Chapter 26 - The 30th day of October, 298 years after Aegon's Conquest

Two hours and forty-five minutes later, the Australians' helicopter roared over the embassy street. Some members of the mob beyond scattered, fearing they had finally provoked the wrath of the flying men, but the more devout remained and doubled the volume of their jeering.

Eddard Stark stood in the street at the midpoint between the two embassies. The 'Black Hawk' came to a stop, hovering directly overhead. A few commandoes stood nearby, holding a bright red signal light. From the machine above, a pair of ropes fell out to the ground fifty feet below. A commando shimmied down each one. They exchanged some quick words before coming over to Eddard.

"Lord Stark" one man said. "I'm Captain Findlay. I'll be helping you this evening."

"I thank you for your help, ser" Eddard replied. The other commando introduced himself as a 'Lieutenant Underwood' and was carrying a harness. They motioned for Eddard to step into it, straps going under his groin and armpits and over his shoulders. After a minute they were satisfied and hooked him onto one of the ropes. With a quick thumbs up at the machine above, Eddard felt the rope tighten. Moments later his feet were lifted off the ground. It was a most curious sensation. It took all of Eddard's pride and willpower to remain silent as he ascended. He thought he heard a couple of arrows whizz past somewhere nearby, but it was impossible to see in the dark. One hand clutched his sword in its scabbard. He had left Ice with the Australians. It was too unwieldy a weapon to use in an actual fight. He had parted with it with almost the same level of regret as when he had entrusted them with his daughters.

Eddard was soon above the rooftops of the surrounding manses. He caught a quick glimpse of the city. The glow of burning fires twinkled away across its extent. King's Landing shone with a small fraction the brilliance of Melbourne but was grand in its own way. It was overcast above and there was no moon at this moment. The sky was about as dark as it ever got. He hoped that would favor them this night. A moment later he felt arms pulling him in from above as the whirring of the winch stopped.

Eddard had been in one of the machines just once before. This time though there were no lights on in the interior. He was guided to a seat by the open door, the harness not yet removed. Seven or eight dark figures looked out at him, only their eyes standing out from their silhouetted forms. Even then, most seemed to wear a funny sort of headdress. Small green circles stared back at Eddard, like someone had dipped Myrish lenses in green dye. He wasn't quite sure of their purpose. The commando's guns were complex and lethal looking contraptions, slung over their shoulders, the cold metal glinting with what little light shone from the ground below. Now these are warriors Eddard knew instinctively. Even more than the embassy guards, or the other green men Eddard had met so far. These looked less like men and more like green and metal-clad monsters. Were the Others themselves half so terrifying?

Eddard pulled himself away from such thoughts. If not exactly his friends, tonight these men were at least meant to be his allies. And gods help the man who makes an enemy of them. In another minute the two officers had also been winched back up. The doors remained open however. On each side of the Black Hawk were mounted further weapons. 'Machine guns' someone had explained to him. Behind each one sat another commando, clutching the swivel mounted weapons like a beloved partner at an intimate dance. They were larger than the commando's guns, to them perhaps as a greatsword was to a longsword. The helicopter rose with a dull roar. Eddard couldn't see or hear the second machine, but he knew it had to be to their rear somewhere.

On foot it had always seemed a fair distance, but the flight to the Red Keep took almost no time at all. Barely a minute later Eddard saw the great castle looming out of the darkness. Dotted about were windows glowing from the fires of lit hearths, or the flickering light of torches placed along the walls and battlements. He couldn't hear any shouts of alarm from below, but the roar of the helicopter would probably have drowned them out anyway. Certainly they would be waking up the whole castle before long. He tried to get his bearings, but it was only when the Black Hawk had descended and slowed to almost a complete stop that he even recognized the inner courtyard, with the Tower of the Hand on its south-west corner.

Without hesitation and with barely a spoken word, the ropes were unfurled again and the commandos started to shimmy down, two at a time. Captain Findlay was one of the first to descend, but Lieutenant Underwood stayed with Eddard. "We'll have you down in a jiffy my lord" he promised. Eddard wasn't sure exactly what this meant, but things certainly seemed to be moving quickly.

Moments later Underwood helped him stand, then instructed him to sit in the doorway beside the machine gunner, who was scanning the grounds of the castle below, his green lenses on. The rope had coiled back into the winch housing next to him. "Just shove off!" Underwood said, giving him a less than helpful pat on the back. Gritting his teeth slightly, and with a quick prayer to the Old Gods, Eddard did so. He fell only a few feet before jolting to a halt. The rope then unfurled at a slower pace.

It took maybe twenty seconds for him to reach the courtyard, but it certainly felt much longer. Below him, he saw the dark shapes of the commandoes spreading out in a loose circle. He landed a little harder than he'd have liked. He stifled a moan of pain when his bad leg hit the ground. He immediately stumbled and fell plain on his ass. Captain Findlay appeared by his side however, unbuckling him and asking if he was alright. Eddard shouted that he was, struggling to hear anything over the roar of the Black Hawk. The courtyard was more muddy than dusty, but the machine's rotors were still kicking up an awful amount of debris. Eddard could barely make out the Tower of the Hand, its big wooden doors sealed shut a dozen paces away.

