The Hand of the King
Varys was mistaken. The enemy did not position themselves before the Dragon gate, but with a cruel jest from the gods, the dragon banners waved before the Lion gate.
And from there Tyrion beheld scores of shamefully strewn Lannister banners, wrinkled from neglect and smeared with mud, and blood, he did not doubt. The banners were watched by 'Lannister guardsmen', an armor, with a spear as a backbone, stuffed with straw and twigs, they would fool the eye if they were set farther away. Nearly a hundred Lannister scarecrows. They mock us and we deserve it, Tyrion would have laughed if his head alone could not end up on a pike.
They had moved the men to the other side of the city with ease, but the catapults, scorpions, fire-spitters and heavy cauldrons for boiling water had to be left behind.
"What use is the Master of Whispers if he can't deliver a good report," Ser Addam snapped.
"Whispers are hard to catch if you're leagues away," Bronn retorted.
Tyrion was speechless; all my wit was buried in the barrels before the Dragon gate. No matter, he had enough men, nearly nine thousand. Almost half of them the City Watch, a conscripted mob, whom Janos Slynt brought under Cersei's orders.
The fortnight before, the sound of horns in the distance had filled the city with fear, which like hot water on a winter's day, evaporated into joy when the lion banners appeared before the gates of King's Landing. Aerys had rejoiced like this when he saw the lion banners.
Tired, dirty and disheartened they entered through the Old gate, and the army of salvation turned out to be an army of wretches. Every third one was wounded, or shitting himself under the impulse of fever, many were without weapons and shields, where bones were not broken and skin slashed, spirit was bleeding. A ruined army, barely enough to be five thousand. Ser Addam Marbrand rode through the gate among the last, as a true commander he had seen to all of his men.
The knight did not rest until every wounded man had a bed and a medicine, and every hungry one had a bite and a sip. With the bread in hand and hot soup in front of him, all the eyes of the small council bore into him. All but Joffrey, the little shit had 'more pressing royal matters' than saving his bare skin.
"A calamity. One moment we had them on the edge of the sword, the next moment their horse and bloody elephants swept us off our feet. The beasts stomped on everything that moved or breathed. The army barely had time to curse, when the Dornish riders hit us from the flank and rear." With his last word the room fell silent again.
The horror on Cersei's face turned to words, "how could father let this happen?"
Father was never a military genius, competent certainly, but definitely not Randyll Tarly, Tyrion could have said but did not, now was not the time to rub salt on the fresh wound. Lord Tywin was a man of the bigger picture, patient and cunning, but on the battlefield he could slip too. If Roger Reyne had been faster and more capable, his surprise attack would have written different pages of history. Maybe Tyrion's grandfather Lord Tytos would have apologized to House Reyne for killing his eldest son. Reyne's can stay in hell, otherwise, this dwarf wouldn't be born, but the cruelty of war is, that it does not deprive the world of only the living, but also the unborn. How many maidens waited for their husbands and did not meet them. Lucky for me, I only have whores waiting.
"Is Lord Tywin dead?", Pycelle was almost formal, as formal as a screechy voice could be.
Marbrand shrugged, "we had to break through the Dornish infantry, to escape, many did not make it, that's when I saw him last. He waited behind; for us to make a passage." Tyrion remembered his father from his only battle, how he followed the development from the safety of his hilltop, surrounded by the reserves.
"And my father?" A voice piped up from the far corner of the room. The knightly mask of Lancel Lannister disappeared under the flame of uncertainty.
"Who are you?" Ser Addam looked at Lancel with a puzzled frown. Lancel's tongue had been stolen by one of Tommen's cats, it seemed, and Addam Marbrand had no patience for other people's silence.
"The rest of the army?" Tyrion asked the knight, while they both looked at the sickly Gyles Rosby who looked like he was going to collapse on the table.
