The first serious fighting began halfway down the Hook.
"Drive them off!" Carl charged ahead of his goldcloaks towards the small group of westermen barring the way, Widow's Wail in hand. The leader of the deserters was about to bring his sword down on Carl when a short burst from Clementine's assault rifle felled the man. A thrown knife flew towards Carl. He ducked. The knife crashed straight into the steel chestplate of a goldcloak, before clattering uselessly towards the ground. The rest of the goldcloaks surged forwards past Carl and pushed against the westermen with their spears. Moments later, the westermen scattered down the street. Five of the westermen had been slain. Two of the goldcloaks were injured, but not too badly. They marched on.
The westermen came back minutes later. This time they were in a larger group, and they marched in formation, and they had spearmen. "Break those on the left flank. I'll kill those on the right," Carl whispered to Clem. The two blocks of spearmen inched towards each other. Then someone gave a shout, and the westermen charged. Screams and curses filled the air. A young westerman cried for his mother, clutching at his new arm-stump. When Carl knelt down to staunch the bleeding, the westerman headbutted Carl so hard that the boy saw stars. A goldcloak nearby darted forwards and drove his sword straight into the westerman's neck. Another pulled Carl back onto his feet. "Careful, boy. We lose you, and the lions sack the whole city. If they don't, then your people will."
The goldcloaks' center began to sag backwards. Carl and Clem fired on both the westermen's flanks almost at the same time. The flanks broke, followed by the westermen's center. Thirty westermen were killed this time. And eleven goldcloaks. They marched on.
No more fighting happened for a while after that. As they approached the Hook's western end, Carl began hearing the crack-crack of musketry in the distance. He raised his hand, and the goldcloaks halted. "Don't shoot your muskets! Don't shoot your muskets! Winter is coming!" Carl shouted just before they were about to march into the Muddy Way.
No response.
Carl got a bit closer to the street's edge and shouted again. Still he heard nothing back.
Frustrated, he grabbed a spear from one of the fallen Westermen, pulled off his white shirt, and tied it to the top of the spear. He shivered. The night was cold and dark, and small droplets of rain were beginning to splatter against his shoulders…
Rain. And the Northmen were using matchlocks.
"What a lovely evening," Carl muttered, as one of the goldcloaks threw a… gold cloak around the boy and tied it in front of his collar.
To their credit, the Northmen did not shoot when they saw the white flag. "Winter is coming!" Carl yelled for a third time. He hoped the Northmen would hear him this time.
They did, barely, judging from the faint reply. "Out of many, one."
The Hound was waiting for him when he stepped back into Fishmonger's Square, where this adventure in King's Landing began. So was Raynald Westerling. Beside them was a dark-skinned bowman wearing so many feathers he looked like a peacock, and a white-haired guy with a brimmed hat not unlike Carl's own. And… Varys?
"Prince Jalabhar Xho from the Summer Isles and Aurane Waters wanted to fight. One has his Red Flower Vale in his mind, no doubt, and the other probably dreams you would pay generous coin to build a navy," Varys introduced his companions.
"How's the rest of the city?" Carl let out a weary sigh. Fighting near the Red Keep was already hard enough.
"The West Barracks have fallen, Lord Grimes. Cobbler's Square has been overrun. The goldcloaks have fallen back to the Gate of the Gods, but my little birds have not heard anything since. The East Barracks still hold under Ser Humphrey Waters. He even managed to push the westermen from Rhaenys' Hill. Flea Bottom holds too. There is little to loot from the poorest of the poor, and a soldier can be easily ambushed in its twisting streets. The people of Flea Bottom have little to lose. "
"How about the other two hills?" Carl asked, his teeth chattering.
"Few in their right mind would be looting anywhere near Aegon's High Hill after what happened. You've already killed most of those who were foolish enough to try. As for Visenya's Hill… there lies the Sept of Baelor, with all its gold and jewels. And the masses of smallfolk seeking refuge within. Spilling blood in a sept goes against our gods and traditions, but who cares when one could even murder guests under their roof and suffer no ill for it?"
