Motionless as a gargoyle, Tyrion Lannister hunched on one knee
atop a merlon. Beyond the Mud Gate and the desolation that had once
been the fishmarket and wharves, the river itself seemed to have
taken fire. Half of Stannis’s fleet was ablaze, along with
most of Joffrey’s. The kiss of wildfire turned proud ships
into funeral pyres and men into living torches. The air was full of
smoke and arrows and screams.
Downstream, commoners and highborn captains alike could see the
hot green death swirling toward their rafts and carracks and
ferries, borne on the current of the Blackwater. The long white
oars of the Myrish galleys flashed like the legs of maddened
centipedes as they fought to come about, but it was no good. The
centipedes had no place to run.
A dozen great fires raged under the city walls, where casks of
burning pitch had exploded, but the wildfire reduced them to no
more than candles in a burning house, their orange and scarlet
pennons fluttering insignificantly against the jade holocaust. The
low clouds caught the color of the burning river and roofed the sky
in shades of shifting green, eerily beautiful. A terrible beauty.
Like dragonfire. Tyrion wondered if Aegon the Conqueror had felt
like this as he flew above his Field of Fire.
The furnace wind lifted his crimson cloak and beat at his bare
face, yet he could not turn away. He was dimly aware of the gold
cloaks cheering from the hoardings. He had no voice to join them.
It was a half victory. It will not be enough.
He saw another of the hulks he’d stuffed full of King
Aerys’s fickle fruits engulfed by the hungry flames. A
fountain of burning jade rose from the river the blast so bright he
had to shield his eyes. Plumes of fire thirty and forty feet high
danced upon the waters, crackling and hissing. For a few moments
they washed out the screams. There were hundreds in the water,
drowning or burning or doing a little of both. Do you hear them shrieking, Stannis? Do you see them burning?
This is your work as much as mine. Somewhere in that seething mass
of men south of the Blackwater, Stannis was watching too, Tyrion
knew. He’d never had his brother Robert’s thirst for
battle. He would command from the rear, from the reserve, much as
Lord Tywin Lannister was wont to do. Like as not, he was sitting a
warhorse right now, clad in bright armor, his crown upon his head.
A crown of red gold, Varys says, its points fashioned in the shapes
of flames.
“My ships.” Joffrey’s voice cracked as he
shouted up from the wallwalk, where he huddled with his guards
behind the ramparts. The golden circlet of kingship adorned his
battle helm. “My Kingslander’s burning, Queen Cersei,
Loyal Man. Look, that’s Seaflower, there.” He pointed
with his new sword, out to where the green flames were licking at
Seaflower’s golden hull and creeping up her oars. Her captain
had turned her upriver, but not quickly enough to evade the
wildfire.
She was doomed, Tyrion knew. There was no other way. If we had
not come forth to meet them, Stannis would have sensed the trap. An
arrow could be aimed, and a spear, even the stone from a catapult,
but wildfire had a will of its own. Once loosed, it was beyond the
control of mere men. “It could not be helped,” he told
his nephew. “Our fleet was doomed in any case.”
Even from atop the merlon—he had been too short to see over the
ramparts, so he’d had them boost him up—the flames and smoke
and chaos of battle made it impossible for Tyrion to see what was
happening downriver under the castle, but he had seen it a thousand
times in his mind’s eye. Bronn would have whipped the oxen
into motion the moment Stannis’s flagship passed under the
Red Keep; the chain was ponderous heavy, and the great winches
turned but slowly, creaking and rumbling. The whole of the
usurper’s fleet would have passed by the time the first
glimmer of metal could be seen beneath the water. The links would
emerge dripping wet, some glistening with mud, link by link by
link, until the whole great chain stretched taut. King Stannis had
rowed his fleet up the Blackwater, but he would not row out
again.
