THE COMMANDER OF THE WATCH

"Something has gone wrong," said Lord Tywin. The midnight embers burned low behind him, casting a pale orange glow across his hard, lined face and golden whiskers. "We should have heard the stories by now, the countryside from Sunspear to Karhold should have heard. Robb Stark should be dead, his head mounted on a pike before the Crossing and his army crushed. His mother and uncle should be our prisoners, tools with which to bring the Eyrie and Riverrun to heel. Instead, we have heard nothing. My informants in the riverlands have gone silent. Not a rumor, not a messenger, not a single, solitary raven. Why?"

Ser Addam Marbrand frowned, blinking through bleary eyes. Ser Balon Swann, who now stood guard outside the door, had roused him from his bedchamber in the Dragon Gate barracks not half an hour before, and dragged him halfway across the city to the Red Keep. King's Landing was silent for the most part; but for the whorehouses reeking of incense and the gambling dens reeking of drink, nearly all had settled in for the night, but not Lord Tywin. While the smallfolk and the nobles and even his knights and retainers slept, Tywin Lannister toiled away in his study, writing letters and moving troops and ruling the realm while the boy king on the throne did his best to make the people despise him.

"I…" do not know, Ser Addam was about to say. One look at Tywin's face, though, and he thought better of it. "Perhaps the Freys turned coward. Didn't have the stomach to do it, or couldn't find the right opportunity." For several weeks, Addam and a select few others- who, he did not know- had been privy to Tywin Lannister's scheme to have Robb Stark assassinated at the Twins. While the idea of murdering unarmed men- guests under the Rite of the Seven at a wedding, no less- did not sit well with him, he knew that it had to be done to end the war; kill a dozen men at dinner to save thousands on the battlefield, as Tywin had put it.

"Walder Frey is certainly possessed of a great deal of low cunning and depravity, but he is no coward, and no man's fool." The lord countered in tones that brokered no argument. "He knows that the North cannot win the war, that by joining us he places himself firmly on the winning side, and ensures the lasting prosperity of his house. Roose Bolton is another creature entirely, and far more dangerous, but his motives are more or less the same. What's more, why would he pass by an opportunity to seize control of the North from the Starks? Their houses have been at each other's throats for hundreds if not thousands of years, and Roose is not a man to forgive and forget."

Tywin sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose with two fingers. Addam had been by his side during half a hundred candlelight vigils, but tonight was different. Tension laced the cool midnight air, a palpable aura of uncertainty. Addam had seen the lord remain stone-faced and emotionless in the most maddening of circumstances, but tonight, the lord could not hide the raw anger in his eyes. Both men knew what the silence from the riverlands meant. The masterstroke of Tywin's plan to win the war off the battlefield had likely failed, months of planning rendered null by a fault that Tywin as of now had no way of understanding. It was this powerlessness in the face of an unknown flaw that tinged Tywin's every word with a bitter and anxious air, as he unfurled a map of the Crownlands.

"You will leave the city within the hour," he intoned, tracing out a northward route on the parchment, "along with twenty of your best men. A picket of my swiftest cavalry will meet you at Rosby; from there, you will ride for Harrenhal, and glean whatever information you can regarding what in seven hells happened at the Twins. Failing there, proceed further into the Riverlands until you have something to report. I summoned Gregor Clegane back to the capital two days ago, but the garrison he left there has stopped responding to our ravens- prepare yourselves for the worst. Under no circumstances, though, are you to discuss the details of or reasons behind this expedition with anyone other than me. Not your men, not mine, not Joffrey or Cersei. I don't care if the High Septon asks you- no one."

Marbrand nodded dutifully in assent, his head still swimming as he left the room and dispatched runners ahead of him to the barracks and gates. The commander had hardly accrued a decent night's worth of sleep over the course of the past week, his days consumed by security preparations for Joffrey's nuptials; this night's developments had hardly been ideal. Pausing at a window to rub the sleep from his eyes with a leather-clad hand, he glanced up to find the Imp standing before him, a wry grin playing across his scarred, moonlit face.

