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Chapter Thirty-Eight: The Ghosts of Castamere.
"And now the rains weep o'er his halls, and not a soul to hear." (Rains of Castamere)
Everything was still and silent, until Lord Karstark began humming a familiar tune. Dawn was breaking over the tiny village of Oxcross, the people had already fled to safety leaving the two armies facing each other over a flat plain of land. They were out of arrow range, but close enough so that Robb could catch his first glimpse of Tywin Lannister at the head of his host. It was true what they said; Lord Tywin was tall and slight, easily identifiable without his helm on. Every sound carried in the still air and Robb knew their enemy could hear the tune that had now been picked up by many others. Once the orchestral introduction was complete, thousands of mocking voices rang out in unison:
"And who are you, the proud lord said, that I must bow so low,
Only a cat of a different coat, that's all the truth I know..."
Then the words changed:
"But wolves have claws and teeth as well, my lord;
Longer and sharper than yours..."
The words didn't exactly fit the song, but the men had been singing it continuously since they left the Riverlands and Robb much preferred it to the original. Regrettably, he was too far away to ask Tywin's opinion of their altered and updated version. But if the volley of arrows that suddenly soared through the air in their direction was anything to go, the Lannister's didn't enjoy the rendition quite so much. Robb grinned as he lowered the visor of his helm; he drew his battle sword and dug his spurs into his horse's flanks. Grey Wind prowled at his side, snarling and growling at the enemy forces. Like his master, he hungered for the fight to begin.
At the very last minute, they were joined by another company of men all dressed in grey and wearing patchy, rusted armour. They bore a sigil of a broken tower, yet they had no house words to offer any clue as to whom they were. There were two hundred of them at most and hadn't so much as a horse between them, only pikes and old swords. Before he could ask Lord Karstark about them, he was cut off by the first command.
"Nock!" The command was met with the sound of arrows clicking against bows of yew. "Draw! … Loose!"
As they returned fire, their lines advanced in tandem with no one man breaking their defensive formation. With decades more experience than him, however, Tywin's men were just as disciplined. As both armies drew closer, the peace was shattered for good as armoured men and horses began marching forwards. Seconds later, all around him, Robb heard arrows hissing into wooden shields. But, as yet, no fatalities on either side.
His heartbeat raced, sweat breaking on his brow as the cavalry charge drew closer and closer. Slowly, slowly, one step at a time they approached, stopped and fired a volley of arrows. It felt like the suspense was killing him now. All the while, he watched through his visor as Tywin inched closer. Occasionally he was obscured as he threw up his shield to block the northmen's arrows, then Robb's own visor would block his view. But he homed straight in on the man again within seconds.
Suddenly, a war horn blared. Once, then twice, before countless voices cried out together as the suspense was broken. Spurs were kicked into horse's flanks, the beasts crying out as the cavalry charge thundered into action. Robb surged ahead, leading the tide of steel and swords sweeping across the plain, weapon drawn and ready for the kill. Within minutes, the two armies met and clashed in two converging waves.
Sea water splashed all over Sam's front as he tried to run through the waves, sword held high over his head. The Unsullied surged ahead of him, almost knocking him over more than once. But he regained his balance and stood his ground. All the while, volleys of arrows were raining down on them from the walls of Dragonstone, only the attack of the young dragons gave them windows of time in which to make it to the shore. By the time he made it to dry land, he was soaked but he didn't care about that. With no real idea of what he was meant to be doing, he followed everyone else.
A great battering ram had been manually lifted from another ship by a hundred Unsullied, who were now pounding at the castle gates. However, Dragonstone's defences were still weak following the loss of their siege engines and catapults during the failed battle of Blackwater. He paused and watched as the ram was thrust at the great gates over again, savouring the sound of splintering wood as the gates began to cave.
Remembering Daenerys, he turned and ran back to the shoreline with his sword sheathed. Extending a hand toward her, he pulled her through the waves and on to the shingle.
"Is all well, my lady?" he yelled above the din of battle.
She was already making for the castle. "All is well, now hurry!"
Drawing his sword again, he puffed a few deep breaths to steel himself, then charged like an aurochs possessed through the shattered gates of Dragonstone. Above him, Rhaegal and Drogon fought the good fight, screaming rivers of flame down on the Lannister men patrolling the battlements. Before long, the last of the Unsullied had disembarked, hauling a great trebuchet and firing boulders over the walls, sending the last of the Lannisters scattering into the bowels of the castle. Sam, Ser Barristan and Dany gave chase with weapons drawn.
