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Entertainment was scarce in this world.
Most smallfolk in King's Landing finished their workday, grabbed a cheap cup of ale at the tavern, then slipped into one of the noisy houses for a quick game of "city darts."
Storytellers and singers who actually knew their craft were always popular.
"Listen up, neighbors!" A septon stood at the crossroads in Flea Bottom, voice booming.
"That treacherous Stannis has turned his back on the Seven! He's shacked up with a red priestess and burned the statues of the Seven on Dragonstone! Blasphemy of the highest order!"
The crowd just grumbled.
Burned some statues? Who cared? The gods were up there, the lords were in between, and the smallfolk were at the very bottom.
A nearby vendor took advantage of the lull.
"Fresh rats! Roasted rats here!"
Still, nobody bit.
Riverlands grain was rolling into the city by the wagonload, so no one was starving. Tyrion might not have Littlefinger's gift for splitting a gold dragon in two, but he was damn good at writing IOUs. Joffrey's name on the note, Casterly Rock's gold behind it. Win-win—if Tywin didn't mind footing the bill.
Inside the tavern a bard plucked his lute, saving the mood.
"Silver-haired, purple-eyed remnants—the last dragonspawn.
They wed the Dothraki savages deep in the grass sea.
Now they swear to cross the Narrow Sea on wind and wildfire,
to smash our walls and burn our towns to ash.
Who rides at their head—the dragon queen or the horse-lord king?"
Laughter rolled through the tavern. More people drifted in from the street.
The bard's fingers danced faster, voice rising.
"Heroic King Robert sailed across the Blackwater and the Narrow Sea,
axe and lance in hand, to end the bloodline once and for all!
But treachery bloomed at home—
Stannis, the grim lord, Robert's own brother,
spread lies that the king was dead,
called shadows from the mist with foul sorcery,
tried to murder our sweet Prince Joffrey—
the stag's true son—
so he could steal the Iron Throne and crown himself king!"
The crowd clapped hard.
Nobody tossed a single copper.
"Kinslayer!" the septon bellowed from the doorway.
"The Seven hate kinslayers most of all! They burn in the seven hells!"
Inside the tavern people glanced at one another.
One man lazily answered, "Hell? Only the starving go to hell."
A guy slurping brown broth spoke up. "Aye. Lords fight, smallfolk bleed. We've had kings come and go—none of 'em ever made our lives easier."
A few scattered murmurs agreed.
King Joffrey was decent. He'd opened a couple of soup kitchens in Flea Bottom, sometimes even serving the fancy stuff they sold during tourneys.
Still, nothing came free.
King was king. They all looked the same from down here.
The septon and the bard shared a look.
The bard set his lute aside and leaned in, voice low and conspiratorial.
"You haven't heard the best part yet."
"Stannis shut down every brothel and tavern on Dragonstone. Every single one."
The tavern went dead quiet.
The septon stepped inside and nodded solemnly. "Closed. All of them."
"That red god of his forbids drinking, whoring, singing, dancing—everything."
Eyes widened like the sun had just risen in the west.
"He even flogs drunkards," the bard added. "I've got a friend who just got back."
"Seven hells…" someone muttered.
The septon drew the moment out. "If that man ever takes King's Landing…"
The tavern exploded.
"Can't let that bastard in!"
"Protect our… protect the city!"
"Stannis can rot in hell!"
"Long live King Joffrey!"
It was a little over the top.
But most of what they spread was simple truth.
Ever since Littlefinger died, the royal administration's standards had shot straight up. Eddard Stark's moral compass never stopped watching.
Still, words alone don't hold a city.
Stannis didn't have a huge host. His own bannermen—Velaryon and Celtigar—could barely scrape together a few thousand men between their islands. The rest of his fleet and fighters came courtesy of "the Onion Knight," Davos Seaworth. Smuggler by trade, pirate-adjacent, the man could call in ships no one else could.
On the King's Landing side, the propaganda worked.
Smallfolk poured in to join the city defense. Veterans went straight into the City Watch. The rest were mixed with the Crownlands levies and drilled hard.
Half of them had never held a blade before, but for wall duty, numbers mattered more than skill.
Right now, time was the only thing they had.
Renly hadn't crowned himself, so Stannis probably wouldn't waste ships sailing on Storm's End first. His fleet could appear in Blackwater Bay any day—tomorrow, or the next hour.
"Still no word from the scouts?" Cersei grabbed Tyrion by the collar, eyes hard.
"Not one. The fishermen who volunteered never came back."
He licked his lips and poured himself another cup. He'd been drinking more lately.
"What about your little birds, Lord Varys? Aren't they supposed to be everywhere?"
The eunuch looked unusually glum.
"Your Grace, I fear the red woman really does practice sorcery. I've had no messages from Dragonstone since last month."
"They say she burns traitors alive as offerings to her false god."
"They were only children…" He dabbed at the corner of his eye.
Joffrey studied the varied faces around the table and wondered whether the Spider truly had no news—or simply wasn't sharing.
The other two Lannisters had been busy too. One was tearing down every rickety riverside building so the displaced smallfolk could help repair the walls. The other had rounded up every blacksmith in the city to work on his giant chain project.
Eddard, hopeless at this sort of thing and unwilling to get involved, had gone off to drill troops.
"Uncle," Joffrey said.
Tyrion turned, a look of sudden dread crossing his face at the word.
"Go to the Alchemists' Guild for me."
Joffrey's voice stayed calm.
"Find out exactly how much wildfire we still have in storage."