Leaving the council chamber, Tyrion Lannister nodded to Ser Mandon of the Kingsguard and crossed the long vaulted hall.
Tyrion had plenty on his mind. Defending King's Landing was a rotten job, especially with a pack of ministers whose loyalty was suspect and whose intentions were anything but clean. The citizens of King's Landing had always been known for fickleness and bad tempers. After all, King's Landing was a great trading port, a city of four hundred thousand people, not a fortress built for defense like Storm's End.
At least I'm defending, not attacking. Holding a city gives me some advantage. And it isn't just me. Even my father, Tywin Lannister, has to focus on defense and counterattacks now. He can't keep stretching the front lines any farther.
Tyrion comforted himself with that thought. It was not only him. House Lannister as a whole had lit the first fires and made enemies everywhere, and now it was sinking into the mire of war.
Jaime's forces had already been routed. Only Tywin's army remained, stuck at Harrenhal, bracing for the combined forces of wolf, stag, and fish to come south, or east from Riverrun. As for Tyrion himself, he had only a few hundred men to help defend King's Landing.
When Bronn saw Tyrion, he fell in beside him. Timett's son Timett was nowhere in sight.
"Where has our Red-Handed General run off to?" Tyrion asked Bronn.
"He wanted to look around. His people aren't used to waiting around in halls."
"I hope he doesn't kill some important courtier." Tyrion knew these tribesmen well. The visitors from the Mountains of the Moon had never been suited to city life. They were hot-tempered, proud, and quick to draw steel if anyone offended them.
Tyrion told Bronn to find Timett, make sure his wildlings had food and somewhere to sleep, and settle them in the camp beneath the Tower of the Hand to protect him. More troublesome still, the wildlings had to be housed separately, lest they start fighting again. The Stone Crows and Moon Brothers could not be put together, and the Burned Men needed their own barracks.
"How would you feel if I sent you to kill the Little Blacksmith?" Tyrion asked.
"Me?" Bronn stared at him, then burst out laughing. "You want me to kill him? Are you planning to reward me with Harrenhal? Something as grand as Harrenhal?"
"Why not? It would be a great service." Tyrion smiled. "A Lannister always pays his debts. Just imagine how much you'd be given that day."
"Forget it, old friend. I'd like to live a few more years." Bronn spread his hands. "Your dear brother was cut down by the Storm and turned into a one-handed swordsman, and you're asking me? Though I'll admit, he was lucky enough. Better than fools like Bloodbeard and Horselord Drogo. A battlefield is a battlefield. Age, sex, and status don't matter there. Victory does. They laughed at the Little Blacksmith for being young, and the Little Blacksmith took their lives."
"You had better not let the Queen hear you say that."
"Fine, I'll be careful." The sellsword was already growing impatient. "I've heard the King's bastard is six feet six inches tall, with terrifying strength and speed, and arms like iron. I'm telling you, he's the perfect monster of a warrior. Long arms, long legs, wide reach. He hits fast like a brute, and a brute usually burns out just as fast, but the Blacksmith is savage and tough. On the battlefield, he seems to never tire. Oh, and he has an unstoppable Arakh scimitar. But the scariest part is his head. Usually, knights with that much strength don't care to think, but this boy has brains and a warhammer. Think about your brother. He was lured into the woods, and after the Little Blacksmith charged from the encirclement, he not only crushed Ser Jaime, he killed many of the Red Cloaks who came to reinforce him. If Ser Jaime hadn't run fast enough, he would have ended up like Amory, split in two."
"You're that afraid of him?" Tyrion prodded.
"Only a fool wouldn't be. Do you take me for an idiot, old friend? I don't like risky work. One mistake and my head is gone." Bronn snorted. "Your family's The Mountain might have been worth a try, but that fool seems to be dead too. They say The Mountain didn't have much of a brain. I'm not sure he could have managed even if he were alive. Has The Mountain ever faced an opponent a little shorter than him, but faster, stronger, more cunning, and more vicious?"
"Forget it. I'll go myself, butcher the bastard, and have the singers write a fine song about it." The Imp laughed. His main task was to defend King's Landing. As for dueling the Little Blacksmith, that was hardly realistic at the moment.
