The wails of Prince Tommen sound off like a great trumpet announcing the arrival of the royal children at Maegor's Holdfast. Myrcella clutches her little brother's hand tight, hurrying him along behind Sandor Clegane, Joffrey and Maris Hightower. Peremore follows close behind, arrow still notched in his bow. As with the Maidenvault, most of the Holdfast's guards have been summoned to the battle now raging in the yard. Only one guard, tall and broad-shouldered, stands at the far end of the drawbridge as the Hound takes the first step out onto the plank.
"Clegane!" the man shouts, the slightest tremor heard on his voice. "What are you doing? The king has forbidden the children from entering the Holdfast!"
"The Keep has been breached!" the Hound bellows back. "Do you want to explain to his grace why the Lannisters were able to seize his children?"
The guard hesitates for a moment, glancing down at the spikes lining the moat below. He knows that is no true option. Any resistance and he'll be thrown down and pierced without a second thought. "You raise a fair point, ser. Bring them forth!"
"I'm no knight," the Hound snarls as he crosses the drawbridge in a few long strides. "Call me ser again and you'll be telling it to them spikes."
The children are quick to follow their guardian across the planks, Myrcella holding Tommen tight so he does not look down. They slip silently past the guard, beneath the gate and through the door into the Holdfast. Last to cross, Peremore pauses. Finally lowering his bow and returning the arrow to the quiver on his back, he squints at the guard, trying to recognize him.
"What's your name?"
"Tallad, ser."
"I'm not a knight either, good man," the lad slips his free hand into a pouch at his waist. He produces a round coin – heavy bronze and very old, the imprinted sigil of his House nearly worn smooth from untold decades of use – and presses it into the guard's hand. "But I won't be throwing you onto any spikes. You've done a great service to your prince today, Tallad. Do you know this mark?"
"House Hightower of Oldtown."
"Correct. My family will see to it that you are duly compensated for your noble service."
"Shall I raise the bridge?"
"Is the king within?"
"No, he left some time ago, for the meeting of the Small Council."
"Then wait here for his grace, the Kingsguard ought to be bringing him to safety any moment," Peremore turns back for a moment, looking across the drawbridge to the towers and bulwarks of red stone, his ears pricked by the ominous sound of battle behind them. Something is wrong. The Kingsguard should have returned Robert to safety by now. Where are they? "How many guards remain in the Holdfast?"
"No more than a dozen," Tallad answers.
A dozen plus the Hound. All we have to defend the prince. It will have to be enough.
"Fetch me more arrows, boy!" Ser Aron Santagar shouts back to his apprentice as he lets loose the final arrow in his quiver, finding its home in the back of a goldcloak in the yard far below. The Master of Arms is perched precariously on the roof of a covered pathway winding between two towers overlooking the yard. Two score archers dot the roofs behind them, and more clinging to more stable footholds. But the dashing Dornish archer leaps defiantly from stone to tile, his silver earrings sparkling in the sun, as if daring the wind to blow him down.
Diggery scrambles over the ledge behind him. An enemy arrow lands far too close to his left foot and the apprentice slips, slamming hard onto the slanted tile, sliding down to the edge. His eyes flash wide in fright, one arm clutched tight to his bundle of arrows, the other desperately groping for a grip to stop his fall.
Seeing the lad's plight, Ser Aron leaps back from the ledge as two arrows land in the place he had just been standing. He spins around the corner of the roof, feet darting across the narrow strip of level stone. Looping the bow over his shoulder to free both hands, he leaps off the edge and over the chasm just as Diggery's feet drop into the chasm on the opposing roof. The apprentice lets out a scream as he hopelessly slides into the open air. Aron lands with a thud behind him and grabs his outstretched hand, nearly sending them both toppling over. But his grip holds, and he pulls the lad back to safety.