The noise was terrible. Echoes of boulders crashing into the vast curtain walls boomed all around them, great missiles heralded by the screams and shouts of fleeing men. More than once, Ser Barristan and Sam slashed and thrust their swords at approaching enemies, cutting them down before they could even raise their own weapons. Sam's heart beat so fast he forgot to be afraid, just as he had when the white walker tried to kill him. Now, it felt like there were hundreds more white walkers, but he was not alone this time.
He had never been to Dragonstone before, but Ser Barristan seemed to know the place well. He shouted out commands, directing the men following them on where to go. He sent contingents of the Unsullied up stairwells, down galleries and up into the battlements. As they advanced, the enemy seemed to melt away like a northern summer frost.
Amidst the confusion and the fighting and deafening racket, Sam lost himself. It could have taken an hour, or it could have taken a day, before they emerged blinking on the castle walls. Hundreds of feet in the air, he could see out over the bay where their ships bobbed on the restless tide. They had the battlements, which mean they now had the castle itself. Using his sword, Sam cut down the Lannister standard while Dany untied a scrunched up standard that she had rolled and tied around her waist. She unfurled it and flapped it into the wind. The scarlet three-headed dragon on a field of black fluttered in the breeze as they hung it in the place of the golden lions.
Breathless, they looked at each other with fever bright eyes, all smiles and sighs of relief. Meanwhile, morning had already broken and they had no time to tarry on Dragonstone. As soon as she had recovered a little, Dany called out to her dragons who swooped down from their place behind the clouds. Tendrils of steam curled from their mouths and noses in the cold morning air as they flapped around her head before Drogon coiled his long, sinuous body around her shoulders. Mercifully, unlike Viserion, he and Rhaegal were unhurt and could rest on the ships during the crossing to Blackwater.
"It pains me to leave my birthplace so soon," she said, looking past the corpses and seeing only her own history. "But onwards to Kings Landing. My nephew is waiting."
Ser Barristan called out at the top of his voice. "To the Ship! To the ships!"
The command bounced around the echoing chambers, prompting all eight thousand Unsullied to retreat immediately. They had been on Dragonstone for barely two hours, but Dany was right. By now Jon's assault on the capital would have begun and they hadn't a moment to lose.
"Congratulations, Dany!" Sam called out to her as they retreated back to their ship, Balerion.
"Don't congratulate me until we have the capital!" However, she was grinning triumphantly all the same.
No sooner were they back on board, soaked through once again, then the ships sails billowed in the gusting tailwinds that soon saw them entering the mouth of Blackwater Bay, leaving their siege engines behind to save time. Sam drew a deep breath, not quite able to fathom that he really was helping to conquer a kingdom.
A lone wolf howled loud and clear, a call answered by several more as the northern host charged toward the city walls. The gold cloaks of the city watch were already waiting for them, pikes lowered just waiting for the skewering. But pikes were no match for their longbow men, who sent flight after flight of arrows soaring up to the walls; the gold of their cloaks glittered in the sun making for convenient targets. Also waiting for them at the gates was a vast host of Bolton men who had control of the bridges, but they did not slow down. The Tyrell forces fell onto enemy lines with a ferocity that belied the gentle manners for which the southern lords were famed.
At the head of them, Loras and Garlan Tyrell were a twin assault team cutting a path through Bolton and Frey alike as they reached the city gates. Jon, for his part, followed close behind, only daring to open up his reach as soon as he made it through the gates. Nudging the horse with his spurs, he urged the destrier into a speeding gallop as he led his men through the narrow, twisting city streets. The warning bells rang out continuously then, out of the blue, the Lannisters fought back by firing huge boulders over the walls of the Red Keep.
Jon watched helplessly as the boulders smashed into the homes of innocent civilians, sending the survivors fleeing terrified into the cobbled streets. The acts of war only urged him on faster, to get the insurrection over and done with as soon as possible. Before they could even advance on the Red Keep, they had to neutralise the city watch. But once inside, they could attack from behind as well as smash a great hole in the city walls to allow their vast host a speedy entry.
"We need the battering rams now!" Jon bellowed out, reigning up his horse and turning sharply.
