Smoke. Smoke everywhere.
The volley gun belched a cloud of fumes and grey soot, drowning out the musicians' vivacious tune. When the smoke cleared, half of the red and gold cloaks guarding the throne room's door lay motionless on the blood-stained floor, and the remaining half scattered as fast as their two legs could carry them. The sounding of the trumpets were replaced by the bwa-bwa-bwa of assault rifles. Everywhere the Alexandrians' barrels pointed, men died.
"Reload, and keep it aimed on those big doors!" Carl shouted. The guests jostled at each other at the seats, a wave of silk and jewelry crowded against various doors. A few more shots, and the survivors froze, or slunk back their seats. Small piles of bodies were strewn in front of each door, shot from afar when they tried to escape.
The throne room's main doors opened. A few goldcloaks made a frantic dash for the door, led by a man wearing a black breastplate. "Shoot them!" Carl yelled, and all but three fell dead in their tracks, the remainder disappearing around the corner. Carl cursed. He did not have time to worry about them.. Row after row of tightly packed soldiers streamed in, pack in tight with brandished swords. Some wore gold, others wore red. Lannister must have set them to ambush Carl and his 'men' after the concert. But the volley gun spewed another smoke, and when the air cleared again, no enemy stood their ground.
Two tried. A Lannister soldier was on his knees, propping himself up with his sword, when a bullet tore through his neck. Another actually got to his feet before Carl drilled a bullet hole into the man's forehead. The rest lay sprawled on the ground, twitching and screaming and dieing A few had crawled behind the 'safety' of upturned tables, near to where Tywin was. Carl could hear him over the guns, if only just. Was he offering titles, or lands, or gold, or something else altogether? Carl did not know, but titles and land did not matter to dead men. From what he saw, the Westerosi seemed to have learned that much already.
"Kill them! And kill him!" the boy-king squeaked even as he cowered on the Iron Throne. The five knights next to the throne charged. The first managed four paces before he toppled over with half a dozen bullets in him. The next three followed him not long after, and the fifth… dropped his sword and fell to his shortest of the five chose to drop his sword instead. King Joffrey, left all alone, had no choice but to draw his own sword, a gaudy bejeweled thing that was as much gold as steel. Carl shot it out of Joffrey's hand where it clattered down the Iron Throne's stairs. Carl shot again, this time aiming for Joffrey's foot. "Fuck!" he shouted as the bullet hit the stair below instead. Joffrey closed the distance and leapt onto him. Down the two boys tumbled, rolling down the many steps even as they grappled.
Joffrey reigned blow after blow on Carl's head. A small trickle of blood was dripping from his eye socket by the time they reached the dais. Carl kicked at the other boy's shin, but Joffrey was older and bigger and pinned him down instead. The putrid stench of meat wafted into his nostrils. Carl kicked again. A fierce pain erupted from his knee, and Joffrey's razor-like fingernails dug into his flanks. Carl wanted to vomit. Carl wanted to cry. Perhaps he should bite at Joffrey's exposed neck instead, just like Dad did when… No, this wouldn't do. If he wanted Joffrey dead, a bullet would have done the trick too. Carl headbutted Joffrey as hard as he could. Another stream of blood slowly trekked down Carl's nostrils, but it did the job, and he found himself sitting on Joffrey. "Stay the fuck down… stay the fuck down…" he whispered every time a blow connected with his stomach, wave after wave of pain surging through his nerves...
"Hit Carl one more time, and I'll stab your guts out." Needle's sharp tip rested against Joffrey's belly. "But for Father..."
"Don't kill him! Remember Joffrey and Tywin are off limits, rest are yours…" Carl doubled over and spilled his lunch on the dais.
The nearby Alexandrians broke into laughter. Even some of the nearby captive lords and knights scrunched their noses in distaste at the unseeming scene before they were prodded once again by their captors. Carl looked down. Joffrey's breeches were damp. A pool formed around his legs, as golden as his hair. The now former king's face turned peach red when he reluctantly looked down. "I. Am. A. KING!" he shrieked, even as Clem arrived and clasped his hands in iron cuffs. Sharp rifle-cracks gave way to the clanging of dropped swords against marble floor tiles.
