Sansa has never been so grateful to see the light of day than when the first glimmer appears around the final corner of their long trek through the tunnels beneath the Red Keep. She nearly shouts for joy, but the thought of sharpened blades lurking close behind them clamps her mouth back closed. She holds tight to Edward's painting and squints her eyes as she follows the crowd of servants and guards into the light. The hard stone beneath her feet turns to sand, and she finds herself standing on a windy beach beneath the cliffs along a small, hidden inlet of Blackwater Bay.
It is her first time outside the walls of the Red Keep, or even the Tower of the Hand, since the day Joffrey was seized. She breathes in the salty air and shudders at that terrible memory. They've reached freedom. But something is wrong. The guards are forming a flank around the servants, with Jory at the head. He has taken a battle stance, his short dirk in one hand, the curved eastern dagger Lord Baelish had gifted him in the other. She turns for the first time to look for a path away from the shore. And through the gaps between the guards she can see it – and the men that block it. A wall of goldcloaks led by Allar Deem, with Ser Borros Blount in his white Kingsguard armor standing by with Lord Varys. Their weapons are drawn, steel pointed ominously towards the escaped Stark household.
"Hand over the girls, Cassel!" Deem orders.
"We are delivering them to their lady mother in White Harbor, as our lord commanded!" Jory shouts back. "We serve the Lord Hand, not you!"
"Jory, please," Varys shuffles forward in the wet sand. "I am loathe to be the one to tell you this, not here, not now but… Lord Stark is dead. We received word this morning. He was slain in battle with the Mountain's brigands at Stone Hedge."
"Liar!" Arya shrieks, and suddenly she is running out from between the line of guards, Needle in hand, kicking up sand with her tiny feet.
"Arya, wait!" Poole lunges forward, trying to catch her, but the sudden movement startles the watchmen. One stray finger slips on a bowstring and an arrow buries itself in the steward's chest. Arya freezes at the sound, watching the world seem to slow down around Poole as he topples backwards, landing hard on the ground with a cold, wet smack.
"Winterfell!" Jory shouts, and the Stark guards charge. Arya whips back, breaking into a mad dash as the eunuch scurries away behind the protective wall of goldcloaks. Ser Borros lurches into her path, arms outstretched.
"Winterfell!" She adds her shrill voice to the battlecries, but as she swings Needle, the thin blade lands flat on Borros' armor and bounces harmlessly off. With an irritated grunt, he swats down at her harder than intended, his steel gauntlet slamming into her small head. She drops.
In the middle of the crowd of panicked servants, Sansa is reeling. Jeyne is screaming as a terrified maid holds her back from running to her father's body. But Sansa barely notices, the veins in her skull pounding as she bends over and drops to her knees. Her breathing grows faster, raspier. She can feel the wolf waking up and forces it back down. The dream…. no, no it came true. Father… It has to be a lie, it has to be! But she can feel it. The image of him burning sears through her brain. She's panting now, unable to close out the horrible thoughts until, with a strangled scream, she vomits up hot bile onto the beach and collapses in a heap.
When Sansa opens her eyes, she is looking down at the battle from a perch on the curved cliff path. Am I dead? No. Lady. She hears a low growl at her side – Nymeria stalks into view. Lady paws at the earth as Sansa's mind loses all its fear of warging, burned away in a single minded rush of vengeance. She looks down at the hated goldcloaks – They killed Father. Not by their own swords, but under their banner. They wear Lannister gold. The wolfblood rushes to her brain and she leaps down from the ledge. Charging down the rocky cliff, the sister wolves unleash nightmarish howls, announcing their presence to the men locked in battle. Lady's jaws close around the leg of the nearest goladcloak, violently pulling him to the ground, the bitter rush of blood exploding in her mouth. Nymeria cuts a single-minded path through the fight, dodging panicked spear thrusts, eyes locked on Ser Borros as he drags Arya's limp form across the sand, making a hasty retreat as fast as his fat legs can. Hunched over, he doesn't even see the wolf approach.