"Lovely evening for a moonlight stroll, isn't it, Ser Addam?"

"Aye," Addam replied evenly, raising an eyebrow. How in seven hells…

"I know you've been quite the busy man recently, especially with the royal wedding just a few days away. You're up planning for that, I'd wager."

Tyrion Lannister read the knight's face like a book, his grin growing wider at Marbrand's visible flinch.

"Or perhaps not. Fancy meeting you here, outside my father's quarters. But you seemed to be going somewhere in a bit of a hurry, your lack of sleep notwithstanding, and I certainly don't want to slow you down. You'll probably be needing to return to your barracks with some haste, what with all this talk around the Keep of watchmen being roused from their beds, and horses being fetched from the stables. Sounds like you have quite the situation on your hands."

Addam was practically fuming by the time Tyrion fell silent again- it took all the restraint he could muster to maintain his composure. He knows. It's barely been an hour since Tywin summoned me, and he knows. Gods damn him.

"There's no need to worry, my lord. Just a training exercise. Have to keep the men on their toes, after all."

"Of course."

The Imp watched the commander as he continued briskly down the corridor and disappeared around the corner, his mismatched eyes shining in the darkness.

Half an hour later, in a courtyard outside the Red Keep's stables, the commander had mustered his twenty watchmen, four veteran lieutenants and their most experienced soldiers. Contrary to the general makeup of the Gold Cloaks, a great deal of noble houses were represented among the grizzled band; third and fourth sons of minor Crownland lords, well-trained and well-educated, often found that they could rise high in the ranks of the City Watch- higher than they could at the Wall or the Citadel. The most senior member of the group of twenty, Lymar Pyle, the captain of the King's Gate, had being serving since well before Robert's Rebellion. His grizzled salt-and-pepper beard and several missing teeth, knocked out in brawls and battles, testified to his years. Still spry and wiry, though, he was the first to call out to Addam when he entered the yard.

"What the bloody hell is going on, commander? It's past the hour of the wolf!"

"Aye!" echoed Kasper Chelsted, shouldering his mace, scowling through his thick black stubble. "I was in the middle of fuckin' the best blonde when your runner came to fetch me, nice buxom tits and all, and down below…"

"That's enough!" Addam interrupted amidst peals of laughter, chuckling despite himself as he gestured to Ewell Brax, his squire, to bring up his courser. Barely sixteen and full of the plucky self-confidence that comes with that age, Ewell nodded, grinning through his thin, scruffy beard as he jogged off to the stables.

"Alright, you sons of whores, listen up!" He barked, turning back the men. "We are taking a nice, relaxing midnight ride to Harrenhal, to have a little chat with the Mountain's men. No further questions will be asked. Do you understand?"

Several men mumbled weakly in response; Addam cocked an eyebrow.

"I said, do you understand?!"

The crowd bellowed their assent, save for one man at the back, who leaned against the red wall of the Keep. His iron helm hid most of his face, save for a smug grin and dark, greasy locks that spilled out the back. Narrowing his eyes, the commander took a stride toward him. Here we go again. Addam had dealt with enough arrogant fools with chips on their shoulders since becoming commander to know how to handle them.

"Did you not hear me, watchman?"

"Aye, I reckon I heard you."

"So, watchman, do you understand?"

The man's smirk widened.

"I suppose I do. Just didn't want to strain my poor voice. I'm a top notch singer, you know. The ladies can't get enough of it."

You're going to regret that, you cocky little shit.

"What's your name, watchman?"

"Borwick Rambton."

"Well, Borwick, why don't you get your weapon, find a horse, and fall in line, before I lose my patience and rip that cloak off your shoulders for insubordination. Is that a bit more clear?"

Rambton shoved himself off the wall, and joined the rest of the watchmen with a heavy sigh.

"Well, Ser, I suppose it is."

By the end of the hour, the band of men was galloping out the Iron Gate, riding hard along the coast. As farms turned to countryside, and fishing huts turned to bare beaches, Addam called back to the group.

