drunk Thorys, but right now, the drunkard was her hope. She had to bring back a message; her father might still be alive.
Sansa looked out the window and saw a Kingsguard still guarding, his armor bleached pale by the moonlight, a heavy white cloak draped over his shoulders, pacing back and forth on the drawbridge. From his demeanor, it should be Ser Allar.
Sansa heard the shouts growing louder, getting closer and closer to The Red Keep. This time, the shouts were far more terrifying than before, like a raging storm. The shouts and demands of thousands of people, along with horse neighs, heavy footsteps, and shouted commands.
Shouts outside The Red Keep, responses from The Red Keep's walls, blood and fire.
Sansa climbed out of bed and peered out, confirming that figures were moving on the city walls, Longspears and torches flickering in and out of view. The crisis of King's Landing had arrived.
Sansa saw the Queen Dowager leaving in a hurry from somewhere. Soon after, the Kingsguard also gracefully departed. The drawbridge was lowered, and a squad of Red Cloak swordsmen ran across the undefended drawbridge.
"My chance, my courage," Sansa admonished herself. Sansa changed out of her bright dress into darker clothes.
Sansa had no friends. The Queen Dowager changed her handmaidens every two weeks to prevent them from becoming friends. Moreover, the handmaidens were probably all spies, serving either the Queen Dowager or Varys.
She missed Septa Mordane so much, and her best friend Jeyne Poole. The Septa, for serving House Stark, had her head removed like the others. Jeyne disappeared from her room after her meeting with the Queen Dowager and was never mentioned again. Sansa didn't know what had happened. She often tried to forget them, but memories would suddenly flood back, and tears would follow. Sometimes Sansa even thought of her sister. Arya must have returned safely to Winterfell by now.
"Go back to sleep, or look for an opportunity?" Sansa had no choice. She chose to believe in a way out, holding a dining knife in her hand.
Sansa learned her lesson from last time. She waited for the perfect moment, until the taxi soldiers in the courtyard escorted the King back to the city walls, the soldiers donning their sword belts, and the Kingsguards surrounding the King.
The deeper Sansa went into the castle, the quieter the noise became. But she never dared to look back, fearing Joffrey was watching her... or even following her.
"Where did that cat come from!" Sansa was scared half to death. She walked into the shadowy colonnade, and a black cat darted past her feet. It was just a scruffy, dirty black tomcat with one ear missing. It spat at her and jumped away.
Sansa breathed a sigh of relief. She knew this black cat, the most mischievous and unruly of all The Red Keep cats.
When she arrived at the Godswood, all was silent. The sounds in her ears faded into faint metallic clangs and distant shouts. The Godswood had a primal feel. Originally, Sansa followed her mother's faith of the Seven.
The Seven represented statues and patterns on stained glass, the scent of incense, robed septons holding crystals, altars inlaid with mother-of-pearl, onyx, and lapis lazuli, and the brilliant, colorful rainbow light shining upon them. But the Godswood also had its meaning; at night, it could give even more hope.
"This is the safest area." Ser Thorys appeared again in the shadows, just as they had secretly met before. He was heavy-set, with a thick neck, a stumbling gait, wearing a dark grey robe, his hood pulled forward to cover his face.
"Oh, this is my foolish Knight. Poor Florian, he's old, fat, and drunk, he can't even sit on a horse properly," Sansa thought.
He was so clumsy and not handsome, not like a Dragonrider, nor the Knight of Flowers. As someone who judged by appearance, Sansa's impression of Thorys was terrible, but there was no other way; he was her last resort.
"Have you been waiting long?" Sansa asked him.
"Not too long, Child," Ser Thorys said, his breath reeking of strong wine.
"Are you going to take me away? My Florian." Sansa forced herself to endure. Although this Knight who appeared out of nowhere was a drunkard and ugly, she had to bravely cooperate.
"Yes, the opportunity has come, good Child. Kiki."
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