"Ser…" Diggery gasps for breath, shakily offering the lone arrow he has managed to hold onto in his fall. Aron takes it with sigh, notched it without hesitation and finds the enemy archer who had targeted him moments before. With a twang, he looses the arrow, followed shortly by a sharp yell of distant pain.
"Go get more then."
Beneath them, the great steps of the Red Keep are piled with bodies. The manic attack of the goldcloaks and Lannisters has slowly coalesced into an organized assault, but at great loss of life. Now, they march in formation, slowly advancing up each level with shields and planks of wood torn from wagons and stables hoisted above their head for security. Leading them are spearmen, daring the defenders at the top of the steps to challenge their party. But there are yet still some who dare. Renly Baratheon remains defiant at the front of the Tyrell and Baratheon defenders – his green armor scratched, golden cloak shredded and one antler broken off from his helm. But he still clutches Robert's warhammer with both hands and stares down at the enemy with heaving fury.
"My lord, we should go back inside," Ser Guyard Morrigan urges him.
"No," Renly shakes his head. "I will not have them say I hid within my brother's walls while our enemies dashed themselves against the stone. Robert thinks I am not ready for battle. I will show them just how wrong he was. I'll show them all who the true heir to the storm is."
"As you wish, my lord," Guyard turns back to the rest of the defenders, sword raised high. "Ours is the fury! For Robert and Renly!"
"For Robert and Renly!" The men answer back with thunderous cries. "For the Stormlands! For Highgarden!"
Renly listens to the cheers, lets them wash over him and soften his wounds. And then, beneath it all, he hears a single, faint gurgle. One of the goldcloaks sprawled on the steps on the steps below him is still alive. He takes two steps down to examine the man – some commoner, no doubt, with a bald head and patchy beard. His left leg is twisted at an unbearable angle, a gaping wound in his side.
"Mercy…" he gasps, coughing up blood.
"You want mercy?" Renly stares down, looking to the dying man like some demon stag with green steel for flesh, broken antlers casting a jagged, condemning shadow across the man's throat. With a grunt, he hoists the hammer into the air. "Ask The Mother when you see her." The hammer swings down with a heavy whistle, ending in a sickening crunch.
Lyman Darry gasps for breath, his feet pounding on the stones beneath his feet as he dashes through the halls of the Keep. Behind him, slowed by his rattling armor, he can hear Ser Preston Greenfield struggling to keep pace. His mind is a jumble of fear, fear he knows he must force back down. He runs from the memory of the horrors that still lie on the floor of the Small Council chamber, from the shame of his failure to protect the king… No, he reminds himself. Robert is dead. Joffrey is king now. Now it is he who must be protected.
Lyman flings open the last set of doors in his way and crashes out into the open air. He stumbles, squinting from the sun. Before him looms the red stone bulk of Maegor's Holdfast, surrounded by its spiked moat. And standing at the end of the drawbridge, white cloaks whipping in the growing wind, are Ser Arys Oakheart and Lord Commander Barristan Selmy. They halt their own dash at the sound of Lyman's approach. Even beneath their helms, it is clear they know at once – something has gone horribly wrong.
"Where is the king?" Arys shouts.
"His grace…" Lyman's chest heaves and he collapses to his knees at the two knight's feet. He cannot bring himself to say the rest, the words catching in his throat.
"The king is dead!" Preston blurts out, finally catching up. "Murdered by the Tyrells!"
"Impossible!" Barristan voice breaks.
"The boy and I saw it with our own eyes. They killed the maester, too. But I avenged him. I struck the killers down where they stood! They murdered him! They murdered him, his own brother!"
"Calm yourself, ser!" Barristan commands. He turns back towards the Keep, as if ready to run back inside to see the body for himself, unable to believe what he is hearing. But he stops.
"What do we do?" Arys asks.
Barristan lingers for a moment, one foot on the drawbridge, the other on solid stone. But then, he steels himself and, grabbing Lyman by the shoulder, yanks the squire to his feet and pushes him out onto the bridge towards the Holdfast.
