The door to the City Watch barracks lies broken open. Varys, gliding along in a pale orange tunic gingerly steps inside into their common-hall. He sees the prone bodies of several Goldcloaks tossed about on the floor amidst broken furniture, and a crowd of a score milling about in the center of the room. Leading them is a stocky knight in the white cloak and armor of the Kingsguard. Ser Borros Blount.
"Ah, look, the spider crawls in now that the fighting is done!" A tall, lanky Goldcloak with a narrow, scarred face and hooked nose shouts in a gravely voice. Allar Deem, Janos Slynt's brutal right hand. Borros turns around, an obnoxious grin on his face. "Too slow to play the hero. But this was a man's job, anyway."
"There was some resistance, my lord," Borros reports, though the courtesy of title does little to relieve Varys' irritation. "But that was quickly put to rest. The Tyrells were too busy with our friends at the front gate to properly defend the barracks. And those whose love for their queen was... insufficient were quickly dealt with."
"Very good, ser," Varys nods, stepping around a body, careful not to trail his tunic through the pools of blood. "Then you should no longer be needing me. You know what to do." He turns to leave, but Borros grabs his arm.
"No, m'lord, I'm afraid not. Ser Kevan don't trust you not as far as he can throw you. And I don't blame 'im. Don't let him out of your sight, he says."
"Ser Borros, I can assure you, I have always been a loyal servant of House Lannister." Varys pulls free, but finds his way blocked by Deem and several of his men.
"You heard the knight, spider," Deem rasps. "We'll be seeing to it that the little Starks are well secured. Why don't you come with us to the Tower of the Hand?"
Sansa Stark sits in her room, legs crossed neatly in the center of her bed, looking sadly down and the painting resting on the blanket before her. Ever since that terrible day when Joffrey had been torn away from her and Edward had accused him of trying to kill Bran, she had wanted nothing to do with her little brother. But now, less than an hour after his departure, she cannot bare his absence. All that time, wasted, she thinks. I've been a fool. She gently runs her hand over the painting, seeing her small shape next to Edward and Arya, their wolves resting beside them. I'll come to you, as soon as I'm free. Joffrey will bring me to visit, and then you'll see just how good he really is and we'll all be happy again.
In her mind, she pictures the royal caravan traveling south across the rolling green hills of the Reach. Or perhaps they'll take a boat… Without even realizing it, she slips off to sleep. When she awakes, the world has turned upside down.
Jory Cassel slams open the door to her room with a crash.
"My lady, grab whatever you can carry, we have to leave now!" the captain shouts, throwing a rough-hewn vegetable sack on the floor. He holds another in his hand and begins to tear into her wardrobe and dressers, pulling out her fine clothes and shoving them unceremoniously into the sack. Sansa falls off the bed, aghast.
"What are you doing?" she shouts. "Be careful!' She scrambles to her feet, trying to pull Jory back from his work. He recoils, startled, and she stumbles back with a shriek.
"Lady Sansa, you must listen to me," the guard stops his attack on her finery and turns, crouching down to look her in the eye. His voice is trying to stay calm, but his eyes are not. It is enough to silence her, long enough to hear the shouting outside. "The Keep is under attack. The Lannisters will be coming for you. We have to leave, now."
"Joffrey would never let the Lannisters hurt me!"
"These men don't answer to Joffrey," Jory insists, his patience thin. "They answer to Tywin Lannister. He wants to you as a hostage."
"No! No! I can't leave the city!" Sansa backs away towards the door, though she knows there is nowhere to run. She doesn't know what she fears more – the sounds of fighting outside or the thought of leaving the city and her prince forever. She stumbles in the doorway, overwhelmed, and falls down at the feet of Septa Mordane's grey dress as the old woman appears in the doorway.
"Sansa, dear," Mordane kneels, her spindly fingers brushing the hair out of her charge's eyes, her voice stern but kind. "Please, see reason. You will return, I promise you. But the Lannisters are at war against your House and against the throne. If they capture you now, you will never marry the prince, I can assure you of that. You must flee."
"Your lord father and Robb will fight the lions in the field," Jory adds. "You must fight them here, by staying out of their claws. Winter is coming, my lady. The lone wolf dies…"
Slowly, reluctantly, Sansa turns her head up to look into the captain's eyes. Despite all her fear, all her anger at the world, she knows their words are true. "But the pack survives."
