บท 8: chapter 8 the city of shit
In the past three weeks, I have set everything in motion. The alcohol business is up and running. Vodka, with its quick production time, is already in the works, but the meads—apple, strawberry, grape (which is essentially wine)—will take at least three months to ferment properly. I've already given detailed instructions to the workers, loyal men I found easily enough. Their loyalty, though, was not out of some grand sense of duty but rather forged in fear.
Initially, I was accompanied by three men sent by my grandfather. However, as the operation grew and more carts were needed, the number of guards increased to thirty. You'd think their loyalty would remain with him, and that might have been true—had they not seen the things I've shown them, done the things I've made them do. Eating human flesh to prove their loyalty, torturing traitors, and watching as I slowly dismantled one of their own who chose my grandfather over me. His screams echoed for days. In the end, Zeus feasted on his still-breathing body. Wealth may move men, but fear gives you a grip that never fades. I will be this world's boogeyman. When I return, I'll begin raising an army with the king's permission. That fat drunk will have to allow it, but I have my ways of getting his attention.
After two weeks of travel with my father and grandfather, we finally reached the gates of King's Landing. The city was massive, far larger than the books or the show could convey. But what neither the stories nor the books prepared me for was the stench. It was unbearable, a sickening mixture of rot, sweat, filth and human shit. Even Zeus, loyal and fierce, gagged at the smell.
"Seems your pet can't handle the stench of the largest city in Westeros," my father commented, amused.
"So it seems," I replied, holding back my own discomfort.
"Move along, both of you!" my grandfather barked, already marching ahead.
We hurried our pace, flanked by 200 Lannister guards and 50 knights. Their armor gleamed in the midday sun, resplendent with the lion emblem of House Lannister, gold and proud. At last, we arrived at the Red Keep smell was better thank the old gods, we were greeted by King Robert Baratheon, Queen Cersei Lannister, the Kingsguard, and most notably, my uncle Jaime Lannister—the Kingslayer. People of this era were fools; "Kingslayer" was not an insult. To me, it was a badge of honor, a name I, too, would soon earn.
We dismounted our horses, and I helped my father down. In front of us stood the royal family—Joffrey, the spoiled brat, 2-year-old Tommen, and Cersei, visibly pregnant with another child, undoubtedly Jaime's.
"Hello, Father," Cersei greeted, her voice sharp as ever.
"Hello, daughter," Tywin replied coldly, his gaze shifting to Robert.
Tywin so good to see you the king bellowed, his voice full of false joviality.
Its great to see that your in good health my liege I trust you're looking forward to the tourney celebrating the young princes 7th birthday and my daughters latest pregnancy?"
"Aye! And I hear your grandson will be participating?" The king's eyes sparkled with interest. "The dwarf's son, I presume?"
I scowled at the word, but before I could say anything, the queen noticed and studied me with a quiet intensity.
"He's a bit young, don't you think?" Robert continued, his laughter bellowing. "I've heard wild tales about him—only eight years old, slaughtering bandits and carrying their skulls like trophies." His booming laugh echoed as his bloated belly shook.
Tywin's grin was sharp. "Well, you can judge for yourself, Robert. He's right here."
"Where?"
Tywin gestured to me, and finally, Robert's gaze landed on me. At first, confusion crossed his face. His eyes widened as he took in my size, my black and gold armor glistening with the Lannister lion, its eyes made from emeralds, a ruby gleaming in its mouth. Two swords hung on my back, heavy but balanced. My appearance alone silenced the crowd.
"What in the hells, Tywin! The boy can't be more than eight name days, and yet… look at him! Bigger than the Mountain!" He laughed again, but there was a note of uncertainty in his voice. "Where do you breed these giants?"
I stepped forward. "I am Caesar Hill, my lord. The people call me the Bloody Giant, but I call myself the son of Tyrion Lannister."
Robert turned to Tyrion, raising an eyebrow. "Is this true, Imp?"
Before my father could respond, I stepped forward, my voice booming, "Watch how you speak of him, my lord. That 'Imp' is my father."
The words cut through the air like a blade. The Kingsguard immediately placed their hands on their swords, tension crackling in the courtyard. My venomous gaze lingered on the king, daring him.
Tyrion chuckled before stepping in. "It's alright, my boy. I'm used to such insults by now. Besides, without me being an imp, how else could you be a giant?"
The tension broke with the king's awkward laugh. "Yes, Tyrion… who knew you had it in you?"
"Well, your grace," my father responded, still grinning, "it seems the boy's mother had quite a lot to do with it."
Robert roared with laughter. "Aye, Tyrion, that she did!" He wiped a tear from his eye. "Well, Caesar, my apologies. Name your price, and I'll grant you a boon."
I smiled, my plan falling into place. "I ask only one thing, your grace."
"Speak, lad. What is it?"
"Fight me in the melee."
The words hung in the air, the shock rippling through the crowd. Even the Kingsguard shifted uncomfortably. Robert stared at me, bewildered.
"You want me to fight you?" the king asked, his voice quieter now, serious.
"King Robert Baratheon, the Usurper. I've heard tales of your strength, of how you caved in the chest of a Targaryen prince and claimed his kingdom. I wish to see that power myself. Fight me."
Silence followed. Robert's eyes searched mine, and then, slowly, a grin crept onto his face. "I like you, boy. You've got fire. Very well! I'll give you a fight to remember."
I grinned back, feeling the thrill of the challenge. "Bring it, your grace," I said, my voice low and menacing, as those around us watched in stunned silence.
The game begins
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