The commotion on the shore was no small thing. Tyrion always felt uneasy when the people gathered in such numbers. The folk of King's Landing were no ordinary mob. They had dared to slaughter Dragons, and he was only a dwarf.
The poor would hate Tyrion for letting them go hungry. They would hate him for ordering them to work.
I have no choice, Tyrion thought. With hunger, he could only grit his teeth and suppress it by force. Once this was done, he needed to get home quickly.
At the docks, Sea Swift had great sails and a small hull. She was faster than any warship now afloat, and that was the one thing that gave Tyrion some peace.
Tyrion thought again of Stannis Baratheon. If Great Lord Stannis learned of this escort and did not seize the chance to attack King's Landing, then when would he?
The Storm was a capable commander, but at sea, Stannis was second to none. The Storm had handed that opportunity to Stannis. Tyrion could not help looking back toward the mouth where the Blackwater Rush spilled into the bay. A green line stretched along the horizon, with not a sail in sight. Only then did he feel reassured.
According to the latest reports, Gendry should be leading the land army from the Stormlands, while Stannis's fleet is not pressing toward King's Landing with its full strength. They even intend to split their forces and besiege Casterly Rock. Between the Stormlands fleet and the Twin Cities fleet, their numbers are simply too large. That gives me a little more time to prepare, Tyrion thought.
My winch towers are nearly finished. Just give me a little more time, no matter which stag comes, uncle or nephew. Tyrion's heart was tight with unease. At this very moment, men were hoisting heavy stones into place, no doubt cursing him as they worked, cursing him for making them labor during a holy festival.
"May the Seven bless your journey, keep it safe and smooth, and bring you safely to Braavos," the fat High Septon said, blessing Princess Myrcella as she knelt before him. Her golden hair shone in the sun. Light passed through the crystal crown, scattering rainbow colors across Myrcella's upturned face.
Tyrion looked at Ser Arys behind Myrcella, his white cloak stirring in the wind. He was the only one among them who looked at all like a knight, and now he had to be sent to Braavos too.
The number and quality of the white knights are both depressing, Tyrion thought. His brother Jaime was maimed now, off in the Westerlands, while Ser Arys would escort the princess to Braavos. The most famous of them, Ser Barristan, had changed masters.
As for the remaining white knights, Tyrion could hardly find words for them. They lacked the spirit of true knights, and their skill was inferior to those who had come before. They could beat young girls well enough, but on the battlefield they were nothing remarkable. The only capable one, the Hound, had lost his direction in life and grown listless and bleak.
At last, the High Septon finished his endless muttering, and Tyrion said farewell to the captain of King Robert's Hammer. "Bring my niece safely to Braavos, and you will be a knight when you return," he promised.
Tyrion walked down the sloping plank toward the docks. He could feel the angry stares. Not so much from the nobles, but from the poor, the hungry, and the destitute. They hated the Lannisters.
Bronn escorted Tyrion through the crowd to his sister Cersei and his nephews. Cersei pretended not to see him, exchanging glances with Lancel instead. What the Queen Dowager did not know was that Lancel was also Tyrion's spy. She was still trying to dig into his sellswords, the Kettleblack brothers.
Tommen will have to be sent away soon too, Tyrion thought. One heir in King's Landing is enough.
Horns sounded, and the ships departed one by one. Lion Star and Lady Lyanna sailed out from the quay and downriver, clearing the way for Sea Swift. Fierce Wind followed Sea Swift with oars lowered, gliding with the current. At the rear came King Robert's Hammer, the backbone of the royal fleet.
"Goodbye." Little Princess Myrcella stood on the deck of Sea Swift and smiled as she waved to her family. Joffrey's face was blank, Prince Tommen was crying, and Tyrion looked troubled.
Ser Arys of the white knights stood behind her. The captain ordered the lines cast off, and the oars drove Sea Swift into the swift current of the Blackwater Rush. Her white sails caught the wind, plain and discreet, not the deep crimson of House Lannister.
Tyrion had personally chosen the captains of these five ships, asking Varys to select the most loyal men.
I rely too much on Varys, but I have no better choice, Tyrion thought. Was Varys truly as loyal as he claimed? Tyrion doubted it, but for now, he had no choice. Since Varys feared the Storm and Stannis, there was still room for cooperation. Still, Tyrion needed to open new sources of information of his own.
Once again, Tyrion thought of Littlefinger, dead and reduced to ash. If that man were still here, perhaps their chances of persuading Highgarden would be better. In any case, all they could do was wait. The Tyrells would deliberately advance slowly and wait for the situation to grow clearer. For Tyrion, that was a suitable strategy.
Toot! Toot!
The horns sounded. Cersei grandly ordered them back to the palace, while the small fleet had already vanished into the distance.
Bronn helped Tyrion onto his horse. At a time like this, only sellswords were reassuring.
Gold Cloaks lined both sides of the narrow street, holding the crowd back with their spears.
Behind the spears, Tyrion saw the filthy, ragged, unkempt people. They had always been wretched, but what frightened him now was their bloodless faces. Hunger and poverty would drive them madder still. No grain. No vegetables. Soon, not even fish.
I hate this, Tyrion thought. He had already ordered Bronn to send twenty sellswords to mingle among them, but he feared it was only a drop in the bucket.
At the head of the procession rode Ser Jacelyn Bywater, Lord Commander of the Gold Cloaks, leading a squad of mounted lancers in black mail and gold cloaks. Behind him came Ser Aron Santagar, master-at-arms of the Red Keep, and Ser Balon Swann, holding high the king's banner: the roaring lion of Lannister on one side, the crowned stag of Baratheon on the other.