Even so, some were getting away. A river’s current was a
tricky thing, and the wildfire was not spreading as evenly as he
had hoped. The main channel was all aflame, but a good many of the
Myrmen had made for the south bank and looked to escape unscathed,
and at least eight ships had landed under the city walls. Landed or
wrecked, but it comes to the same thing, they’ve put men
ashore. Worse, a good part of the south wing of the enemy’s
first two battle lines had been well upstream of the inferno when
the hulks went up. Stannis would be left with thirty or forty
galleys, at a guess; more than enough to bring his whole host
across, once they had regained their courage.
That might take a bit of time; even the bravest would be
dismayed after watching a thousand or so of his fellows consumed by
wildfire. Hallyne said that sometimes the substance burned so hot
that flesh melted like tallow. Yet even
so . . .
Tyrion had no illusions where his own men were concerned. If the
battle looks to be going sour they’ll break, and
they’ll break bad, Jacelyn Bywater had warned him, so the
only way to win was to make certain the battle stayed sweet, start
to finish.
He could see dark shapes moving through the charred ruins of the
riverfront wharfs. Time for another sortie, he thought. Men were
never so vulnerable as when they first staggered ashore. He must
not give the foe time to form up on the north bank.
He scrambled down off the merlon. “Tell Lord Jacelyn
we’ve got enemy on the riverfront,” he said to one of
the runners Bywater had assigned him. To another he said,
“Bring my compliments to Ser Arneld and ask him to swing the
Whores thirty degrees west.” The angle would allow them to
throw farther, if not as far out into the water.
“Mother promised I could have the Whores,” Joffrey
said. Tyrion was annoyed to see that the king had lifted the visor
of his helm again. Doubtless the boy was cooking inside all that
heavy steel . . . but the last thing he needed
was some stray arrow punching through his nephew’s eye.
He clanged the visor shut. “Keep that closed, Your Grace;
your sweet person is precious to us all.” And you don’t
want to spoil that pretty face, either. “The Whores are
yours.” It was as good a time as any; flinging more firepots
down onto burning ships seemed pointless. Joff had the Antler Men
trussed up naked in the square below, antlers nailed to their
heads. When they’d been brought before the Iron Throne for
justice, he had promised to send them to Stannis. A man was not as
heavy as a boulder or a cask of burning pitch, and could be thrown
a deal farther. Some of the gold cloaks had been wagering on
whether the traitors would fly all the way across the Blackwater.
“Be quick about it, Your Grace,” he told Joffrey.
“We’ll want the trebuchets throwing stones again soon
enough. Even wildfire does not burn forever.”
Joffrey hurried off happy, escorted by Ser Meryn, but Tyrion
caught Ser Osmund by the wrist before he could follow.
“Whatever happens, keep him safe and keep him there, is that
understood?”
“As you command.” Ser Osmund smiled amiably.
Tyrion had warned Trant and Kettleblack what would happen to
them should any harm come to the king. And Joffrey had a dozen
veteran gold cloaks waiting at the foot of the steps. I’m
protecting your wretched bastard as well as I can, Cersei, he
thought bitterly. See you do the same for Alayaya.
No sooner was Joff off than a runner came panting up the steps.
“My lord, hurry!” He threw himself to one knee.
“They’ve landed men on the tourney grounds, hundreds!
They’re bringing a ram up to the King’s
Gate.”
Tyrion cursed and made for the steps with a rolling waddle.
Podrick Payne waited below with their horses. They galloped off
down River Row, Pod and Ser Mandon Moore coming hard behind him.
The shuttered houses were steeped in green shadow, but there was no
traffic to get in their way; Tyrion had commanded that the street
be kept clear, so the defenders could move quickly from one gate to
the next. Even so, by the time they reached the King’s Gate,
he could hear a booming crash of wood on wood that told him the
battering ram had been brought into play. The groaning of the great
hinges sounded like the moans of a dying giant. The gatehouse
square was littered with the wounded, but he saw lines of horses as
well, not all of them hurt, and sellswords and gold cloaks enough
to form a strong column. “Form up,” he shouted as he
leapt to the ground. The gate moved under the impact of another
blow. “Who commands here? You’re going out.”