Marbrand seemed more tired with every breath. "I gathered what I could, but the Dornishmen were always on our tails, and the road north was blocked, so we crossed the God's Eye river and headed here. After the river they left us alone. I have no doubt that many stragglers are hiding in the woods. I left some men to try to round them up and by luck, send them to King's Landing. Alyn Stackspear went to find Ser Forley Prester. He has some six thousand horsemen, if he still lives."
Unlike Cersei, Pycelle and Varys, whose faces were painted with despair, and Rosby who was already in the hands of the Silent Sisters, Tyrion was happy for a change. The night before, he trusted his tribesmen more than the mob called the City Watch. Bronn had brought them in line, but harassing petty thieves and defending the city were two different cups of tea. And Cersei, for sure, would not have let three hundred Lannister household guards, under Vylarr, out of the Red Keep.
The morning was brighter, he had nearly three thousand Lannisters, and more if the sick and wounded were counted, and maybe a host that could come and lift the siege. If Tyrion's trick with the wildfire worked, that would not be such a problem.
When their little meeting was over Tyrion was left alone with her in the room. After the raven from Maidenpool, by which Lord Mooton informed the world of the victory of his new royal lord, Cersei's anger boiled into disbelief, then turned into dread and fear. Ser Addam was a salvation, but his appearance pinched them and confirmed that the nightmare was real.
"How do you plan to save us?" she asked without contempt, for once. She was meek and helpless. I'm taller than the father now. His sister hid her face under her hands.
"I will try to hold the city, but, truth be told, I don't know what we can do. We're at war with half the world, we have no army left. Joffrey has to give up the crown!"
He looked into her eyes, green orbs that fought back tears.
"He'll never do that..." the old Cersei returned for a moment.
"Highgarden has bent the knee to Aegon, he is to wed Margaery Tyrell. The Eyrie declared the same. I'm half expecting a raven from the heavens to tell us that the Seven have forsaken us." Will they call me a mad dwarf when this is over, or is imp enough? Was Aerys really so mad?
"I should have let that drunk fool live. If he was here, he would not sit on his arse and rest his belly. His warhammer would smash all the pretenders. Curse those hundred stinking and drunken whores and Jon Arryn, and Stannis... and Ned Stark" she sounded too weary for rage.
"Half of them would not be pretenders if Robert was alive, and I doubt Doran Martell would have sided with the dragon boy, even if it was his own son, much less his nephew. But in that world I only live when I close my eyes." Tyrion was living a dream now, he had a civil conversation with Cersei, and maybe, her respect.
"How do I know that this Aegon won't take revenge on us for the death of his mother and sister?". Well, I don't and that's terrifying.
"When father removed Rhaegar's children from this world…", or one of them, "there were many who would have remained loyal to the Targaryens. With his relentless work Joff ensured that there is no one who would lift a finger for him now or later". Tywin Lannister was not a military genius, but a genius in any case, he stopped the further war. If Ned Stark had appeared before the gates of King's Landing the first, no one would have been polite and opened the door for him. The siege would have lasted endlessly long, and maybe Lord Tyrell would have lifted his ass from Storm's End and come to the aid of his sovereign. The Dornishmen would surely have rushed to help their princess. But with Aerys dead, the princess and children too, for Mace Tyrell further war was too tedious affair, and the Dornishmen were not too interested in Aerys' other children.
"And if Joff gives up the crown, why would they spare him, or Myrcella and Tommen,". She was desperate and every wrinkle on her face showed it. The most beautiful woman in Westeros, as the singers called her, now looked ten years older than she was. Her piercing emerald eyes had faded, her golden hair had withered and her skin had dried up.
"Because we can give them the West as an ally and one enemy less. Varys will hide the children until I make a deal. Neither Stannis nor Robb Stark have declared for the Dragon, if they haven't by now, they won't. Joff can bend the knee, ask for mercy and rise as the new Lord of Casterly Rock." I can then move to the happy world of dwarves. Tyrion probably never stunned Cersei more than now, but behind the shocked face there was relief. She wanted it, and naively believed Tyrion. No laws of gods and men give Joffrey the Rock, but they give it to Tyrion.
