Inside the City

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"This bunch of Baratheons and Tyrells, with hearts as hard as stone… when the hell are we getting out of this damned city?"

Ser Janos Slynt, the infamous commander of the City Watch known far and wide for selling titles and taking bribes, barked out a curse as he made his routine patrol along the battlements of King's Landing. His gaze swept over the countless scattered lights of the massive camp just beyond the walls—ten thousand fires glimmering like stars on the ground.

The sight was suffocating. Renly Baratheon's hundred-thousand-strong host had spread out across the surrounding fields, their vast encampment pressing in on the capital like a siege of shadows. For the gold cloaks stationed within the walls, it was a reminder of just how outmatched they were.

By all rights, as commander of the City Watch, he should have been enjoying himself at this hour, hard at work atop one of his mistresses. But ever since the Lannister army marched into the city, those good days had come to an abrupt end.

The storm surrounding the fall of Eddard Stark, once Hand of the King, hadn't affected Janos Slynt in the slightest. Unlike in Clay's memory of events, Slynt hadn't openly taken sides against Ned Stark, largely because of the snarling presence of those fierce northern soldiers at the man's back.

However, neither had he sided with the Lannisters. Throughout that entire storm of political chaos, Slynt had played the role of a good little boy, keeping his head down and not so much as letting out a fart.

And when Eddard Stark fled the capital and Queen Cersei seized full control of the city, Janos Slynt wasted no time. He led his men straight to the throne room, dropped to his knees in a perfect slide, and offered his loyalty to the newly crowned King Joffrey.

Thanks to his world-class bootlicking skills, he managed to win over the temperamental boy-king. As a reward, Janos kept his oversized ass planted firmly in the commander's seat of the City Watch.

But once Lord Tywin entered the city with his army, command of all military forces within King's Landing naturally passed to him. Janos Slynt knew very well how he'd become "commander" in name only.

At first, Tywin had assigned Slynt to stay within the city and maintain order. As far as defending the walls went, he had little faith in the gold cloaks, believing them to be barely worth their weight in manure.

But when Renly's army completed its siege and posted soldiers at nearly every city gate, Tywin, despite his superior command skills, found himself desperately outnumbered. With no choice, he had to summon the Janos Slynt-led gold cloaks up onto the battlements to reinforce the defense.

Even so, Lord Tywin's instincts had been right on the money. Wherever the gold cloaks were stationed became the weakest point on the wall. Just two days ago, Renly's men had nearly taken one such section and stormed onto the ramparts.

And what could Tywin do? There weren't any good options.

He couldn't mix the gold cloaks with the Lannister troops. Even setting aside the time it would take to reorganize and integrate the forces, doing so would only weaken the overall defense. The gold cloaks simply weren't up to standard.

But pulling them off the wall entirely wasn't an option either. Tywin had only around twenty thousand men, and almost all of them were already deployed. Only three thousand remained in reserve. If the gold cloaks abandoned their posts and the enemy managed a breakthrough, there would be no one left to seal the breach.

For all Tywin's cunning, he couldn't conjure an army out of thin air.

So, the only solution was to keep his reserves troops stationed close to wherever the gold cloaks were positioned, ready to intervene at a moment's notice and clean up whatever mess those bumbling fools might cause.

Janos Slynt had just left the throne room, still fuming after getting chewed out by both Joffrey and Tywin. Their faces had been twisted with disgust, their words sharper than blades. Now, still stuck with patrol duty, he stomped through the pitch-black ramparts with a belly full of fire.

"You there! Any new moves from those southern bastards?"

He grabbed one of the gold cloaks on watch and barked the question.

"S-ser… no, nothing, they're all where they were before. The assault stopped at midday."

The young man had clearly been dozing off, and getting caught by his commander had scared him pale. He stammered through his answer, fully aware that Ser Janos Slynt was not a man to cross. To someone like him, the lives of low-ranking soldiers weren't worth as much as a flea-bitten mutt.

Janos Slynt only ever threw his weight around in front of his own men. If it had been a regular Lannister soldier standing there instead, he wouldn't have dared open his mouth. He would've found a blade pressed against his throat before he even finished his sentence.

The truth was, ever since Tywin's forces took control of the city, these once high-and-mighty officers of the City Watch had all become like unwanted bastards—ignored, humiliated, and trampled on by everyone.

"Stand up straight! Next time I catch you nodding off, I'll throw you off this wall like a stone during a siege! You hear me, you worthless mutt?!"

"Yes, ser!"

…

Inside the Tower of the Hand, the heart of power in the Red Keep blazed with light. It was here that Tywin Lannister gathered with his daughter and son.

Yes, this towering stronghold of the Hand, not the Iron Throne, was the true seat of Lannister control over the city. That hall where Joffrey played king, where the three of them forced themselves to smile and play along with his childish games, was little more than theater.

A king like Joffrey—what a spectacle he was, truly one for the history books. He fancied himself a ruler with divine right, blessed by destiny, wielding supreme authority. But in truth, his crown perched atop a crumbling realm held together only by the desperate efforts of his capable relatives, barely patching the cracks as they spread.

He bore the name Baratheon and proclaimed himself Robert I's Baratheon one true heir, yet not a single Baratheon bannerman supported him. They had all gone to Renly or Stannis.

The only reason his head still rested on his shoulders—and not rolling on the ground beside a fallen crown—was because his mother was a Lannister, and he himself was the perfect tool for Lannister ambition.

After the fall of House Targaryen's glory, no king in the Seven Kingdoms could lean on blood alone to claim legitimacy. Everyone used to serve the dragons. They all knew exactly where everyone came from.

So why should House Baratheon sit on the throne, and not House Lannister?

