Chapter 81 — Wildfire
Seated around the campfire, Sandor Clegane tipped his head back and took a swig of ale, then sneered.
"Only an idiot would take the black. Mark my words, Wizard—look away for one second and I'll run."
"Then perhaps I should suggest Stark lock you in a prison wagon,"
Charles replied absently, his right hand unconsciously rubbing his forehead.
"That wolf wants to get home fast. A prison wagon would slow him down—he won't do it," the Hound said calmly.
"Maybe he'll just cut off your head."
"Think I'm scared?" Sandor snorted.
"What about magic?" Charles said lightly.
"Like what happened to your former master—first the arms, then the legs, then the head… and finally the balls."
The Hound shut up immediately.
He raised his cup again, both hands wrapped around it. The chains on his wrists clinked softly as he drank. After a moment, he spoke again.
"I reckon your magic isn't quite what people say it is."
"Oh?" Charles glanced at him.
"If you could really kill anyone whenever you wanted, you wouldn't have needed to break out of the Red Keep. Threatening Stannis would've been much simpler. And you didn't retaliate afterward either."
"True." Charles had no interest in explaining and simply nodded.
"But Sandor Clegane is far easier to deal with than Stannis—and comes with fewer consequences."
Sandor shot him a look, then changed the subject.
"Those idiots in King's Landing have lost their minds. When they escorted you out of the city, they cried like their fathers had died—wailing and screaming. I even saw someone try to kiss your horse's arse. Got his teeth kicked in for it. Bloody hilarious."
Charles didn't respond. Sandor tilted his wooden cup toward him pointedly.
"Being personally served by a wizard is a real honor—just a bit terrifying. Why don't you have any attendants?"
"Not used to them," Charles replied, rising to fetch his wineskin from the tent.
When he came back out, the big man who had been sitting there moments ago was gone.
"He actually ran?" Charles muttered. "Guess he really meant it."
He sighed.
Just as Sandor had said, a prison wagon was too slow. Between execution and the black cloak, the Hound had chosen the latter. Stark couldn't kill him outright—his status was too awkward—and he couldn't simply let him roam free either.
So the task had fallen to Charles.
Everyone else seemed far more confident in Charles's curses than he himself was.
"But who knows," he thought dryly,
"maybe it's just a paper tiger."
If not for the fact that they'd escaped prison together, Charles wouldn't have bothered with the man who had once tried to kill him.
With a quiet sigh, he pulled out a small cloth doll and a steel needle. Just as he was debating where best to stick it to teach Sandor a truly unforgettable lesson—
—the Hound reappeared.
And he wasn't alone.
His bound hands were awkwardly hauling along a short, stocky figure.
"Who's that?" Charles asked.
"That ugly little bastard?" Sandor snorted. "Who do you think?"
"Before you say that," the short man snapped irritably,
"you might want to find a mirror. Anyone in the Seven Kingdoms has the right to call me ugly—except Sandor Clegane."
"I've no desire to invite suffering," the Hound grinned, then casually tossed the man onto the ground.
The rough treatment immediately angered the newcomer.
"I should've had my sister send you to shovel latrines instead of making you a knight!"
"I'm not a Lannister dog anymore," the Hound replied flatly.
"Of course," the dwarf sneered. "Such a loyal hound. Little Joffrey would be so pleased to see your new master."
As he spoke, he glanced around. Seeing that his arrival had gone unnoticed, he turned his gaze to Charles.
"Tyrion Lannister—defeated by the wizard himself. Most people call me the Imp. Perhaps we'll find we have a few things in common."
"Who knows," Charles shrugged. "But before that—perhaps you'd like to explain how you got in here?"
The camp might be temporary, but it wasn't so lax that someone could simply slip inside unnoticed. Charles found that suspicious.
"Most people overlook it," Tyrion said, tapping his head, "but this is my only weapon."
"He hid in a tree for quite a while," the Hound added. "Long enough to go stiff. I noticed someone skulking above us, just didn't bother dealing with it."