"We'll go there then. Ask Ser Humphrey to take as many men as he can spare along the walls to the Gate of the Gods, and push his way to the city center. I will take these men and head up the Muddy Way-"
"You would be able to gather more goldcloaks on the way up the Street of Steel," Varys replied. "And it is where all the smiths are. If the deserting westermen sack the street, they can replace the arms they lost at the Red Keep."
"But if we take it, we could arm the people instead?"
Varys laughed. "You might as well give castle-forged steel directly to the westermen. The smallfolk are more likely to poke each other with spears and pikes. It would be easier to teach a man to fly to the moon, than to learn how to use a sword in half a day." Then he frowned. "I pray you put your shirt back on, my lord. As good as you and your Twenty Good Men are, you're more likely to catch a cold than to win this battle by fighting bare-chested on this chilly night."
Carl hastily untied his shirt from the spear he was still holding and put it back on. It was dirty from the fighting, stank with sweat, and was soaked with rain. Sleeveless too, for the jacket was normally enough to keep him warm on cold days - except it was now around the King who Pissed Himself. Carl kept the gold cloak. At least it would keep his shoulders and back a bit warmer.
"What's up with those westermen?" Carl asked Ser Raynold after Varys took his leave. The Northern musketeers were screened by a company of spearmen at least twice as large, wearing westermen armour with white pieces of cloth tied to their sleeves.
"They've decided to fight for House Westerling, now that the Lannisters are done for. Soldiers like to be on the winning side by the end of a battle, rather than fleeing through the countryside or lying face down in a ditch."
"Other westermen might want to be on the winning side too. Raynald, take your guys up the Muddy Way and get more soldiers to join you if you can. When you reach the end, hold the street leading to the Red Keep and make sure no enemies march out of the square. Lord…"
"Aurane Waters, my Lord."
"Aurane, you stay here at Fishmonger's Square and defend the docks with fifty goldcloaks. Everyone else, follow me up the Street of Steel until we get to the Sept. GO GO GO!"
Foot by foot, Carl and his men fought their way up the Street of Steel. Xho's arrows always found their mark. Many a westermen found himself clutching at feathers which suddenly spewed from his chest. Those who survived were often soon face to face with the Hound, and were killed seconds afterwards if they were stupid enough to stand their ground. The goldcloaks marched with renewed vigour, savagely spearing down every westerman who was unlucky enough to cross their path.
The stench of death lay heavily on the street. Several of the smaller shops were already set on fire. Smiths stood guard with their own weapons behind a hastily constructed barricade halfway up the hill, flanked by young men from their families or hired guards.
Carl only fired his carbine twice as they went up the hill. Once, when a red-cloaked soldier dragged a young woman out of a shop and towards the nearby alley. Prince Xho kicked the downed redcloak so hard, the archer nearly sprained his foot, while Carl pulled the woman to the safety of their formation. He fired his carbine again when a horde of westermen were about to overrun the smiths' barricade. When the westermen turned to flee, the goldcloaks lowered their spears and quickly marched up the slope. Pinned between the smiths and the goldcloaks, the westermen were slaughtered to the last man. When Carl looked back down the street from the safety of the barricade, he saw so many dead bodies that he wondered how the survivors would bury them all.
They stopped at the top of the hill, in front of a large shop with ornately carved doors. A pair of statues stood, griffin and unicorn clad in bright red armour. The doors opened, and a serving girl's head poked through the creek. She seemed to recognise the Hound's helm, but looked quizzically at Carl. Her eyes suddenly widened. She ran back into the shop.
Moments later the shop's master emerged. "The Hound," he said simply. He wore a longsword by his side. "Is the boy one of… them?"
The Hound nodded. "He is Carl Grimes, son of Rick Grimes, Lord of Alexandria. He and his men took the Red Keep two hours ago. We're now taking the rest of the city before the westermen burn them all."
"Took?" The shop's master paused. "That would explain the sacking. I'd want to get out of King's Landing if I were a Lannister too. I am Tobho Mott, my lord." He shook Carl's hand. "I see you are not wearing any armor at all. Would you require some before you go out to fight? I might have some for pages and lordlings. Though my work is on the costly side, my lord. You pay for what you get-"
"We came here for the boy's armor." the Hound interrupted. He gave a small sheet of parchment to Tobho. "Varys will pay for it when the battle's over."
"But-" Carl started. Then he was roughly pushed into the shop.