Nymeria pounces – a devastating missile of muscle, fur and fury, colliding with Borros with enough force to send him flying back onto the sand. With a scream of terror, he holds up his arms in defense. Nymeria's jaws clamp down on his white left gauntlet, trying to force their way through the steel with sheer power of will. The knight desperately reaches with his free hand towards the dirk still sheathed in his belt. Out of patience, Nymeria whips her head to one side, gauntlet still locked tight in her grip, violently tugging Borros' arm out of socket. With a howl of pain, he stabs the dirk deep into Nymeria's shoulder. The wolf recoils with a snarl, releasing the limp arm long enough for Borros to scramble to his feet. Left arm hanging useless at his side, he makes a blind dash in the opposite direction of the beast, towards the bay.
With one bad arm and laden with armor, the craven knight would never stand a chance to swim to safety, but reason has taken leave from his mind. He tears off his helm as his feet hit the water, tossing it down in the sand, his one good hand tearing free the straps on his breastplate as he wades knee deep. It is as far as he gets. Nymeria crashes through the waves, the dirk still lodged in her side. She bites down on his white cloak and pulls back, sending him crashing beneath the surface. Salty brine rushes into Borros' mouth as the steel weighs him down, but the water is still shallow. He pushes himself back up to the surface, gasping for breath. But the wolf's jaws are waiting in the open air. The last sound he hears is the crunch of his own skull.
Back on the shore, Lady dodges the mace of another goldcloak as she weaves through the chaos towards Sansa's limp form. She sees Varly bending down over her, picking her up… It is unnerving feeling, looking at her body from the outside. For a moment, it makes her dizzy, the bloodrush faltering… and a goldcloak's spear strikes her hard on the side of the head.
Sansa's eyes snap back open. She is back in her own body, tossed over Varly's shoulder like a sack of potatoes. The bitter taste of blood still lingers in her mouth. As her vision clears, she looks back to where she had fallen. Edward's painting still lies in the sand.
"Let me go!" she shouts, fighting the guards' grasp.
"My lady, no!" Varly protests, but she manages to get one arm free, smacking him across the face. He stumbles, and she slips free, hitting the sand feet-first. She almost trips on her own dress, but regains her balance, hiking up the hem to dash across the beach, Varly in pursuit. But he is not the only one who has seen her. Allar Deem, lying wounded in the sand, watches the girl run past and sees his key to escape.
"Sansa, look out!" Varly shouts again, as she bends down to pick up the painting. She looks up and freezes in place – Deem is nearly upon her, sword drawn, Varly still too far off to help. But behind the guard, bounding past is a great grey blur – Lady, kicking up sand in her wake. Deem reaches out to grab Sansa's arm and it is the last thing he ever does, the wolf slamming him into the ground and tearing open his throat in one swift motion. In an instant, it is over, and Lady pads to Sansa's side, panting.
In the background, the sounds of battle have faded. The goldcloaks lie dead, alongside several Stark men. Varys has disappeared. The nervous servants look to the cliffs above them, dreading the arrival of more foes while Jory bends over Arya, trying to wake her. Sansa stares down at Deem's body, unmoved as crimson blood stains the sand at her feet until Varly turns her away from the gaping wound. She remembers how horrified of blood she had been when she first came to the city, before the wolf awoke in her. Perhaps being a warg is not all bad.
"It seems the wolves have won the day after all," a familiar Bravossi voice calls from behind them. They turn back to see Syrio Forel emerging from the tunnels. For a moment, Sansa's heart leaps in hope that Septa Mordane will emerge behind him. But the old woman does not appear.
"Where is…" she asks, softly, reluctant to even say the name, less her newfound courage falter.
"Syrio Forel is sorry for your loss, my lady. But she has been avenged." The swordsmaster and Varly each place a hand on Sansa's shoulders and together they walk back down the beach, Lady padding alongside them, the waves washing away their footprints and carrying death back out to sea.
The gate of the Red Keep was breached before the guards atop the walls ever saw the intruders approaching from within their own yard. Within moments, Lannister men and goldcloaks are swarming through the open gate as its defenders scramble to respond. Kevan Lannister watches approvingly, his nephew Jaime and his three Swyft knights beside him. His brief moment of satisfaction is shattered, however, as Janos Slynt comes blustering up to them.