Ignoring him, Tyrion looked at Charles seriously.
"I came here specifically to find you."
"Why?" Charles asked, puzzled.
"To thank you for sparing my life last time—and to pray you'll do the same again. But that can wait."
Tyrion carefully scanned his surroundings, then lowered his voice.
"There's a pile of dangerous stuff buried beneath King's Landing. Leave it alone, and sooner or later the entire city will go up in flames."
"What stuff?"
"Fire."
"…Fire?"
"Wildfire. Leftovers from the Mad King's reign." Tyrion paused, then said earnestly, "Maybe you could use sorcery to turn it into harmless toys—but I think it'd be wiser to have Stark send a raven to King's Landing."
"If what you're saying is true," Charles replied coolly, "and if he even has ravens to spare."
Since leaving the capital, Charles hadn't seen a single maester or raven-handler among the army—no messenger birds at all. It was almost as if Stark had cut off contact entirely.
And whether Tyrion was telling the truth was another matter altogether.
Seeing the doubt on Charles's face, the dwarf swore solemnly.
"Please believe me. I swear on the honor of House Lannister—everything I said is true."
"And where did this 'truth' come from?" Charles asked.
After a moment of silence, Tyrion answered, "My naïve brother. And my idiot sister."
"And how would they know?"
"My brother heard it from my sister—and my sister…" Tyrion exhaled. "She gave the order herself. How could she not know?"
That was enough to convince Charles. He straightened, his expression turning serious.
"So it's real? King's Landing is sitting on a mountain of wildfire?"
"If risking my head to come here—and feeding mosquitoes half the night—sounds fun, then maybe I'm lying."
"When?" Charles pressed. "When will it happen?"
"I don't know. But once Renly's army enters the city, my sister's people will light it."
Once Renly enters King's Landing…
Charles pondered silently.
Before the Northmen departed, Stannis hadn't left immediately—perhaps out of stubbornness, perhaps for other reasons. But three days had passed now. The situation in King's Landing must have changed.
"Why send you?" Charles asked.
"Who's more trustworthy than a Lannister delivering a Lannister secret?" Tyrion said dryly. "If this gets out, House Lannister is finished."
"But now it has gotten out."
"Has it?" Tyrion shrugged. "There's no hard proof. No one will believe it. Everyone knows the Imp loves to spin wild tales."
"That won't matter once the wildfire ignites."
Tyrion spread his hands.
"If I recall correctly, it'll be you Northmen and Stannis who take King's Landing in the end."
"…"
"Why not go back and warn them yourself?" Charles asked.
"Because no one knows when it'll blow," Tyrion replied bluntly. "I may be a despised dwarf, but I'm not eager to die. And besides—marching from Casterly Rock, you're much closer than I am."
Charles studied him for a moment, then nodded.
"Very well. I'll ask whether this camp has ravens for King's Landing."
As he stood to leave, Tyrion suddenly added, "You might want to consider using your reputation. Many people already see you as a god."
Charles glanced back.
"Do you think I'm a god?"
"If there are no ravens," Tyrion said calmly, "then you'll need to send men."
"And when will it explode? Who do I send?" Charles replied sharply. "Sending people now would be suicide. Do you even know where the wildfire is buried? That's not my problem—let Stark lose sleep over it."
Tyrion fell silent, then gave a crooked grin.
"Hearing you talk like that… I'm suddenly much less afraid of you."
"Congratulations," Charles said with a faint smile.
Seeing Tyrion's pale face, he added, "If I were you, I'd get some rest."
"Here?" Tyrion scoffed. "If I were suicidal, that'd be excellent advice."
He looked around, then stood, clearly intending to sneak back into the trees and feed the mosquitoes again.
But the moment he turned, the Hound struck him hard on the neck. Tyrion rolled his eyes and collapsed unconscious.
At Charles's puzzled look, the Hound grunted.
"I don't care about wildfire or not. Lannisters are always worth a fortune."
"Weren't you once a Lannister knight?" Charles asked.
"Fuck the Lannisters," the Hound spat.