Carl took off his coat and tied it around Joffrey's waist. "Take him away and seat him with the rest." Joffrey spat at him as they dragged him away. Carl returned the favour with a thick wad of blood-stained spit.
Everyone in the throne room had stopped fighting by the time Joffrey was roughly seated besides Tommen and the other prisoners in the corner, the nobles bound hand and foot.
Sam came forward with Joffrey's sword and its scabbard, and gave them to Carl. "It's called Widow's Wail," she explained. "Name's shit, but the sword seems pretty good."
"Thanks." Carl tied the scabbard to his belt as best as he could. Then he carefully searched among the crowd of trembling hostages. "That's Cersei?" He asked Arya a few times. Finally she nodded. "Bring that woman out from the crowd. And that bald man with the golden beard. The short man as well." Carl thought he looked silly waving Widow's Wail around, but that seemed to catch everyone's attention, and there was little time to waste. "Half of you guard the hostages here under Sam. Treat the wounded as best as you can. If anything happens above the long stairs, you guys will deal with that too. The rest of you, follow me!"
The few goldcloaks still remaining did not put up a fight when Carl and his now smaller band charged out of the Great Hall. The worst they faced were a few ranks of crossbowmen who tried to loose some bolts into the Alexandrians, but they were dispatched simply enough.
They arrived at Maegor's Holdfast to find the drawbridge pulled up and the parapets manned. Not by many soldiers, at least from what Carl saw with his one eye. But manned all the same.
"Who's in charge here?" Carl shouted at the top of his voice. His eye locked against a semi-familiar man standing on the battlements. "You - you were that goldcloak with the nice breastplate who escaped from the throne room. What is your name?"
"Ser Addam Marbrand, Commander of the City Watch of King's Landing," the man identified himself, his voice stern. "I suppose we should have known better after what happened to Robb Stark. But you will not take Maegor's Holdfast. Not when my men hold it."
"No, I won't, so here's what you'll do. You will lower the drawbridge and march out with your men. When you cross the drawbridge, you will throw all your weapons into the moat. Your men will march back up the stairs to the throne room. But you will transfer command of all the goldcloaks to me, and follow me to tell every goldcloak we meet on the way until the fighting is done."
"And why would I do that, boy?" the knight replied.
"Because I'll let you stay with Joffrey and Tommen afterwards. They need someone to guard them until Dad decides what to do with them. They won't be killed."
Addam Marbrand laughed. "As good as your fancy dart-throwers are, you cannot cross the moat with them. Maegor's Holdfast has a cistern, and enough food to hold out for months. Perhaps you wish to know that most of the Red Keep's grain is stored here. Enjoy the feast, for there would not be much food in the Red Keep for long."
"You won't hold out for months. My father will arrive with an Alexandrian army within days. The rest of your goldcloaks will be slaughtered before dawn. And I will start killing hostages in moments. Maegor's Holdfast is strong, Ser Marbrand. But the people it's supposed to be guarding are all outside - and captured by us."
"You wouldn't dare. You haven't started killing them yet, because your lord father does not let you. You may hold the rest of the Red Keep for a while longer, I'll give you that, but the Lannisters always pay their debts. But you know that, don't you? I heard you sing The Rains of Castamere with a voice so sweet I thought you were a little girl. Perhaps they'll even turn you into one when us Westermen are done with you. There are tens of thousands of Lannister and Tyrell men in King's Landing, boy. You have… twenty? Thirty? How do you plan to fight them all?"
"That's a no, then?" Carl asked.
"No," the knight scoffed. "Who do you think you are? Bloody Ben?"
"Dunno who the fuck that is. You're right on one thing though. The Lannisters always pay their debts, and the debt paying starts now."