"King Robert is dead. Make the Stranger guide him to peace in the next life. But we serve still. Long live King Joffrey."
The three Swyft knights lead the tight cluster of Lannister men as they march down a long balcony stretching towards their goal at the heart of the Red Keep. Pressed tightly within their formation, Jaime Lannister marches in between his sister, Queen Cersei, and uncle Kevan. He can feel the tension in the air and it is suffocating.
They all heard, he knows. Every man here heard Cersei tell Kevan she had Lancel killed. Kevan had scarce said a word since, save for a few brusque orders as they marched to Maegor's Holdfast. What would happen after they were free from the Keep with the children in safety? His uncle was an enigma. A simple man, by all appearences, but impossible to read. Kevan was a humble servant of Lord Tywin. But what happens now – torn between vengeance for his son and loyalty to his brother? And what would Tywin himself think? What will Father say when he learns of all Cersei has done? If she even makes him back to Castlery Rock alive. The seas are rough. Sailors are washed overboard all the time and once the children have been secured, Kevan will have little use for her.
Would he dare? Jaime glances nervously to his uncle, then his sister. Would I dare to stop him? What is left for me? There is no going back to the white cloak now. My disgrace is complete. No. Not yet. The children are still in Maegor's. And they are sure to be guarded by Jaime's three sworn brothers not owned by Lannister gold – Preston Greenfield, Arys Oakheart and the Lord Commander himself, Barristan Selmy. Jaime's mind flashes with a vision of them lying slain at his feet, cloaks stained red with their own blood. He shudders.
"Do not fail me now, brother," Cersei whispers in his ear, as if sensing his trepidation. Her breath reeks of wine and she stumbles slightly, stepping on the hem of her red gown. She grabs on to his arm for support. "We are so close. So close to freedom. There will be no one left in our way." Except Kevan. "White never was your color anyway. I cannot wait to see you in crimson and gold again."
"You should have waited by the boat like 'nuncle asked," Jaime hisses back, trying to shake free, but her grasp holds on like iron shackles. "Joffrey would have listened to me. It's not safe."
"It'sh perfectly shafe," Cersei slurs, and hiccups. How drunk is she? Drunk enough to reveal herself a kinslayer before a dozen men. "This is not the way I die."
"And how would you know that?"
"The frog! Maggy the frog!"
It takes a moment for the distant memory to fade back in to Jaime's mind. "The old swamp witch?"
"Yes. She told me, she warned me how I would die. The valonquar…"
"What's that?" She's speaking nonsense now.
"The little brother. Our little brother – Tyrion."
"Tyrion would never…"
"That wretched little demon is fated to kill me, lest I find a way to cheat the hand of prophecy. But he remains a kingdom away, in whatever prison the Stark bitch has locked him in. And so I am safe. So safe. His stubby little arms…" Cersei finally releases Jaime's arm, clawing at the air to mimic Tyrion's stunted reach. She laughs. "They will never reach me here."
"There are more little brothers than just our own, Cersei," Jaime grimaces. "The world is full of them." She does not hear, continuing to laugh at her own joke as she wavers to and fro and Jaime marches on, steeling himself for what he must do.
Within the solar of Maegor's Holdfast, Tommen is still crying. He sits, huddled in a corner of the luxuriously furnished room as Myrcella attempts to calm him.
"Take the little brat to bed and put him to sleep," the Hound snarls. He has reclined into an over-stuffed velvet chair, facing the sealed doors. "At least then if he dies, he dies in peace."
"Maegor's will never be breached!" Joffrey insists. "We will wait here until Father has slaughtered the rebels! Then my little brother will gaze upon their spiked heads – maybe that will stop his crying!"
"Leave him be!" Myrcella shouts back. "You're only frightening him worse!"
"Don't tell me what to do!" Joffrey turns angrily to his sister, but Peremore moves to block his outburst.
"Your grace, we must all stay calm," the older boy implores him quietly. "You must lead."
