We were all somewhat nervous. Though Stannis had taken the entire fleet north, Dragonstone still remained loyal to him—and ships were still stationed there.
Still, we had thought of everything. At the mouth of Blackwater Bay, several war galleys were waiting for our cargo. These ships had been left to patrol and protect the capital from the sea by Lord Paxter Redwyne, and now they served as an escort for the precious shipment.
With such a powerful convoy, the gold reached the Iron Bank without incident. Rowan sent another letter, reporting that the money had been delivered, counted, handed over—and that the royal debt had now been reduced by a full million.
And just when it seemed to all of us that everything was going perfectly and the crisis in governing the realm had been overcome, fate stopped smiling upon us.
That night, a fire broke out. The Small Hall caught fire—a modest feast hall designed for two hundred guests, adjoining the Tower of the Hand through the kitchen.
There was noise and chaos everywhere. People ran, shouted, tried to extinguish the flames and keep them from spreading to other buildings.
There was no dedicated fire brigade—neither in King's Landing nor in the Red Keep itself. Most people simply didn't know what to do.
First of all, Kevan, Jaime, and I ensured the safety of the women and children, moving them into one of the cellars and leaving several dozen men from the Holy Hundred and the Gold Cloaks to guard them.
We began issuing orders, and people set about fighting the fire.
The struggle against the flames dragged on. People ran up, received instructions, and rushed off again. Water was hauled from the sea and from wells. In some places, the fire was smothered with sand or earth. Chaos reigned everywhere, and in such turmoil it was difficult to keep a clear, steady mind.
At last, the spread of the fire was stopped. Many people had died—more than three dozen. Among them were cooks, kitchen maids, and dishwashers from the Small Hall. They had lived and worked in the same place.
Two servants and several guards had also died. When I first saw some of the bodies, I immediately noticed that death had not come from the fire. Someone had clearly helped them leave this world.
About a dozen Gold Cloaks suffered burns of varying severity.
The worst part was something else entirely. When we reached a turning point in extinguishing the fire, I sent a man to Tywin, who for some reason had still not left his tower. At the time, I wasn't especially worried about him—the Hand was quite capable of ensuring his own safety, and the fire had not spread to his chambers. Besides, I clearly remembered the moment when I had once suggested that Tywin devote more attention to his personal security. He had raised an eyebrow and looked at me so eloquently that I had immediately lost all desire to continue the conversation.
The guard returned pale as a sheet and delivered the terrible news—Tywin Lannister had been killed in his chambers.
Western lords, their knights, guards, and many others ran toward the Hand's Tower, cursing loudly…
Tywin was found cut down in his chambers near the door, having received around a dozen blows to the neck, head, and torso. Nearby lay a young man, curled in on himself—a steward—and in the corridor, three dead warriors from the Westerlands and two Gold Cloaks lay sprawled in various positions.
Both the corridor and the Hand's chambers were literally flooded with blood. It was clear that at least one of the attackers had been seriously wounded and had not escaped unpunished. Several warriors rushed off, following the trail of blood…
At that very moment, I gave the order to close all gates and detain every ship preparing to depart from the harbor.
Tywin Lannister was carried outside. I stood by the doors of the Tower of the Hand. The glow of the nearly extinguished fire played across the massive stone walls. The wind billowed clothing and cast ominous, distorted shadows across the faces of the vast crowd surrounding me. Everyone reeked of smoke and sweat.
We were silent. I pressed my lips together and looked at the man who, in this world, had become my grandfather—the most reliable, wise, and perceptive man. We all depended on his counsel, his wit, his political ties, and his foresight. He could anticipate and astonish, holding in mind hundreds, even thousands of details and plans. He knew how to neutralize or answer any threat.And now he was gone. Not even death could erase the mark of greatness from his face…
At that moment, more than ever before, I felt the unbearable weight of power settle on my shoulders. It literally weighed me down toward the ground. Present and future problems alike seemed a hundred times heavier.
People stood there, watching, waiting to hear what their king would command… And I did not know what to say to them. In that moment, I was obliged to find the right words—the necessary words. Not at once, but eventually, I began to speak…
When the eastern sky began to pale, it became known that Kingsguard Ser Osmund Kettleblack had vanished—along with his two brothers.
(End of Chapter)
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