"Open in the name of the king!" a voice bellows from outside, followed by three pounding knocks on the door to the tower. The remaining Stark guards stand ready in the entry hall, prepared to hold off any intruders. Septa Mordane stands nervously at the foot of the stairs, her eyes nervously flitting from where Arya stands in the corner with Syrio Forel to the stairs leading to Sansa's chambers.
"That's Meryn Trant!" Arya recognizes the voice. "He's rotten!"
"Arya, hush!" Mordane scolds her, and she juts out her tongue in defiance.
"You're not coming in, Trant! Not without the king himself with you!" shouts Vayon Poole; the steward standing close to the door, but far enough back to be safe from any sudden intruding blades. Thick beads of sweat run down his forehead. He looks back in time to see his daughter, Jeyne, peaking around the corner from where the servants wait with bated breath.
"Is that Vayon Poole?" Trant shouts back.
"It is!"
"Don't be an idiot, Poole! You know full well that his grace cannot come here. His leg…"
"If his grace can sit the Iron Throne, he can come to the tower of his Hand. What is happening out there? We can hear the sounds of battle!"
"Let us in and we'll tell you!" Trant barks from behind the door. "I'll not ask again, northman!"
Without a response, Poole turns back to the others. Septa Mordane holds one thin finger to her lips, bidding him to silence. The sound of footsteps comes from the stairs. At last, Sansa comes hurrying down the stairs, her arms wrapped tight around the painting from Edward. Jory and Varly are close behind, the overflowing bags heavy on their shoulders.
"Who's at the door?" Jory asks, voice hushed, as the septa guides Sansa to stand by her sister.
"Ser Meryn Trant," Poole answers. "And another of the Kingsguard. Moore, I think."
"Are you sure?" Jory moves to the window, craning his neck to look out without being seen. "Lord Stark said Moore was the deadliest of the lot, save the Kingslayer. How many men are with them?"
"Six goldcloaks, at least. They say the king demands the children be brought into the Keep."
"Is that you, Cassel?" Trant shouts from outside. "Tell your steward to see reason! There is a mob at the walls, the king only wants to protect the children."
"They are safe here, ser," Jory pushes Poole aside to get closer to the door. "We do not need your help, we are more than able to protect our own."
"I've already warned Poole. I won't repeat myself." The soft thud of a weapon taps the door. "We will follow his grace's command, one way or the other. It is only a matter of how much pain you wish to bring upon you and your men."
Jory stops back, looking to Poole and Septa Mordane. "We need to stay calm."
"Where is Hullen?" the old woman asks. "Where is Tom?"
"They are tending to other matters."
"You don't need to lie to me," Mordane shakes her head, stepping forward to confront the captain and the steward in hushed tone. "You are not so clever as you think. You were going to steal the children away, were you not?" Jory looks down at his feet. Poole turns away, scratching the back of his head. "It does not matter now. But tell me, what was your plan? How were you to get the girls out of the keep?"
"We… we would simply disguise them as servants and…" Jory gestures half-heartedly to the door. "What do we do?"
"Perhaps they are telling the truth," Poole offers, with a slight twinge of hope.
"Trant is a Lannister stooge. And Lord Stark did not trust Moore, either. If King Robert truly wanted this, he would have sent Ser Barristan himself." Jory looks back at the door, the distant battle cries growing louder. "Send someone to the servant's entrance. Perhaps it is truly just them, and they've left it unguarded." Poole nods and turns to command the guards. But he stops, realizing that Arya has silently crept up upon them, hearing everything they have said. But she does not seem worried.
"There's another way outside," she says, quietly. "In the cellars. I can show you."
"What are we going to do?" Sansa hurries up, fear growing in her eyes.
Mordane looks to Jory and nods. "Through the mouths of the children the Father speaks his wisdom. Show the men this way to freedom, little one." She smiles down at Arya. "May the Crone guide you." Arya hurries off in the direction of the cellars, with Jory close behind. But Sansa hesitates.
"Wait.. septa… Aren't you coming, too?"
"Let me serve you one last time, my lady. I will delay them as long as I can."
"No!" Sansa tugs on Mordane's robe. "You can't stay, you mustn't! What if they hurt you?"
