Adam/CERSEI
Adam stood beside the Iron Throne, and watched the glittering mass of people in the gallery. Theirs were faces spun to tales, spun to sleep by Pycelle's words: his list grew longer and longer, of the lords and knights who were to submit to the crown, to whose authority now lay in the boy-king Clara/Joffrey.
Up high, surrounded by swords sat Clara; bored, but not one to sit still with the blades that would claim her. Adam glanced back to the crowd, and saw only merriment and laughter; there was such tidings that could be carried on the wind, and it was as though someone had farted in the back of the classroom. The gallery parted but a split that Sansa Stark, escorted by her honor guard, might attend.
Adam smiled at Sansa and kept watch on the petitioners below. The Kingsguard were arrayed like a protective screen: Ser Barristan took the head, and Ser Arys had been posted to Grace/Tommen's rooms. The remaining fill of posts came to guardsmen wielding Lannister steel or the readiness of arms of the gold cloaks. Adam clasped his hands, the crimson cloak almost sleeveless to reveal sculpted shoulders; in the transition that had been one crown atop a boy's head, he would not forget that it could fall at any moment.
He would do anything to protect his friends, and anything for House Lannister, he knew.
Adam cast his glance to the small council: Pycelle read aloud, Varys' quill scratched, and Littlefinger offered a little smile. The master of coin had been surprised to receive the queen's rebuff about Janos Slynt; that his bribe was sufficient reward, and that "next you'll ask me to raise him to lordship, or of a castle". Petyr had merely stroked his beard.
"... ah," Pycelle glanced up, and saw the Stark girl cutting a swathe through the petitioners; she was sad, eyes rimmed with red, her hair in plaits. She had learned the southron fashions, Adam saw.
"Lady Sansa," Varys despaired. "You are welcome to this court."
"Thank you, my lord," Sansa curtsied, and turned to Clara. "Your Grace."
"Lady Sansa," Clara called, from a height. "What petition have you?"
"I would beg Your Grace's mercy," Sansa admitted. "My father - "
Adam rustled forward in silks and a hand raised, but Clara's voice cut through.
"Your father incited treason and a riot. How can the people be safe?"
"He's good," Sansa stressed. "I swear."
Adam stepped forward and opened his mouth, but any declarations were cut short. Clara's voice cut afar from above.
"There is only one course," Clara spoke up. "He will bend the knee."
"Yes… I mean, of course he will," Sansa stuttered. "I just want him to be safe."
Adam glanced up at Clara, and saw that she was well enthused, steadily gaining traction and furthermore prepared to continue talking. He stepped into the shadows and listened to what she had to say.
Clara/JOFFREY
" - then this court is at an end," Clara rose, and with the gait of balancing a book on her head, took the stairs carefully down where she met the Kingsguard who ringed her. The queen stood to one side.
"Well done, Your Grace," the queen smiled, but Clara merely glanced away and headed for the corridor.
Sandor kept a pace as did the Kingsguard, and the queen was left behind. Yet Clara did not halt her passage. She continued until she reached the yard, and the stables were her horse was saddled and notched one leg over until the rest of her men were adequately prepared. Clara kept Lion's Tooth scabbarded by her side, even as her guards clanked steel.
Hers was a visit, a tour, a progress of King's Landing: she inspected smithys of their swords and armor and horseshoes, of taverns with their merriment and louts; Visenya's Hill atop which the faithful congregated; and Flea Bottom where the smell was rank.
She fed gold where later she would recount the poor could not eat it; she walked the walls with guards who sized her up; she watched the fishermen who struggled with their catch; she oversaw the maiming of a man caught for thievery.
All this and she felt no more a king than before. And on the horizon, the tallest of the Red Keep's parapets and towers that she might catch in the distance; somewhere muddied inbetween, sat Adam and his advisers.
He she could trust, at least. Grace, obviously. Max, she was still unsure about.
She turned the reins of her horse, oblivious to the cries of whores out the balconies of brothels, and clattered up the rise towards the Hill of Rhaenys, and the Dragonpit loomed large.
Max/ARYA
Max was pleased to be permitted an honor guard not unlike that had been posted on Sansa; though his were double for men, for Arya was known to be quick and with guile.
He supposed that had been Clara's idea, and knew who to thank.
He had kept Needle stashed in his chambers, but it was to other rooms in Maegor's Holdfast where he was bade, and there was little privacy or room to manuever. He might not come and go as he pleased or when he liked; he was still a hostage, and if the queen visited, it was only to return back to the small council chambers.
"Ruling is tough work," the queen would smile, almost itching to get back to business.
If only he was Joffrey, or at least Tommen, he scathed. Tommen, the lad, would be permitted to ride and hunt, or would if he was a bit older. He wouldn't have to rule, or make difficult decisions. Adam would make all those for him.