"Well, lads, since our dear friend Borwick has such a knack for singing, I say he should serenade us all the way to Rosby. What say you?"

The men's laughter and shouts echoed along the quiet coastline; Addam turned to watch Borwick, whose perpetual grin had quickly died.

"The Bear and the Maiden Fair!" cried Kasper Chelsted.

"Six Maidens in a Pool!" Merion Waters countered, cupping his hands about his mouth.

"The Dornishman's Wife!"

"Milady's Supper!"

"Brave Danny Flint!"

"The Lusty Lad!"

"Which one?" Rambton grunted when the men had finally quieted down.

"Oh, don't worry," Addam replied through a smirk of his own, "you'll have more than enough time to get through them all. Might as well get started."

Though they were obscured by his helm, Addam could feel the loathing emanating from the watchman's eyes. He grinned all the same though, content in his victory as Borwick began.

"A bear there was, a bear, a bear, all black and brown and covered in hair…"

The moon still hung low in the sky when the company of just over forty riders came within sight of the looming black towers of Harrenhal, their twisted, warped stone features forming ominous silhouettes against the star-strewn sky. The torches that normally glowed at the two manned towers' peaks had been extinguished, and Addam's chest filled with dread at the sight. By the gods, what if it's really happened? What if they've taken it? He held up a mailed fist, and the company's horses skidded to a stop at a bend in the road, panting and drooling after hours of riding. Perhaps I drove them too hard, he mused, glancing at the bronze trappings of Ashstrider, his own red courser, slick with sweat. They'd made nearly record time from the capital, despite having to stop at Rosby to wait for the Lannister cavalry. Moving forward at a canter, they edged nearer and nearer to the castle's towering curtain walls, stopping again a few hundred yards away. The air was choked with an oppressive, unnatural silence, too eerie for even the cursed fortress before them.

"This isn't right," muttered Dormund Swyft, the ranking officer of the Lannister cavalry, his blonde brows furrowed. "Gregor's men are never this quiet, even in the dead of night. My cousin and his company stayed here for a night on his way back to the capital, said they're always up drinking and raping and torturing until past dawn. They're a sick lot, but not a quiet one."

Addam nodded, grimacing as he turned his horse to face the men.

"Lymar, Dormund, with me. The rest of you, hold position, and keep your guard up. We don't know who is in that castle, but they may not be friendly anymore."

Dormund quickly ordered several riders to scout the surrounding woods, then joined the two Gold Cloaks as they trotted cautiously forward, hands at their swordbelts, heads turning back and forth and back again, searching fruitlessly for any sign of a trap or ambush. When they were within a stone's throw of the towering wood and metal gates, a trio of faint silhouettes appeared on the ramparts, their allegiance indiscernible.

"Hail friends!" The commander shouted, squinting as he struggled to make out the distant symbols on their surcoats in the pale glow of the moon.

"Who would pass the gates of Harrenhal?" a rough voice called down.

The commander hesitated for a moment, torn. They might kill me no matter what I say. He steeled himself, though, and called out in reply.

"Ser Addam Marbrand, commander of the City Watch of King's Landing, loyal servant of the true king… Joffrey Baratheon."

The figures on the wall fell silent for a moment, and Addam continued haltingly.

"Where is Polliver? We must needs speak with him at once."

"The castellan? He's here, with us," the silhouette responded, its tone suddenly almost mocking. "Hold just a moment, and we'll send him down to you."

A faint whoosh broke the silent night air, and with a sickening splatter of gore, Polliver's head landed in the dirt, severed at his neck. One eye was gouged out, and his tongue had pulled from his open mouth, but the man's trimmed beard and balding head were unmistakable even when mutilated and bloodstained.

Oh, fuck.