"Are you out of your mind, boy?" Before Carl knew it, the Hound's sword was at his chest. "You would be dead if I were an enemy. Even with your gun. I didn't come all the way back to King's Landing just to see you get killed."
Tobho Mott wrapped a piece of string around Carl's chest, removed it, and tied a knot where the string looped back onto itself. Then he took a few more measurements. "I'm trying to find armor that fits, not making the young lord a new set. For the next battle, perhaps," he answered, when the Hound asked why the measurements were done so briskly. An apprentice boy came racing over. Tobho whispered a set of instructions to the boy and handed over the string. The boy raced off further into the shop.
"Where are the forges? Your shop's very hot, but I can't see any around," Carl's eyes trailed around the shop.
"Behind that door over there." Tobho Mott frowned. "Are you well, my lord? Your face seems very red."
The Hound placed his hand across Carl's brow. "Fever," he declared. "Must be from all that running around in the rain."
Tobho Mott beckoned the servant girl over. "A glass of wine for the Hound. And some tea for the young lord. He feels feverish."
The servant girl returned with the apprentice in tow. As the Hound sipped at his wine, Tobho started strapping pieces of armor onto Carl. First came the cuirass. It was a little too large, but there was nothing more fitting that could be found, and it would have to serve. Then the leg greaves. Lastly came the kettle helm. "Your hat would do you no good against a sword slash or a spear thrust. You can leave it here if you want-"
"I'll wear it under the helm." Carl put on the helmet and fastened the straps. The armour was already feeling hot and heavy. If he wore this any longer, he would be cooked alive.
"Drink." The Hound put the cup of tea to Carl's lips. "Can't have you keel over mid battle." Carl sipped the tea. He felt a bit less tired now, and when he put his hand to his forehead, it didn't feel nearly as warm.
Tobho showed Carl and the Hound out of his shop. "That's the best I could do for now. Lord Carl would need a few days in bed after the battle's over. And a new suit of armor too."
They rounded the Sept of Baelor from a dirt path running behind it. To their left, a few dim lamps shone at the top of white walls, and the seven marble towers which soared into the sky. Carl looked down at the city when they passed a set of closed bronze gates, towards the wide Blackwater river, and all the sights between. Flickering lights dotted the sprawling streets below. But Carl could not help but notice the few bright flames which burned here and there, columns of smoke rising to the heavens. They ran on, as fast as Carl's legs could carry him. There was no time to admire the scenery.
Carl had never seen so many people huddled as closely together as the mass of 'smallfolk' at the plaza. They pushed and jostled, trying to make their way into the Sept itself and behind its sturdy doors, before the westermen reached the plaza. And the westermen were not far, at least judging from the screams. Faintly at first at the plaza, but growing ever louder as Carl and his men made their way east while injured goldcloaks joined the smallfolk streaming west. When the Guildhall of the Alchemists was within sight, he could already pick out the individual shrieks, the cries of help. And the clashing of swords.
"Where's the fighting? And who's in charge?" Carl asked a fleeing goldcloak. The man's forehead was wrapped in a blood-soaked rag.
"In front of the Alchemist Guild, Ser Jaime Lannister," the goldcloak blurted before as he ran past. "Flee while you still can, m'lord! The lines are about to break!"
Jaime Lannister? Carl frowned. Wasn't he Cersei's brother - and lover? He didn't know what to make of the rumours of their relationship, but he was a knight of the Kingsguard on top of a Lannister nevertheless. Jaime was as likely going to fight against Carl as he was for him. At least Jaime wasn't on Arya's list, and was defending the city. Carl had no reason to kill Jaime if the man didn't strike first.
They arrived just in time to see Jaime Lannister fall.
"I'll gun a few of them down with Clem. Rest of you drive them back when they've broken," Carl whispered. Most of the goldcloaks in front were flinging down their weapons. Some ran back uphill for the Sept of Baelor. Others tried to surrender, only to be cut down by the westermen. Only a few still stood and fought. They formed a wall of spears around the straw-haired knight who was dragging Jaime back up the slope.
Carl shouldered his carbine and started running, Clem following close behind. Right before the westermen would have slain the knight, Carl and Clem opened fire. The westermen faltered. Then some started to flee. Then...
Click.
