After descending from the walls, Tyrion went to the armory. When its doors opened, a musty smell hit him. Inside lay piles of longswords, spears, and bows and arrows, but most had already rusted.
"Is this all?" he asked the armory keeper, his tone doubtful.
The keeper was an elderly knight. He answered shakily, "Lord Hand, during King Robert's reign, he never considered spending more on weapons. These are stocks left over from the Mad King's time."
Tyrion said nothing. He merely turned and left, his expression grim.
Next, he went to Flea Bottom, though not to see Hallyne. His experience the night before had made him want to take a good look at this cesspit of King's Landing.
Narrow streets, muddy ground, ramshackle wooden houses, and air thick with the stench of shit, piss, and rubbish. Children in rags rummaged through rubbish heaps and sewers for food. This was the first time he had truly looked at this corner of King's Landing.
As he and his guards passed, there was no curiosity in the commoners' eyes, only numbness and a hint of buried hostility.
Tyrion recalled something his father Tywin had once said. "The common folk are like sheep. They need a shepherd to drive them and sheepdogs to watch them. Never expect them to think for themselves."
Now, looking at these "sheep," he suddenly felt his father had been right. Between the Targaryens and the Lannisters, whom would these people choose? They did not care who sat on the Iron Throne, only whether they would have enough to eat tomorrow. They needed him to drive them.
He walked up to a bread stall and asked, "How much for a loaf?"
The stallholder was a burly middle-aged man. Seeing Tyrion's dwarf stature and the soldiers behind him, surprise flickered