As he spoke, their own side returned fire with the catapults and trebuchets lined up along the south wall. Their distant booms, followed by the nerve-shredding crashes, could be heard from where they were at the north gate. As he moved to help his men, Jon could just make out a wolf savaging one of the Gold Cloaks. Lacking the time to worry about where the beast had come from, he used Dark Sister to slash at the tethers on the main drawbridge, further enabling his army to get into the city swiftly.
"Jon, look out!"
Jon whirled around, to where another of the Gold Cloaks was bearing down on him. A quick thrust of Dark Sister ended the matter and he swiftly despatched another that was about to go for Garlan Tyrell. He sent up a silent prayer that the walls would give way soon and they could finally get a move on. They were sitting ducks while trying to bring down the walls. Soon enough, his prayers were answered with a huge crash as the bricks caved and crumbled to the ground, sending up a choking dust cloud as they went. Within seconds, the last of the Boltons guarding the gates were swept away and trampled as Jon's army began pouring into the city. The few who managed to escape could only flee into Tyrell lines, where Jon cut them down two at a time.
"Get the Gold Cloaks, leave the civilians!" Loras called out. "Only the bastard Gold Cloaks."
But Jon was fixed on the distant Red Keep, sprawled across the peak of Aegon's high hill. Blinkered to everything else, he charged his destrier down the streets, slashing at the foe without bothering to check he had finished them off. All the while, the bells kept on tolling and the forces inside the Red Keep kept on hurling their boulders. One sailed directly over Jon's head, causing his mount to wicker and rear up, almost unseating him. Having hung on for dear life, his head was spinning by the time they were advancing again.
Getting through the city was the easy part. As they closed in on the Red Keep, they could finally see the full royal army lined up along the walls. Even then, Jon knew, the most important people would all be hidden away inside. Joffrey, Cersei, Ramsay Bolton … not one of them would come out and fight in the open.
He was about to charge again, when Loras and Garlan pulled him back.
"Steady on there," Garlan scolded. "You'll get yourself killed if you go stampeding in there alone!"
Frustrated, Jon cursed. "What do we do then? We can't sit around here waiting forever."
"We regroup, get our full forces together and then we charge as one," replied Garlan.
Still infuriated by the last minute block, Jon leapt down from his horse and paced on foot to burn off his impatience. Once he had composed himself, he stopped pacing and looked across the clearway. He was wrong about Ramsay Bolton. The Lord of the Dreadfort was there with his men, mounted and armed with a large pike. High above his head, atop the city walls, a flayed man burned for all to see. In the background, the wolves continued to howl.
Time was wearing on by the time the full host regrouped along the walkway to the Red Keep and Jon was itching to get moving again. First they had form up in a defensive line, ready to make their final assault as one. In the meantime, he watched and calculated the distance between himself and the Red Keep. It was painfully close.
The northmen closed in on the Lannisters, circling them swiftly in a noose effect. A river nearby was being protected by Robb's uncle, Edmure. The mountains themselves made a retreat to the south impossible. In the heat of battle, Tywin's horse had been shot with an arrow, felling the beast with a sickening scream of pain. By the middle of the afternoon, most of the fighting was being done on foot anyway. The ground became churned up with blood from fallen men and stamping horses. But still they fought on, beating the Lannisters back toward Casterly Rock. The only chance of retreat the Lannisters had was a path that led north, back towards the Riverlands which would take them through mountainous terrain.
"Just give up," Robb shouted out in frustration.
Even as he yelled out, Tywin was rallying what was left of his forces. Second guessing that they were going for the retreat, Robb snatched at the nearest riderless horse, his owner probably dead, and jumped into the saddle. Kicking the animal into a swift gallop, he gave chase to Tywin Lannister, never once taking his eyes off the old man. If Tywin retreated, there was a chance he could rally more troops and this was one battle Robb had no desire to fight again.
"Stop him!" Robb tried to call out over the din of battle.
Lord Glover's men heard him and joined the chase. Tywin was mere yards from the path, when the mysterious grey men grouped into a box formation and blocked the retreat. Immediately, they made effective use of what weaponry they had, as well as the few shields they had taken from fallen men. Forming a shield wall, they aimed their pikes and swords at Tywin's retreating men and refused to budge. Even when Tywin himself managed to cut the top two grey men down, the ones below held their place.
"Hold!" Robb pleaded out loud to them. "Just hold for two more minutes, please!"