"We will see each other again my dear, in this life or the next," Mordane gently pulls free from Sansa's grip. Poole steps forward to place a gentle hand on her shoulder, but at last this proves too much for the girl and the tears rush to her eyes even as Jeyne follows her father's lead and takes Sansa's hand. "The Maiden has smiled upon you. One day you will return to this city. And you will be the greatest queen this land has ever known."
"Good-bye!" Sansa sobs as Poole and Jeyne lead her away to the cellar.
"Farewell, my dear," Mordane waves one final time before her charge is around the corner and out of sight. She turns back to the door. "Mother show them mercy, Father give me strength." A single tear rolls down her wrinkled face as she places one hand on the door. "Please, sers, a moment more! The young ladies must ready their things!"
"What is happening?" Mya Stone shouts to the Tyrell guards crowding their chambers. Edric Storm and Gendry stand huddled in the back of the room, but the young Vale woman has lost her patience. She looks from uneasy face to uneasy face, each guard uncomfortably turning away from her one by one until she reaches the huge knight blocking the door – Balerion Horpe.
At nearly seven feet tall, he towers over her, clad in the ghostly white rags of his house; a storied line of killers who shunned armor and prayed to The Stranger above all the Seven. His hard face looks down, as if chiseled from granite, and shakes back and forth. No answer will come. And Mya is wise enough not to press the matter further.
Thankfully, the door behind Balerion at last opens, and Lord Petyr Baelish scurries in, his face bruised and bandaged. Behind him, the door opens wide to show a hall crowded with Tyrell men-at-arms and leading them stands Renly, taller than all the rest, in gleaming new armor; glistening green plate with a golden cloak and golden antlers adorning his helm. Clutched tightly in both his hands he holds a massive warhammer that could only be one – the legendary weapon wielded by his brother, the hammer that slew Rhaegar at the Trident and won the war.
"Someone needs to start talking right now!" Mya demands. But Renly, having to turn sideways to fit his helm through the door, first stops to rest the hammer by the door with a thud, then brushes past her and goes straight to Edric.
"Are you armed?" he places his mail-gloved hands on the boy's shoulders, straightening his posture. Edric nods at the small sword at his side. "Good. Remember everything Ser Cortnay taught you." He gets a nervous nod in response.
"Am I fighting with you?"
"No!" Renly is surprised by the question. "No, no, you will stay here. I will ensure that these walls are not breached. But there are treacherous eyes all around us, Edric. You must be on your guard, even here. Protect your siblings."
"Yes, my lord."
"Shouldn't we have swords, too?" Gendry awkwardly asks, raising his hand.
"Er, yes, of course," Renly turns to their hulking white-clad guardian. "Balerion, arm the other two as well. But don't let any man pass through this door with their head attached unless you know them to be true." The huge knight nods silently and Renly turns to clumsily shuffle sideways back out through the door, only to find Baelish in the way.
"My lord, is it wise to ride out and face the Lannisters like this? The Keep's defenses are strong, our stores full. Why risk open battle?"
"And let them call me a craven? Let them camp outside my gates and laugh in my face, as they did when I was but a boy in Storm's End? No! They must see what true Baratheon blood is worth! More than a dozen Lannisters!" He pushes Baelish up against the wall and out of his way. "You've made it a habit of standing in my path, Littlefinger. Do not exaggerate your importance." Freely into the hall, he turns back to face the bastards, lifting the hammer once more with a grunt. "Ours is the Fury!"
"Ours is the Fury!" Edric shouts back, the guards in the hall joining in before turning to march away out of sight, following their lord to battle in a clattering stampede of steel. But Mya is left scowling and Gendry perplexed, their questions unanswered.
"Lord Baelish!" Mya calls. But the Master of Coin has disappeared.
With a burst of splinters, Ser Meryn slams an axe into the door of the Tower of the Hand. Too long has passed without sound of voice from within the tower, and his patience is at an end. Ser Mandon stands back silently, unmoving as Trant slams into the door again and again. Between the crashing of the axe and the shouts atop the walls, he never hears the approach of a dozen more goldcloaks, led by Varys himself.
"Ser Meryn!" the tallest of the men shouts, finally getting the enraged knight's attention. He turns, nearly striking Varys with his axe, but the eunuch is not startled. "Allar Deem, at your service. Our Lord Commander Janos Slynt sends his regards."