On Carl's cue, Josh and Clementine stuffed a wad of cloth into Cersei's mouth and dragged her to the moat's edge. "Did she have any last words?" Carl asked.
"Fuck you," Clem replied in a deadpan voice.
"Well then. Fuck her too. Arya, you sure she's on your list?"
Arya nodded.
"Well then. For Alexandria and the North." Carl gave Cersei the gentlest of shoves. For a moment she flew, before the spikes of Maegor's Holdfast raced up to meet her. She had just enough time to let out a guttural cry before it was rudely interrupted by a dull thud. A bird or two chirped. For a moment, all was quiet.
Then Tywin screamed.
His chest puffed out once or twice, struggling against the ropes that bound him, but no words came out of his mouth. Only a mournful roar, of a lion's shattered claws and broken pride.
"Save your breath for later," Arya suggested. "You'll need it to fly. Can lions fly, Carl?"
Carl looked at the mangled corpse jutting from the iron spikes below. "I don't think so, but by the time the day is done we'll know for sure.." Josh and Clem pulled Tywin forwards until he was at the edge of the moat.
"You brute!" Ser Marbrand cried from across the dry moat. "She's the queen!"
"I know. But not anymore. And Lord Tywin's next, Addam. FIVE… FOUR…"
"I'll have your head for this! You slaughtered our hosts, murdered our queen…"
"Maybe you will. I doubt it though. And not before Tywin Lannister dies first. THREE… TWO…"
"Wait! We can talk about this!" Marbrand shouted.
Carl stopped the count. "Make it quick, Ser. Us boys aren't known for our patience. None of the Lannister kids will be executed, as I told you before. Joffrey and the rest of the nobles will not be thrown into jail, but can stay at the Maidenvault until their trial, if one is needed, or until they are exchanged or released. Tywin Lannister, and all Lannisters who fought in the war against the North, will be allowed to take the black instead of execution. These are my terms, Ser Marbrand. Take them, or I start counting again and Tywin flies."
"I'll take these terms! We yield! We yield!" Marbrand answered. The drawbridge rattled down, and Carl bid the men hold Tywin back for the moment.
"You sure we should have killed their queen, Carl?" Josh asked. "She wasn't fighting us or anything-"
"Father wasn't fighting either when the Lannisters chopped his head off!" Tears streamed down Arya's face. "If it weren't for Cersei, my father would still be alive!"
"I suppose so," Josh replied. "Still feel a bit queasy but I understand why you would want her dead."
"I did it for Arya so she doesn't have to do it herself. And at least we got the guys inside that castle to surrender." Yet Carl wondered how much of what he did was truly right.
A small company of soldiers marched out, throwing their swords and shields down the moat as they crossed. A few servants followed next. Last came Ser Marbrand, carrying a Lannister banner held upside down which he gently lay on the ground beside Carl. Then he unclasped his gold cloak from his armour, folded it, and handed it to Carl. "Savor this victory while you still can."
"My name's not 'boy.' I'm Carl Grimes, son of Rick Grimes, the leader of Alexandria. Josh and Clem, go back to the throne room with - come back to the gatehouse with all the goldcloaks you can find. And Ser Ilyn Payne too. If he asks why, tell him I need the royal executioner's help in beheading some people."
The gatehouse surrendered without a fight thanks to Ser Addam's orders, his authority reinforced by the assault rifles in Alexandrian hands. After much adjusting, the volley gun got into position just in time for the first wave of Westermen reinforcements to arrive at the bottom of the slope.
"Start firing when we can hear their screams, until all the Westermen are dead or have fled down the hill. Remember, aim for anyone with fancy armor, those are probably the commanders. Wait… wait… steady…" Carl whispered, his knuckles white gripping his carbine. "First rank, lie down and shoot! Volley gun, all clear, FIRE!"