He raised his sword, already dripping with blood; Grey Wind charged ahead as he gained on the Lannisters and forced them to turn and fight. Suddenly, it seemed to Robb, Tywin was cornered. Surrounded by the men in grey tunics and battered armour on one side; Glovers, Starks and Umbers everywhere else. Grey Wind lunged at Tywin making him cry out in shock and anger, pulling him down and dragging him across the ground. Robb dismounted, using all his strength to drive his sword straight through Tywin's breastplate, through his heart and out through his back. Tywin's visor had come loose, his armour was already pierced by a number of arrows, and Robb could see the life leave his green-gold eyes. A soft rain began to fall, misting the now dead lord's face.
Dazed and breathless, Robb collapsed on his knees leaving his sword embedded in the dead man's body. He had fought and won, but now his heart was racing so fast he feared it might explode. Slowly, he recovered himself enough to stand and see the grey men up close for the first time. They had fought ferociously, for all their lack of real armour and weapons. Now, he could see how old some of these men were. Many were older than Tywin himself. But the grey pallor of their faces was only dramatic makeup, the likes of which mummers would use.
Robb was baffled, but eternally grateful. "I give you thanks, Sers. You saved me a lot of trouble today. Tell me your names and I will see that the new King rewards you."
"We have all the reward we seek, your grace." The oldest of them stepped forward and gestured to Tywin's corpse. Bright blood was leaking from the corner of his mouth now, dead eyes reflecting the overcast sky and gathering the falling rain like unshed tears.
As a 'reward' it seemed woefully inadequate to him. "Then please, at least tell me your names."
The old man gave him a strange and distant smile. "We are the Ghosts of Castamere. Like you Northmen, we remember."
Suddenly, Robb felt ashamed of the stupid song they sang to goad their enemy. He bowed his head as a mark of deference to these men who had spent long decades hungering for justice. Already, they were melting away again. Most of them headed for the woods nearby with the bodies of their dead on a makeshift stretcher, another was washing his face in a little stream. But one man stopped and looked back: "We loved your song, by the way."
Cersei hitched the hems of her skirts as she ran through the halls of the Red Keep. All around her women screamed and war echoed off every vault in the ceiling. She had grabbed what few personal items she could, including her crown, but Joffrey was nowhere to be seen. She called out his name over and over, but no one answered. When she grabbed hold of someone to help her search, he merely shoved her away. No one was listening to her anymore, no one cared and all fear of her was gone from them now. Her only hope was getting Joffrey and getting out before the walls were breached. By her own estimation, that was going to happen at any moment.
"Sister!"
Jaime's voice called through the chaos, making her weak kneed with relief. "Jaime, where is he? Where is Joffrey?"
She closed the gap between them, kicking Lady Tanda aside as she did so. When she reached her brother, she almost fainted.
"I will find him, but you must go. Go now!" he urged her.
But without Joff, she was going nowhere. "You know I can't- "
"You must!"
She wanted to slap him then. Before she couldn't seem to translate her wishes into action. Not even when he gripped her by the shoulders and shook her.
"The northmen are coming, sister," he shouted at her, fury in his brilliant green eyes. "Get in that boat, get to Tommen and then flee to Essos until you can raise an army. Go now, before we lose everything!" He calmed at the sight of the grief in her eyes, then continued. "If I find Joff, I'll protect him. I promise you. But you really must go now or all will be lost."
Although she did not want to, although she wanted to tear the walls down looking for her child, she felt her head nod of its own volition. As soon as she granted that reluctant consent, Jaime was practically dragging her to the dock beyond the curtain walls. In a panic, she looked back towards Maegor's Holdfast, hoping that her worst fears were not true. All she saw were armed and angry northmen and Tyrells scaling the walls already in the thick of their final assault. She tried to pick out Jon Stark, but he was nowhere to be seen.
Noticing her tarrying, Jaime pulled at her again causing her to curse him. Their journey led down a steep flight of steps, to where a row boat was bobbing on the tide. There was just one man at the oars. Once he got her inside, Jaime pushed her off himself and commanded the oarsman to be swift. Then he remained on the bottom step, watching her as she sailed away with tears cascading down her face. Still she watched, until Jaime was out of sight and even then could not bring herself to face forward. When she did, an hour later, she could just make out the dark bulk of a ship sailing through the smoke.
"This is your ship, my lady," said the oarsman.
She sighed with relief and looked up at the sail as the vessel emerged from a pall of thick smoke. It was black, decorated with a scarlet three-headed dragon. "Fire and Blood" was emblazoned in the same shade of scarlet beneath the dragon. Her eyes widened in shock and fear, the scream of terror frozen on her lips.