"Have you not yet procured the children, Ser Meryn?" Varys smirks. "Such a simple task."
"They've locked themselves inside!" Trant points towards the battered door. "We have men guarding every entrance, but…"
"Any moment now, your sworn brother Ser Jaime will be opening the gates to let his father's men into the walls. He will expect the Starks ready to be handed over."
"What do you think I'm doing, eunuch?" Trant shouts, throwing down his axe. He storms towards the door and, with one violent kick, it at last gives way. The knight in white storms into the entry hall, drawing his sword with a flourish. Ser Mandon ducks in behind him.
"Cassel!" Trant bellows. "Hand over the children or face my steel!" But instead, only Septa Mordane awaits them, standing calmly on the far side of the room, watching with accusingly pious eyes. "Woman! Where are they?"
"The children are not here," Mordane answers calmly.
"What?!" Trant stalks towards her. "Impossible!" He turns back to the goldcloaks. "Tear this place apart! They have to be here somewhere."
"You will not find them. And if you did, you would never take them from this place. I have lived among House Stark since before my young ladies were born. No southron knight can tame a wolf."
"Gaaah!" With a furious shout, Trant lashes out with his sword and the septa crumples before him without a sound. Shoulders heaving, he turns slowly, his pristine white breastplate stained with a splattering of the same holy blood that drips from his sword. Borros and Varys stare at him in shock, but Mandon and Allar Deem remain unmoved.
"Listen here, eunuch," Trant lurches forward, seizing the front of Varys' tunic and yanking him close. "You know every rock in this castle, better than anyone alive. There is another way out of this cursed tower. Tell me, now!"
"The cellars!" Varys gasps. "There is a tunnel in the cellars, it leads to others, all under the Keep. If they somehow have found these tunnels and know their way through them… There is a secret way out beneath the walls."
"And do you know where this secret exit is?" Varys nods. "Take Ser Borros and pass through a side gate while Renly's men are distracted. Wait for the Starks there. Take the children. Kill all the rest."
With that, Trant turns and motions to Mandon to follow him, running off to the cellars, bloody sword still drawn. The reach the crumbling stairs and charge downwards, their white cloaks floating on the air behind them until they disappear completely into the inky black dark.
Across the city, the Dragonpit rests unguarded. The sounds of the assault on the Red Keep are but a distant rumble, the soft thunder of an approaching storm. But it is enough to prick up the ears of the two direwolves that still remain. They have grown agitated over the past week, moreso than ever today, with their brother gone away for places unknown. Nymeria and Lady slowly pad their way up from the depths of the ruins, the fur on their back rising into points as their long snouts curl, revealing fangs in a low growl that builds into duel howls of war.
"You've gotten us lost!" Sansa cries out in the dark. Jory hushes her swiftly. The tunnels beneath the keep are crowded with the Stark household, servants and guards alike pressed tightly together in the too-small corridors.
"I know where I'm going!" Arya hisses back angrily. Sansa tries to push her way to the front of the crowd but Jeyne is too terrified to move and her grip on Sansa's arm is iron-tight.
"My ladies please, be patient," Poole tries to calm them.
"I can't be patient, we're lost, and we left Septa Mordane back there to die!"
"The knights of the Kingsguard would not harm a holy woman," Varly insists. "They are still knights after all, they took vows."
Sansa glares defiantly at the guard, though her angry look is lost in the darkness. She squints forward, trying to find her sister's shadowy silhouette, but Arya has run on ahead again. Silence falls once more over the crowd. Until the sound of heavy, metal boots rises up from the oblivion of the tunnel behind them.
"They've found us!" Jeyne gasps before her father wrenches a hand over her mouth and she silently releases her hold on Sansa.
"There's two of them," Syrio's soft Bravossi voice comes from somewhere in the darkness. "You all keep moving. Syrio Forel will hold them back." Sansa hears the sound of a sword drawn from its sheath, and then is pressed forward by the crowd, almost stumbling to the ground as they begin to move again, faster now, blindly down the tunnel. Suddenly she wishes Jeyne were still holding her. She clenches her eyes shut – already unable to see, it makes no difference – and hold's Edward's painting tight to her chest, grabbing with her free hand one of the loops in Varly's light armor, letting the guard pull her along their path.