Adam he could count on, and Clara liked keeping him in a stew. He had seen her with her soldiers, and wished he too could be free to ride away. It had been with a hollowing of his stomach that he learnt Ned was baking downstairs in a grimy cell. He wished he could hear of more news.
Max had joined the court which had seen Clara rule from atop the Iron Throne. Adam, of course, stood by to offer a helping hand; but Clara knew what she wanted and carried it out.
Max envied her the command as she was the older sibling. Yet his mother doted on him more than she ever cared to Clara.
His was a rankling not forgotten as he bumped into Ser Meryn. Princess Myrcella shyly stepped out of the shadows, and offered a nervous smile as she tarried on. Max felt the rage build; but Ser Meryn wore armor, and he was but a little girl. Max watched Ser Meryn strut away after Myrcella.
Syrio, where are you when I need you?
Zoe/GREGOR
Zoe's horse and bulk made her a visible figure among the soldiers marching in the thick of night. A terrible blanket of soldiers; with spears, bow, sword and axe. Northerners, with furs and scrap weapons, hardy visages and willingness to take the fight to the Lannisters.
Leading them was Roose Bolton; that pale-eyed, blank face shock of a man.
The moon was out, and stars blinked from their blanket above; the scrub and trees waved in the wind, and the Trident gurgled to one side. Yet theirs was of haste, of difficulty and to hurry: for at the Twins, Robb had decided to take his cavalry across into the riverlands, while they were to attack Lord Tywin.
Zoe gripped the hilt of her sword and surprised a neighboring soldier. She was a bit disappointed not to be able to prove herself in view of the Stark boy, young as he was - young as she was, no older than he - yet with Roose Bolton commanding, no doubt word would filter back.
And while she helped the northerners to a victory, Robb was… doing something in the riverlands. Fighting Jaime Lannister's forces, she tried to remember.
As dawn broke, the wide opening met a gulley where the Trident passed through. It was but a speck on the horizon, but good enough. Her horse was tired and so was she; visibility of their goal spurred her courage. The men were exhausted; their forced march had left them flagging.
Yet they were all intent to fight for Robb, for House Stark and for the north. And Zoe admired them for their bravery; the common foot soldier was only fodder to a stray arrow, after all.
The ripple among the northmen constituted order: ahead, Roose Bolton was ordering the men to line up. He sent a rider with orders; the rider positively gulped to stare back at the closed visor, and informed Zoe that she was to conceal her presence until certain horns were called.
Zoe nodded, and steadied her horse; few others were mounted, and so she remained in the rear of the right, forming up on the banks; horns sounded from the other side of the riverbank, and what she imagined as a lion like what she had seen in the bowels of Casterly Rock.
She had been quite wrong.
If the sight of the northmen in their furs and steel had warmed her courage, then seeing the Lannister camp unfold: glittering, gold, more mounted than she thought; unfolding like a parchment scroll, and soldiers. So many soldiers, she thought. Surely that was too many?
Zoe glanced to Roose Bolton; his face a speck in his helmet with red silk fluttering in the wind. He looked utterly calm; dispatching orders and riders with visible command. He was as unbending as an oak.
The red on the horizon lent a credibility to the colours flying from the Lannister camp. Yet Zoe knew these northerners were of grit and of honor. Robb would scarcely have let the bulk of his force perish in a battle as important as this. And she was Gregor Clegane, and not only would she prove her loyalty, but an invaluable asset.
She would take Lord Tywin if it meant her life, and prove herself. For their cause was right.
The horns sounded, and stilled in the proximity facing one another; Roose gave another call: the northmen on the right advanced, and theirs was a little rabble running forth, while archers from the enemy pelted them with arrows.
Zoe watched with grim fascination: an equally ill-disciplined lot rode forth, what looked like swarthy, hairy madmen; but they were mounted. The two clashed where the space between the two vast armies were separated; theirs was a tight struggle, and no doubt the northerners were exhausted, while the barbarians were just as crazed as she was to die in the effort. She respected their vain efforts.
Another horn sounded; Zoe's shoulders tensed and she turned to see Roose; he was looking directly at her, and then back at his men. Formations steadied and struggled and aligned in the northern army: yet she had not heard it wrong. She was to ride, and from the looks of it, the other soldiers were merely obeying orders to stay back.
"Screw it," Zoe said out loud, and rode forth; she wielded her greatsword and her black horse urged onwards. The northerners were left in her dust, the squabbling pack fight in the center struggling for hold; the Lannister army rippling a crimson and gold sheen achingly stretching on the other side.
Every movement on the corner on her eye precipitated a withdrawal if she did not keep her horse steady and her resolve steadier. Her horse kicked up divots as she rode forth, and for one thing: she saw the tired northerners flagging in their fight with the barbarians, and if nothing else: she would help them with her bulk, her intimidation, and her unwavering commitment.