"Turn around!" she hissed at the man. Pathetically, she splashed her own hands into the water, using her own arms as oars. "Turn around, right now!"
In her panic, the crown slipped from her hands and was lost beneath the murky surface. Apprehensively, she craned her neck to look up at the sail as a fearsome black shadow descended from the sky. Its wings spread out, casting a shadow over her petrified face. Her attention caught briefly by a silver haired girl standing at the prow of the ship, a small smile playing at her lips. "Dracaris," the girl said.
As she realised what was about to happen, Cersei screamed in terror. The dragon opened its gaping maws inches from her own face and roared a river of fire right at her. The last thing she saw was the ends of her golden hair catching fire; the feel of the searing heat enveloping her whole body before the flames consumed her at their ease.
Dark Sister slashed a graceful arc through the bellies of two Bolton soldiers. Without even waiting for them to fall, Jon ran on through the gates of the Red Keep. Already the Lannister standards were being torn down, although Jon steeled himself against getting carried away. He was still in the press of the fighting as they fought for control of the capital. He burst through the gates and into the yards, where there was still an infestation of Bolton turncoats. Jon parried their blows easily, then cut through them with his sword as he advanced relentlessly.
There in the front yard, Sandor Clegane – whom Jon thought was guarding Sansa – was fighting one on one with a man the size of a house. His armour made him look as if he'd been carved from a cliff face. Jon's heart leapt into his throat as he realised it must be the Mountain. Sandor's face was contorted with rage and years of suppressed grief as he slashed and thrust his sword at every part of his brother's body, each blow barely making a dint in that human edifice. Unable to help, Jon had to leave him and advance further into the castle in search of the former king.
He followed the person in front of him as he shouldered open the double doors that led into the throne room. Immediately, a crossbow bolt shot through the man's throat, killing him instantly. Jon reeled back, finding his fall blocked by the Tyrell men rushing up behind him. The blood of the dead man had sprayed into his face, obscuring his vision.
"Shields!" he yelled out to no one in particular, desperately wiping at his eyes. "Raise your shields."
As he tried to get back into the yard, he saw Ramsay Bolton himself running for the gates. Blind to everything else happening, Jon gave pursuit as hard and fast as he could.
"Ramsay!" he yelled, stopping the man in his tracks.
Bolton drew his sword, but continued backing away until Jon gave chase again. Only when he was in touching distance did Ramsay whirl around, inexpertly waving his sword. Jon parried the slash easily. He tried to think of something to say, some final words and parting shot. But nothing came and he was wasting time fighting with the man, especially this close to the castle keep. Bolton was no swordsman and Jon cut him down with one swift and heavy thrust of his sword, straight through his heart. Only then did Ramsay try to say something, but the words were lost among the blood spurting from his mouth.
With heavy, aching limbs Jon retrieved Dark Sister and turned on his heel back toward the yard where Sandor Clegane was being overpowered by his brother now. Jon thought Gregor was about to finish the Hound off when an anguished girl's voice cried out across the yard.
"Sandor! Kill him Sandor, kill him!"
To Jon's horror, Sansa leapt down from a palfrey and charged on foot through a press of soldiers. But Sandor heard her and remembered he's a savage dog, fighting back with every ounce of his clearly ebbing strength. As much as he wanted to stay and watch the outcome of that particular grudge match, he knew he could not.
"There's my sister," he cried out, hoping someone would hear. "Get her inside to safety!"
Plucking up his courage, Jon shoved his way back through the doors of the throne room. More bodies had piled up in a bloodied heap at the entry and he had step over them. Inside, another man fell as a bolt was fired from the eaves above. He looked up, to where Joffrey had a crossbow trained on the men entering, his piglet eyes glittering in the fading light.
Silence descended then, as Joffrey found him through the sight of his weapon. It took a second, but Joffrey soon realised who he was and lowered the crossbow with a smirk playing across his face. In the years since Winterfell, he had not changed. Only his sullen petulance had been replaced with a vicious cruelty.
"Oh, it's you. I've been waiting for you," he said, sounding almost bored.
Jon was breathing heavily, sweating beneath his breastplate and still caked in other people's blood. But he managed to move to the centre of the throne room, exposing himself to the vicious crossbow quarrels. The sounds of fighting outside could still be heard, along with Sansa's voice crying out to Sandor as she fled to some other part of the castle. Joffrey heard her too.