"I'm out of ammo," Clem whispered.
Carl stuffed all the ammo he still had into Clem's ammunition pouch, then handed his carbine over. How many rounds were there? Carl wondered. A dozen? No more than two dozen, at most. "Cover us with the Northmen. I'll fight at the front."
Sandor had reached them with their goldcloaks, the warrior's dog-helm snarling. The straw-haired knight had retreated to the safety of these new lines. "Kingslanders, Crownlanders, form up! Charge!" Carl drew Widow's Wail. Red and black rippled through the sword's length, the black of night and the red of blood. Quite fitting, Carl noted grimly.
The westermen were still out of formation when the goldcloaks fell on them. Carl knew just enough about swordplay to know not to hack at the enemy as if he were a butcher dealing with a pig's carcass, but little more. So he stabbed, and swerved when his foe tried to strike at him. He thought his swordwork was shit. Sandor would probably be laughing at him right now, if it were not for their dire situation. But it didn't matter. Carl tried his best to stay in formation. The westermen did not have that luxury, not when the Northmen shot a volley into their ranks every time they got close to forming up. Finally the westermen broke and fled down the hill. At least ten times their number were climbing uphill from the city square.
Carl ran back to where Jaime Lannister lay. "Can you get up?" he asked. But the rapidly growing pool of blood on the ground answered all too clearly. He would not even make it back to the Sept.
"You're with them," Jaime accused.
Carl nodded.
"Cersei?" he coughed.
"You'll see her soon," Carl answered carefully.
"I suppose… thought… die together… children?" Jaime's voice grew softer as he spoke.
"Joffrey and Tommen are safe and sound back in the Red Keep. I'll try to make sure they aren't harmed. They will not be executed."
"Try… best… Kingslanding… we held till you came," Jaime heaved against every syllable. He took a deep breath. His lungs rattled. "You took it from us. Your turn. You keep the city safe. And the people." Jaime's left hand gripped against Carl's forearm. Only a stump remained where his right hand would have been. Like Dad, Carl thought.
Carl gently shifted Jaime so that he was looking back at the Red Keep, back where Joffrey and Tommen were. Shaken, perhaps. Carl still felt the bruises Joffrey left on him. But both as safe as they could be in this burning city.
Jaime's right arm reached for the Red Keep. For a moment it hung in the air. Easy, easy, Carl whispered. Then Jaime's arm slammed into the ground. He neither moved nor spoke again.
Carl placed his ear against the man's mouth and nose, felt his pulse. Then he gently closed the Lannister's eyelids. The straw-haired knight was crying, so Carl went to hug him. No, her, Carl realised when she started screaming Jaime's name over and over again.
"How long did you guys hold here?" Carl asked.
"Two hours," the knight sobbed. "Who are you?"
"Carl Grimes. We still got a battle to fight. Take Jaime's body to the Sept, we'll bury him properly later. Herd all the smallfolk inside as fast as you can. You've held long enough, but there are too many of them. We're pulling back to the Sept's doors."
He was back with the goldcloaks again. Stab, swerve, slash, duck, stab, duck, swerve. They fought for every inch of Visenya's Hill. Carl had even killed two westermen by the time they were pushed back into the plaza's steps, the Great Sept of Baelor itself looming over them. All of the smallfolk had somehow managed to squeeze it. Or at least those who were still alive. Carl and his men only had to hold the steps for a bit longer. He already saw the mass of torches pushing towards the Sept from Cobbler's Square. Another mass of torches inched up the Muddy Way. They had to be winning!
Stab, slash, swerve, ohshitohshit-
Carl's sword parried the spear that was thrust towards his neck. It struck his chestplate instead, winding him and sending him reeling to the side. Carl lifted his foot and pushed it against the steps behind. He missed. He tripped.
Crack.
Oh, Carl thought.
Then Widow's Wail slipped from his grip. A searing pain shot up his right arm, like lightning. When he looked down, his forearm was bent in a funny shape.
In front, he saw nothing but westermen. Carl held out his pistol with his remaining good hand. Pow, pow, pow. Two westermen fell. Only twelve rounds left. Pow. Eleven. Pow, pow… and Carl was dragged onto his feet.
