Adam/CERSEI
Adam swept down the stone stairs; in here, the air was putrid and the torch sconces were lit to keep the darkness at bay. Gold cloaks jangled in their steel and armor; Ser Mandon kept the lead as the gaoler produced a set of keys.
Adam squeezed his wrist that he was in the enclave of protection, and stepped into the cell where Ned Stark lay.
The cell was filthy: an abomination of standards, of strewn hay and a full bucket and the stench. The flagstones were greasy and he almost slipped on one. The guards piled around Ned; the chains were removed, and they hauled him to his feet.
"Y-your Grace," Ned managed, his throat hoarse and sore, and his attribution to her less out of deference than for a blank show of what was expected, what could be expected.
"You understand?" Adam raised his eyebrows. "You are to swear fealty to Joff. And to all the realm, you are a traitor, Lord Stark."
He nodded vaguely. "And my daughters?"
"Your daughters will be safe," Adam conditioned, and Ned saw some of that truth in her face. He nodded once more, and slid his eyes to the door where the gold cloaks hauled him.
Adam kept among the rear; shivering in the cold, disgusted by the smell, hating the darkness with the torches waved aloft by one or two soldiers. His was a quiet lament up the spiral staircase, through the dungeons and past back into the castle corridors where rugs and sconces and tapestries once more met his eye.
He gave a sigh of relief, and continued with his well ennobled guard out into the yard, where the gold cloaks thrust Ned on display and the sparring few parted; there were horses in the stable and tradesmen with their carts and they all separated to see the Lord Hand like a common criminal.
Adam glanced up to the Red Keep he had recently evacuated; Ser Mandon halted a pause.
"Is - is the king - " Adam asked nervously "Where is he?"
Ser Boros bounded near. "They left earlier, Your Grace. He's with the High Septon."
Clara/JOFFREY
Clara toiled in the sept of Baelor, where the growing tumult of the crowd had begun. Scraps and leavings had been their host; the gold cloaks assembled to make the place safe. Their spears shone a glint in the sunlight; yet it was inside here Clara had found some silence.
Apart from the scurrying of the High Septon wringing his hands in water and adjusting the mantle of his crown, Clara could count on one hand the people close by; her Lord Commander, and most of her sworn few. Sandor, of course, glanced with misgiving; his eyes going to the high ceilings.
It had been with hesitation that she had seen Sansa beforehand: the girl had been brave, of course; but implored for his safety. She hated seeing the plaintiveness in Sansa that she so detested in herself.
Yet she had allowed for Max/Arya to accompany Sansa; he had, of course, been searched most thoroughly as she still suspected him to be playing for his own game, and been permitted as part of the gallery stationed outside, waiting for Lord Stark, and waiting for her. She wore the crown, after all.
The smoky braziers, tall solemn statues and offerings to the Faith did not tide her or reassure her. This minor bit of theatre did not help her spirits. Moreover, Adam meant to be in charge of everything. That she would have to cut out. She would not suffer him ramble on longer than the Grand Maester.
The footsteps made her glance up; with a steadied gait in her direction, her hope rose in her stomach that this sordid business could be dispensed with. Yet she saw only the mockingbird pin and the velvet of Littlefinger's doublet, his smirk and little beard ashy grey. He offered a bow and the Kingsguard turned to face him.
"Your Grace," he began, with a little smile. "A crowd has quite gathered outside."
"Is he here?" Clara asked brusquely, and received an unfavourable answer. "Then why are you here?"
His face registered neither surprise nor disapproval. He walked down the steps as nary a gaze, a concern in the world as if he were Willy Wonka dispensing treats. The Kingsguard did not lay their hands on their swords yet tightened around the king imperceptibly. Littlefinger gave a little chuckle.
"You can be sure I only have the king's good interests at heart," he laid his hand to his own.
Clara nodded that the soldiers might permit he come further than shouting distance. Ser Barristan kept his eyes on Lord Baelish; distrusting him as far as he had seen in attendance at council meetings.
"The Lady Sansa was pleased to hear of Your Grace's assent, that her father was to be spared," Petyr smiled. "And yet, oh how the crowd do clamor. You can see it in their eyes."
Clara watched him, and thought what a difficult redoubt he was to break. His face was like sculpted stone set perfectly in the eaves of his face. There was no hinge with which his mask might flag.
"The crowd will turn on the tide of whatever is thrown to them," Clara raised an eyebrow. "They need us."
"Yes," Petyr lingered. "And let it not be said that the king is not merciful."
The silence stood between them as did Clara with Littlefinger. Sandor's eyes swept the sept as did his roving motion of steadily turning around to glimpse all the statues with disdain and refrain.
"And yet," Petyr continued, taking in Clara's look. "The city may need us, but what of the Seven Kingdoms? Your name will ring out just and true. And a swift, bold move to reach the ears even across the Narrow Sea would surely hail your name. His Grace King Joffrey, a man of decisive action."