"Father...?"
"...he is as good as dead, I doubt he is alive at all. Put yourself in the vengeful skin of the young Targaryen." At least that's not a problem for you. "Father's head is worth more than Robert's. Old sins have dragged him under water, I just hope he won't drag us for a swim also."
"And I have to tell all this to Joffrey," she raised both eyebrows and revealed sleepless eyes ringed in a bowl of dark circles.
"Of course. My head is still comfortably on my shoulders and it would be nice to stay there." Tyrion doubted that the arrogant brat, who was king in his spare time, would listen to the reason.
And he didn't, the next day Tyrion was summoned to the Throne Room, where the golden-haired 'son' of Robert Baratheon sat on the Iron throne. A stream of blood flowed from a cut on his left hand. The Boy was so fidgety that he didn't notice the pain.
"I can have your head for that nonsense. I don't have the heart of a woman, to accept defeat," the words squashed in themselves from anger. You have no heart at all.
"One would think that, by now, you have learned the lesson that chopping off heads is not a wise policy." Blount, Trent, Moore were all standing ready. Ironically enough, Sandor Clegane seemed like the safest person. Still, Tyrion was surrounded by ten of his clansmen, and Bronn.
The shrill voice of Pycelle echoed in the huge room, "Lord Tyrion, speaks counsel of betrayal". The old man knew where to stand, on the dais, to make his feeble voice more powerful. For the sake of sound, Iron Throne was in the wrong place.
"Remind us Pycelle, who advised the Mad King to open the gates to my sire and his army," Tyrion said softly to the treacherous maester.
"I did what was best for the realm," the maester said more to himself than to them.
"And in the process saved your own skin. No doubt when the decisive hour comes, you will give our young king equally wise counsel." The words struck like an arrow in the bullseye and Joffrey looked nervously at the maester. Now, Pycelle was like a snake shedding skin.
"I ordered Ser Addam to take over charge of the defense of the city," Joffrey bellowed, to which Tyrion smirked slightly. A grown king would have done it himself, but not the Lannister wonderboy.
"Challenge Aegon to a duel, like in the good old days, the son of Robert Baratheon against the son of Rhaegar Targaryen".
The king was now squirming in his chair. "He is a false..., a pretender, I have no intent of acknowledging him by that act". In a falsehood you are closer to the dragon king than you think. Joffrey was surrounded by Lannister iconography, but he remained alone, in the whole court, in the belief that Robert was his father.
"You have to slay the dragon to make the throne yours, your father at least understood that much," with those words Tyrion left the great hall, he did not wait for the king's permission, but he felt the cold gaze on his back. Tyrion was sure that Ser Addam would fight to the last bit of strength, at least for the revenge and wounded pride for the Redwood sept. Until the banners of Highgarden appear, or the Dornishmen come from the south, or even Lysa Arryn sends the Knights of the Vale. Before the gates of King's Landing, the largest army in Westerosy history could gather.
Tyrion Lannister did Ser Addam a courtesy and told him about the plan with the buried barrels of wildfire. The knight was nervously darting his eyes. "Why don't we hurl them with catapults?" he said.
"Because wildfire is not just fire. Someone drops a barrel and all the walls go to the seven hell's. Varys has spies in the enemy camp, soon we will know which gate they will strike." And a week later, Varys' birds, from Hayford castle, brought news that the Dragon army was marching on the Dragon gate... the befitting entry; and as Tyrion expected, all the houses from the Crownlands joined the Dragon king, except for those who had gone over to Stannis. In the town, the lion sleeps alone. Joffrey of course threw all their kin into the black cells.
Just after they buried the last barrel, in front of the walls, the first enemy outriders rode past, their golden armor glittered in the distance. They were like fireflies, you could count them by the sparkling dots. Bronn was right, golden cloaks are folly, at least they will make it easier for our archers. Of course, the Gold Cloaks of the City Watch took off their cloaks and stayed only in a black armor. Tyrion hoped that the Targaryens would not wear black armor like in the bygone days. The world is confusing enough as it is.