Findlay helped him to his feet. The rope pulled taunt and harness and all started rising again. Underwood shimmied down as well and the Black Hawk moved off. Its brother, which had been hovering a few hundred feet north of them, came in to repeat the process.

As the second batch of commandos descended Eddard limped over to the door, Findlay still by his side. Eddard pounded on it as hard as he could with a gauntleted fist. "Tomard! Men of House Stark! Open up! Its Lord Eddard!"

For a moment nothing happened. Eddard pounded on the door again. The second Black Hawk lifted away, having deposited its own squad of commandoes, and joined the first in a loose orbit around the Red Keep. As the roar of the rotors faded a little Eddard thought he heard noises from inside, but he couldn't make out the voices. The seconds ticked past. Behind them he heard more shouts. He saw several figures moving on the walls, but none were within a couple of hundred feet. The commandoes stood or kneeled nearby, unnervingly silent, their guns trained smoothly on anything that moved, but no one had appeared to threaten them with a weapon as yet.

Fifteen feet above the ground, almost directly over the doors, the shutters of a window flew open and a set of eyes looked out. Several commandoes raised their guns nervously but Eddard raised a hand to stop them. He wasn't sure if this motion had any effect on them or not. He knew they were not exactly his to command, but they held their fire. Even in the gloom Eddard recognized the face. It was Desmond, one of his household guards. He stared down at the loose ring of commandoes.

"Lord Stark?" Desmond's voice asked, as if hardly daring to believe it.

"Yes. Desmond, open the door! We're here to get everyone out" Eddard ordered.

For a moment Desmond didn't reply, but Eddard heard a bolt being unfastened. He glanced back down at the set of double oak doors ten feet in front of him. They pulled back simultaneously. Eddard got the barest glimpse of the entrance chamber beyond, with the spiral staircase on the left. He saw figures, what must have been a dozen of them, behind a rough barricade of crates, chairs and tables. They were holding what looked like crossbows. They were pointed at him. Eddard raised a hand to tell them it was alright. They were friends, not foes. Then he heard Desmond's voice again, sounding oddly strained.

"Forgive me, my lo-"

Thrum, thrum, thrum.

Eddard Stark felt the impacts. Several might have bounced off his armor, but others found their mark. He didn't even have time to react. He couldn't get out another word. He heard shouts all around him. Up above window shutters banged open. At ground level it was doorways. From the Small Hall nearby, the kitchens, the armory, the kennels, the stables, the pigsty, even the nearby Sept…From every possible doorway across the courtyard scores of men, then hundreds, began to pour out. They brandished bows, crossbows, swords, axes, pikes, warhammers and all matter of grievous weapons, shouting and crying as they advanced.

Don't Eddard thought. Somehow, he had lost the ability to speak. Don't. You're just gonna make them mad.

You fools.

And then everything went insane.

BANG. BANG. BAAANG. BAAAAAANG.

Eddard fell to the ground. The wounds in his chest and legs were already bleeding, but he could barely feel them yet. Instead it was his ears that hurt, the Australian's weapons were so loud. The guns fired more quickly than he would have believed. It was a constant roar, a hundred times louder than the rotors of the Black Hawks. He went instantly deaf. The guns seemed to spit fire, unerringly bright flames shot out of their ends with each report, but it was not the flames that killed.

In one smooth motion the commandoes moved to either side of the doorway. One grabbed a device clipped to his belt and threw it into the entrance chamber. Moments later there was a tremendous explosion and a flash that lit up the whole courtyard. Eddard barely registered it as the Lannister crossbowmen died before they had any chance to reload.

He heard the Captain shouting orders. One squad fell back into a close perimeter around the doorway, ten feet between each crouched figure. The others ran straight through the entrance. Eddard was dimly aware of a hand grabbing his garments behind his neck. He was dragged up a couple of stone steps and propped up against the wall, behind one of the wooden doors. Half a dozen commandos charged up the staircase, firing and throwing more of the explosive devices. Grenades he thought. Fifield had mentioned the word once.

Eddard struggled to breathe. He was deafened and dazzled. He had been left alone for the moment. He still had a slim view of the courtyard outside. Men in red and gold armor were running across it, weapons held high, screaming battle cries. Appeals to the Seven, to the Queen, even somehow to King Robert. Lannister guardsmen, Gold Cloaks. What might have been Warrior's Sons. Even the shining white armor of the Kingsguard.

Then they were falling, and they were dying. The reports of the commandos' guns were constant. A decent crossbowman could fire two or even three rounds per minute. The green men looked to be firing at least two or three hundred each. All Eddard Stark could do was try and cry out, half in pain and half in fury. The fools, the fools, you fools…

######

Captain Justin Findlay was thirty-six years old. He had been in the army for sixteen of those years, in the commandos for twelve and an officer for seven, and in that entire time he had never been so utterly pissed.

