It was past time to be going. Today this Red Keep would be proving true to its name. He walked along halls of red brick, stepping over fresh red pools, silent as a shadow. Everywhere there were red cloaks. Some were grey, this was true. But most of those lay dying, fresh red stains marring even the proud colors of the north.
His own red cloak swayed behind him. His steps were measured, unhurried. No one would notice one more Lannister guardsman. Especially one with such an unremarkable face.
Five they had been, accompanying Ser Meryn Trant of the Kingsguard as he attempted to retrieve young Arya for his queen. Perhaps one day six strong men would be needed, but this day she was still a child. Instead, they faced Syrio Forel.
True to his word, the First Sword of Braavos had not run. Five had come and five had fallen, until only the knight remained. But when the god of death came for you, there was only one thing to say.
Syrio Forel had died in that room. Ser Meryn, too, lay fallen, still as sleep. His bruises would heal in time, though his pride would take far longer. Perhaps it would be better if he joined his five companions, but time was short and swords were singing in the direction that Arya had run. Today the god would have his due.
The man that stepped from that room wore the crisp, red cloak of Lannister. His face was broad and pitted, his deep-set eyes framed by lank, brown hair. There had been younger men among them, one that might have even been handsome before the wooden sword had taken his eye. But this was a good face, a plain face. Plain would shield him as well as his borrowed cloak and armor.
And so it did. The guards he passed saw one of their own. Everywhere they ran, waving their thirsty swords, cutting down the last of Lord Stark's household. The King's Hand had seemed a good man, just and unyielding. For him, it would be too late. But Arya had come this way.
He spied her as he was crossing the wall above the stables. It was good that she had not returned to her father's tower. Good, too, that she had found supplies and a cloak. When a wind caught it, he smiled to see her needle tucked into her belt.
She kept her eyes fixed ahead as she crossed the yard, kept her steps slow. Calm as still water, yes, that was the way. There were other Lannister men on the walls nearby, but their gazes swept over her. They sought Arya Stark, not a poor serving girl too foolish to run. The child had learned quickly. Those lessons would be tested in the days to come.
He followed well behind her, a shadow of a shadow. The Keep was full of hidden pathways and he had done his part to learn them, pretending at being lost when his wanderings were discovered. Yet Arya pushed deeper still. They walked in darkness for a time and twice she turned to squint into the shadows behind her, though he knew that he had made no sound.
So it was that the youngest daughter of Lord Stark escaped into the city. The Lannister guard trailing her remained unnoticed, but this face and cloak had done their work. Glancing behind him, he stared up at the Keep, its red bricks blazing in the sun. Syrio Forel was dead. It was time for a new face, a new name.