Ser Preston stops pacing the room to exchange a nervous glance with his sworn brothers and Lyman, who is slumped over in another chair on the far side of the room, head in his hands.
"Your grace…" Barristan decides to speak at last. Joffrey shoots him an irritated glance.
"What is it, Selmy?"
"It's your father." Barristan slowly removes his white helm and sets it on a table as he approaches the prince to look him eye-to-eye. Joffrey steps away, unsure of what to make of the old knight's sudden sympathy. "I fear…" He struggles to find the words. "When the attack began, his grace sent Ser Preston to the walls to report back of what was happening. When Preston returned to the Small Council chamber…" The truth catches in Barristan's throat. "Ser Preston and young Lyman found King Robert dead – slain by Tyrell guards."
"No!" Joffrey lunges forward and Barristan steps back. His face flushes a furious red, his green eyes darkening with rage and something else… fear. "You're lying! No one can kill Father! He is the rock that breaks the storm! He is the slayer of dragons! He is the king!"
"No, your grace," Barristan drops to one knee. The other knights follow suit. "You are the king."
"What?" Myrcella, hearing her brother's outburst, shrieks from across the room. In an instant, her own sobs join with Tommen's, filling the room.
"No! No, it's not true! He's going to crush them, he's going to crush them all!" Joffrey shouts. His dueling emotions of anger and terror rage in battle across his face, with such intensity as to seem to boil the tears leaking out of the corners of his clenched eyes. "You were supposed to protect him!" In a flash, he rushes at Preston, still kneeled, and shoves the knight over with a clatter of armor. Then his fury turns to Lyman. Locking eyes with the squire from across the room, he lunges forward, but Peremore and Maris rush to hold him back.
Peremore turns Joffrey around to face him as Arys helps Preston to his feet. He pulls the boy's face close to him, leaning down until his cool forehead is pressed against Joff's scalp, warm to the touch. "You are the king now. You. This is the moment you have trained for. The moment you were born for. Those men who served your father? They serve you now. They are looking at you. You're not a boy anymore. You're a king. What would your father want?"
Joffrey tears himself away. He moves to lash out again, but stops, instead looking at the collection of eyes all staring at him. He straightens his back, his breaths beginning to slow to a normal rate.
"If that's true, we really are all doomed," the Hound scoffs with a despairing laugh from his chair. "This castle is full of Tyrells, and the city is full of Lannisters."
"Silence, dog!" Joffrey orders, his voice deeper and more powerful, catching the Hound off guard. "You still serve me! You all serve me!" He looks around the room. The three Kingsguard continue to kneel; Peremore, Maris and the rest of the guards join them. "Look at them, dog! Have you gone blind? Kneel!" With a begrudging grunt, Clegane heaves himself out of his chair to kneel on the floor. Joffrey nods approvingly, pacing the room, looking down at his defenders.
"The Hound may be insolent, but he's right! We're under attack by traitors on every side! Lannisters and Tyrells alike! They may have slain my father. They may think they've won! But they haven't! I'm going to kill them all, do you hear me? I will not sleep until I have hacked off the tails of every lion and plucked the petals of every rose in this damned city!"
He stops, standing before a kneeling Lyman. The squire looks up, his long brown hair covering his eyes. "I failed your father, your grace. I swear I will not fail you."
"See that you don't," Joffrey sneers. "Ser Preston, Ser Arys! Go take my little siblings to their rooms until the battle is over. And squire? Bring me a sword. I mean to wet it with the blood of kingslayers."
Without hesitation, Lyman pulls his own stolen sword from his belt and presents it to the new king. Joffrey nods approvingly at the already-blood-stained blade. Meanwhile, Arys and Preston gather Tommen and Myrcella and attempt to guide the small, trembling children to the door. Unable to convince Tommen to move, Arys hoists the boy onto his shoulder.
