The girl never wept. Young as she was, Myrcella Baratheon was a princess born. And a Lannister, despite her name, Tyrion reminded himself, as much Jaime's blood as Cersei's.

To be sure, her smile was a shade tremulous when her brothers took their leave of her on the deck of the ship, but the girl knew the proper words to say, and she said them with courage and dignity. When the time came to part, it was Prince Tommen who cried, and Myrcella who gave him comfort.

"You mew like a suckling babe," Joffrey hissed at Tommen. "Princes aren't supposed to cry."

"You cried at Winterfell when Chris Griffin bested you at swords, Joffrey," said Tyrion.

Joffrey turned red. "That is a lie! I could have your head for saying that, dwarf."

"I think my lord father might have a word or two for you if you did that," said Tyrion.

Cersei's eyes were red, but her voice was steady. "I hope one day you will truly love someone, Tyrion, so I can inflict the pain of taking them away on you."

Tyrion shrugged and turned to the captain of the boat. "Deliver my niece safely to Dorne, and there will be a knighthood waiting for you on your return," he promised.

Tyrion, Cersei, Joffrey, and Tommen watched the ship sail away. Then they rode back into town, escorted by the Kingsuard and a score of Bane's foxes.

On reentering the city, they were met by an unruly crowd of peasants. The unshaven and the unwashed stared at the riders with dull resentment. "I like this not one speck," Tyrion thought. They crossed Fishmonger's Square and rode along Muddy Way before turning onto the narrow, curving Hook to begin their climb up Aegon's High Hill. A few voices raised a cry of "Joffrey! All hail, all hail!" as the young king rode by, but for every man who picked up the shout, a hundred kept their silence. The Lannisters moved through a sea of ragged men and hungry women, breasting a tide of swollen eyes.

Halfway along the route, a wailing woman forced her way between two watchmen and ran out into the street in front of the king and his companion, holding the corpse of her dead baby above her head. It was blind and swollen, grotesque, but the real horror was the mother's eyes. "My son died because he didn't have enough to eat. There's nothin' in the house, not even a piece of bread."

"Then eat toast," Joffrey snapped at her. "That's what I do when I don't have any bread!"

Tyrion rolled his eyes at Joffrey. "Are you an idiot? Toast is made from bread. Here, just fling her a silver stag."

Reluctantly Joffrey pulled a coin out of his purse and tossed it at the woman. It bounced off the dead child and rolled away into the crowd, where a dozen men began to fight for it. The mother never once blinked. Her skinny arms were trembling from the dead weight of her son.

"Leave her, your grace," Cersei called out to the king, "she's beyond our help, poor thing."

The mother heard her. Her slack face twisted in loathing. "Whore!" she shrieked. "Kingslayer's whore! Brotherfucker!" Her dead child dropped from her arms like a sack of flour as she pointed at Cersei. "Brotherfucker brotherfucker brotherfucker."

Someone in the crowd threw a spot of dung at Joffrey. It splattered all over his hair and ran down his face. "Who threw that?" Joffrey screamed. He pushed his fingers into his hair, made a furious face, and flung away another handful of dung. "I want the man who threw that!" he shouted. "A hundred golden dragons to the man who gives him up."

"He was up there!" someone shouted from the crowd. When Joffrey turned to look, he got hit in the face with more shit.

"Bring me the man who flung that filth!" Joffrey commanded the Hound. "He'll lick it off me or I'll have his head. Dog, you bring him here!"

A tumult of sound drowned his last words, a rolling thunder of rage and fear and hatred that engulfed them from all sides. "Bastard!" someone screamed at Joffrey. "Bastard monster!" Other voices flung calls of "Whore!" and "Brotherfucker!" at Cersei, while Tyrion was pelted with shouts of "Freak!" and "Halfman!" Mixed in with the abuse, he heard a few cries of "Justice!" and "Chris, King Chris, the young wolf," and "Stannis!" and even "Renly!" even though Renly was already dead. Stones and dung and fouler things whistled overhead.

"Feed us!" a woman shrieked.

"Bread!" boomed a man behind her. "We want bread, bastard!"

In a heartbeat, a thousand voices took up the chant. King Joffrey and King Chris and King Stannis were forgotten, and King Bread ruled alone. "Bread!" they clamored. "Bread, bread!"

Tyrion spurred to his sister's side, yelling, "Back to the castle. Now." Cersei gave a curt nod.

Bane drew his sword. "Come on," he said to Badtail. "Beatin' up these protestors is goin' to be a blast." The foxes drove forward in a wedge, charging into the crowd.

Joffrey was wheeling his horse around in circles. He couldn't break free of the mob. Somebody grabbed his leg, but Ser Mandon Moore of the Kingsguard slashed at the grabber with his sword, cutting off his hand. "Ride!" Tyrion shouted at his nephew, giving the horse a sharp smack on the rump. The animal reared, trumpeting, and plunged ahead, the press scattering before him.

Tyrion drove into the gap hard on the king's hooves. A jagged rock flew past his head as he rode, and a rotten cabbage exploded against Ser Mandon's shield. To their left, three gold cloaks went down under the surge, and then the crowd was rushing forward, trampling the fallen men. The Hound had vanished behind, though his riderless horse galloped beside them. Tyrion saw Ser Aron Santigar pulled from the saddle, the gold and black Baratheon stag torn from his grasp. Ser Balon Swann dropped the Lannister lion to draw his longsword. He slashed right and left as the fallen banner was ripped apart, the thousand ragged pieces swirling away like crimson leaves in a stormwind. In an instant they were gone. Someone staggered in front of Joffrey's horse and shrieked as the king rode him down. Whether it had been man, woman or child Tyrion could not have said. Joffrey was galloping at his side, whey faced, with Ser Mandon Moore a white shadow on his left.

And suddenly the madness was behind and they were clattering across the cobbled square that fronted on the castle barbican. A line of spearmen held the gates. The spears parted to let the king's party pass under the portcullis. Pale red walls loomed up about them, reassuringly high and aswarm with crossbowmen.

"Traitors," Joffrey was babbling excitedly, "I'll have all their heads, I'll…"

The dwarf slapped his flushed face so hard the crown flew from Joffrey's head. Then he shoved him with both hands and knocked him sprawling. "You blind bloody fool."

"Striking a king is treason!" Joffrey squealed from the ground.

"Somebody had to discipline you. It could have been worse. That guy on Modern Family shot his kid to teach him a lesson."

"Those people were all traitors. They called me names and attacked me! I want them all dead. When the looting starts, the shooting starts!"

"Nobody was looting," Tyrion told him. "They were simply asking for bread. But I bet there will be looting, now that you've stirred everyone up. What did you imagine they would do, bend the knee meekly while the Hound lopped off some limbs? You spoiled witless little boy, ye can't even handle a crowd of unarmed civilians. What are you going to do when Stannis Baratheon comes sailing up?"

Bane and his foxes came through the gates, along with the Hound. "It's all right, everyone," Joffrey told them. "I'm okay."

"You?" Bane snorted. "What about the rest of us?" He was limping after being hit in the leg by a stone.

"I need you and your foxes to escort me through the crowd to Baelor's Sept," Joffrey said to Bane, ignoring the fox's words. "I want to take a photo of myself there."

"He's not doing that," Tyrion said. He turned to the Hound. "Sandor, take Joffrey inside."