"You stupid boy!" The Hound swung Widow's Wail into the neck of the nearest westerman. A fountain of blood erupted straight onto Carl. He lifted the wrong arm to shield his face from the spray. The broken arm rammed into the Hound's armour, sending another wave of pain cascading through Carl. Then he flew. Up the stairs, safe in the Hound's iron gauntlets, past the Sept's doors into a long hall with so many coloured glass lamps, dimly burning, lining the hall's roof. And past the smallfolk still jostling their way further into the Sept, into a dome of glass and gold and crystal, and of marble lining the floor and walls and altars.
Finally they arrived at the centre of the dome, at the middle of a seven-pointed star. Carl's forehead was burning, burning, as hotly as his broken arm. Everything seemed to be a haze. But he could still name the statues that Arya told him of, the seven 'New Gods' which the southern Westerosi worshipped. Father, Mother, Warrior, Smith, Maiden, Crone, Stranger, he whispered, looking at each one in turn.
The Hound set Carl down, against the makeshift bier which bore Jaime Lannister's now icy cold body, wrapped in the Lannisters' red-and-crimson flag. "Take care of your new lordling," the Hound declared a bit too loudly to all within earshot. "Or I will slaughter you all if the Lannisters don't get to you first. His name is Carl, if you care."
Yet the Hound had scarcely left when the smallfolk began crowding around him.
"See my babe here? Dead! As much as we hate the lions, she would be alive if it weren't for you!"
"The Hound says you are our new lordling. What should we eat, now that the westermen burned our grain? Knaw on Lannister bones, or the flesh of our kin?"
"Remember last time a one eyed sorcerer ruled the city? Our king died, so did our princes, and nearly half of King's Landing!"
"You will stay in the Red Keep when this is over, but what of our ruined homes? Where will my children sleep?"
And on, and on, the smallfolk accused. They called him names too. Most of them didn't sound nice, and most of them revolved around his lone eye, though he didn't know what "Bloodraven" was. They're tired, they're scared, Carl told himself as the shouting and spittle raged around him. They asked many questions. Carl could answer few of them. He wasn't as great as The Rick Grimes all of Alexandria admired, nor as learned as Michonne, smart as Eugene, strong as Jesus. All he could do was listen.
"Who are you? Why are you here?" a fat man in a brown tunic asked angrily.
Those were questions Carl could answer. His lips curled into the best smile he could muster.
"The Hound told you my name is Carl. Is it a strange name here? Anyone else called Carl?" he gambled. Several hands shot up. Not many, but enough. "See? Just like you. And I'm here in King's Landing, just like you, to keep my pack in Alexandria safe. Family, friends. That's what you are here for too. And I'm here to defend my father's realm-"
"Defend! As if we were children five summers old! You came here to conquer us. Better than the lions, I'll give you that. At least you haven't sacked the city yet. You just let them do it instead-" the fat man's voice was louder now, almost as if he was preaching to the crowd of the Alexandrians' evil.
A lone figure stood up. Far enough for Carl to not recognise the figure's face, not when the fever still burned. But close enough to hear her, the knight who was by Jaime Lannister's side. "Your new lord stood on the front rank against the westermen now burning your city and slaying your children. When Jaime Lannister fell, Carl Grimes took up his place and met the westerlanders with cold steel, not with tricks or sorcery that could bring down half a dozen men at once. It was Valyrian Steel, I'll give you that, light enough that he could lift it up and swing it around like a smallfolk would who was given his first sword an hour ago. I saw a lot of swords and spears littering the street when we marched back into the Sept. I see many men cowering in this sept. Where were you, men, when this boy half your size was out there fighting? Have you lost your balls?"
If a pin dropped somewhere in the dome at that moment, Carl was sure he would have heard it. He did hear the Sept's doors slam shut. Was the Hound dead? What about the goldcloaks? Clem?
"I told you why I'm here in King's Landing. But I'm here in the Sept of Baelor because-" Carl gently picked up the dead baby from her grieving mother and kissed the corpse on the forehead. A small tear dropped from his eye. Was it from the pain, or was it guilt? "Because I fucked up. Yes, I fucked up and people died. So I'm here to defend you, to defend King's Landing and the citizens within. Not all the Lannisters are that bad. Jaime was holding the hill until he couldn't anymore. But he's dead, the Lannisters are gone, and I'm here. I'll do my best."