"A perfect plan, Ser Kevan!" the commander bellows from beneath his crooked helm, but Jaime cuts him off.
"The plan is not yet done, Slynt. Go, command your men." He points out into the yard. Slynt turns to look and, as he does, Jaime shoves him back into the charging crowd, letting him be carried away in the rush of attack.
As the first Lannister men reach the top of the huge stairs leading up to the keep itself, the doors at the top of the stairs fling open. Men bearing Tyrell and Baratheon colors pour out. And at their head, in glistening new green armor, a golden cape flowing down his back, gilded antlers protruding from his helm, stands Lord Renly Baratheon himself. In his hands he wields a weapon that can only be the famed warhammer his brother used to smash the Targaryen Dynasty. Jaime's hand leaps to his sword, but his uncle stops him.
"Let them fight," Kevan dismisses the appearance. "They will never take the Keep."
"I'm thrice the fighter Renly is!" Jaime is indignant. "Let me take the command and we will take the Keep, I swear! It will be ours by sunset!"
"That is not why we are here!" Kevan puts foot down. "We will retrieve your sister and the children from the Maidenvault and take them to safety. Nothing more. The day may yet come when you will face Renly in battle. But that day is not today."
Gritting his teeth, Jaime looks back to the battle. Ser Aron Santagar has emerged on the roof of the keeps, leading a line of archers to drop deadly volleys down on the attacking forces as they attempt to mount the stairs. He glares at Renly's armor and imagines the young lord's smug voice over the clamor of the battle. That day cannot come soon enough.
Lyman Darry awakes to the sound of steel. Ears still ringing from his head wound, it takes a moment for his vision to clear. He is still lying sprawled over the dead Tyrell guard. The king's body still lies in front of him. Looking up, he sees two more Tyrell men slain on the floor of the Small Council chamber, the remaining three surrounding a blurry white figure that can only be a knight of the Kingsguard. Too late to save your king, Lyman thinks. But not too late to avenge him. He wraps his fingers around the sword of the guard beneath him, then leaps to his feet.
Before any of the men realize he's awake, he buries the sword in the side of the closest guard. The others have turned towards him before the body hits the ground. The white knight, seizing of the distraction, cuts down one of his foes while Lyman parries the other. The last guard is good, taller and stronger than Lyman by far, pushing him back across the room with strike after heavy strike. He nearly trips over Robert's body before finding himself pressed against the overturned council table. Grimacing, he holds his sword high and braces for impact as the guard locks blades with him, pressing down harder and harder, closer and closer to Lymans chest…
Until, with a gurgle, a sword cleaves halfway through his neck, splattering blood across Lyman's face. The kingsguard behind them wrenches his blade again, finishing the job. Lyman lets himself breathe as his foe's head hits the floor, the body slumping down after it. And then a rush of motion from behind the table. On impulse, he turns and stabs blindly. Only after striking does he see the face of Garrett Flowers. The Tyrell bastard's mouth drops open with a look of shock as an already-bloodied dagger drops from his hand. He looks down at the dark red blossoming on his soft, green vest from the tear where Lyman's sword disappears into his chest. A single line of blood trickles out of the side of his mouth.
"You idiots…" He coughs disdainfully and slumps down, collapsing bent over the toppled table. Lyman pulls the sword free and turns to face his rescuer. The knight has lifted his visor, revealing the sweaty face of Ser Preston Greenfield.
"I thought you were dead." There is a lost look in Preston's eyes. He stares blankly ahead, past Lyman at the far wall. After a long pause, he turns away, releasing an aching groan from deep within his throat, a low wail of despair that strikes Lyman's blood cold. He collapses to his knees besides Robert's body in a crash of plate and mail. With a single violent motion, he rips the white cloak from his back and gingerly drapes it over the slain king. "I never should have left," he groans, his voice choked with dismay. "He ordered me to go but…"
"You couldn't have known!" Lyman insists, glancing nervously to the door. How many times had he seen Preston break his vows in the brothels? Yet here he kneels, his heart ripped out along with the lifeblood of the man he had sworn to defend. The man I swore to defend. Where was I? Lyman pushes the thought away. We'll be joining him soon if more Tyrells come.
