King's Landing, the Red Keep, the Tower of the Hand.
Tyrion Lannister sat behind an oak desk far too large for him, his short legs dangling above the floor. Piles of scrolls covered every inch of the surface—treasury ledgers, supply manifests, defense reports—each one feeding his anxiety.
He lifted a heavy gold goblet and took a sip. The wine's tartness carried a faint sweetness, but it did little to calm his irritation.
"Four thousand!"
Tyrion slammed a scroll onto the desk. "Six thousand on the rolls, yet barely two thousand can actually hold a sword or stand a post. The other four thousand are ghosts—names on parchment bleeding the treasury dry. That swine Slynt turned the Gold Cloaks into his own coin purse. I shouldn't have sent him to the Wall—I should've cut his damned head off myself!"
Bronn lounged by the window, a crooked grin playing at his lips. "As expected, my lord. In King's Landing, false pay lists spread faster than the pox. After all, dead men's wages are the easiest to collect—and the living's, easier still."
He tipped back his cup and took a long drink, his voice lazy. "But what do we do now? Trust those two thousand cowards to defend the city?"
Tyrion raked his fingers through his messy blond hair, scowling. "Bronn, you're the Commander of the City Watch. You're supposed to be giving me solutions."
Bronn raised an eyebrow. "Aye, well, my advice is to recruit new blood. But where do we find recruits?"
"New blood?"
A sharp glimmer lit Tyrion's mismatched eyes. He walked to the window and looked down at the filthy, chaotic city below. "Look there, Bronn. King's Landing is overflowing—with the starving, the desperate, the ones who'd do anything for a crust of moldy bread."
Bronn followed his gaze, his brow tightening. "You mean the beggars and the mobs? You've gone mad. Give them weapons, put them in gold cloaks, and they'll gut you before sunset."
Tyrion turned, voice calm and cold. "Hunger cuts deeper than steel. As for loyalty? I only need men who'll stand at their posts and keep the hungrier ones at bay. Feed them. Fill their bellies. Tell them that wearing the Gold Cloak means black bread and bean stew from the Red Keep's kitchens.
"As for weapons—start them off with sticks. Reward the obedient with rusty spears. Once they taste the difference between eating with us and starving with the rabble, they'll find loyalty on their own. Far cheaper—and far more useful—than four thousand phantom soldiers."
Bronn was silent for a moment, weighing the madness of it. Then he smirked. "Very well, my lord. I'll open a mess hall in Flea Bottom. Let's just hope I don't end up feeding wolves."
Their cups met in a quiet toast to the madness of their plan.
Then the heavy oak door burst open.
Podrick burst in, pale-faced and breathless, terror written across his boyish features.
"My—my lord! It's bad! The city—something's spread through the city!"
Tyrion set down his cup, a cold weight settling in his gut. "Stop stammering. What's happened? Has Renly attacked?"
"No... no! It's—it's about Her Grace the Queen! And Ser Jaime!"
Podrick swallowed hard, his voice shaking. "They're saying... they're saying the Queen and Ser Jaime aren't Lord Tywin's children at all—that they're the children of the Mad King Aerys and Lady Joanna! That Lord Tywin raised the Mad King's bastards! They say King Joffrey... doesn't have a drop of Lannister blood. That he's a Targaryen—spawn of the Mad King!"
Clang!
The gold goblet fell from Tyrion's hand, spilling deep purple wine across the fine carpet, spreading like a stain of blood.
He froze, his mismatched eyes contracting sharply.
This was worse—far worse—than a thousand Renly sieges.
It wasn't just an insult to Cersei and Jaime. It was a strike at the very heart of House Lannister's power.
"Who... who started it?" Tyrion's voice was hoarse, trembling.
"I... I don't know," Podrick stammered. "Taverns, brothels, the docks—everyone's whispering it. Even the old women at the market are repeating it, saying..."
He trailed off, too frightened to go on.
A chill raced up Tyrion's spine.
He shoved back his chair and bolted from the room, not even pausing to call to Bronn. His short legs carried him down the hall as fast as they could move.
Bronn cursed under his breath and followed at a jog.
...
Cersei's chambers no longer looked like the Queen Regent's rooms—they looked like the aftermath of a siege.
Expensive Myrish carpets lay ripped apart. Shards of Lysene glass littered the marble floor. The velvet curtains hung half-torn from their rails.
Cersei herself looked half-mad.
She wore only a thin silk nightgown, her golden hair disheveled. The rose-red scar across her face twisted with rage, turning her beauty into something feral.
Screaming, she hurled whatever her hands could grasp—vases, goblets, mirrors—smashing them against the walls and floor.
"Slander! Filthy slander! Wretched worms! I'll tear out their tongues and gouge out their eyes to feed the dogs!"
Cersei's shriek ripped through the ruined chamber.
The moment she saw Tyrion's small figure in the doorway, her madness found a target.
"You!!"
She spun around, bloodshot eyes blazing as they fixed on him. "Tyrion! You venomous little dwarf! You gods-damned monster! You did this—it must have been you!"
She lunged at him like a storm, hatred driving her, sharp nails reaching for his face.
"Enough!"
Tyrion stepped back swiftly, and Bronn's tall frame moved between them, blocking her charge.
"Me?"
Tyrion's voice was cold as steel, the disbelief in it cutting deep. "And why in all the seven hells would I do that? To destroy Jaime? To destroy the Lannisters? To destroy myself? Cersei, use that head of yours—if there's anything left in it beyond jealousy and stupidity—and think. If this rumor spreads, we all burn together!"