"I hope I get to hear it one day," Bronn said with a grin. "But your father is dealing with the Little Blacksmith and the Wolf Cub. We still have Stannis and Renly to worry about."
"Where are you going?" Bronn asked curiously. Given the situation, wasn't taking control of the army the most urgent thing?
"Back to the Broken Anvil." The Broken Anvil was an inn in King's Landing, near the Gate of the Gods and close to the city wall. Chella, daughter of Cheyk, and her Black Ears were staying there. So was Shae, of course.
Bronn understood at once. The dwarf still could not forget his little sweetheart.
Bronn chuckled without restraint. "Need an escort? I hear the streets are dangerous."
"I'll call on my sister's captain of the guard, and remind him while I'm at it that I am every inch a Lannister. The man seems to have forgotten his loyalty is to Casterly Rock, not Cersei or Joffrey."
An hour later, escorted by a dozen Lannister guards in deep crimson cloaks and lion-crested helms, Tyrion rode out of the Red Keep. As they passed beneath the gate, Tyrion noticed the heads hanging from the walls. Though they had been dipped in pitch, they had long since rotted black and were impossible to recognize.
"Captain Vylarr," Tyrion called, "have those heads taken down before tomorrow and sent to the silent sisters for cleaning." Matching the heads with their bodies would be difficult, but it still had to be done. Even in wartime, certain rules had to be observed.
This is the bottom line of our age. Nobles may lose the game, but they should not be casually humiliated. Otherwise, the game will only grow bloodier. Besides, many of them were innocent, merely servants and guards of House Stark. We do not need so many heads to frighten the world. The wolves of The North are already marching south. My duty is to defend the city, not indulge little Joff's nonsense.
Traitors had been mounted on the Red Keep before, but only the chief culprits were killed. Joff's way, hanging a whole crowd of people from the walls, only called to mind tyrants like the Mad King or Maegor.
But Captain Vylarr looked troubled. Vylarr commanded a Company of Red Cloaks, Lannister guards personally sent to King's Landing by Great Lord Tywin. There were a hundred of them in all, tasked with protecting Queen Dowager Cersei and her children. Though the Imp was giving him orders, Vylarr was clearly hesitant.
"His Grace said the traitors' heads were to remain on the walls until the last four empty spears had heads on them as well," Vylarr said.
"Let me guess. One is the blacksmith Gendry, one is Robb Stark, and the other two are Stannis and Renly, yes?"
"Yes, my lord."
"Vylarr, my nephew is only thirteen this year. I suggest you remember that very carefully. I want those heads taken down by tomorrow. Otherwise, one of those empty spears will have something to hang on it. Do you understand me, Captain?"
"Yes, my lord. I will see to it personally."
"Good." Tyrion squeezed his legs against his horse's flanks and rode on, leaving the Red Cloaks behind to catch up on their own.
Tyrion rode out into the streets of King's Landing. Before going to see Shae, he had a chance to take in the city as it truly was, and sure enough, the stench of war hung thick over everything.
On the Street of Looms, Tyrion saw a naked corpse being torn at by stray dogs. In the market, people selling off their household belongings packed the streets so tightly that it was hard to move. Their clothes were ragged, and no one wanted their rags. There were few farmers' stalls, and those that remained charged three times the old prices. By the time he reached the Street of Flour, Tyrion saw guards posted outside every shop.
Still, Gold Cloaks could be seen everywhere, which eased Tyrion's mind a little. King's Landing's order, at least, remained fairly steady.
"The Gold Cloaks have tripled in number. I wonder how much ghost pay that toad has swallowed." Gold Cloaks patrolled the main streets and alleys in pairs, wearing black ringmail and never letting their iron cudgels leave their hands.
Tyrion even saw vendors selling roast rats. Famine changed everything. He had to admit, these people still had a head for business.
"Is no grain being brought into the city?" Tyrion asked Vylarr. A grain crisis was no small matter. Tyrion feared it deeply. If the people of King's Landing went hungry, they would come to hate the king. And what meaning would King's Landing have then, if it had to feed hundreds of thousands of starving mouths?
"Pitifully little. The two main roads from the west and south are both blocked," Captain Vylarr answered frankly. "The Riverlands are at war, and Highgarden in the south seems to be tied down by Renly. Either that, or Lord Tyrell is watching how things unfold and has little interest in sending grain to us."