"What did you see?" Preston slowly rises, his grief turning to anger.
"Only the bastard and the guards, already here. They were standing over… over his grace," Lyman finds the same cruel grief beginning to strangle his own voice. "And the maester…" he looks to the far corner of the room where Gaheris lies limp and bloodied.
"Renly! How could he? His own brother?"
"Where is Ser Barristan?" Lyman hates to ask it, but knows he must. He can already see the look on the old knight's face. He knew I would fail Robert. And I did.
"He and Arys are gone to the Maidenvault to secure the children," Preston lowers his visor and stalks towards the door, sword in hand. "Lannisters on the outside, Tyrells within. The Realm has fallen." Lyman hurries to follow and does not look back as dark royal blood begins to seep through the pristine white cloak in ominous deathly flowers.
The door of the Maidenvault hangs open and unguarded as Ser Barristan Selmy and Ser Arys Oakheart rush through it, white cloaks billowing in the rising wind, swords drawn. They find the entry hall empty, save for one weary knight collapsed in a chair on the far side of the room, nursing a wound to his head – Thaddeus Oakheart.
"Thad, what happened?" the young knight rushes to his brother's side. "Where are your men?"
"Lord Renly called all our guards to the walls," Thaddeus sighs.
"Where are the royal family?" Barristan demands an answer.
"Joffrey demanded they be taken to Maegor's. When I refused, the Hound overpowered me."
"And the queen?" Arys asks, holding back the urge to mock his brother's failure.
"I would presume they took her as well."
"To the Holdfast then!" Barristan declares, turning faster than Arys thought possible. Leaving his brother behind, running back out the same way they'd entered just moments before, trailing behind the old man.
Cersei Lannister sits in her cell half-asleep, an empty flagon of wine before her. The sound of distant battle outside is peaceful music to her ears. Now the lion tramples the roses and feasts upon the stag. I hope they save Robert. I want to place his head on the spikes myself. She smiles, playing out that execution in her scarlet-tinged mind.
The door creaks open. "So you finally come for me, uncle? About damn time…" She rises drunkenly, but as she turns sees that it is instead Thaddeus Oakheart standing in the doorway. With a startled shriek, she crashes back, knocking over her table and hitting the floor. In a mad panic, she hurls the flagon across the room. It shatters against the wall as Thaddeus, equally startled to find her there, hastily retreats back into the hall, slamming the door behind him. His mind races, trying to think of what to do. The kingsguard are gone. Can he get the queen to Maegor's on his own?
He looks up at the sound of approaching footsteps, hoping for reinforcements. But instead he is faced by Jaime and Kevan Lannister, with eight armed men behind them.
"Where is my sister?" Jaime snarls.
"She's gone with her children to Maegor's," Thaddeus gulps.
"Jaime!" Cersei's voice shouts from within the room. Thaddeus reaches for his sword but Jaime is far faster. Before his sword is free from the sheath, Jaime's is lodged in his neck, painting the wall behind him with blood.
Wrenching his sword free, Jaime steps over the dead knight and shoves the door back open. Cersei is standing so close it almost hits her. As he enters, she throws herself at him, wrapping her arms around him in a wild embrace, so overwhelmed she nearly kisses him, full of passion, in front of Kevan and all the men. But he pulls back.
"Where are the children?"
"Are they not here?" Cersei's sudden joy changes just as starkly to fear.
"They aren't in their chambers, ser," Ser Patrek Swyft reports, pushing his way through the other men and into the room.
"Perhaps he told us half the truth," Kevan looks down at Thaddeus' body. "Patrek, take half the men, escort her grace to our exit. The eunuch should be waiting. Jaime, come with me and the others to Maegor's."
"No!" Cersei blurts out. Kevan turns back to her, an impatient scowl on his face. "You don't understand! Joffrey will never come with you! He's been crass with me, unreasonable, renouncing our family! He won't see the truth, not from you!"