The first volley of arrows found their marks with lethal accuracy. One struck Dormund squarely in the back as he turned to flee, punching with ease through the light leather and thin mail worn by scouts for speed. Another took Lymar's rearing horse in the neck, sending it toppling to the ground and taking the older watchman with it. A third hit Ashstrider in the side, but shattered on the horse's armor; pivoting wildly, Addam rode furiously for the rest of the company, crying out in pain as well-placed shaft pierced his thigh from behind. He could hear the gates creak open behind him, the clanking of mail and plate, the rattling of swords and spears; chancing a glance backward, he caught a glimpse of what must have been thirty- no, fifty Northern soldiers, pouring out onto the road, torches in hand. Lymar, struggling to his feet from beneath his dying palfry, charged them with a ragged shout, sword raised high. The veteran fighter made an account of himself, but was cut down in moments all the same. They're all on foot! Addam realized exuberantly, laughing to himself as he galloped out of the range of their bows and toward the rest of his men. They have no horses! We can still win this yet, draw them out and flank them…

"TO ME, TO ME!" He bellowed as he came within sight of the patch of road where the company was waiting, drawing his sword. "FORM UP, AND FOLLOW…"

He was interrupted by the thundering blast of a warhorn, and an air-splitting battle cry. Before half of the men even realized what was happening, two masses of northern cavalry burst from the woods, one on either side of the road. So that's what happened to Dormund's scouts. A volley of quarrels from mounted crossbowmen cut down nearly a dozen men where they stood, and a third of those who remained were butchered within seconds of the initial impact, as the axes and swords of the northern riders were put to use with deadly effect. Finding himself at the middle of the frenzied melee, Addam lowered his sword toward the open road behind them, the only escape in sight.

"RETREAT!" He cried desperately, grimacing as Ashstrider reared, kicking wildly into the now torchlit air. "FALL BACK, MAKE FOR THE CAPITAL!"

He and a mob of other panicked soldiers rode madly for the opening. A few dozen yards ahead, though, a lone northman stood with a torch in the middle of the road, casting it forward onto a band of dark, slick ground. Addam watched in horror as a wall of fire rose up from the dirt, Ashstrider skidding to a halt mere yards from the flames. One Gold Cloak wasn't as lucky; his horse lost its footing and careened forward through the fire, setting them both ablaze. Addam could do nothing but stare in shock at their writhing bodies, their agonized screams ringing in his ears. They were trapped. He had lost. The battle faded out of his senses, the sounds and sights all melding into one pained blur. Sweat and tears burned in his bloodshot eyes, the bitter sting of defeat. Mother forgive me.

"COMMANDER!"

A slap across the face from Kasper Chelsted quickly brought him back to the ugly reality of the situation.

"If we're going to make it out of this, and by the gods, I intend to, we need to move, now!" He paused to swat aside a charging northman, his mace flashing grey and then red as it turned the man's broad, whiskered jaw into pulp and sent him toppling from his horse. "Their foot soldiers are closing from behind, but there's still time to make a gap!"

Addam nodded, his eyes wide with renewed resolve, that special brand of fear-driven courage. He let out a rallying cry, surging forward along with Kasper and what few other men they could draw to their side, Lannister and Gold Cloak alike. The northern cavalry had moved quickly enough to deny them a true opening, but the group pressed hard for the weakest spot of the circle they could find, an area only a few horses deep, and away from the bloody heart of the clash.

The commander's sword sunk deep into the shoulder of the first northman he came across, too slow to raise his iron-embossed buckler. Blood spattered across his face as he moved on to the next man, his own troops alongside him. To his right, Borwick fought surprisingly well, as grudging as Addam was to admit it, dodging the sloppy blows of a massive northerner before he slit the man's throat with the whirl of a dirk. At his left, Gram the Butcher, a massive captain out of Flea Bottom infamous for an incident involving too much wine and pair of horse thieves, had already cleaved a man's skull in two with his falchion, while Merion Waters, his sword knocked aside, resorted in his desperation to grabbing a man by his collar and shattering his nose with a mailed fist. The Butcher was the first to break through, swatting his brained opponent aside as a bear would a mouse, and riding toward the woods with a yell of triumph. Soon the others rushed through the hole to join him, keen on pressing forward before their escape was cut off.