Soon, Syrio Forel is alone in the tunnel. But as the sound of the approaching knights grows louder, he knows it is not for long. He stares ahead into the darkness, letting it fill his vision. He holds his sword outstretched before him and watches as his mind releases from the day's need for light and allows the night in. Slowly, the sword takes dark shape before him and beyond it, the crumbling stone walls of the ancient tunnels. He breathes in the damp, dust-clogged air and takes his first step forward, confident as if it were a summer's day.
The knights are nearer, the echoes of their steps come louder and faster – they've hastened their pace. Syrio has watched them every day in the yard since he came to the keep – Ser Mandon, a man of obvious, deadly strength, but tall, too tall for these tunnels, and Ser Merryn, cruel and spiteful, more eager to draw pain and humiliation from his foe than to take an easy victory. Who will be first? Moore's strides are longer, but the man is more cautious. He waits, listening, spinning silently on one heel to press his back tight against the wall on the narrow edge of a bend in the tunnel. The steps are nearer still, almost upon him. The closer – heavy, clumsy, reckless. Trant.
As the first knight storms around the corner, Syrio spins into his path, cutting across the belt with his slender sword. Trant goes down with a shout. Behind him, Moore instinctively stands to draw his sword, crushing the top of his helm into the low ceiling. Debris falls as Syrio drives his sword into the tall knight's side as he recoils, pulling it back out as quickly as it entered. Moore lurches forward with a grunt, attempting to draw again, but Syrio is already behind him. He jabs through his foe's white cloak, loosening his grip to grab the fabric and yank it back. But Moore does not move. Instead, he yanks his cloak back to him, pulling Syrio along with it.
For a fleeting moment, the Bravossi has lost his footing, and Moore's huge hands are on him, slamming him against the wall. The air rushes from his mouth in a gasp and more rubble falls from the ceiling as Moore pulls him forward only to shove him into the stone again, even harder. His right hand and sword are still tangled in the cloak. But his left hand…. Moore pulls one fist back into a fist, the other's strength more than enough to keep Syrio pinned to the wall. But then a dagger is rushing up out of the dark, square into the side of his neck. Moore gives a gurgling shout and falls away with the sound of spouting blood marking the walls. Syrio shakes his sword free from the dead knight's cloak and turns to see the shadowy form of Trant back on his feet, sword pointed at his heart.
"Braavosi dog," the Kingsguard snarls. He stands at a slight angle, his left hand holding pressure to his first wound. "I do hope Stark paid you good and well to throw your life away."
"You are mistaken. Syrio Forel has gold, yes. But he has his word above all. You, Maryn Trant, gave your word as well. But now you have no honor. When you get to the next life, a pauper who died with his word shall be worth more there than all your gold."
"A poet, too, are you?" Trant laughs and strikes. Syrio deflects his sword into the wall with a flick of his wrist. With a grunt, Trant attacks again and Syrio parries, without yielding a step. "Why won't you fight like a man?!"
"Very well, boy." In the darkness, Syrio allows himself the slightest smirk before lunging. Trant jumps back, off guard, blocking the strike in time. But suddenly, he finds himself in retreat. The waterdancer is a shadowy blur, nimbly dipping and slashing with his thin sword at lightning speed. It takes all of Trant's concentration to keep up in the dim light, his own broadsword suddenly clumsy and slow in the narrow confines of the tunnel, only able to press forward to block the sudden onslaught or be caught once again in the walls.
His fury boiling over, Trant finally attacks blindly with one furious, forceful thrust. But this time, his sword does not return to him. Staring dazed through the dark, he sees it wedged into the low ceiling. And the Braavosi aiming for a final blow. With all his strength, the knight tears his sword free and with it half the ceiling comes tumbling down. A brick strikes his head as he turns to run, his feet tangling in his cloak, weighed down by debris. He careens forward, raising his hands and dropping his sword to protect his head as he crashes down. His mouth fills with dirt and gravel as Syrio places one boot on his back and the point of his blade in the small of the knight's neck, light as a feather but heavy with defeat.
"The septa. Did you let her live?" he asks.
"Why should you care?" Trant snaps. That is answer enough for Syrio, pushing down his sword until it buries in the dirt turning wet with blood.