The wildfire at the Blackwater Rush burned on until dusk.
The flames stung Tyrion's eyes until they filled with tears.
"Do green eyes fear green light too?" Bronn asked, appearing out of nowhere.
"How's the fighting on the riverbank?" Tyrion asked, rubbing at his eyes.
"Pretty much over," Bronn replied. "All the living have been captured. Only the bodies remain to be hauled ashore. If you want to disembark, now's the time."
Tyrion descended the gangplank, and cheers seemed to rise up from the very ground beneath his feet.
"Lord Tyrion!"
"The Lion of Lannister!"
Gold Cloaks, Lannister soldiers, and Tyrell men lined the shore, cheering endlessly. Spears thrust up and down, banners whipped through the smoky air.
Splash. Tyrion's boots sank into the river. The water was no longer cold; it carried a surprising warmth.
"My lord, please take care not to wet your boots," a knight called from the shore, eager to flatter.
"Wet boots are no trouble," Tyrion said, wading forward. "I'll dry them beside Stannis's burning ships."
The soldiers roared with laughter. Tyrion waved for them to make way. Beneath the city walls, rows of naked prisoners knelt in the mud. Piles of armor, weapons, and banners lay heaped nearby.
"Bronn," Tyrion said, turning to see the mercenary at his side. "How many prisoners have we taken?"
"Knights or soldiers?"
"Both," Tyrion said.
"So far, more than four thousand soldiers," Bronn reported. "Around three hundred nobles and knights, and over five hundred horses."
"That's what we've counted for now. Lord Randyll's still across the river—hasn't pulled back yet. The current's still rough."
"You handle things out here. I need to go into the city," Tyrion said.
Podrick had just clambered down the gangway, slogging through the water toward the shore.
"Pod! Get me a horse!"
Tyrion mounted up and rode with seven or eight knights through the Mud Gate into King's Landing. On the walls and along the streets, soldiers and townsfolk alike cheered wildly, their cries echoing so loudly that his head began to spin.
From the tall buildings lining the street, handfuls of flowers rained down. Tyrion was astonished—starving people could live without food, but never without flattery in bloom.
At the gates of the Red Keep, soldiers crowded the entrance, their banners all green, a sea of color waving in the dusk.
"No one enters or leaves the Red Keep without orders!" one guard shouted.
"What?" Tyrion frowned. "Do you know who I am?"
"I don't care. I take orders only from—"
"Lord Tyrion!" A voice rang out from within the Red Keep. A knight burst into view, armor clattering, a golden stag-helm gleaming in his arms. It was Ser Garlan.
"Damn you!" he snapped, kicking the guard aside. "This is the Hand of the King! My lord, please forgive them—ignorant green recruits, nothing more."
Ser Garlan helped Tyrion down from his horse. "Come quickly. Father, Loras, and Margaery are waiting for you in the throne room."
Inside the Red Keep's throne hall, only a few remained.
His sister sat upon the Iron Throne, holding his precious nephew in her arms. Below the dais stood Mace Tyrell, Loras Tyrell, and Margaery. Behind them gathered several others Tyrion could no longer place—his head was pounding too fiercely.
"Ah, Lord Tyrion," Mace Tyrell said with a booming laugh. "It is thanks to your aid that we have this victory today. Your Grace, permit me to speak plainly—during my command, Lord Tyrion offered invaluable assistance in—"
Tyrion swayed on his feet. Ser Garlan caught him just in time, while Lancel brought over a chair and helped him sit.
"Ah, cousin," Tyrion said, looking up at him. "Are you hurt?"
"An arrow struck my breastplate," Lancel said, pointing to his chest. "Thanks to you, my lord, it went no deeper."
"What of Jacelyn Bywater? Your commander?"
"He... fell in battle."
"May the gods grant him rest. But there's no time for mourning," Tyrion said. "You'll take command now. Bronn will serve as your second. Go—head to the Mud Gate at once. Muster the men and fortify the defenses."
"I am the king!" Joffrey shouted angrily from the Iron Throne. "Only I can appoint the commander of the City Watch!"
Cersei quietly tugged at his sleeve.
"I won the war," Tyrion said. "Pod, help me back to the Tower of the Hand."
He ignored Lord Mace's flushed rambling as he eagerly introduced his daughter to Joffrey, and paid no attention to the fawning nobles still desperate to curry favor. All he wanted was rest.
Gods, the steps to the Tower of the Hand had never felt so long.
Qyburn was already waiting in the study. Pod helped Tyrion into the chair behind his desk before quietly slipping out.
"Welcome back, my lord," Qyburn said with a bow. "I trust the battle went well."
"Look at my face. Is it terribly red?" Tyrion asked.
"It's from the wildfire," Qyburn replied without even needing to inspect him. "The light alone can burn the skin. You must have been standing too close. Some suffer blisters from it."
"Can it be treated?" Tyrion asked. "Or eased somehow?"
"I'd advise a full night's rest," Qyburn said with a faint smile. "It's nothing serious, and there'll be no lasting harm. If you find it difficult to sleep, I can prepare a cup of flower milk."
"No need," Tyrion said. "How are the Stark girls?"
"They've been staying in the chambers of the Tower of the Hand," Qyburn answered. "Your maid remains with them. They're safe and unharmed."
"And my father?"
"He withdrew from Harrenhal three days ago. He should arrive within a day or two," Qyburn said. "Lord Pycelle seems displeased with my presence, but I still managed to read his letters."
"Thanks to you," Tyrion said. "I appreciate it, Qyburn. You may choose any of the prisoners outside—ah, except the nobles."
"Thank you, my lord." Qyburn bowed once more. "Sleep well."
...
Tyrion didn't know how long he had been asleep when a knock at the study door roused him.
"My lord, Lord Tyrion," came a woman's voice, soft and low, as if she feared being overheard.
"Shae?" Tyrion muttered, pressing his temples as he staggered to his feet on the Myrish carpet.
When he opened the door, Margaery Tyrell stood there, holding a candlestick in both hands.
"What—Lady Margaery," Tyrion stammered, caught off guard. "It's so late, you..."
Margaery slipped past him without waiting for him to finish and quietly shut the door behind her.
By candlelight, he saw her eyes were red and swollen. She'd been crying.
"My lord, my father... he intends to marry me to His Grace Joffrey," Margaery Tyrell said, her voice trembling. "I don't want this. I need your help."
My help? Tyrion was momentarily lost—the turn of events too sudden. "How could I possibly help you?"
"I won't marry Joffrey Baratheon," Margaery said, setting the candlestick down on the desk. "That's my father's wish. But I only wish to be Lady of Casterly Rock."
She blew out the candle.
No one could stop the night from falling.