“No.” A shadow detached itself from the shadow of
the wall, to become a tall man in dark grey armor. Sandor Clegane
wrenched off his helm with both hands and let it fall to the
ground. The steel was scorched and dented, the left ear of the
snarling hound sheared off. A gash above one eye had sent a wash of
blood down across the Hound’s old burn scars, masking half
his face.
“Yes.” Tyrion faced him.
Clegane’s breath came ragged. “Bugger that. And
you.”
A sellsword stepped up beside him. “We been out. Three
times. Half our men are killed or hurt. Wildfire bursting all
around us, horses screaming like men and men like
horses—”
“Did you think we hired you to fight in a tourney? Shall I
bring you a nice iced milk and a bowl of raspberries? No? Then get
on your fucking horse. You too, dog.”
The blood on Clegane’s face glistened red, but his eyes
showed white. He drew his longsword. He is afraid, Tyrion realized, shocked. The Hound is frightened.
He tried to explain their need. “They’ve taken a ram to
the gate, you can hear them, we need to disperse
them—”
“Open the gates. When they rush inside, surround them and
kill them.” The Hound thrust the point of his longsword into
the ground and leaned upon the pommel, swaying. “I’ve
lost half my men. Horse as well. I’m not taking more into
that fire.”
Ser Mandon Moore moved to Tyrion’s side, immaculate in his
enameled white plate. “The King’s Hand commands
you.”
“Bugger the King’s Hand.” Where the
Hound’s face was not sticky with blood, it was pale as milk.
“Someone bring me a drink.” A gold cloak officer handed
him a cup. Clegane took a swallow, spit it out, flung the cup away.
“Water? Fuck your water. Bring me wine.” He is dead on his feet. Tyrion could see it now. The wound, the
fire . . . he’s done, I need to find
someone else, but who? Ser Mandon? He looked at the men and knew it
would not do. Clegane’s fear had shaken them. Without a
leader, they would refuse as well, and Ser
Mandon . . . a dangerous man, Jaime said, yes,
but not a man other men would follow.
In the distance Tyrion heard another great crash. Above the
walls, the darkening sky was awash with sheets of green and orange
light. How long could the gate hold? This is madness, he thought, but sooner madness than defeat.
Defeat is death and shame. “Very well, I’ll lead the
sortie.”
If he thought that would shame the Hound back to valor, he was
wrong. Clegane only laughed. “You?”
Tyrion could see the disbelief on their faces. “Me. Ser
Mandon, you’ll bear the king’s banner. Pod, my
helm.” The boy ran to obey. The Hound leaned on that notched
and blood-streaked sword and looked at him with those wide white
eyes. Ser Mandon helped Tyrion mount up again. “Form
up!” he shouted.
His big red stallion wore crinet and chamfron. Crimson silk
draped his hindquarters, over a coat of mail. The high saddle was
gilded. Podrik Payne handed up helm and shield, heavy oak
emblazoned with a golden hand on red, surrounded by small golden
lions. He walked his horse in a circle, looking at the little force
of men. Only a handful had responded to his command, no more than
twenty. They sat their horses with eyes as white as the
Hound’s. He looked contemptuously at the others, the knights
and sellswords who had ridden with Clegane. “They say
I’m half a man,” he said. “What does that make
the lot of you?”
That shamed them well enough. A knight mounted, helmetless, and
rode to join the others. A pair of sellswords followed. Then more.
The King’s Gate shuddered again. In a few moments the size of
Tyrion’s command had doubled. He had them trapped. If I
fight, they must do the same, or they are less than dwarfs.
“You won’t hear me shout out Joffrey’s
name,” he told them. “You won’t hear me yell for
Casterly Rock either. This is your city Stannis means to sack, and
that’s your gate he’s bringing down. So come with me
and kill the son of a bitch!” Tyrion unsheathed his axe,
wheeled the stallion around, and trotted toward the sally port. He
thought they were following, but never dared to look.