"Your grace, we should discuss a plan," Barristan rises. But before he can offer any suggestions, Preston opens the doors to the solar and the room comes to a crashing halt – standing outside the door, blocking any view of the hall beyond, is a wall of Lannsiter men-at-arms.
Leading them is Jaime, sword-drawn. He opens his mouth, about to mention an ultimatum, but Preston does not wait. He attacks his former sworn brother with wild abandon and the Lannister guards come crashing into the room with a thunderous battle-cry.
"Castlery Rock!" Ser Patrek Swyft leads the shout, charging with a spear. Without hesitation, the Hound draws his sword and cleaves the spear in two, shoving Patrek to the ground. A screaming guardsman swinging a mace distracts his attention, leaving Patrek, sprawled on the floor, to catch notice of Joffrey, frozen in the center of the room, shaking hands clutching his new sword. Behind him, Peremore is rushing for his bow, Lyman searching for a new weapon, the rest of the guards locked in battle. A smile crosses Patrek's face.
In a sudden burst, he leaps up from the floor, rushing towards the new king. Joffrey is frozen in the presence of battle, trying to remember everything that Urrigon had taught him. Patrek is nearly upon him, arms outstretched, when he finally moves. With a shout, he slashes at the knight's side. Patrek stumbles back, a look of shock on his face.
"Do not lay hands upon your king!" Joffrey shouts. "Traitor!"
Swaying, Patrek touches his side and stares at the blood-soaked hand. He lurches forward again, this time raising his sword in a fury, only to slam back onto the ground at the king's feet, an arrow splitting the center of his forehead. Peremore, bow in hand, rushes to the king's side while Lyman retrieves the dead man's sword.
"I had him!" Joffrey grumbles indignantly, and takes a fighting stance as the other boys circle him, battle-ready. But the rest of the attackers are still locked in combat on the far side of the room.
At the center of it all, Jaime is dueling Preston and Arys at once. He parries and strikes, slowly pushing both knights back out of the crushing mob into the solar. For years he has fought and trained alongside them. He knows their every move – which strikes Arys will make, the slight lean that signals where Preston will move next. He pictures their faces behind their helms – his sworn brothers. He knows what they are thinking, over the sound of ringing steel. Because they know him, too. They know this is a fight they cannot win. What they do not know is – Will he kill them? Only Jaime knows that answer. For Cersei? For his children? There is nothing he won't do.
He sees Arys shift stance. A lunge. He jumps back, out of the way of the sudden attack, and the younger knight loses his footing, crashing into a heavy chair. As he hits the ground, a child's scream comes from behind where the chair had stood – Tommen. Across the room, Barristan sees the exposed prince. He sees Jaime and Preston both dash towards the boy. And then, for naught but a fleeting moment, in between swinging strands of blonde hair he sees Jaime's eyes, daring him. He remembers the last time he saw those eyes – that day in the street, when he had last fought the Kingslayer. The memory enflames his wounds with pain and doubt. For the first time in his storied career, Barristan the Bold freezes. And Jaime Lannister gets to the boy first.
"No!" Preston shouts as Jaime grabs Tommen's arm with one hand, swinging him hard against the wall behind him. Arms reaching for the prince, he is defenseless as Jaime's free hand stabs his sword clean through the kingsguad's side. "Oh," he gasps. His question is answered. With a resounding clang that seems to silence the entire room, his body falls backwards to the ground.
"Stop your fighting!" Barristan yells, his voice cracking with desperation. The room comes to a halt as all eyes turn back. Bodies litter the floor, leaving only a few survivors on each side. Arys scrambles back to his feet, sword pointed at Jaime as he draws a dagger and pulls Tommen tightly to him. Myrcella lets out a muffled shriek from her own hiding place.
"Let him go!" Joffrey shouts, turning his sword to point at his uncle. "You think you can use him as a shield! You're all traitors! You won't leave here alive!"
"Joff… Nephew…" Jaime opens his mouth to reason.