"The truth?" Kevan's scowl deepens. "What truth? That he is the trueborn son of King Robert Baratheon, heir to the Iron Throne?" He slowly begins to stalk towards Cersei. Jaime takes a step back, unsure what is about to happen. "I have questioned you on this matter before. Is there something more that I should know?"
With a flash, Cersei slaps her uncle across the face. "Do not dare! I am the queen!"
"You are a Lannister!" Kevan stops his approach, her handprint read on his cheek, the veins in his neck bulging as he suppresses the urge to bellow back. Instead, he takes a deep breath, his voice unwavering. "You will serve House Lannister."
"You are nothing but a second son!" Cersei storms past him towards the door, but he seizes her arm, pulling her back to him. "Jaime! Take his hands off of me!" But Jaimie does not move. She writhes against Kevan's grasp, voice growing shriller with each declaration. "I am my father's heir! Jaime has taken his vows and Tyrion is forsaken, if not dead already! So you will listen to me! I will go to my son and I will bring him to his senses! Do not stand in my way or I swear that every last one of your children will be sent to the same hell I sent Lancel to!"
Kevan's emerald eyes go wide and he releases his grip. Cersei pulls away with a grunt of disgust. Jaime watches in horror, waiting for his uncle to respond. But nothing comes, no outburst of righteous fury, no vengeful strike of his clenched fist. What would I do if he tried to strangle her now? Jaime wonders. And his heart drops to realize he does not know. Kinslayer. The word hangs silently over the heads of every man in the room, each pair of eyes locked on the queen. They all heard it. Finally, Kevan breaks the silence.
"Very well then. Lead on."
Far from the roar of battle, Jory Cassel leads the surviving Stark household in a hushed, silent retreat along the shore of the hidden cove, wading chest deep through the chilled water at points to avoid climbing the sheer cliffs and facing whatever men may be waiting them. He tries to form a plan in his mind. Yorren will still be waiting for them on the ship that Littlefinger had procured. But if Varys had betrayed them and the kingsguard turned their cloaks, who could they trust? He looks down at the curved dagger still clutched in his hand, now wet with blood from the fight on the beach, and remembers how the Master of Coin had bought it for him in the market. He seemed harmless enough, and his love for the Starks seemed true. But so had Varys. He glances back to see Sansa, Arya and a sobbing Jeyne Poole, and behind him a score and more pairs of eyes all watching him, trusting him, waiting for his order. What would Ned do? he asks himself. Get the children to safety, no matter what.
As they reach the end of the cliffs, with open rocky shore beyond, he motions the group to stop. A gull caws over head, its flock joining in a jeering dirge for the dead. Jory presses himself tight against the rocks and creeps around the edge, craning his neck to catch a glimpse of the path ahead. And at last he allows himself to breathe a sigh of relief. Waiting on the beach are a line of familiar horses. Mounted first amongst them, long brown hair flowing in the salty wind, is the patient, bearded face of Hullen, Winterfell's faithful Master of Horse.
"Jory? Is that you?" Hullen calls, and the captain steps out into the open, beckoning the others to follow.
"Hullen!" Jory runs the rest of the distance, relief on his face mixed with the severity of their situation. "Thank the gods you're alive! The eunuch came for the girls with the goldcloaks. We lost half our guard. If it hadn't been for the wolves..."
"Our lord is dead," Hullen cuts him off, his stony face tightened into a cold, stoic visage.
"I know."
"And the girls?"
"Safe," Jory looks back as Arya and Sansa step into view, their wolves at their side. "But Poole was slain. Mordane as well. What of Edward? Have you heard from Tom?" Hullen shakes his head, no. And then Jory notices that not all of the men waiting for them are northerners. Behind the waiting horses stand a cluster of knights and men-at-arms. Some he has seen in passing in the keep, others are total strangers. And mounted above them all is Lord Petyr Baelish, wrapped in a plain grey cloak. The wind tugs at its fringe, as if attempting to blow him out to sea. "Baelish. What do you want?"
"Only what I've told you all along, captain," Littlefinger smiles. "The safety of House Stark. I believe we have a boat to catch."