Gram's ride was cut short, though, by a well-placed quarrel, which transfixed his burly neck, and reduced his yell to a choked gurgle. His gold cloak caught in his horse's reins as he fell, his still writhing body dragged through the grass as the courser bolted into the trees, leaving a trail of blood in its wake.

"DON'T LET THEM ESCAPE!" A Riverland knight bellowed, his lobstered steel fist extended toward them. More quarrels followed, along with a wave of Northern cavalry, broken off from the main battle, the knight in their midst. The Northern foot had closed on their other side, and made short work of the laggards at the back of the group. Merion Waters was sent tumbling from his horse by a well-aimed spear thrust, then run through as he struggled to stand. Drawing his horse to the side at the last moment, Kasper Chelsted narrowly avoided the same fate. The paltry few men who had broken free at his back, Addam put heel to Ashstrider and plunged into the forest, mindless of the northmen and even his allies, his sole aim to get as far away from Harrenhal as his exhausted horse could carry him. Fuck King's Landing, fuck Tywin. I'd never go back if it meant I don't have to die like this, in this godforsaken place. Treasonous, selfish thoughts filled his mind, but he hardly cared. Addam Marbrand merely wanted to live.

The northerners seemed to be vehemently opposed to this concept, however. Quarrels whizzed past him left and right, slamming into tree trunks with dull thuds. Several found their mark in limbs and backs, Ewell Brax's arm among them; his screams of pain echoed through the trees, but the squire rode on all the same, his eyes wild with fear. Already exhausted by their long night's ride, the group's horses gradually began to lose their momentum, lagging dangerously close to the heavy hoofbeats of the northern destriers. Addam could soon hear every word of the knight's barked orders, even glimpse a mounted northman out of the corner of his vision, his hooked bill extended toward a Lannister man's pauldron. He had grasped his sword, ready to fight to the last, when Kasper grunted something barely intelligible beside him.

"Damn it all, Addam. I thought we had a chance."

"We can still make it through this." The words were hollow, insincere, but they came unbidden to him all the same.

"You still might, if I can help it. Tell the whores not to weep too much for me, brother."

A wry smile on his face, the watchman swung about his horse, bloodied mace at the ready, and charged toward the gaining cavalry. Addam stretched out his arm in a last effort to stop him, but the watchman had made his choice.

"FOR KING'S LANDING! FOR DAGGERHOLD!"

Closing rapidly with the enemy, Kasper brought his mace down with brutal force, smashing in the skull of the Riverland knight's horse. As man and beast alike tumbled into the underbrush, he swung forward his other arm and bashed his iron buckler into a northman's face with a reverberating crack. Addam was forced to look forward again before he could see any more, though. The sounds of clashing metal and whinnying horses faded slowly into the distance, as the group's other assailants broke off their pursuit to deal with Chelsted. Another good man dead because of me. The commander had lost soldiers before, dozens over the course of the war. But those deaths had always meant something, had always contributed to a higher purpose- not like this. There was no honor to be found here, no comforting lie about a noble cause. There was only his own failure, and he hated it.

The time for reflection quickly passed, though, as the paltry band of remaining survivors came upon a thicket of gnarled tree trunks and dense underbrush, interspersed by shallow pools of dark water.

"We should ditch the horses here," rasped Borwick, who was still alive, to Addam's chagrin, though his voice hadn't yet recovered. "That grove is too thick for them anyway. We can lose those bloody northerners in there, spend the rest of the night if we need to."

Addam nodded grudgingly, his spirit too sapped to ask Rambton who had made him commander. They soon made their way to the center of the thicket, huddling amid the thick shrubs and twisted branches. Of the forty-odd men that had set out from Rosby, only six remained. Two Lannister riders helped Borwick keep watch, while Addam bound and cleaned Ewell's wounded arm along with Jon Gaunt, the young captain of the Gate of the Gods.

