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Chapter 70: Tyrion
Chaos ruled the streets of King's Landing.
Tyrion Lannister could scarcely believe how quickly order had crumbled. One heartbeat the mob had cowered, cowed by the sight of kingsguard and gold cloaks, by steel and banners and the weight of royal authority. The next heartbeat — all that was gone. Broken like a cracked cup dropped from a tower.
The streets of King's Landing had erupted like a pot left too long over flame. From the saddle, Tyrion Lannister grimaced as stones, filth, and worse rained down around them. The riot had well and truly begun.
Now they were running for their lives.
"To the Red Keep!" Cersei's shriek was more fury than fear, but even she knew the truth — they were surrounded.
Ser Jacelyn Bywater, grim and iron-faced beneath his half-helm, spurred his horse forward. "Gold cloaks! Form wedge! Shields up — cut through them!" His voice cracked like a whip over the roar of the crowd.
They surged forward, a line of battered shields and drawn swords parting the mob like a ship ploughing through storm-tossed seas. Screams rose all around — curses, cries of rage, shrieks of pain. Something wet and vile splashed against Tyrion's shoulder — gods only knew what.
Tyrion cast a glance over his shoulder and felt his gut clench. The mob was closing in behind them like a tide of rats. Faces twisted with hunger and hatred. The people were starving — and now they were killing.
Ser Mandon Moore rode like a wraith, pale and silent. A filthy man lunged for Cersei's leg, clutching at her silk skirts with both hands — Ser Mandon's sword flashed like lightning, and the man's hand flew from his wrist, spinning through the air to land with a wet smack upon the cobblestones.
Cersei kicked the shrieking man in the face with her riding boot and spurred her palfrey over him.
But the crowd was relentless. Ser Aron Santagar was pulled from his saddle with a scream. Tyrion saw him vanish beneath a dozen grasping hands, steel flashing as he fought — but then he was gone.
Ser Balon Swann fought like a demon, his white cloak streaming crimson where a thrown stone had split his brow. He carved a path forward with sword and shield, trying to reach Cersei's side.
And Sandor — Sandor Clegane, the Hound — hacked and slashed and cursed louder than the mob itself, until the press of bodies swallowed him whole.
"Seven hells," Tyrion muttered. His heart thudded in his chest like a war drum.
A sudden shriek turned him about — and his stomach dropped. Joffrey, dismounted, flailed amid the mob. His golden hair shone like a beacon for every stone, every filthy hand, every clenched fist.
Ser Preston Greenfield wheeled his horse toward the boy king, but it was too late. Tyrion lost sight of Joffrey as the mob surged over him like a wave.
Somehow — gods be good, somehow — a battered remnant of their party forced their way to the gates of the Red Keep. The portcullis came crashing down behind them with a shuddering clang, shutting out the worst of the mob.
Cersei wheeled her horse about in a panic, her face wild. "Where is he?" she screamed. "Where is my son?!"
Joffrey was gone.
Tyrion swung down from his saddle, every joint aching with exhaustion and terror.
Cersei screamed. "Ser Boros, Ser Meryn — get out there. Find him. Find the King."
Ser Boros Blount turned pale beneath his helm, but he obeyed. Ser Meryn Trant followed, his white cloak filthy and tattered.
Moments later, the gates groaned open long enough for Sandor Clegane to stumble through, blood-smeared and panting. He tore off his helm, cursing every god in the sky.
"Aron's dead," the Hound rasped. "Skull crushed like an eggshell. Greenfield too. Cut down trying to reach the boy."
Tyrion cursed beneath his breath.
And as if their woes were not great enough, smoke curled into the sky over the city. Flea Bottom was ablaze.
"Seven bloody hells..." Tyrion spun toward Ser Jacelyn. "Get to the water wagons. Guard them with your life. If that fire reaches the Alchemists' Guildhall..."
"I understand," Bywater said grimly. "I'll see it done."
Hours passed.
The sun dipped low over King's Landing, turning the sky to blood and ash. Tyrion sent heralds into the streets to proclaim curfew — any man, woman, or child found abroad after dark would die.
They could not risk another riot.
By evenfall, Ser Jacelyn returned, his face lined with exhaustion. His armor bore fresh dents and streaks of soot.
"The fires are out, mostly," he reported. "We lost nine gold cloaks. Two score wounded. The mob's scattered — for now. But the city's ready to explode again at any spark."
Tyrion nodded wearily. "And the boy?"
Jacelyn hesitated — and the weight of that silence was heavier than any sword.
"We found King Joffrey."
Cersei turned, her eyes rimmed with red. Hope flickered — and died — in an instant.
"The mob tore him apart," Jacelyn said. "He was found in Flea Bottom, not far from the Sept of Baelor. Crown gone. Clothes in rags. What remains..."
He gestured behind him.
Gold cloaks entered the throne room, bearing a grotesque burden between them. What remained of Joffrey Baratheon — or what could still be called that — was scarcely recognizable.
Rags of crimson silk hung from what might once have been regal garments. Limbs bent at unnatural angles. Flesh torn. The face — gods, the face — unrecognizable save for patches of golden hair matted with blood.
Cersei Lannister stared.
For a heartbeat, there was silence.
Then the Queen Regent fell to her knees — and let out a cry that scraped against Tyrion's very soul. A raw, primal wail of grief that echoed through the bloodstained halls of the Red Keep.
The Queen had lost her son.
And Tyrion knew, with a cold certainty, that they had all lost far more than that.
And winter was still coming with fire and blood.