Motionless as a gargoyle, Tyrion Lannister hunched on one knee
atop a merlon. Beyond the Mud Gate and the desolation that had once
been the fishmarket and wharves, the river itself seemed to have
taken fire. Half of Stannis’s fleet was ablaze, along with
most of Joffrey’s. The kiss of wildfire turned proud ships
into funeral pyres and men into living torches. The air was full of
smoke and arrows and screams.
Downstream, commoners and highborn captains alike could see the
hot green death swirling toward their rafts and carracks and
ferries, borne on the current of the Blackwater. The long white
oars of the Myrish galleys flashed like the legs of maddened
centipedes as they fought to come about, but it was no good. The
centipedes had no place to run.
A dozen great fires raged under the city walls, where casks of
burning pitch had exploded, but the wildfire reduced them to no
more than candles in a burning house, their orange and scarlet
pennons fluttering insignificantly against the jade holocaust. The
low clouds caught the color of the burning river and roofed the sky
in shades of shifting green, eerily beautiful. A terrible beauty.
Like dragonfire. Tyrion wondered if Aegon the Conqueror had felt
like this as he flew above his Field of Fire.
The furnace wind lifted his crimson cloak and beat at his bare
face, yet he could not turn away. He was dimly aware of the gold
cloaks cheering from the hoardings. He had no voice to join them.
It was a half victory. It will not be enough.
He saw another of the hulks he’d stuffed full of King
Aerys’s fickle fruits engulfed by the hungry flames. A
fountain of burning jade rose from the river the blast so bright he
had to shield his eyes. Plumes of fire thirty and forty feet high
danced upon the waters, crackling and hissing. For a few moments
they washed out the screams. There were hundreds in the water,
drowning or burning or doing a little of both. Do you hear them shrieking, Stannis? Do you see them burning?
This is your work as much as mine. Somewhere in that seething mass
of men south of the Blackwater, Stannis was watching too, Tyrion
knew. He’d never had his brother Robert’s thirst for
battle. He would command from the rear, from the reserve, much as
Lord Tywin Lannister was wont to do. Like as not, he was sitting a
warhorse right now, clad in bright armor, his crown upon his head.
A crown of red gold, Varys says, its points fashioned in the shapes
of flames.
“My ships.” Joffrey’s voice cracked as he
shouted up from the wallwalk, where he huddled with his guards
behind the ramparts. The golden circlet of kingship adorned his
battle helm. “My Kingslander’s burning, Queen Cersei,
Loyal Man. Look, that’s Seaflower, there.” He pointed
with his new sword, out to where the green flames were licking at
Seaflower’s golden hull and creeping up her oars. Her captain
had turned her upriver, but not quickly enough to evade the
wildfire.
She was doomed, Tyrion knew. There was no other way. If we had
not come forth to meet them, Stannis would have sensed the trap. An
arrow could be aimed, and a spear, even the stone from a catapult,
but wildfire had a will of its own. Once loosed, it was beyond the
control of mere men. “It could not be helped,” he told
his nephew. “Our fleet was doomed in any case.”
Even from atop the merlon—he had been too short to see over the
ramparts, so he’d had them boost him up—the flames and smoke
and chaos of battle made it impossible for Tyrion to see what was
happening downriver under the castle, but he had seen it a thousand
times in his mind’s eye. Bronn would have whipped the oxen
into motion the moment Stannis’s flagship passed under the
Red Keep; the chain was ponderous heavy, and the great winches
turned but slowly, creaking and rumbling. The whole of the
usurper’s fleet would have passed by the time the first
glimmer of metal could be seen beneath the water. The links would
emerge dripping wet, some glistening with mud, link by link by
link, until the whole great chain stretched taut. King Stannis had
rowed his fleet up the Blackwater, but he would not row out
again.