"The bolt missed most of your muscle and bone," Jon reassured the boy; he set his helm aside and attempted a weak smile, pushing strands of sweat-soaked black hair from his eyes with a trembling hand. The captain did his best to distract Ewell while Addam stemmed the bleeding and tore a piece of cloth from his cloak. "You'll have a good story to tell for this battle scar. Not like me." He gestured to two thin ridges of white flesh that ran from his brow to his cheek. "All the men think I got it a brawl, but it was just a damn cat." Gaunt chuckled despite himself. "I was about your age. This big, nasty tom kept killing our cook's chickens and stealing food from the larder, so I resolved that I was going to make my father proud and deal with the beast myself. It was holed up behind a loose stone in the cellar, and, being the dumb little shit that I was, I reached down to grab it by the tail and pull it out."

"And it gave you that?" The squire finished.

"Aye, it gave me this. My mother was terrified that I'd catch fever, but my brothers and sisters couldn't stop laughing for a week- they've never let me live it down. Cat Scratch Jon, they called me."

Addam smiled for the first time in what seemed like ages as he finished tying off the tourniquet.

"I'd never heard that one. Cat Scratch Jon, eh? I like it- I'm sure the boys at your gate will too."

Gaunt's wide, pale eyes glowed sheepishly. He opened his mouth to reply, but was cut off by one of the Lannister men standing sentry.

"Torches in the distance."

Everyone not already standing was soon on their feet, their eyes on the distant glow of half a dozen flickering lights, all in the direction they had fled from.

"They're getting closer." Ewell grabbed the hilt of the rondel dagger at his side.

"Aye." Addam grimaced. "Fall farther back into the grove, stay low and stay quiet. Follow my lead."

Dawn had begun to tinge the sky purple and red and purple and fill the forest with the chirrups of birds as the survivors weaved slowly through bushes and vines toward the back of the thicket.

"We'll make a break for the east if they dismount. Follow the sunrise, and we should run across a friendly holdfast or two within the hour."

"On foot?" One of the Lannisters asked incredulously. "You're mad. They'll ride us down before we can run a hundred yards."

"Madness," the commander retorted, "would be going back toward those torches, fetching six already exhausted horses, and trying to lead them all the way around this bloody thicket without being caught. So unless you'd like to volunteer, which I'd be very open to, shut it. We move if they dismount."

Sure enough, the thuds of steel boots hitting soil could soon be heard faintly over the oblivious chatter of the birds. Shit.

Addam turned, ready to make for the treeline, only to lock eyes with a crouching Northern soldier barely five yards behind them.

"NOW!" The man roared, his sword drawn.

Ten other men burst from the bushes around the group in unison, weapons at the ready.

"TO ARMS!" Addam barely had the time to loose one ragged cry before the northerners were upon them. He swiped aside a charging spearman's blow and swiftly gutted the man, kicking him aside as the grove descended into a frenzied melee. A burly axman severed one Lannister's sword arm, then charged towards Ewell, only to be tackled mid-swing by Jon, sending them both into a murky pool of water. Borwick and one of the Lannisters, fighting back to back, held their own surprisingly well against a trio of Stark soldiers, and for a brief moment, as he swung his sword into a disarmed northman's neck, Addam's heart lifted. Gods be good, might we make it out of this yet?

The gods answered with resounding denial. The riverland knight, his plates dented and dotted with clumps of grass and dirt, strode calmly through the reeds and briars toward the increasingly bloody clash, two Tully men at his back. Unslinging a bastard sword, he waded towards Jon Gaunt, who was still wrestling in the water with the axman, and severed the captain's spine with one swift blow, staining his gold cloak red. Ewell cried out in anger, and managed to drive his rondel into a Tully's leg before he was brained by the other's sword hilt, and run through by a northman's spear. The second Lannister and a Stark man died on each other's blades, while Borwick was backed into a maze of gnarled trunks by three advancing foes.