"We need to find a way to manage all these mouths." Tyrion's heart felt heavy. Grain, intelligence, coin, troops, and heirs. Each of the five was a matter of great importance, and he would have to unravel them one by one.
Tyrion did not know whether his sister was worrying over these things, but he certainly was. The master of whisperers Varys, the master of coin Littlefinger, and Janos, commander of the Gold Cloaks. Those three were the most pressing concerns of all.
Opposite the gate of the Red Keep, in an unremarkable tall building, Littlefinger watched the comings and goings of the Red Keep through a window. He saw the Imp appear with a Company of Red Cloaks.
"I drove away one wolf, only to welcome a little lion," Littlefinger said, draining a cup of wine. Lothor Brune filled him another.
Littlefinger was short and plainly built, but handsome. He had gray-green eyes, a small pointed beard on his chin, dark hair threaded with a little gray, and a mockingbird on his breast.
A mockingbird was also called a talking bird. One of its natural gifts was to mimic the calls of other birds, using them to lure others close or frighten intruders away.
Lothor was calm, silent, and looked loyal enough. His appearance was unremarkable: gray hair, a flattened nose, a square jaw, and a broad, powerful build.
"My old halfman friend must be desperate for men now. He has even started thinking about sellswords and savages." Littlefinger smiled. "And he is not the only one. The Queen needs them badly too. After all, if these Red Cloaks follow the Imp, what is the Queen Dowager to do? I want the Kettleblack men to work with them. All of King's Landing knows you are my sworn sword, while they are free sellswords."
Ser Lothor remained silent, like a stone. Osmund, Osney, and Osfryd Kettleblack were all sellswords in King's Landing, but in truth, they belonged to Littlefinger.
"I want you to watch them. You alone are the most loyal." Littlefinger spoke to Lothor with a gentle smile.
Ser Lothor remained as calm as still water. "I believe you will see my loyalty."
"I believe you, Ser Lothor. Gold, titles, all of that will be my gift to you." Littlefinger laughed.
"But be prepared. King's Landing is not our home."
"Yes." Lothor nodded. Littlefinger moved through King's Landing like a fluttering butterfly, but his greatest trouble was that he had neither soldiers nor authority. How was a jester supposed to climb over a mountain?
Littlefinger had already begun to sense the danger. The northmen were marching south, and wolf, fish, stag, and dragon were all advancing fiercely. Even the Kingslayer had nearly lost his head. Could King's Landing truly be safe?
The greater problem lay with the players in King's Landing. Littlefinger knew the Imp suspected him, while the eight-clawed Spider. No one knew what that Spider was thinking.
"The Vale. Only the Vale is my home." Littlefinger reminded himself. "I need to win honor in King's Landing, then return to the Vale with a status to match, so I can control that fool Lysa, along with those Vale knights and Vale merchants."
"But will they truly do as I wish? The Imp. The Little Blacksmith." Littlefinger felt a flicker of anxiety.
The uprising on Crackclaw Point had gone its own way, and the fall of the Twins had both been outside Littlefinger's plans. The Twins, and especially Crackclaw Point, were not far from King's Landing. He had not anticipated the Little Blacksmith's ferocity, nor his uncanny skill at command. If King's Landing fell, then everything he had been waiting for would be no more than a dream.
Littlefinger thought it over. Even if he escaped King's Landing, he would need to take someone valuable with him. The Old Wolf was no longer realistic, but that fool Sansa might do.
"How is Lady Sansa?"
"Beaten and threatened by the King. She spends her days in tears."
"Poor girl," Littlefinger murmured. "It seems Sansa still hasn't discovered the truth."
"My lord, the Imp seems to have ordered someone to take down the Northern man's head," Lothor said.
"Oh? I never expected my young friend to have a giant's heart. Such compassion is rare indeed among House Lannister." Littlefinger had seen it too. Yet it was precisely the Imp's kindness that meant he would never truly fit in with House Lannister.
"The Imp isn't the giant. You are," Lothor said dully.
Littlefinger laughed. "I am no giant. I am merely a clever man who knows how to climb. Chaos. I find opportunity in chaos. And when there is no chaos, we can create it."