...
The stones soared over the scarecrow guards and hit the wall with a chorus of dull thuds. A merlon near Tyrion burst into dust, followed by the shriek of the boys who were hiding behind the stone shield. Their lone catapult, from the Lion Gate, answered back, but the stone fell short of its enemy kin.
Tyrion, huddled behind the merlon, looked at Bronn. "The same as I told you at the Green Fork, stay low." Tyrion started laughing when the next salvo hit, shattering many lions on the watchtowers. Many of the lion statues were placed in the honor of the marriage pact between Cersei and Robert; now they vanished, but the walls stood firm. The dragons had to do better.
Lancel stood calmly behind one of the guard towers, in a bright red and richly decorated armor with lion-shaped pauldrons. He was brave, I had to give him that. "Lancel, where is the king?"
"His Grace implores you to send for him if his presence is necesery"
"I will," Tyrion said, "maybe if the Others, Snarks and Giants come we will need his help". The Protector of the Realm.
Whatever Lancel wanted to answer, a new salvo of stones interrupted and the walls rumbled again, with dust falling and people ducking. Tyrion rinsed the taste of sand from his mouth. The smallfolk from the houses along the walls were fleeing to the inner city. Smaller stones overflew the walls. When they all fled, a woman's body lay on the street, staining the muddy and strawy ground with the redness of blood. The poor wretch had run from the rumbling into death.
"I doubt they will attack soon," he said to Bronn.
"Probably not, maybe not at all," the sellsword replied, "they are playing with mind's, when the folk go mad enough, the crowd will run to open the gates."
"And the dwarf will be blamed for everything in the end".
"If they don't eat you first," Bronn said casually.
Yes. If they don't eat me first. The affection of the smallfolk is harder to earn than to play the game of thrones. You give them a little, it's not enough; you give them a lot, you could have done more.
"My Lord," a page in a red Lannister coat was crawling up the battlements, wriggling between people, "my Lord Hand"
"Yes, I'm here," Tyrion shouted, like a lord.
The boy was terrified, though, judging by his clean clothes, he had just climbed up to the walls. Again, Tyrion had lost track of time.
"Lord Varys pleads that you come to the Red Keep. The queen wants to poison the children." Of course she does, I don't mind her action, if she is the first to take a sip.
"Chella, Timmet with me," the dwarf said, "Bronn, you too."
"I wouldn't stay anyway."
Their mounts trotted through the empty streets with haste. Tyrion had long reconciled with his stature, but life was a bitch, eager to remind him every day of the drawbacks of being low. A gallop would suit the current urgency, but his riding skills did not allow it.
Still, they quickly passed under the shadow of the Sept of Baelor and entered the spacious cobblestone of the Central Square, from where followed a steep climb to Aegon's high hill. The streets were deserted, and silent prayers replaced the stench as the main ornament of the capital. The bronze gates of the Red Keep loomed before them.
"Halfman, look, gate, gate," Chella said with a grating voice.
Yes, Chella, gates. The bronze gates were as they had left them. The guards on the battlements eyed them through the crossbow sights.
"Nooo, no big house gate. Wall gate, wall gate," she repeated.
This time Tyrion turned and King's Landing was in his palm. In his palm, but not in the grip of his family. The Gate of the Gods and the King's Gate were both wide open and cavalry was pouring through both. Ser Addam Marbrand and his men would soon be caught in a pincer move.
Bronn was a dozen feet lower, watching the scene with a casual air. Tyrion would be lying to himself if he said he was surprised, he had a feeling in his small bones that it couldn't end any other way. But how? he wondered, who opened the heavy oak doors, then the iron hinges.
"We part ways now, friend," Bronn said with a pinch of melancholy, which did not suit him at all.
"Did you have a hand in this?" Tyrion wanted to know.
