Arya Stark lay prone on the ramparts of King's Landing, petrified by the nightmarish scene outside the walls.
The Blackwater was ablaze with fierce green fire, looking like a monstrous emerald demon, claws outstretched. Countless ships had become funeral pyres, their crews living torches. The air was filled with the stench of smoke, the whistling of arrows, and the screams of the burning.
It looked like the very bowels of hell.
Had a dragon come?
Arya wondered, feeling that only one of the legendary dragons, like those of Aegon the Conqueror, could unleash such devastation. But she saw no sign of a dragon.
In the distance, faint cheers came from the gold cloaks atop the walls. They seemed to be chanting, "Long live King Tommen" or something similar.
Down at the docks, seven or eight of Stannis's ships had managed to reach the shore. Their soldiers poured off in a panicked rush, fleeing from the burning river. But rather than attack the walls, they seemed too dazed to do anything but escape.
So the lions have held King's Landing, Arya thought, disappointed.
Footsteps echoed from behind her. She scrambled down the stairs, slipping out into the street below.
The mood in King's Landing was tense and edgy, with large crowds gathering at random, murmuring amongst themselves.
Arya kept her head low, adjusting her headscarf to cover her face more tightly. She was dressed in ragged clothes, her face smeared with dirt. She looked every bit like a scrawny little beggar, which was the only reason no one paid her any mind.
"Rot and decay! This whole city is sinking into filth!"
Passing through Sparrow Street, Arya started at the harsh voice.
Turning to look, she saw a crowd of over a thousand people gathered around an old septon in worn robes, listening intently to his sermon.
"This city is festering, decaying, and sinking!" the haggard septon railed, his voice fierce. "Sinners lie together in the king's bedchamber! Bastards of incest sit upon the Iron Throne! A twisted, depraved imp dances in the Tower of the Hand! Even the High Septon has forgotten the gods! He bathes in perfume, feasts on eel and wine, while tens of thousands starve within these walls!"
At the mention of the Lannisters, Arya perked up, her interest caught. She stopped to listen.
"This cannot go on!" The old septon raised his arms in fury. "Maggots rule our city, gold has turned to rot, and arrogance has drowned out prayer! All these evils will face the judgment of the gods! We must cleanse it all, or the gods will erase this city and all of us with it! It must end!"
"It must end!"
"It must end!"
The crowd took up the chant, growing more agitated with each shout. Arya sensed danger and slipped away.
Returning to Silk Street, Arya hurried into the brothel. The moment she entered, her sister, Sansa Stark, was there, scolding her.
"You went out again!" Winterfell's eldest daughter looked a shadow of her former self, her hair disheveled, wearing ill-fitting roughspun clothes and sporting a large, ugly birthmark on her cheek.
Arya smiled, pulling Sansa into a corner, and whispered, "I went out to check on things. But it doesn't look good. Stannis's fleet is all in flames. I don't think he's going to break in and drive the lions out."
Sansa bit her lip. "Then we need to be more careful. You must stop sneaking out! If the lions catch you, it will be the end for us."
Arya kicked at a pebble on the ground. "Then how long are we supposed to hide here? I don't see why Lord Caesar hasn't sent someone to get us out yet."
"The city is crawling with the lions' men. Lord Caesar couldn't get us out easily even if he tried. We just need a bit more patience. If Stannis fails, father will defeat the lions soon enough. Then he'll come for us," Sansa said firmly.
They had just entered the back courtyard when the brothel's mistress, Madame Chataya, came rushing over, looking panicked.
"Quickly, girls, come with me."
Without another word, she grabbed each of them by the hand and started toward the house.
"What's happening, Madame?" Sansa asked.
"Things are getting dangerous out there. You must hide quickly and keep absolutely silent no matter what."
Chataya lifted a loose floorboard under a bed, revealing a dark, concealed passage. "In you go."
"Has the city fallen?" Arya asked excitedly.
"No, but it's just as bad. The hungry are rioting. Now hurry."
Sansa gingerly climbed into the crawlspace, poking her head out to ask, "But what about you, Madame?"
"I'll be back soon with Alayaya. Stay hidden." Chataya pushed the floorboard shut over them, and darkness enveloped the sisters.
---
A hot wind gusted over Tyrion Lannister's face, making him feel a moment of profound relief.
The Blackwater was a sea of green flames. The low clouds reflected the river's eerie color, casting everything in shades of sickly green.
A scene so hellish it could chill the blood of any man.
All around him, the city's defenders cheered King Tommen's name. But Tyrion knew that his young nephew had merely stood on the battlements while all the credit was showered upon him.
"The battle isn't over yet!" Tyrion shouted, feeling a tinge of frustration at being ignored.
