At first, Ned is not aware what woke him, and in half-sleep he presses closer to the warm female body. Iona shifts a little, and then he hears it: a deep guttural growl. He rises on his elbow abruptly: never before had he heard Wolf growl like that.
Woken by his movement, Iona sits up. "My lord?" she whispers uneasily. "What is going on?"
"Hush." Subdued by the mabari's growl, there is a faint noise from the outside which Ned cannot discern. Wolf continues growling and begins to scratch the door.
Ned softly curses and gets out of the bed. "Quiet, Wolf," he orders but the dog does not heed him, so he curses again and pulls the dog away from the door. It takes all his strength to restrain it: Wolf is all tensed, its fur standing.
He doesn't not realize that Iona has got up, too, until she is already by the door. "I'll take a look," she says and opens the door even as he says, "Wait, I'll –"
The open door lets in some light, and an echo of – screams?
Clinging metal.
Then there is a swish and Iona gasps, staggering backwards, and issues a gargling sound as she collapses on the floor.
Ned freezes, his eyes transfixed on the arrow sticking from the base of her throat.
Free of restraint, Wolf springs forward – at the man with a bare sword in his hand who darts in the chamber. The man goes down with a scream which brings Ned back from the stupor: he makes for the door and bars it shut. The chamber is dark again, and quiet except for Wolf's panting.
Outside, there are running feet and shouting voices.
Great Maker, what has befallen?
Ned pulls away the curtain to let in some light and pushes the window open: the screams and the sounds of fight are unmistakable. He violently shakes his head. Who is attacking us?
He startles as a loud blow hits the door and his palms turn wet: they are breaking through.
Now, that will take some time.
His hands still tremble as he rushes to put on his clothes and armour. He does not bother with all the straps and buckles and is finished long before the door starts showing signs of giving way.
One more thing to be done, though.
Crossing the corpse with the torn throat, Ned picks Iona's body and puts it gently on the bed. "You saved my life," he whispers hoarsely before he pulls the blanket over her. "And if I survive this night, I promise I'll pay my debt."
Then, just as another blow is due, he jerks the door open.
The corridors are filling with smoke: the library and the eastern wing are already aflame.
Ned's eyes burn: on their way they pass bodies, bodies, bodies.
Servants, guards, everyone.
Gentle Oriana, who had never wielded anything more deadly than a needle, died in fight, protecting her son with her own body.
Oren's eyes remain widened in sheer terror, his throat mercilessly slit.
How does one grab a six-year-old by the hair to pull his head back for the blade?
He hears mother sob quietly but she keeps up with him – and not for an instant does she hesitate to bring down any enemy they encounter, aiming her arrows with deadly precision.
At the end of the winding stairs they are ambushed: Wolf yelps as a sword strikes its shoulder. Ned thrusts his sword in the man's chest, in the middle of the Howe emblem.
Howe.
Arl Rendon Howe, who smiled and shook their hands and dined at their table.
Ned feels blood trickling down his arm but does not heed: his sword and arm are one, and cut through the mail and meat and bone alike.
When the last man falls with an arrow in his eye, Ned is almost disappointed.
"Wait here," his mother commands and darts into the corridor leading to the treasury. "If they come before I'm back, run on your own."
"I will not have the family heritage fall into the hands of that treacherous filth."
Ned wipes his forehead, listening for the sound of rushing footsteps, for the victorious roar of Howe's men breaking through.
"Hurry, my Lady, my Lord." Gilmore has a long scratch over the face, his red hair is scorched. "We have managed to bar the main door and will hold it for some time. Hurry. Please."
That's probably the last I've seen of him.
Teyrna Eleanor re-emerges, carrying a sword and a shield.
The Cousland family sword, the shield of Highever.
"Take these," she says. "They are better than yours."
Ned hesitates. "I'd better keep those I'm used to, for the time being. Bear them for me, will you?"
Only a while later he regrets his decision.
The enemies are but three – two men-at-arms, and a knight.
A knight in a full plate armour. Stronger, heavier, and fresher. Ned's strikes are blocked with steel while Ned himself has to cover every single blow – and his arms already feel heavy like lead.
He cannot risk to look how mother is faring with the other two men but no-one has attacked him from behind yet, meaning she's still holding.
Unlike himself.
He dodges too slowly and a shield blow sends him to the ground, half stunned. He manages only to his knees before another blow comes, aimed at his head. He blocks it but loses balance, and moves the shield to cover his side only partially.
He cries and curls as the blade slashes at his ribs.
The final blow never comes; when Ned looks up, the knight is lying on his back, protecting his face against a fury of chestnut fur.
Ned thrusts his sword through the visor of the helm, between the gauntleted fingers.
Then his mother is at his side, anxiously repeating his name. Ned gasps as she feels the wound and expertly stuffs in a piece of cloth. At her urging, he finally gets up and staggers, heavily leaning on her shoulder.
"The Teyrn is gravely wounded. Duncan carried him to the larder. Hurry, my Lady."
Great Maker, don't let father die.