"What do you mean?" Clara frowned, lingering upon his hesitation. Littlefinger walked further.
"Is it not to be said that the Wall is too kind a fate for a man like Lord Stark?" Petyr raised his eyebrows, his breath of mint discouraging her from his close presence. "Your grandfather went to war over your uncle, the Imp. Certainly no less an action here can herald your name as a Lannister."
Clara scrutinised him; the pursing of his lips, the mocking bow, the eyes forming an incline as though to say, why not? And truly, she figured for herself, it was all within her power: Why not?
Max/ARYA
As though Max, too, were treasonous and put on for show, he was bathed and changed and wore a fitting grey dress, stashed in the bottom of the trunk which had been his belongings from Winterfell.
With a little plait of what hair he had, Max stood beside Sansa along the gallery lineup at the sept of Baelor, and watched the crowd hustle and bore forth as the participants for their entertainment were presented.
And this, surely the best day to come! Ned hauled up the steps; ragged and torn and belabored, and his grateful glance to his girls to know they were safe. Max gave him a wink and considered himself well composed for the churning in his gut.
For the queen stood nearby; as did Varys and Littlefinger, and the Clara-king, of course. She was shaved-sharp, regal posture and a countenance not unlike a thousand-year old warrior, with her hand resting on the hilt of her sword. It was as though she could see through the mists and skies which separated them from further north where battle was an outcry.
And Clara turned to the crowd, who had begun to throw stones at Ned for his admitting to treason: for so sullying his honor, in trying to replace the king and seat himself on the throne.
"... what say you, Your Grace?" the High Septon turned quizzically to Clara, who he could not quite figure out.
It's easy, Max thought to himself as Clara stepped forward. She's a bitch when she wants to be.
"The people have spoken, and so has my betrothed, Lady Sansa," the king waved an irritated hand flick at the gallery beside. "Ned Stark has confessed his treason and his sentence must be just."
Max watched the crowd, their eager eyes and hungry faces. All they had in their life was lust for scandal; their appetite whetted by what the High Septon decreed intolerable according to the god's practices. Clara turned her eyes to Ned, who kept his posture bowed, his hands tied behind his back, eyes to the crowd.
"He must be sentenced to the Wall," Clara declared, and Max's innards wheezed a sigh of relief, and if gas escaped him he did not care now more than any other time.
The crowd railed and rallied; and if that did not fit their particular view of justice, the gold cloaks did carry out their effort of containing them. Clara swept into the enclave of her Kingsguard; the queen was smiling down at Sansa; and Max noticed Varys, his hands tucked into his robes, having a word with Littlefinger, who stroked his beard while his eyes roved over the Spider.
Max was ushered along as did the gold cloaks haul Ned to his feet, and the two matched a gaze that was burnished by Sansa's fright of laughter and clap and decree and lust for life.
"You girls look after each other," he muttered, sure he was still in the black cells; yet to be shaken awake.
Zoe/GREGOR
Zoe felt a pounding as if she had drunk deep of ale; her body ached all over, pummeled as if she had stood beneath a waterfall. Yet she did not feel cleansed. The bodies had littered the battleground so briefly left; the masses of corpses picking for crows, picked clean, their sacrifice in vain.
For it had been a rout, however orderly and led by Roose Bolton who rode ahead, and if he was weighed down by his conscience then he was as light as the crows who scattered and resettled as the lions made good their feast.
Zoe grimly trudged ahead; leaving the rider who had so plucked her from the field of obscurity to his own horse; hers had fled the battle, and she had later learned why the reason for the hush that had so enveloped at the time of her being pressed upon by an onslaught of Lannister men.
" - dangling from the stirrups, near about his head, bobbing this way and that," grinned a grizzled soldier in the employ of House Karstark. He had been one of the routing units who had survived the devastation; and yet, he had seen her bravery. The tale spread amongst the limping and wounded.
Her horse had been cut down by a whizzing arrow. But the hostage had been taken anew.
"Only the gods know," the soldier shook his head, when Zoe had inquired if he would live. "We've not no maester. Perhaps old Lord Frey can save him."
And so Zoe turned her eyes ahead, and saw with mincing, peering altitude that the road ahead was still long. And that for all that they had marched at night, and fought at dawn, their rest had only been as swift as Roose Bolton would permit it.
"By now, our Young Wolf's about crossed," muttered a spearman, who had seen his Karstark allies fallen against the Lannister foe. He kept his spirits high with a wheezing breath that frosted. "That'll keep Lord Tywin busy, it will."
But it hampered her spirits to hear such. Lord Tywin still had as large a force as any. And they were the defeated army, which comprised almost all of Robb's men! Surely he would be caught?
It doesn't matter, Zoe spat as she lingered long enough to wave away the crows that pecked at the fallen few who could march on no longer. She glanced to Roose who steadily resumed his pace; if he noticed others flagging, he merely called orders that they continue. The bastard.