Even so, some were getting away. A river’s current was a
tricky thing, and the wildfire was not spreading as evenly as he
had hoped. The main channel was all aflame, but a good many of the
Myrmen had made for the south bank and looked to escape unscathed,
and at least eight ships had landed under the city walls. Landed or
wrecked, but it comes to the same thing, they’ve put men
ashore. Worse, a good part of the south wing of the enemy’s
first two battle lines had been well upstream of the inferno when
the hulks went up. Stannis would be left with thirty or forty
galleys, at a guess; more than enough to bring his whole host
across, once they had regained their courage.
That might take a bit of time; even the bravest would be
dismayed after watching a thousand or so of his fellows consumed by
wildfire. Hallyne said that sometimes the substance burned so hot
that flesh melted like tallow. Yet even
so . . .
Tyrion had no illusions where his own men were concerned. If the
battle looks to be going sour they’ll break, and
they’ll break bad, Jacelyn Bywater had warned him, so the
only way to win was to make certain the battle stayed sweet, start
to finish.
He could see dark shapes moving through the charred ruins of the
riverfront wharfs. Time for another sortie, he thought. Men were
never so vulnerable as when they first staggered ashore. He must
not give the foe time to form up on the north bank.
He scrambled down off the merlon. “Tell Lord Jacelyn
we’ve got enemy on the riverfront,” he said to one of
the runners Bywater had assigned him. To another he said,
“Bring my compliments to Ser Arneld and ask him to swing the
Whores thirty degrees west.” The angle would allow them to
throw farther, if not as far out into the water.
“Mother promised I could have the Whores,” Joffrey
said. Tyrion was annoyed to see that the king had lifted the visor
of his helm again. Doubtless the boy was cooking inside all that
heavy steel . . . but the last thing he needed
was some stray arrow punching through his nephew’s eye.
He clanged the visor shut. “Keep that closed, Your Grace;
your sweet person is precious to us all.” And you don’t
want to spoil that pretty face, either. “The Whores are
yours.” It was as good a time as any; flinging more firepots
down onto burning ships seemed pointless. Joff had the Antler Men
trussed up naked in the square below, antlers nailed to their
heads. When they’d been brought before the Iron Throne for
justice, he had promised to send them to Stannis. A man was not as
heavy as a boulder or a cask of burning pitch, and could be thrown
a deal farther. Some of the gold cloaks had been wagering on
whether the traitors would fly all the way across the Blackwater.
“Be quick about it, Your Grace,” he told Joffrey.
“We’ll want the trebuchets throwing stones again soon
enough. Even wildfire does not burn forever.”
Joffrey hurried off happy, escorted by Ser Meryn, but Tyrion
caught Ser Osmund by the wrist before he could follow.
“Whatever happens, keep him safe and keep him there, is that
understood?”
“As you command.” Ser Osmund smiled amiably.
Tyrion had warned Trant and Kettleblack what would happen to
them should any harm come to the king. And Joffrey had a dozen
veteran gold cloaks waiting at the foot of the steps. I’m
protecting your wretched bastard as well as I can, Cersei, he
thought bitterly. See you do the same for Alayaya.
No sooner was Joff off than a runner came panting up the steps.
“My lord, hurry!” He threw himself to one knee.
“They’ve landed men on the tourney grounds, hundreds!
They’re bringing a ram up to the King’s
Gate.”
Tyrion cursed and made for the steps with a rolling waddle.
Podrick Payne waited below with their horses. They galloped off
down River Row, Pod and Ser Mandon Moore coming hard behind him.
The shuttered houses were steeped in green shadow, but there was no
traffic to get in their way; Tyrion had commanded that the street
be kept clear, so the defenders could move quickly from one gate to
the next. Even so, by the time they reached the King’s Gate,
he could hear a booming crash of wood on wood that told him the
battering ram had been brought into play. The groaning of the great
hinges sounded like the moans of a dying giant. The gatehouse
square was littered with the wounded, but he saw lines of horses as
well, not all of them hurt, and sellswords and gold cloaks enough
to form a strong column. “Form up,” he shouted as he
leapt to the ground. The gate moved under the impact of another
blow. “Who commands here? You’re going out.”