Not that Carl's best would count for much anyway, if the westermen broke through the doors. He only had a pistol with nine rounds left. With his right arm broken, he couldn't even wield a spear or sword properly. All he could do was fire nine rounds, then flee or die. And the new lord of King's Landing could not flee. Not before the smallfolk.
A man garbed in white robes and a many-coloured belt made his way through the crowd. "Water, Lord Carl?" A piece of wet cloth was gently dabbed onto Carl's forehead, wiping away the beads of sweat. Then a bowl of clear water was placed against his lips. Carl sipped. "This might hurt a bit," the septon advised.
It hurt quite more than a bit. "Ow! Ow! Ow!" Carl sobbed, when his arm was set and bound against a splint.
BOOM. BOOM. The gates began to shake.
"May the Warrior defend this boy, and may the Smith defend this gate," Carl saw the septon pray with shaking hands. Carl's left hand was shaking too.
BOOM. BOOM. BOOM.
"Carl-" Clementine waded through the crowd, the Northmen behind her.
"Remember we passed that bronze gate on our way here? Take the musketeers and secure that gate. If shit hits the fan, you get as many people out of here and fight your way back to the Red Keep. You know the plan. Tell dad I'm sorry if-" Carl's good hand fiddled with his armour straps even as he spoke. He had to live. Could Dad even run Alexandria if he died? Judith would cry for him every night. And Andrea, Michonne, Sophia… "This is an order. You agreed to orders when we planned this raid."
If the Sept of Baelor fell, Carl hoped he and the goldcloaks would buy enough time for Clem to sneak her way back to the Red Keep, with the Northmen and smallfolk, and hold it until Alexandrian reinforcements came. Or they could flee back down the city wall with the hostages and all the valuables they could take, out the River Gate, and back onto the Providence. Carl had asked his friends and his Northmen allies of the backup plan should all else fail every night on the way to King's Landing, and every night Carl made sure they answered correctly. And Arya knew the way.
He wouldn't flee, though, not even from the Sept. If it weren't for him, there would be no Sack. And the city was his now, for good or ill. Fight and live, or die trying.
BOOM.
Carl shakily got to his feet. "Pick up a sword. Or a spear. Or anything you can fight with. Any man who has a wife and children, hold the back of the Sept with Clem and the Northmen for as long as you can. They are your friends. I will defend the gate. Follow me if you want."
BOOM. BOOM. BOOM. BOOM. BOOM.
The Hound was wiping his blood-coated sword at the Hall. "We tried," he simply said.
Carl looked back down the hall. A thin line of goldcloaks stood, spear in hand. Behind them were smallfolk extending so far down the hall Carl couldn't even see. He spied many knives. Axes, too. Poles here and there, some with knives crudely tied to their tip. Some candles, not that they would do much good. He could even smell the stench of excrement filling the air. Maybe the westermen would be disgusted enough to flee. And maybe pigs could fly.
BOOM.
Nine rounds left in his pistol. The first eight westermen would have a very bad evening, and perhaps the ninth too. If Carl didn't save the last bullet, that was. He couldn't take his mind off the shill screams on the other side of the gate. Bye, Dad. Bye, Judy, Andrea. Bye, Sophia, Josh, Mikey… Would Mom be waiting on the other side? Would she be proud of me? Carl wondered.
RAP. RAP. RAP.
"For fucks sake, open the door!" the voice seemed eerily familiar.
"Winter is coming," Carl whispered. "Sandor, ask everyone to shout the pass words."
"WINTER IS COMING!"
"WINTER IS COMING!"
"WINTER IS COMING!"
"Out of many, one," the voice replied.
The doors creaked open. Ser Raynald was the first through, followed by a goldcloak in a captain's armour whom Carl didn't recognise. "Humphrey Waters, commander of the Dragon Gate," Raynald explained. Several hundred goldcloaks streamed into the hall. Carl spotted some westermen too, white pieces of cloth tied to their arm. "The battle is over. We have won."
The smallfolk cheered. Carl, Carl, Carl, they cried. Yet other words were shouted too. Bread! Bread! Bread!
"Rest… of King's… Landing?" Carl stammered. Even his voice was failing him now.