The first few ranks simply fell down when the volley gun fired, yet the surviving westermen kept marching up the hill, pressed on by their comrades at the back. Block after block of spearmen formed an endless column of steel, stretching into the city's streets below. Horseman after horseman toppled off their steeds, soon joined on the dirt-streaked ground by plate-clad warriors with fancy plumes. Before Carl could send Ser Marbrand out to negotiate, the westermen broke when they saw the Lannister banners hurled down from the parapets, fleeing down Aegon's High Hill as if it were an erupting volcano.
An ever growing roll of footsteps echoed behind Carl. He spun around, afraid he left some enemy in the Red Keep that was yet unfought, but it was Clem and Josh with a large company of unarmed goldcloaks. And two other men, with their hands tightly bound behind their backs and their feet in shackles. Clem loosed the binds from the bald one, who promptly knelt before Carl.
"Varys at your service, Lord Grimes."
"I'm sure you know my first name's Carl. And don't kneel. The ground is fucking muddy and will ruin your clothes… did you get any blood on it? Are you hurt?" Carl's eye swept across the man in front of him. "Good. Why are you here?"
"I served King Joffrey as the Master of Whisperers, Lord Grimes. But it seems Joffrey's reign has come to an end, and I also serve the realm and all the people in it. If you wish, Grimes-"
"Carl."
"They say you're the son of the Lord of Alexandria. You're about to conquer this whole city. By our customs you are Lord Grimes, even for a boy of your tender years. If you wish, which I'm sure you would, I can send my little birds to any place in King's Landing you want."
"I don't know what your little birds are, but can you send a message to all seven gates-" Carl watched a flare arc upwards from the docks. "-six, we've taken the River Gate, and the barracks? Ask the guys in charge to surrender, lower the Lannister flag, and bar the gates. If the little birds can, bring two of the goldcloaks here to each gate and barrack so they know it isn't bullshit. I don't think these men would want to face our guns any longer."
Varys' hand slid into his silk doublet. When he pulled it back out, he was holding a few pieces of parchment. "I've written these three with your men's permission before we left the throne room. They all bear my signature and Joffrey's seal, reluctant as he was to yield it. If the good Ser would sign this parchment as well - here, here and here - my little birds will take care of it now, Lord Grimes. Do you wish to read them before I send them out?" Varys stuffed the three parchments into Carl's free hand, which Carl carefully read, then gave back to Varys.
"I also want every gate and barrack to receive double their usual coin for this month, if they surrender without fighting and help restore order in the city. These guys too," Carl said a bit more loudly so that the goldcloaks nearby could hear. "Coin, or food if they wish, if there is enough. You will also receive double if you can make sure everyone gets paid in time."
"Both should be enough," Varys replied. "Though Tyrion Lannister served as Joffrey's Master of Coin."
"Do you trust Varys to make sure you get paid?" Carl asked the assembled goldcloaks. Several goldcloaks wearing fancier bits of armour nodded. "Cool. Is the other guy here Ser Ilyn Payne?"
"Yes!" Arya shouted. "He killed my father!"
"I know how you feel," Carl comforted Arya. "Remember I told you I lost Mom too. But we shouldn't take revenge for our own sake. It's uncivilized. Though for the Lannister men I'll make an exception. Bring me the dwarf!"
"For what am I being killed for?" Tyrion asked when he was dragged between Carl and Ilyn Payne. "I've treated Princess Sansa with the respect befitting her station. I never took up arms against the Kingdom of the North and Trident. I was not involved in the Red Wedding-"
"Arya's mind was made up long ago. And so is mine, after I heard her story. This is justice. This is what the North and Trident deserve. Who put Ned Stark to death, then? He would have given you a better deal, but he isn't here now. All thanks to you." Widow's Wail seemed to ripple when Carl drew it.
"LORD GRIMES!" Tyrion shouted. "Grimes, that's the name of your house, isn't it? If nothing else I say would convince you or Arya Stark, I appeal to the gods, by the custom of our people. I demand trial by battle."