"The lads did ask, I said no. I don't work for the shadow men, or the shadow coin, not actively at least." The Gold Cloaks of course. Was it Baelish from far away pulling strings? Lysa Arryn had bent her son's knee and Baelish was fucking her. And Tyrion thought he replaced all of the officers loyal to Littlefinger. And I did, realization came.
Fuck me, it is I who opened the gates. Four are there in the room: a lord, a merchant, a septon and a common sellsword. Where does the power reside?, the question was. Beneath the board where The Spider lurks. I replaced Littlefinger's men, with those loyal to his foe.
He pierced his departing protector with a cold gaze.
"You said it yourself," Bronn lowered his eyebrows "Death is boring, I don't believe in 'onorable last stand. I don't think that I ever fought for 'onor in my life."
"I am paying you more, isn't that of importance for your lying treacherous heart?"
"Aye, but a gold a man cannot carry is not his gold, better a small amount I can put in me pockets, in me bag and leave as a free man. Here a lot is less, I guess." His words were louder than the dull distant sounds of battle.
"True, but in any case go to hell."
"I don't think that you believe in any other hell than this one we are living. All of this doesn't mean that we are not friends..."
"Yes, my head on a spike, yours in honey and mead."
"I rather prefer good ale, but I can hide you, no one is paying me for a dwarf's head, just to not fight back."
"I have to save the children," conscience spoke instead of Tyrion.
"Yeah, you do," Bronn uttered the last words and rode into the city, to drown in thievery, to hide until the uncertainty passed.
"Halfmen, should Timit bring you his head"
"No Timmit shouldn't", he told to the chiftain.
With Gold Cloaks also on the Red Keep battlement he was not sure the gates would open. The creaking of the hinges dispelled his doubts.
As he passed through the half-open gate, he was immediately knocked down by a dull blow. Timmet snarled at the maid who had collided with Tyrion and the poor woman screamed, looking at his burned eyesocket. She ran away without an apology.
The flames of chaos ruled the castle, servants rushed headlong, guards were not at their posts. Tyrion's eyes found Joffrey on the great stairs.
"Kill them," the boy king barked, but Vylarr and the rest of Lannister household guards did not listen or did not understand. Kill whom? The army that was conquering the city, the servants in anarchy, the ghosts that whispered foul words to Joffrey's mind.
Joffrey's sense of entitlement began to crumble. He had always believed himself invincible, shielded by the power of his crown and the might of House Lannister. Both were now gone.
The brat was lost, but months of enduring his idiocy erupted in Tyrion, spewing fire like the mighty volcanoes of old Valyria.
"You fool," he hit Joffrey with every ounce of his small body, "People are already dying, the city is burning." Joffrey tumbled down the stairs and hit his head on an ornate grotesque. Tyrion snatched the crown off his bloody head and threw it down the stairs. The golden antler circle clanged with every bounce of the smooth stone, until the last clang stopped at Hound's feet. Joffrey's protector watched silently as Tyrion humiliated his King.
Vylarr and Lannister guards under halfhelms stood motionless, just a day before they would have dragged Tyrion to Ilyn Payne, without a second thought.
"Hang the banner of peace on the castle," Tyrion roared at Vylarr and the others, and continued up the stairs, not waiting for a nod to the command.
Like dual shadows under two candles, Timmet and Chella rushed with him through the wide corridors of the Red Keep, the walls were empty and red since Cersei had removed Robert's tapestries. She could have at least left the scenes of hunt, to pleasantly remind her how by killing Robert she had doomed herself.
The lowered drawbridge to Maegor's holdfast spelled trouble. The moat now seemed deeper, and the metal spikes sharper. The guard on the other side was dead; excitement drove fear out of him, he took a deep breath. Soon they came across another one, then a third, the dead made a signpost to Cersei's chambers.
"Be ready," he whispered quietly to his guards in front of the door, feeling his heart pounding hard in the chest.