"The rest of the city rose up against the Lannisters when they saw the Sept of Baelor still hold. Smallfolk, merchants, hedge knights, even a few Reachmen defending their whores. The Reachmen started surrendering an hour ago," Humphrey quickly added. "They did not wish to share the fate of the Lannister men."
"Fate of the Lannister men?"
"We Kingslanders still bitterly remember the Lannister sack during Robert's Rebellion. They tried again tonight, so we repaid them in kind. You may wish to avert your gaze from the streets when heading back, my lord. And avoid looking upwards. The streets are crimson with Lannister blood, and gold with Lannister piss. Quite a few of the Lannisters soiled their breeches when they were cut down. I heard the boy king pissed himself too."
"So the Lannister soldiers are all dead?" Carl whispered.
Humphrey laughed. "The smarter ones suddenly found out they were Westerling men after all."
"Go back to the Red Keep, Carl. Humphrey and I shall deal with the rest." Raynald promised. "You've done enough for a day."
Carl remembered little of what he saw on the way back to the Red Keep. His arm still blazed with the heat of a thousand suns. His head spun. Maybe it was the fever. Or not having eaten or drank at all since the raid began, while fighting all the way. He didn't remember most of what he heard either. Except the pleading, then screaming, when five westermen were burnt at makeshift stakes where the Muddy Way met the road back to the Red Keep.
When they finished the excruciating climb up Aegon's High Hill, Arya was waiting for them. Her sister Sansa was there too. "Carl! You're back!" Arya looked down and gulped. "Are you… hurt?"
"He broke his arm and got himself a fever too," the Hound answered.
"Lord Carl, the hostages are in the Maidenvault, as you ordered," Sansa interjected. "And there's a letter waiting for you at the Tower of the Hand. It's from the Night's Watch."
"A letter from the Night's Watch? For me? How did they even know my name?"
"It was for the King on the Iron Throne, and King's Landing. But no king sits on the Iron Throne now. You're the new lord of the city, at least until your father arrives. So it's yours to read," Sansa quickly added.
"Maybe it's from Jon! Would you read it for us, Carl?" Arya was already heading towards the Tower before she finished speaking. Sansa followed, gently laughing and shaking her head. From what he heard of the Lannisters, Carl wondered when was the last time the older Stark girl smiled.
"Aren't you going to say your list tonight? The night's ending soon," Carl couldn't help but ask Arya as they climbed the Tower of the Hand. "I remember there should still be a few names left."
"Not tonight. I've already used up all my wishes for today," she whispered. "I wish father were still here to see justice done. And poor Robb too. It isn't fair."
It was a long climb up the Tower. Not as long as the Harrenhal climb, though just as dark, and Carl hadn't been fighting for hours or had a fever back then. This time he would have to lie in bed for a few days afterwards, and the arm would take weeks to heal. But the climb ended, and they found themselves in the tower's solar.
And on top of an ornately carved desk, the black-sealed letter.
"Should I light the torches?" Sansa asked.
Carl looked out the window, towards the east. Already the first rays of sunlight were breaking through the horizon. "Nah. Let's not waste torches when the sun's about to come out. We could see the sunrise too. It must be beautiful after the last night of the Seven Kingdoms. Let's just read the letter while we watch this shitshow of a night end."
The three youngsters climbed onto the tower's crenellations and sat down, Carl propped against the stonework. When the sky was bright enough, he tore open the letter.
The message was short. "Wildlings at the gate. The realm in danger. Send all the help you can to Castle Black," Carl read out to the Starks. He only coughed five times as he did. "It's from a Maester Aemon. Don't know who he is, but this seems fucking serious." He handed the letter to the sisters. "Where's Castle Black?"
"On the Wall," the sisters answered together.
"North, then. We won't go today, nor tomorrow. But maybe a few weeks? A month? We'll let Dad know, and we'll all go north and deal with the wildlings if the realm is in danger. The world wasn't fair to your father or your brothers, but I like to think the world's a bit fairer after tonight, and we'll make it even fairer in the days to come."
Carl smiled and rolled up the letter as best as he could with one hand. Then Arya's right hand slipped into Carl's uninjured left, her left hand slipped into Sansa's right. Side by side, the three youngsters watched the sun rise.