Lothor looked at Littlefinger. For the sake of his own desire, he would drag everyone into war. Then what were those pitiful people to him, the common folk who died because of it?
"See to your business, Lothor. The Imp has already gone."
"Yes."
When everyone had left, only Littlefinger remained in the empty room. He touched the Mockingbird emblem on his chest.
"King's Landing is not my territory. The Vale is. Search all of King's Landing, and you will not find a single man with the Mockingbird crest sewn over his breast. But that does not mean I, Petyr, have no friends in this city," Littlefinger murmured.
His hand moved lower, to the rough scar there. A gift from the Wolf.
Littlefinger remembered that duel. The defense of King's Landing before him now was terrifying, but it had not left as deep a mark as that battle at Riverrun. That had been his coming of age gift. From that day on, he had killed the boy inside himself.
The faces of Brandon Stark and Catelyn Tully remained vivid in Littlefinger's mind, as clear as yesterday.
Brandon's wild, unbridled face was like that of a northern wolf. Catelyn's red hair was the flame in his heart. He could still smell the damp, fishy scent of Riverrun's waters. It had been a fight between a man and a boy.
In the lower courtyard of Riverrun, Littlefinger wore only a helm, a breastplate, and chainmail. Brandon, in turn, removed most of his own armor. Littlefinger begged Catelyn for a token, but she refused him.
When Catelyn placed her handkerchief in the Wolf's hand, Littlefinger's heart nearly broke. It was a pale blue handkerchief she had sewn herself, embroidered with the leaping trout of Riverrun. Catelyn was, after all, the daughter of a great lord. She had been betrothed to the Wolf, and gladly so.
Catelyn pleaded with the Wolf. "He is only a foolish boy, but I love him like a brother. If he dies, I will be devastated." Her betrothed listened, looked at her with those calm gray Stark eyes, and agreed to spare the life of the boy who loved Catelyn to madness.
But Littlefinger was no match for the Wolf. The duel was over almost as soon as it began. Brandon, a grown man, forced Littlefinger, still hardly more than a boy, back step by step. The Wolf was tall, powerful, and superb with a sword. They moved from the castle courtyard all the way down to the steps by the water. Brandon's assault was fierce, his blows falling like rain, leaving Littlefinger staggering and covered in wounds.
"Surrender!" the Wolf shouted more than once, but Littlefinger only shook his head and stubbornly kept fighting. The cries from that year seemed to ring in his ears even now. At last, standing in water up to their ankles, Brandon made his decision. He struck with a savage backhand slash, cutting through Petyr's breastplate, mail, and leather, and into the soft flesh below his ribs. The wound was so deep that Catelyn thought it had to be fatal.
Littlefinger collapsed into a pool of blood, gazing at her as he murmured, "Catelyn," while bright blood poured between the fingers of his iron gauntlets.
"It hurt so much. Catelyn never even looked at me."
Brandon's blade had knocked Littlefinger down from the clouds and back into reality. He was the foster son of House Tully, but that had only been a favor granted by Great Lord Hoster, no different from taking in a stray dog or a horse by the roadside, all because his father had saved Old Hoster in the War of the Ninepenny Kings. Riverrun was not his home. He was only a nameless nobody from The Fingers, a servant clinging to House Tully.
Littlefinger spent a full two weeks recovering before he had the strength to leave Riverrun. To call it leaving was generous. In truth, he was driven out. As soon as he had recovered even a little, Great Lord Hoster sent men to put Littlefinger into a sealed litter and carry him back to the wind battered, jagged rocks of The Fingers, back to the place of his birth, to continue recuperating.
Hoster forbade Catelyn from visiting him, while Lysa busied herself around him, and during that time became pregnant and was forced to abort the child. As for Edmure, he had come to see him too, but Littlefinger refused to meet him. Edmure had served as Brandon's second during the duel, and Littlefinger could never forgive him for that.
Catelyn might have forgotten all of it, but Littlefinger never had.
"This world turned me into a clown, so I will climb to the highest place of all, to the very peak of power. The Starks, the Tullys, the Arryns. All you great houses. The Wolf is dead, the Arryn is dead, and Hoster is about to die. And yet, while you great men die, I am still alive."