Pure rage coursed through Addam's veins as the others advanced slowly in his direction; though his sword arm throbbed in agonized exhaustion, he raised it all the same, daring them to face him. A Stark and Tully surged forward fist; drops of blood flew from the commander's sword as he met them blow for blow. He took full advantage of the profusely bleeding dagger wound Ewell had left, kicking the man savagely in the thigh and sending him crumpling to the floor with a howl. He dealt with the Stark in short order after that, and once he had finished off the grounded Tully, Addam was left standing face-to-face with the knight.

"Is that Addam fucking Marbrand?" The man whistled. "Gods be good, won't you make a fine prize. I imagine the Young Wolf will be quite pleased when I march back to the Twins with your head on a pike."

The commander flinched, unable to hide his surprise.

"Oh, you didn't know, did you? He's alive. Tywin's little plot failed, the Crossing is ours, and we will have our vengeance."

"You'll still lose." Addam growled. "King's Landing will never fall. Casterly Rock will never fall."

"That's where you're wrong." The knight chuckled, the sound echoing through his plumed metal greathelm. "But I've had my fair share of bloodshed for the night, and you're worth quite a pretty penny. Throw down your blade, why don't you, and we might let you live, see how you like the Harrenhal dungeons."

Addam spat on the ground before him, his blood-streaked lips twisted in a sneer.

"That's what I say to your dungeons."

"Have it your way, then." He raised his sword, leveling its tip with the commander. "You'll die like the rest of your men."

Thwack.

Just as he began to advance, the knight stumbled suddenly backward, a dirk protruding from his neck. A fountain of blood gushed from the mail and leather as he fell into the water with a resounding splash; he choked and gurgled his last before finally falling still beside Jon's body.

Before Addam could turn, a metal hilt took him in the back of the head with a dull crack. He reeled, his sword falling from his hands as the bloodsoaked ground rushed up to meet him. Sounds and images faded in and out, blurring and shifting. A pair of rough hands grabbed him by the arm and rolled him onto his back, as a familiar voice mumbled something indistinct above him. After a moment, the face gazing down on him came back into focus with blinding clarity, and Addam couldn't help but chuckle.

"Borwick Rambton my ass. Bronn. I should've fucking known."

The sellsword grinned, just as widely as he had in the courtyard.

"Aye, you should've. You must've seen me with Tyrion a hundred times. Frankly, I'm quite shocked that I didn't manage to give myself up- I played things a bit fast and loose. I guess all it takes is one of these, though," he gestured to the helm under his arm, "and you're damn near invisible."

Addam sighed. "To a fool like me, perhaps. So, you going to kill me, sellsword? Is this what I get for making you sing all night?"

Bronn cocked an eyebrow, shaking his head as he waded over to the knight's corpse and plucked out his dirk.

"Oh come on, Marbrand, I'm not that petty. This whole leaving you for dead business, it's nothing personal. Wasn't even the original plan, either. Tyrion just wanted to know what in seven hells was going on that had Lord Tywin so riled up. It's just that, seeing as only the two of us know what happened here, it seems to me that it's in my employer's best interest to have exclusive knowledge of this little debacle."

Striding nonchalantly back, Bronn plunged the slender blade into Addam's leg and drew it out again, wiping it on his cloak as the commander grunted in pain.

"That was for making me sing all night."

Voices could be heard in the distance, as more torches made their way to the thicket.

"Well, that's my cue." The mercenary tore off his gold cloak and tossed his helm to the side before bending over in a mock bow. "It's been a pleasure, Ser Addam. I do hope those Harrenhal dungeons are as cozy as they say they are."

His damningly smug grin still plastered across his face, Bronn leaned down and brought the hilt of his dirk down hard into Addam's forehead. Blinding pain flashed through his skull for a brief moment, then darkness overtook him.

I'm back! Yes, it's been a year (or two, whoops), but after a long spell of being relentlessly busy, my schedule has finally opened up again- the hype for Season 6 didn't hurt either. Don't hate me too much! Did you guess Borwick's true identity? Let me know in the reviews- I can't overstate how helpful they are!

-Imperium42