King Joffrey rode behind them on a tall gray horse, a golden crown set atop his loose golden hair. Two Kingsguard knights guarded either side of him: the drunken Hound on the king's right, and Ser Mandon Moore on his left.
Joffrey needs to control his dog. He drinks too much every day, Tyrion thought. Ever since the Mountain died, the Hound had fallen badly apart. Since Sansa left, it had only grown worse.
Next came little Prince Tommen, still sobbing, with Ser Preston Greenfield of the white knights following him. Then came Cersei, accompanied by Ser Lancel, under the protection of Ser Meryn Trant and Ser Boros Blount. Tyrion followed behind his sister.
As for the rest of the court, there was the fat High Septon in his litter, followed by a long line of courtiers, and finally two rows of guards.
King Joffrey's lion-and-stag banner moved forward. The party passed Fishmonger's Square, rode along the Muddy Way, then turned into the narrow, twisting Hook Lane and began climbing Aegon's High Hill.
The hungry people were there all along the route, but they did not welcome the king. Only a few scattered voices gave weak cheers.
"Long live King Joffrey."
Most of the crowd remained angry. They were ragged, starving, and owned nothing. It was a surging tide of the poor, ready to explode at any moment. Cersei deliberately chatted and laughed as if nothing were wrong, but in her heart she was terrified.
"Make way! Make way!" the Gold Cloaks shouted.
Halfway up the hill, a young mother wailed and forced her way between two guards, clutching a charred piece of human flesh. It looked like a human arm, burned completely black.
"Get out of my way," King Joffrey cursed, raising his riding crop to command. The Gold Cloaks spurred forward and lashed their whips. The skeletal woman could not withstand the blows and fell to the ground. The blackened arm flew from her grasp.
The Gold Cloaks dragged her aside. The woman was still alive, and Tyrion saw it clearly. He had Bronn throw her a few coins.
The silver stags scattered across the ground, but none reached the woman's hands. They rolled through the Gold Cloaks and sparked a flurry of fighting.
"Come away, Your Grace," Cersei called to King Joffrey. "Poor thing. We cannot help her."
"This is the baker's body. We carried him to the fire and burned him, but my family all starved to death." Cersei's words shattered the last of the woman's reason. Her dull, gaunt face turned toward Cersei in fury. The woman stumbled forward, picked up the charred limb, and hurled it at Cersei. "Whore! Kingslayer's whore! Adulteress! Whore!"
"Kill her!" Joffrey shouted.
A Gold Cloak's spear drove through the woman's body. The first blood. The first death.
"No!"
"No!"
The first cry came from Tyrion. The second from Cersei.
Tyrion felt at once that disaster was upon them. If they could roast a baker, they would not mind roasting a king.
More and more blackened pieces of flesh were thrown from the crowd. It seemed the baker was truly dead. Tyrion guessed the people had eaten part of him and kept the rest for this demonstration.
Splat!
A lump of cow dung flew out and struck Joffrey squarely on the head. Filth smeared the king's golden crown, and plenty stuck in his hair as well.
Tyrion turned his head. King Joffrey was wiping the brown filth from his face. A good deal clung to his golden hair, and some had even splattered onto the Hound's leg.
What in all the seven hells has the realm come to? Tyrion sensed disaster, but he was some distance from Joff, and Joff had already begun to lose his mind.
"Who threw that?" Joffrey shrieked. He swept his hair back, flinging away a handful of dung, his face twisted with rage.
"Find him!" King Joffrey shouted. "A hundred golden dragons to whoever gives him up!"
"Up there! Over there!" voices called from the crowd. Joffrey urged his horse forward, scanning the balconies and rooftops above.
Leave, you fool, Tyrion thought.
"Come away, Your Grace," Cersei urged, but Joffrey refused to listen.
"Who threw filth at me? I want him to lick it clean. If not, I'll have his head. Dog, go get him!" Joffrey shouted.
The drunken Hound swung down from his horse, but the crowd before him had become a surging wall of bodies, never mind reaching the rooftops. Those nearby wriggled and shoved to make way, while those farther off pressed inward to watch the spectacle.
"He's long gone, Clegane. Stop!" Tyrion shouted.
"I'll catch him. He's on the roof," Joffrey kept shrieking.
But Joffrey's voice was only a drop of water, while the mob's roar had become an ocean. Thunder made of rage, fear, and hatred rolled in from every side and swallowed them whole.
"Bastard!" someone screamed at Joffrey. "Bastard! Beast!"
Others shouted at Queen Dowager Cersei, "Whore!" and "Incest!"
"Freak!" and "Half-man!" Tyrion was not spared either.
"Long live King Gendry!" "Long live Great Lord Stannis!" "Justice, Seven!" Those cries rang out as well.
Now the people on both sides of the street began to press inward, shoving against the Gold Cloaks. Stones, dung, and all manner of filth flew overhead.
"Bread!" a woman shouted.
"Give us food!" a man yelled.
"We want bread!"
"Lannister bastards, give us bread!" Ten thousand arms waved, and ten thousand voices rose and fell.
The cries of the crowd gathered into one heavy word. Bread smothered everything. There was only one king, the Bread King. They no longer cared about Joffrey, Stannis, or Gendry.
Stones struck the Hound's face one after another.
"Monster!"
"Monster!" some of the starving people roared.
"Fuck your mothers!" the Hound suddenly shouted, then drew his longsword, only inflaming the mob's fury further.
The moment the sword came out, blood began to run like a river.