Cersei's voice broke into a rasping scream. "Who else could it be?! You've always envied Jaime—envied everything he was, everything he had! You envied Father's love for him, and you've always hated us. You'd love to see us disgraced, to see House Lannister fall! You're the demon who spread this filth. May the gods damn you—damn you for ever being born!"
A crushing weariness settled over Tyrion.
He looked at the woman before him—this sister who had once been beautiful beyond reason—now a creature of venom and madness. He knew reason would find no purchase here.
"Varys!"
Ignoring Cersei's hysterical ravings, he turned toward the door and barked, "Get in here!"
The Master of Whisperers entered quietly, dressed in soft-hued silks, his round face wearing its usual expression of polite concern. Yet in his eyes, there flickered unease and confusion. When he had first heard the rumor, even he had been caught off guard.
"Varys."
Tyrion's stare was sharp enough to cut. "Tell me where this filth came from. Where are your little birds? Have they all gone deaf—or blind?"
Varys sighed, his voice low and measured. "My lord Tyrion, I assure you, I smelled this stench before it reached you. But... it's as if it crawled out of every crack in King's Landing, from beneath every pile of rot. No single source, no clear whisperer. My little birds... have all gone deaf this time."
His network stretched through every alley and corridor of the capital—nothing ever escaped his notice. Yet this time, such a rumor had appeared as if from thin air, sweeping the city in a storm.
There had to be a hand at work—one more hidden, more powerful, than his own. The thought filled him with a quiet dread.
He remembered the last time something like this had happened—when Jon Snow's secret had spread like wildfire.
Could it be Littlefinger again?
Varys made a silent note to send his birds through the brothels that night.
Tyrion watched him, feeling his stomach turn to lead.
If even the Spider was blind to it, then the game had already taken a darker turn.
"Bronn!" Tyrion's voice cracked through the air. "Mobilize every Gold Cloak you can find. Seal off Flea Bottom, Silk Street, and the docks. Anyone caught speaking ill of the Queen or Ser Jaime—arrest them. Throw them into the Black Cells. If anyone utters another word, cut out their tongues!"
With Renly's attack looming, he couldn't afford chaos.
And deep down, Tyrion knew—he was the one who looked most guilty.
"Aye, my lord."
Bronn nodded sharply and strode out.
But Tyrion's order came too late. Or perhaps, he had simply underestimated another man's madness.
...
King's Landing. A narrow, reeking alley near the Mud Gate.
Filthy water streamed through the gutters. Garbage piled high between warped wooden hovels that stank of rot and human waste.
A few gaunt townsfolk crouched around a stall selling wilted greens, picking through scraps barely fit to eat while whispering among themselves.
"...Have you heard? About the Queen and the Kingslayer…"
"...Quiet! Do you want to die?"
"...What's to fear? Everyone's saying it. They claim the Mad King was—"
"Then doesn't that mean King Joffrey's…"
Their words died as the sound of heavy, rhythmic boots echoed down the alley.
Sandor Clegane appeared, encased in armor, one massive hand resting on his sword hilt. Behind him marched a small squad of soldiers.
The Hound's half-burned face was monstrous in the dim light, his good eye cold and pitiless as it swept across the alley. He had come on the king's direct command.
The moment Joffrey heard the rumors, he had flown into a fury, ordering Sandor to cleanse the streets of every "vile worm" who dared defame the royal bloodline.
"There they are!"
A young soldier, desperate to impress, pointed to the huddled peasants. "They were talking about Her Grace the Queen Regent!"
The Hound didn't move at once. He stopped, his towering frame blocking the mouth of the alley. His cold gaze passed over the trembling civilians—thin, hollow-eyed, reeking of hunger and fear.
Slander?
He scoffed inwardly. Who could say anymore? Maybe it was true. Maybe not.
And for that, Joffrey wanted them dead.
A dull weariness settled over him. But he still drew his sword.
He was only the king's dog. When the master said "bite," he bit. Only this time, he couldn't even be bothered to bark.
"The king's command," he said flatly. "Those who defame the royal family—die."
His voice was hoarse and dead of feeling. He didn't even look at the peasants, his gaze drifting instead to the filth beyond them.
"My lord, mercy! We only—"
"We didn't say anything! It was someone else—"
Their pleas ended in a scream. The young soldier drove his spear clean through a man's chest. Blood spattered the stones, pooling in the grime.
The others hesitated only a breath before joining in—swords flashing, hacking wildly at defenseless bodies. Screams, the crack of bone, and the wet slap of blades filled the narrow space.
The Hound watched in silence. His thumb flicked the guard of his sword, exposing a glint of steel, then eased it back into place.
He did not strike. He simply stood there, a cold sentinel sealing off escape. In his good eye lingered nothing but exhaustion.
Kill them all—and the rumor dies?
He gave a humorless snort. Fools.
All they'd done was bury fear and hatred deeper.
The bloodletting went on for days. Gold Cloaks and Kingsguard prowled the streets like rabid dogs, hunting "liars" and "traitors." The Black Cells overflowed. The gallows never stopped.
Fear choked the city silent. No one dared speak in the open anymore.
But behind every closed door, behind every wary glance, the resentment only grew—dark, heavy, and ready to erupt.
King's Landing was a volcano: calm on the surface, burning beneath.
...
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