A lesser man might have frozen when the ambush had been sprung, but his reactions were instinctive, honed by a solid decade or more of training. He would not have time to reflect upon it until later, but he was secretly pleased that the same appeared to be true of all the men under him this night. You could never be completely sure of those who would perform fine in every training exercise and then suddenly freeze when the actual shit hit the fan.

While Underwood's squad held the perimeter around the door, Findlay leapt over the remains of the crude barricade on the ground floor and charged up the stairs two at a time. The staircase was a tight stone spiral. At the first landing a door flew open. He shot both men standing in its entrance before they had a chance to react, the 5.56X45mm NATO rounds going straight through their elaborate red and gold armor.

Beyond them the room held several more figures. He saw one body lying on the floor below the window, a Stark direwolf recognizable on its garments. It was the man who had first spoken to Lord Stark. Findlay saw that his captors had slit his throat the moment he'd tried to shout out a warning.

No he corrected. More than that. An apology.

Findlay opened fire again. Three more Lannister guardsmen fell. Two swords and a shorter dirk clattered to the floor. Two more commandos had raced past him by the time he'd returned to the landing. He heard doors above being smashed open. Grenades were thrown in, this time just flash bangs. They weren't sure if any of Stark's household still survived. There were more shouts, more screams, more gunfire.

Findlay resumed his climb. On the second and third landings we found nothing but more dead Lannisters. Some had been shot from behind by the commandoes advancing within the tower. Other forms were slumped over the open windows, having been hit from below in the first moments of the engagement. Outside he heard the thunder of the Black Hawk's return. The two of them soared back over the courtyard, hovering barely two hundred feet up. Between them they had four machine guns capable of firing over two and a half thousand rounds a minute. They opened up as well, the tracer rounds lighting up the courtyard like New Year's Eve fireworks.

Findlay continued his progress. The Tower had six floors. The briefings had covered that at least. The upper levels seemed to be home to a more intelligent breed of Lannister, or else they'd had the benefit of a few more moments of education time. They soon started throwing down their weapons at the Australian's approach, shouting their surrender and pleading for mercy. If they had been in a better mood, the commandoes might even have granted it, but they were well past that point now. On the fifth floor Findlay briefly looked in on a sort of study, what he presumed had been the Hand's office. There was a desk strewn with books, quills and paper. He noted several bloodstains on the floor, slick black patches not a result of the current firefight. He started to suspect what had happened to Stark's household.

On the final curve of staircase he glimpsed several more figures, now fleeing for their lives. He wondered where exactly they hoped to find refuge. In moments the commandos had reached the top landing. The next doorway led to what appeared to be a bedroom. Half a dozen men were still inside. Rather than trying to fight, or even surrender, they seemed intent on occupying the large stone fireplace in the far corner of the room. Findlay had helped to shoot three of them in the back before he understood why.

Part of the stone wall at the back of the fireplace was missing. Instead there was a gap, perhaps three feet high. He saw the boots of the last Lannister guard disappear into the dark passage beyond. If there was some latch or lever to close it again, the man forgot about it in his haste.

"Little fuckers" commented the private next to him. Findlay gave the man a look. He unhooked another grenade, not a flash bang this time. The private did the same. They pulled the pins and flung them both into the passage. As they walked out of the room, they heard the dull roars from somewhere deep in the Tower of the Hand. There were no screams this time.

Outside the cacophony had fallen away to the occasional potshot. Findlay glanced down from a fourth-floor window. Several score bodies were strewn across the courtyard, all of them Westerosi. A few still crawled about, moaning or screaming in pain. More bodies were up on the walls or slumped over battlements or window frames. In the distance he could see a few figures still moving about on two goods legs, but only as fast as they could carry them away from the killing zone. Findlay checked his watch. Two minutes had passed.

The commando squad below looked intact. No one seemed to have moved six inches from where he had left them. Behind him the radio operator, a corporal, was chattering with Findlay's superior, who was demanding a sitrep. He held out the radio for the captain.

"Confirm attempted ambush. No hostages alive at objective. Ordering immediate extraction."

"Copy that. Casualties?"

Findlay made his made back to the ground level. He did a quick count. The ten men who'd entered the tower with him were all alive and unhurt. Two of Underwood's men had crossbow bolts sticking out of them. Only one had penetrated the body armor. The private was clutching his shoulder and swearing while Underwood inspected the wound. The other one looked down, plucked the bolt out of his Kevlar vest, glanced at it briefly and then pocketed it. At least a thousand shell casings littered the ground around them.

"Sir?" a voice called. Findlay went over to a stretch of stone wall beside the doors. The platoon medic was leaning over the figure of Lord Stark. Findlay grimaced. At least four bolts had either penetrated his armor or bypassed it entirely. His eyes were glazed over, unseeing. The medic looked at his captain and shook his head. Findlay grabbed the radio again.

"Confirm, one casualty."