Timmet burst in savagely, Chella and Tyrion were a step behind. Cersei sat motionless on a chair, surrounded by two septas, Tommen and Myrcella were nowhere to be seen.
The white robes and glowing crystals were so distracting that he almost missed the spears in their hands. At the end of the shaft a red snake coiled around the wood, biting the lower part of the long blade. The Dornish.
The queen was in a semi-conscious state, rolling her eyes, with foam dripping from her mouth and her hands tied to the armrests of the chair.
"Are you the dwarf Hand," the fair-faced girl septa spoke. Although only with her face uncovered, the septa robes modestly hid her shapely figure.
"No, I am all dwarf, except for my cock, there I am a giant." The girl laughed, the other septa was not amused.
"Where are the children?" he asked.
"Safe," said the other septa, who was lacking in the beauty of her counterpart. Her dark bony face was almost male. "We bastards tend to look after our kind. Our king is not as cruel as yours. The cat boy's head is not smashed, nor did the little blonde beauty get pierced a thousand times."
Thank you... and damn you Father, Tyrion did not know if he was addressing the aspect of the Seven or his own father.
"Many men would like to pierce this beauty. Only once," the fair-faced septa, with lustful eyes, gently stroked Cersei's smooth chin.
"Halfman, shall Timmet kill women?"
He almost answered no, it was unseemly for a man to raise his hand to a woman, but these were Dornishwomen, with knives instead of fingers and tongues venomous as rattlesnakes. Bronn avoided Dornish whores, "they have teeth on their lower lips too". But, Dornishmen were too brave to be cockless.
"We would be flattered by that Timmet," the fair one said, "or maybe the other creature wants to try," her poisonous blue eyes pierced Chella.
"Chella, no…" Tyrion tried to say, but his words only patted the wild woman on the back. Snarling, like a mad dog, with knives in her hands, she rushed at the younger septa. The septa skillfully dodged, and stretched out her spear to deal a fatal blow.
However, the other septa pulled the tip of the spear through Chella's skull.
"Hey, she was mine," the prettier septa said with a disappointed voice, "and you ruined my robes," she pointed at the red traces of blood and flesh, which spoiled the whiteness. They dirtied the purity, but not the chastity, there was never any of that.
"These are the mountain clans of the Vale, yay, the story goes that the savages ride with you, Little Hand," the beauty addressed Tyrion, "Come on Timmet, I want to kill you, I will not return home without killing one of the wildmen."
Timmet got an invitation for the grave, Tyrion knew, and was fool enough to accept.
"No woman speaks to Timmet like that," the young chieftain of the Burned men said and charged at the Dornish girl.
He was stronger and faster than Chella, and wore more of Lannister armor under the thick cover of wool and fur. The septa danced around him, hitting him with the dull end of the spear. She was giggling, andd that made Timmet even more angry.
"Bitch must stand," "Bitch must stand," he shouted at the girl, who was toying with him. She answered with a thrust that pierced his right hand, making him drop a weapon. Then she stabbed his left hand, and he let go of his shield as well. He was dead in the water. The girl finally took pity on him and stabbed him with the spear, slid towards him, kissed him on the cheek and buried a knife in his face, finishing him off.
"Slut," the ugly one scowled at the sight.
Tyrion sighed softly.
"Don't worry, little hand, we won't kill you," the beauty smiled.
"Oh, I know you won't. I will be beheaded in a proper ceremony, by a professional headsman, and with a crowd to cheer as my head rolls"
The girl laughed once more, "I like you, Lannister, I truly do. If you were a bit prettier, and twice as tall, I would have fucked you with joy." I thought you Dornish only did it for joy.
"Oh, dear septa, the Seven would curse me to hell for defiling their servant."
"It didn't stop my father, and you two are somewhat alike."
They ordered him to sit down, and he obeyed their spears. Cersei had fallen asleep in the meantime, milk of the poppy he did not doubt, and Chella and Timmet had begun to smell more than usual.