The cheers died down. Tommen grinned. "But uncle, the traitors' ships are burning! Of course we've won."
Tyrion noticed that Tommen had lifted his visor. He hurried over, stretching to reach it and slamming it back down with a clang. "Don't lift your visor, Your Grace! Your safety is crucial to all of us. And besides, the enemy isn't entirely defeated yet. Some have made it ashore, and we need to drive them back."
"There are men landing?"
"Yes." Tyrion carefully guided Tommen to the edge of the wall, pointing down at the enemy soldiers now gathering outside the gates. "See? They've even brought battering rams. They mean to break through. We have to stop them!"
"Oh—then, then stop them quickly, uncle! Please!"
Just then, a messenger burst onto the battlements, breathless.
"Your Grace, it's terrible! The people of the city are rioting! They've surrounded the Red Keep, demanding food!"
"My mother!" Tommen cried out. "Uncle, we have to save my mother!"
"She's safe within the walls of the Red Keep; don't worry." Tyrion comforted the boy, though he frowned deeply. "Still, we can't let the city erupt into chaos now."
He called for Ser Bronn, instructing him to take a thousand guards to contain the rioters and keep the unrest from spreading.
Returning to the defense of the gate, Tyrion ordered the defenders to rain arrows down on the enemy. The soldiers below were now hammering the gate so hard that it shook on its hinges.
"We can't let them break through!" Tyrion shouted. "We need to strike back—send a sortie!"
Turning, he spotted the Hound. "Sandor, lead the attack through the sally port!"
Sandor Clegane looked out over the flaming battlefield, his face pale. Without a word, he turned and started down the stairs.
"We'll win, right?" Tommen tugged at Tyrion's sleeve. "Right?"
"Yes, we'll win." Tyrion stared grimly at the battlefield, though his voice lacked conviction. "We have to."
Unfortunately, things quickly took a turn for the worse.
Bronn soon sent another message, urgently asking for reinforcements.
"Is the whole city rioting?" Tyrion muttered darkly, though he dispatched more soldiers to assist.
Meanwhile, the situation outside the gate was no better.
Sandor had tried three separate attacks but had failed to disperse the enemy. The gate was now barely holding together, each crash of the battering ram echoing ominously.
"Damn it!" Tyrion cursed, descending from the wall to the plaza behind the gate. "Sandor! Sandor, get back out there! You have to push them back!"
"No," Sandor was huddled in the shadow of the wall, his large frame trembling, his face smeared with blood.
"You have to!" Tyrion barked.
"Screw you!" Sandor shouted back. "We charged three times! Half my men are dead! There's fire everywhere! The horses scream like men, the men scream like horses—"
"Damn it, Sandor! You think this is a tourney? This is war! People die in war! Now listen—the gate is about to fall! If they get through, none of us are going to make it!"
"Get me something to drink!" Sandor staggered to his feet, but he was visibly trembling.
An officer handed him a waterskin. Sandor took a swig and spat it out. "Water? Dammit, I asked for wine!"
Someone else offered him wine, but Sandor could only manage a few gulps before he doubled over, retching.
He's done, Tyrion thought bitterly, realizing that Sandor's fear of fire had shattered his resolve.
"Ser Janos, would you lead the charge?"
Tyrion hadn't finished speaking when the commander of the capital's garrison repeatedly waved his hands, "No! We can't charge again, we can't charge again!"
Tyrion cursed loudly in anger, but this fat man just wouldn't budge.
He had to turn to the other knights, but no one dared to meet the dwarf's gaze.
These people were scared out of their wits.
Tyrion sighed inwardly.
Damn it, if only his brother Jaime were here.
Looking at the crumbling city gate, Tyrion suddenly had a crazy idea:
"Alright, I'll take the lead!"
"You?" Sandor leaned weakly against the wall, looking at the dwarf with his bloodied eye.
"Yes, me." Tyrion turned to his squire, "Pod, go get my helmet!"
Pod hurriedly ran off.
Seeing the doubtful looks from everyone, Tyrion struggled to climb onto his small horse, slowly sweeping a contemptuous gaze over the crowd:
"You all say I'm a dwarf, a half-man, so what do you perfect men have that I don't?"
Hearing this, a knight immediately mounted his horse and followed.
Then three more silently joined in.
More and more people.
No one was willing to admit they were inferior to a dwarf.
Tyrion succeeded, but he would have preferred not to have such success.
"I won't shout the name of the king, nor will I shout the name of Casterly Rock," Tyrion said, "Stannis is coming to conquer your city. If you don't want your home to be looted, join me and slaughter these bastards!"
With that, Tyrion drew his battle axe, turned his horse, and charged towards the breach.
The flames outside the city cast a long shadow of him, and at that moment, Tyrion seemed as tall as a giant.
(End of Chapter)