"Save Sansa," he commanded to no one. "I think I'll have her once I've dealt with her feral brother."
He raised the crossbow again, savouring having the upper hand. Jon had to think fast to play for time before the boy opened fire again.
"Come down here now and fight me one on one," he shouted up at him. "Just you and me, and we settle this now. If you beat me, you keep the Kingdom."
Joffrey answered by firing the crossbow at him, which Jon managed to dodge in the nick of time. Angered now, he renewed his grip on Dark Sister and advanced up the stairs of the eaves. Joffrey fired again, but fired to miss like a cat playing with its prey. To keep Jon in his sights, he had to press himself against the rail of the eaves, inching forward only slowly. When he fired the crossbow again, he did so to hit Jon, but he ducked behind an ornamental vase, causing it to explode in a shower of ceramic fragments. Behind him, the Tyrells were following and trying to shield him. Jon, however, was blind to everyone except Joffrey.
After what seemed an age, a wooden door at the high end of the eaves crashed open and a cloaked figure came barrelling through and straight into the startled former King. So shocked was Joffrey that the crossbow flew out of his hands as the cloaked figure grabbed him by the throat and threw him over the rail of the eaves. He fell, hitting the floor with a loud screech of pain. Jon turned from the sight of his sprawled on the throne room floor, to the cloaked figure. Sansa had lowered her hood now surveyed the results of her handiwork.
However, Joffrey survived the fall easily but was making enough noise to bring the roof down. Jon descended the steps and came to a halt at the deposed king's side. Exasperated, Jon realised he wasn't even that badly hurt.
"Get to your knees," he commanded Joffrey.
He was rolling around on the floor now, groaning and whimpering like a child. Eventually, Garlan and Loras had to come forward and drag him up, forcing him to look at Jon.
"I, Jon of the Houses Stark and Targaryen do sentence you to die. Have you any final words?"
"Fuck you and your bitch sister, too."
Jon nodded. "Maybe in the next life."
With that, he renewed his grip on Dark Sister and raised her high above his head to gather momentum for the stroke. Loras and Garlan took a step back, clear of the reach of the blade, still holding Joffrey in place at arm's length. The stroke hit home first time, sending out a spray of hot blood from Joffrey's throat. For a split second, Jon didn't think the head had come off. Slowly, however, the eyes rolled to the back and showed only the whites, then lolled forwards before falling off completely. The moment froze while it gradually sank in that the fight was over. Loras and Garlan still held the now headless body in an act that would have been comical had it not been so serious. As if realising too late, they let go and the torso hit the ground at Jon's feet.
Some soldiers stepped forward to drag Joffrey's broken body away, just as another man entered. Jon looked up as Sandor threw a heavy, bloodied object down at his feet.
"Send that to Oberyn Martell," he said.
It was the severed head of Gregor Clegane. Jon's own head swam as he realised it was over.
Or almost over. The throne room filled with people as the fighting died away; so many that it was packed to the rafters. Eventually, an expectant hush descended over the whole place. All around him, people began kneeling with their faces to the floor. Even Sansa, who had come down from the eaves to kneel at his feet. You're my sister, he thought. But then realised he was now her king.
Slowly, Jon turned to look behind him, to where the iron throne towered over them all. Flushed in the face, he removed the breastplate that suddenly felt too small for him and steadied his beating heart as began ascending the steps to the throne. Darkness had fallen outside and the wolf pack running through the city began howling into the gathering night. However, he could still make out the barbs of the iron throne as he climbed, reaching the summit a full minute later. He looked at it in a daze, as if he'd forgotten what it was. He turned and sat himself down, finding it hard and cold. Leaning back so he was sitting properly, he let his arms relax against the barbed rests.
Seconds later, a man at the back whom he did not know cried out: "The King is dead!"
To which all others responded: "Long live the King! Long live the King! Long live the King!"
The bells rang again and the wolves howled their victory all over the city.
Thank you again for reading; reviews would be lovely if you have a minute.
Next time: Coronation. Family reunions. Big parties. And Aegon.
A Special thank you to the Guest reviewer who left a suggestion for an epilogue. Your suggestion is actually fairly close to what I already had in mind. But thank you for the name suggestions too – that was something I struggling to settle on and I might just go with "Rickard." I suspect there'll be a Princess Lyanna and/or Princess Olenna forthcoming too.