Those barbarians are mincemeat, Zoe told herself, and hoped she could win.
The sight of her on her horse gave the barbarians surprise rather than pause; if she had hoped the northerners would rally, she had no insight how deep into battle they were. Her horse crashed among the tumult, and swooped in with her sword to save the day.
She was wildly unhorsed; the ground hit her hard, and she stood wheezing, as the northerners realised their assistance had come. Flagging, they grouped around her as her horse became a maniac; Zoe gathered her breath and rose, towering over all else. She heard horns and heard arrows as they rained from above and the clangor of steel, taste of blood and cries of men; yet when she grabbed for her sword, she ducked into the fray.
And wield it, she did! The barbarians were hardy folk who died the same as men; the burbles of spit on their lips, visages of rage: she cut them asunder, and their steel meant little against the armor which only she could move in. Vaguely in the back of her mind, she hoped her horse was OK.
But she focused all her will like she imagined a samurai would and cut through the mass; the northerners steadied but for too long had they been in battle, and the barbarians really would fight or die trying, the dishonor too great for them to flee.
If the oncoming presence of Lannister soldiers gave her pause, she trusted that Roose Bolton would be sending northerners at her back to rescue them. She heard hooves and footsteps and steel and arrows; yet all that was in front of her, and the shuddering bulk of the northerners and barbarians were coming apart; squeezed like a grapefruit, pips going everywhere.
She found the reins of her horse; bug-eyed and lathered and frantic, which seemed to soothe it only somewhat as she swung her leg over. A sight for men, and for her, it shrivelled her composure.
The pressing, unassailable bulk of the Lannister army was almost upon them: and if she dared a glance back, it would only be to spy an opening in which to flee. Whether or not the northern army were to collide with equal verve, was not her purview.
She would die trying, she reminded herself, and called to the northerners though she was not their commanding officer; boosting what shreds of morale from their routing numbers. And she rode through them, past them; valiantly for the scrap of Lannister fieldhands and smallfolk who had been first to rout once their horses were lost, to force the northerners further on as she was riding further on: into the belly of the enemy, where no doubt reinforcements would soon avail her, and where she meant to cut deep.
The rumbling and tremor of the ground gave way to panic among the routing remnants of the Lannister's first charge: she cut each and every one down, and heard the northern cries and panic more than she did the enemy. She dared not look behind; she swung her sword and cut down routing remnants, and felt more a fool that she could not hear any northern rallying cry.
If this has been my test, then I will at least prove brave, Zoe warned herself, knowing that it was not her, it was Gregor. And perhaps she had wasted it all.
She swung her sword downward, and caught improbably in her eye the image of a smaller man, standing over a fallen knight. She needed no lessons to know this was the first she had saw, and the only whom mattered: she rode forth, and tore off her horse, and the knight's relief was visible.
The punch delivered to the Imp knocked him senseless; she was half-surprised it did not dislodge his head. She heard clangor of steel and pounding hooves as the noise gathered more in her head than all around her. She wildly turned to drag the Imp onto her horse, not unlike how she imagined cowboys hogtied criminals to their horses; yet there could be no such luxury as she glimpsed the jaws of the lion: about as many men as to crash them against the river. There could be no escape.
She swung her leg over the horse, and the Imp slid from her grip: she daren't look, she shrivelled and knew there was nothing but to run - panic, panic - and knew her courage had deserted her.
She panicked and flew, she thought of nothing else, she raced against the tide, but was caught by the leftmost wing of the encroaching lions: their surprise was great, they shuddered though their numbers held, and Zoe was thrown once more from her horse, who clattered for the wind.
She saw it flee, and hoped it at least could carry word of her good deeds. Perhaps Robb's wolf could commune. Perhaps she could commune when her ghost was among the dead; for she saw no northern reserve but for pickings and leavings, and certainly none to best the considerable army with murder, yes fear, but ardor and determination in their unwavering, shifting-shape wave of steel, crimson and gold.
Hers was a fraught onslaught, her sword felled many, and many swept to avoid it; but the numbers replenished as an inexhaustible wave, and there were no longer northerners to support her.
A growing gasp, a yell, a ride, a wave: she could not attribute it, but that she was not relieved of fighting, she did not care. The numbers pulsed around her, and she wondered what had caused it, before the bulk crashed into her, and she felt all of a tumult, shivering shaking crashing.
She felt a press from the rear; she felt hands grope for her, and she could smell the sweat of a horse. It took all her ability to climb onto the back of a rider who had so found her. And she gripped onto him like a lover she had never had; the madness possessed of a battle fervor, the rider could only attribute.
She left the northerners to their deaths, and loosely slid out of consciousness. And knew that panic and madness were her twin curses, and could not fault herself for trying to save them.
On the rise, the northerners were in retreat. Roose Bolton, his pink streamers, riding away.