He measured the time by the shadow of the bed, which stretched across the floor in the afternoon light. Before him, the girls had stripped off the septa's robes. Underneath, Obarra wore warriors practicality, and Tyene beauty and seduction. Stealing glances at the younger Dornish girl, he cursed himself, but still got hard on as her attire was inversely proportional to the septa's. Sandsilk barely concealed her well-shaped breasts, and leather pants accentuated her eye-pleasing rear. His crotch was alive, it might as well be your last time.
Obara glared with annoyance as he bantered with Tyene. The brown-haired Obarra would rather be a mute sentinel. She had snapped at him several times for tapping his feet too loudly and forbade him to drink any of the chamber's plentiful wine. Look Father, I am not the greatest drunk of the family. Your lovely daughter is.
Into the already darkened chamber came five men in golden armor. Four in nearly identical mail, plate and halfhelm, and the fifth in a fitting knightly armor, with a pendant of small golden human skulls. We should change our chains, Tyrion thought, To you golden hands, and to me skulls, it suits more the fate that awaits me.
"Are you the Hand of the King", men asked.
"Acting Hand"
"This Castle now belongs to King Aegon".
"Which one? Conqueror, Elder, Younger, Unworthy, Unlikely… Dragonbane, oh, I already mentioned that one. Give me a number ser, so that the dwarf knows to whom to bend the knee"
"Ahhh", he grunted in bewilderment, unaware of the meaning behind his words. Across the room, Tyene's lips curled into a smile for the umpteenth time that day.
"Don't make a fool of yourself," Obara snapped at the knight, "Take him away."
"And the Queen?" he inquired.
"She is in no condition," Obara replied.
"I warned you, we should have used less," Tyene said with a reproach from Obara's eyes.
The Red Keep bore the scars of war, with corpses of Lannister and foe alike strewn along the halls and corridors. The bloodstains blended with the crimson stone, almost invisible to the eye. They dragged Tyrion through the battlements, heading for the Tower of the Hand. Over the city, Tyrion glimpsed a black banner flying over the Gate of the Lion. A red speck adorned its center, closer to the eye, it would be a three-headed dragon of House Targaryen.
A voice from the ramparts hailed Tyrion's chief guard. "Hey Cole, let the dwarf have a look."
They made their way to the watchtower over the main bronze gate, which was now lifting slowly. The Spider had revealed to them the secret passages, the hidden mysteries of King Maegor that Tyrion had sought to unravel since he came to dwell at King Robert's court. The sunset dyed the hilltops in a fiery color, while on the east the darkness engulfed the sea. The Red Keep's walls were manned by hundreds of Golden Company men and Dornishmen.
The broad road that descended from Aegon's high hill was no longer empty, people cautiously came out of their houses, drawn by the smell of bread, that the conquerors of the city were handing out. Like a golden snake, a procession approached the gate from the Central Square. The head of the snake was formed by the banners of House Targaryen and Martell. Tyrion recognized the banners of Qorgyle, Ironwood, Mooton, Stokeworth and many smaller houses that were too many to count. The hungry crowd cheered the army that climbed to the castle, which would soon be home to House Targaryen once more.
"Look carefully, Imp, some faces may ring a bell," the bearded sellsword mocked him.
As the horsemen passed through the gate, Tyrion scanned the crowd for the new king, but there was no sign of the milky pallor and silvery locks. His gaze froze on another man.
Tywin Lannister rode on a donkey, dressed in a woman's gown. The commoners pelted him with stones and dung. The Lord of Casterly Rock looked straight ahead, keeping his rigid countenance.
In the courtyard, the boy who led the donkey spat at Tyrion's father, and commanded him to dismount the animal.Then the eyes of father and son met. As usual, Tyrion Lannister tried to find disappointment in his father's eyes, but the old eyes told a different story.
In those same eyes, Tyrion had seen, a hundred times, shame and anger for his dwarf son, but now Lord Tywin was ashamed of being in his own skin.