GOT: The Great — Chapter 232 - The Lion Heads North

Tyrion Lannister had seen plenty of wretched places in his life, but the sight outside King's Landing still made his stomach turn.

On both sides of the road from Rosby to King's Landing, every field had been burned to black cinders.

A few wisps of pale smoke still curled from the ruins of farmhouses. The air was thick with it, charred wood and rotting flesh, mingled together into something that coated the back of the throat.

Bodies had been dragged out and stacked beside the roadside wells, some so bloated from soaking that their skin had gone waxy yellow.

He didn't need to guess who was responsible. Poisoning wells and dumping corpses in them during a siege, that was his father's work, no question.

The city gates were open.

The Lion Gate stood wider than the last time he had left, Gold Cloaks lined up in two rows at the entrance, keeping order.

Refugees surged toward the gate from every direction, dragging carts, clutching children, carrying elders on their backs. They only wanted to get behind the walls before the enemy arrived.

Tyrion jumped down from the wagon. His short legs hit the mud and sent a spray of muck up his trouser legs.

He shoved past the people blocking his way and pushed forward. A woman holding a child stumbled aside and cursed at him. He didn't look back.

He cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted toward the gate. "I am Tyrion Lannister!"

No one paid him any attention. The refugees kept pressing forward, the Gold Cloaks kept maintaining order, and a guard with a thick, brutish face shoved him back.

"Get in line, dwarf. What makes you think you get to cut the queue?"

Tyrion drew a slow breath, then cursed.

He pulled out the Lannister sigil and raised it above his head. The red lion on its gold field looked faded and dull under the gray light.

He walked to the Gold Cloak who had shoved him and stood his ground.

"I am Tyrion Lannister, son of Lord Tywin. You just shoved me. I've remembered your face."

The Gold Cloak looked down at him. He saw the scar. He saw the house badge at Tyrion's throat.

He hesitated for a breath, then stepped back and cleared the way. Tyrion walked through the gate and into King's Landing.

The city was not much better than outside.

The streets were packed with refugees. People sat slumped against walls, lay flat on the flagstones, leaned against stable doors. The air reeked of dung and rotting straw.

He passed a well. Three children sat beside the mouth of it, the eldest no more than ten, scooping water up with a broken bowl.

Cersei had opened the gates and let them all flood in. Her calculation was easy enough to read, use these innocent people as human shields.

Daenerys Targaryen might soften at that. Or she might not.

Khal Drogo would not.

He turned the thought over in his mind, quiet and deliberate: I have to make Father see reality. Surrender is the only way to save more innocent lives.

He was cutting through Flea Bottom when something snagged at the edge of his vision.

An old man with white hair, standing at a street corner. Gray hood pulled up. Back against the wall.

Tyrion's steps slowed.

Half a street away, through the press of refugees, he couldn't make out the man's face. But the stance stopped him cold. Hand resting on the sword hilt. Spine straight. Shoulders drawn back, just slightly.

It reminded him of someone.

Someone who should have been on Dragonstone.

The hood hid the face, and he couldn't see clearly enough to be certain. Besides, Barristan Selmy had no reason to be standing on a street in Flea Bottom.

Tyrion tried to move closer. A surge of bodies poured out of an alley mouth and pushed him two steps toward the Red Keep.

By the time he found his footing, the white-haired old man was gone.

Maybe just another old veteran who had nowhere left to go. King's Landing was full of those now.

He quickened his pace and headed for the Red Keep.

The small council meeting was already underway in the council chamber.

Tyrion pushed the door open harder than he needed to. It slammed against the stone wall with a dull thud.

Every head in the room turned.

Joffrey sat at the far end of the long table, his golden crown sitting crooked on his golden curls, wine stains at the corner of his mouth.

Cersei sat to his right in a dark red gown, the same half-smile at her lips that had made Tyrion's skin crawl since he was a boy.

Tywin sat across from her, a document in hand, not looking up.

Maester Qyburn was seated at the table as well. Pycelle had already been replaced, then.

"Uncle Tyrion." Joffrey's voice. "What are you doing here? You have no right to be here at all."

Tyrion walked to the long table. He pulled the parchment from his sleeve and slapped it down.

"I believe I am qualified."

Joffrey didn't look at it. Cersei picked it up for him and passed it to Tywin.

Tywin set down his own document, took the parchment, and read it line by line. His eyes moved quickly. His expression never changed.

"So you actually managed to negotiate something favorable this time?" Cersei's voice had that particular edge she saved for drawing blood.

Tywin placed the parchment on the table.

"Empty words," he said. "Even if he keeps his promise — what happens after the wights are captured? War is still unavoidable."

Cersei picked up the parchment, glanced through it, and smiled.

"It seems you still lack the qualifications to sit at this table."

Tywin raised one hand. "Enough."

He looked at Cersei, then turned to Tyrion. "Petyr Baelish has been sent to Braavos to seek aid. Until he returns, the position of Master of Coin remains yours."

"There has been no word from the Free Cities. If this piece of paper buys us time, that is something."

Tyrion bowed. "Thank you, Father." He straightened. "It seems I must decline the position. I'm heading north — to hunt wights."

Silence settled over the council chamber.

Then Joffrey laughed. It came out through his nose, shrill and short.

"You're going to hunt wights? My dwarf uncle is going to catch wights?" He settled back in his chair. "How exactly? With a rat trap?"

Tyrion looked at him and said nothing for a moment.

The golden curls. The smirk. Joffrey looked like a mummer, not a king. A fool.

He thought of the slap Drogo had given him on Dragonstone. Himself face-down on gravel, blood at the corner of his mouth. Wiping it away with his fingers and continuing the negotiations anyway.

"With intelligence," Tyrion said. "Since you don't recognize the word, I'll put it another way — with things you simply don't have."

Joffrey's face darkened. He started to rise.

Tywin's voice came down over all of it. "Enough. How many men do you need?"

Tyrion turned to his father. "Fifteen good men. Gregor Clegane, I want him by name."

Tywin's finger tapped once, lightly, on the tabletop. He looked at Tyrion. "You have him."

Cersei said, "How do you intend to reach the North? The Riverlands and the North both belong to the Horse Lord."

"By ship to Eastwatch-by-the-Sea. It's the fastest route."

Tyrion walked over to Cersei's seat, stood on his toes, and kissed her on the cheek.

"Wish me luck, dear big sister."

Cersei didn't wipe her face. But the corner of her mouth twitched.

Tyrion turned and walked toward the door.

Gregor Clegane was waiting in the courtyard. The house crest on his armor had been worn dull with use. His eight-foot frame threw a long, black shadow across the flagstones in the midday sun.

Behind him stood a dozen or so men, all Lannister soldiers, all elite. Tyrion didn't bother learning their names.

"My lord." The Mountain's voice sounded like two stones grinding against each other.

"Ser Clegane." Tyrion said. "Ready to catch some wights?"

The Mountain didn't answer.

Tyrion led the 15 men out of the Red Keep. The refugees were still just as thick on the streets, the stench still just as foul. The three children by the well were gone, replaced by an old woman. He didn't look closely. He didn't dwell on it.

This was a beginning. But it was more than just a beginning.

He swung himself onto his horse and looked back at the Red Keep. Something stirred in his chest that he couldn't quite name.

The towers and battlements looked old and tired under the gray sky. He knew this departure was different from every one that had come before.

"Move out," he said.

15 horses moved through the streets of King's Landing toward the harbor.

The Mountain rode at his back, hooves striking the cobblestones, each step landing like a drumbeat.

At the end of the street, the harbor opened up, and a ship was waiting.

➤ Next: Lightbringer — Face to Face