"But we are in battle, Lannister." Carl almost doubled over in laughter. "And it seems you guys are losing this trial very fucking badly. I'll let you in on something else, by the way. There are two Lannisters on Arya's list. Cersei's dead, so only one is left. Who do you think that is?" Ser Ilyn cackled, seemingly eager to see the dwarf's execution.
"Mercy, please! Princess Arya, your father Ned Stark was known across all Westeros to be an honorable man." Tyrion's voice grew more desperate. "Lord Stark would have never slain a man who was not guilty of the crime he was accused of. My family did some shitty things, aye, and we're now paying the price. You've killed my sister and I'll not ask you to spare my father, but I could be useful to you, Princess Arya, Lord Carl. The name of Lannister still has a lot of power in the Westerlands. Ned Stark was known for his justice, but I've done nothing that..."
Widow's Wail swung through the air in an overly broad stroke. It would have hit Tyrion's head were he a bit taller, but Tyrion was a dwarf, and the sword whizzed over his head before lodging itself deep between Ilyn Payne's ribs. "Sorry," Carl apologised when the man let out a pained gargle. "Was aiming for the head." Ilyn struggled against his bonds, only to trip over and fall on his face. Carl swung the sword again, onto the back of Ilyn's neck this time. And again. And again. Carl was not much good with a blade truth be told. Sharp as the sword was, it still took three strokes to part Ilyn Payne's head from his body.
"What was all that about being civilized?" Arya asked with a scowl. Tyrion and the others assembled looked as though they would like to answer the same question.
"Never promised I'd spare him. He was just following orders, but so what? He was a dead man the moment he killed Ned Stark," Carl wiped the blood off with the slain man's coat. "The North's done executing people for now, and I'm done killing unless someone does something stupid - for now. Lord Tyrion, I've heard you are a clever and reasonable man. I am not clever, but I prefer to be reasonable too. Why don't you work for me at least for a bit longer, just to make sure I stay that way…What?" Carl's gaze followed where several of the gold cloaks were pointing. "I'm sure it's…"
Suddenly Varys was by his side again. "My lord, the messages are on their way. But Lannister men are sacking the city after they failed to take back the Red Keep. They have turned against the gold cloaks too. They say it's for not helping them save the King - Joffrey I mean - though that doesn't explain the bags of loot and the screaming of women."
And that was when Carl saw the fires licking their way down the streets and alleys of King's Landing. The city was burning, burning, just like the Alexandria Safe-zone did only months ago.
"My wife is down there! And my child!" One of the goldcloaks shouted.
"We saw what the Lannisters could do twenty years ago," another goldcloak with fading hair added. "Came into the city, to help King Aerys, they said. Then they burned, they killed, they raped. From babes sucking on their mother's teats, to those who could barely walk even with a cane. And now they're doing it again."
Carl's chest tightened with horror. Fire in a city like this was an awful thing. The flames would fly from rooftop to rooftop, and soon, soon… Carl didn't want to think of it. Would the city have burned, if Carl and his 'Twenty Good Men' had not been here today? And now many innocents will die for his mistakes, men and women and children who had no quarrel with the Alexandrians or their Northmen allies. Stupid, stupid, Carl chastised himself. He wished his dad was here. Rick Grimes would never have let this happen. Rick Grimes would know what to do. But Rick Grimes was hundreds of miles away. Only a lesser son stood where the great man should.
"Men of King's Landing! Crownlanders!" Carl said, remembering the term Arya told him. "This is your city down there! Your home, your family and your friends. Grab whatever weapon you can. Then we march out to save your city."
The goldcloaks let out a muffled cheer, before racing to find whatever weapon they could from the gatehouse. Clem reached for her assault rifle. Arya reached for Needle.
"Clem, come with me. Arya, you stay here with Josh. Help guard the Red Keep and help guard Sansa," Carl ordered. "Can't have the whole garrison leave after all the trouble we went to taking this castle."
Then Carl turned and marched down the slope, into the darkness of night with the goldcloaks at his back.