“No.” A shadow detached itself from the shadow of
the wall, to become a tall man in dark grey armor. Sandor Clegane
wrenched off his helm with both hands and let it fall to the
ground. The steel was scorched and dented, the left ear of the
snarling hound sheared off. A gash above one eye had sent a wash of
blood down across the Hound’s old burn scars, masking half
his face.
“Yes.” Tyrion faced him.
Clegane’s breath came ragged. “Bugger that. And
you.”
A sellsword stepped up beside him. “We been out. Three
times. Half our men are killed or hurt. Wildfire bursting all
around us, horses screaming like men and men like
horses—”
“Did you think we hired you to fight in a tourney? Shall I
bring you a nice iced milk and a bowl of raspberries? No? Then get
on your fucking horse. You too, dog.”
The blood on Clegane’s face glistened red, but his eyes
showed white. He drew his longsword. He is afraid, Tyrion realized, shocked. The Hound is frightened.
He tried to explain their need. “They’ve taken a ram to
the gate, you can hear them, we need to disperse
them—”
“Open the gates. When they rush inside, surround them and
kill them.” The Hound thrust the point of his longsword into
the ground and leaned upon the pommel, swaying. “I’ve
lost half my men. Horse as well. I’m not taking more into
that fire.”
Ser Mandon Moore moved to Tyrion’s side, immaculate in his
enameled white plate. “The King’s Hand commands
you.”
“Bugger the King’s Hand.” Where the
Hound’s face was not sticky with blood, it was pale as milk.
“Someone bring me a drink.” A gold cloak officer handed
him a cup. Clegane took a swallow, spit it out, flung the cup away.
“Water? Fuck your water. Bring me wine.” He is dead on his feet. Tyrion could see it now. The wound, the
fire . . . he’s done, I need to find
someone else, but who? Ser Mandon? He looked at the men and knew it
would not do. Clegane’s fear had shaken them. Without a
leader, they would refuse as well, and Ser
Mandon . . . a dangerous man, Jaime said, yes,
but not a man other men would follow.
In the distance Tyrion heard another great crash. Above the
walls, the darkening sky was awash with sheets of green and orange
light. How long could the gate hold? This is madness, he thought, but sooner madness than defeat.
Defeat is death and shame. “Very well, I’ll lead the
sortie.”
If he thought that would shame the Hound back to valor, he was
wrong. Clegane only laughed. “You?”
Tyrion could see the disbelief on their faces. “Me. Ser
Mandon, you’ll bear the king’s banner. Pod, my
helm.” The boy ran to obey. The Hound leaned on that notched
and blood-streaked sword and looked at him with those wide white
eyes. Ser Mandon helped Tyrion mount up again. “Form
up!” he shouted.
His big red stallion wore crinet and chamfron. Crimson silk
draped his hindquarters, over a coat of mail. The high saddle was
gilded. Podrik Payne handed up helm and shield, heavy oak
emblazoned with a golden hand on red, surrounded by small golden
lions. He walked his horse in a circle, looking at the little force
of men. Only a handful had responded to his command, no more than
twenty. They sat their horses with eyes as white as the
Hound’s. He looked contemptuously at the others, the knights
and sellswords who had ridden with Clegane. “They say
I’m half a man,” he said. “What does that make
the lot of you?”
That shamed them well enough. A knight mounted, helmetless, and
rode to join the others. A pair of sellswords followed. Then more.
The King’s Gate shuddered again. In a few moments the size of
Tyrion’s command had doubled. He had them trapped. If I
fight, they must do the same, or they are less than dwarfs.
“You won’t hear me shout out Joffrey’s
name,” he told them. “You won’t hear me yell for
Casterly Rock either. This is your city Stannis means to sack, and
that’s your gate he’s bringing down. So come with me
and kill the son of a bitch!” Tyrion unsheathed his axe,
wheeled the stallion around, and trotted toward the sally port. He
thought they were following, but never dared to look.