Ambition didn't just appear out of nowhere. Robert's reign had been built on shaky ground from the start—a one-legged drunkard stumbling forward under the weight of past victories. Once he died, the entire drunken mess began to collapse.

"Well then," Tywin said coldly, "tell me, my foolish children… what do we do about the situation we're in?"

Tywin had never been one for fatherly warmth. Tyrion was long used to it, unfazed by the bitterness in his father's voice. As he once said himself, in Lord Tywin's eyes, a dwarf might as well be a bastard.

But Cersei was different. Once the precious golden daughter of House Lannister, she now bore the brunt of the blame for dragging the family to the edge of ruin. It didn't take Tywin long, after entering the city, to uncover the truth behind Robert's death and Joffrey's real parentage.

To a man who valued family above all else, what Cersei had done was worse than a slap to the face—it was betrayal of the highest order. And yet, things were what they were. He had no choice but to pinch his nose and carry on.

"I don't care much either way," Tyrion said, shrugging his narrow shoulders. "My dear brother's already been shipped off to Casterly Rock, so who knows? Maybe this dwarf will make a fine court fool in our new king's service. Might even be a step up."

He poured himself a cup of wine and wandered around aimlessly under the icy stares of his father and sister. His oversized head wore an expression of indifference, as if he were just another bored guest in someone else's home.

Tywin's emerald-green eyes glinted with suppressed fury. He had always despised this son of his. He claimed it was because of Tyrion's lack of morals or his disgraceful behavior, but deep down, he knew that was not the truth.

It was simply because his son was a dwarf.

In an ordinary peasant household, a child like that would have had little chance of surviving to adulthood. Farmers needed strong arms and sturdy backs, not short limbs and a crooked spine.

But they were the Lannisters of Casterly Rock. However much Tywin loathed what Tyrion was, he could not simply erase him. He was his son, his blood, and that could not be undone. So he endured it, treating Tyrion as though he were a punishment from the gods.

"Tyrion," he said, his voice hard, "save your wit for someone who cares. Right now, your family needs your mind."

"Oh? The great Tywin Lannister in need of a dwarf's help? That's the funniest thing I've heard all day…"

Tywin's face darkened visibly. Cersei, seated to the side, wore a smug little smile that made one want to slap it straight off her face. She had no intention of stepping in to shield her brother. On the contrary, she was clearly enjoying the sight of Tyrion being chastised.

The moment the words left his mouth, Tyrion knew he had just about crossed the line—perhaps even planted one foot well over it. With a theatrical shrug, he raised his hands in mock surrender and sank obediently back into his chair.

"I thought you'd last longer," Cersei sniped, her voice laced with venom.

Tyrion shot right back without missing a beat.

"Really? Then I suppose I should've asked our dear brother for a few pointers on what women enjoy most in bed. Shame he's not here. What a lonely room it is without him, wouldn't you say, dearest sister?"

"Enough!"

Tywin slammed his hand against the table. He had no patience for sarcasm or the petty quarrels between these two troublesome creatures.

The moment her father raised his voice, Cersei—whose eyebrows had been poised for another cutting remark—fell instantly silent. She feared no one in the world but Tywin Lannister. Say what you would about her arrogance, but even she knew exactly how she'd gotten her place at the table. For once, she held her tongue.

"Tyrion. Answer me. I don't want to hear another word of nonsense."

Tyrion exhaled slowly. After a long pause, he said in a low voice, "Father, the food stores in King's Landing are running dangerously low. I went to look into it myself. Ever since Robert's death…thanks to my darling sister's careful planning, the Tyrells have not sent a single grain into the city. It has been several months. The granaries are nearly empty."

"What was Petyr doing all this time? Where the hell did all the food go?!"

Tywin was visibly stunned. He'd been preoccupied with securing the capital's defenses, especially with Renly's army laying siege to the city day after day. There'd been no time to take stock of the kingdom's internal affairs. Now that the attacks had paused, this was the first real update he'd received—and it was not the kind of news he was hoping for.

Tyrion let out a harsh snort through his large, misshapen nose.

"Who knows? Maybe our former Master of Coin sold it off to pay back the Iron Bank's debts. According to Varys and his little birds, the Iron Bank's emissary was intercepted by that idiot Stannis. Word is, he's trying to strong-arm them into funding his next campaign."

"What does the Iron Bank want with us?" Cersei asked, frowning in confusion.

"Oh, my sweet sister. While you were busy spreading your legs and indulging yourself in the royal chambers, do you have any idea how much gold our family borrowed to keep Robert's fat ass on the throne?"

"The Braavosi aren't here to play games. They're here for one reason only—to get their money back. Not a word more, not a coin less."

Tyrion watched her expression turn a shade of cold iron. There was a bitter satisfaction in his chest. Tearing open Cersei's wounds always gave him a certain grim pleasure—better than bedding a whore, really.

But even so, the weight of reality settled heavily over him. Looking at it from the family's perspective, things were dire. Tyrion and Tywin both understood perfectly well that once the food ran out in King's Landing, it would only be a matter of time before riots broke out. And once riots began, the fall of the city wouldn't be far behind.

And if King's Landing were to fall… well, then every single person in this room would be on the chopping block. No exceptions.

Actually—Tyrion mused to himself—not everyone. His father would almost certainly be the first to lose his head. As for himself, if he wagged his tail hard enough and acted like a good little fool, he might just convince Renly to let him live as a jester.

And his dear sister? Maybe—if she still had a trace of beauty left in her—Renly would take her to bed first, then send her off to Dorne, packed neatly with Tywin's head and the Mountain's, as a gift to win over House Martell.

Considering what the Mountain had done to Oberyn's sister, Tyrion figured the Martells would be more than happy to return the favor—with interest.

Hatred, after all, was sometimes the purest thing in the world.

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[Chapter End's]

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