"Don't call me that! You're not my uncle anymore! You're a knight of the Kingsguard! You renounced your family ties! And you broke that vow, so now you're nothing!" He spits on the ground and takes a defiant step closer. Jaime begins to shuffle towards the door, dragging a whimpering Tommen, who has gone limp in his arms. But the Hound bars his way. "Don't let him leave, dog!"
"Ser Jaime, you don't want to do this! I know you don't!" Lyman pleads.
"He's not a knight anymore!" Joffrey shouts over his squire. "I revoke his titles. Him and all the traitors!"
"Joffrey!" Suddenly, Cersei's voice calls shrilly from the hall. She storms into the solar, Kevan following calmly behind, making no effort to stop her. "I will not have you speak to your uncle in such a way! Put that sword away! We are here to rescue you! To save you from the fools who would steal your throne!"
"I don't need saving!" Joffrey waves his sword back and forth between the twins.
"Cersei, stay back," Jaime hisses, but she ignores him, drunkenly stumbling over Patrek's body as she approaches her son, her face a whirling maelstrom shifting between love and anger.
"You will come with us," she insists. "Remember who you are. Blood comes before all."
"I know who I am!" Joffrey's sword is firmly pointed at his mother now, but she lightly brushes it aside as she draws near. Lyman and Peremore nervously take a step back, unwilling to raise arms against the queen. "I am a Baratheon! Son of King Robert Baratheon, the First of His Name! All of Westeros belongs to me!"
Cersei laughs – a short, cruel laugh like the sound of a cleaver coming down on the neck of a goose. She leans in to Joffrey's ear, so close that their golden hair mixes, indistinguishable from each other. And she whispers in his ear, so soft that only he can hear. "Those are lies, my love. Horrid lies. Robert Baratheon had one son. The first wretched black-haired babe I bore him. The only babe I bore him. You are a Lannister, through and through. You have nothing but lion's blood in your veins."
"No!" Joffrey recoils, violently shoving his mother away. He stumbles backwards, colliding with Lyman and dropping his sword to the ground. The steel hits stone with a single cold note that echoes throughout the silent chamber. The blade is stained with fresh blood. Green eyes clouded with incomprehension, Joffrey slowly looks up at his mother, her own eyes wide open with shock. Her hands clutch at her throat. But between her pale fingers, scarlet is beginning to seep through. She sways and her arms drop away, revealing the gash across her throat, her lifeblood pulsing out down her chest, the same color of her gown. She drops to the floor.
"Cersei!" Jaime screams, choked with horror as the Hound barrels past him, not to the king but to the far corner where Myrcella hides, blocking her view of the carnage. Jaime collapses against the wall, burying Tommen's face in his stomach so that he may not see, but tightening his grip on the dagger. Barristan rushes to the queen's, futily trying to stop up the bleeding with his white cloak. Joffrey collapses into Lyman's arms. No one else moves. It is as if the world has ceased to turn and time has ground to a halt.
"Jaime," Kevan's voice at last breaks the stranglehold the queen's death holds on the chamber. "We must leave. We are out of time." Jaime looks to his uncle in disbelief. The blood has drained from Kevan's face, but his pale visage only makes his eyes shine brighter – cold, unmoving emeralds, more unyielding of his thoughts than ever. Without waiting for a response, he turns and walks stiffly out of the room, his three surviving guards following. None move to stop them.
Pulse pounding, Jaime looks back and forth between his departing uncle and Cersei's body, now hidden beneath Barristan's bloody cloak. He looks for Myrcella, but she is mercifully blocked from the nightmare by Clegane and Maris. He sees Joffrey, kneeling on the floor between Peremore and Lyman as his mother's blood slowly trickles across the floor towards him. My children… He adjusts his grip on Tommen and slowly begins to retreat, step by step, to the hall, dragging the boy along, lifting his limp feet over the bodies of dead guards littering the floor. Only Arys follows.
"Would you do it?" Arys asks, stopping in the doorway once Jaime and Tommen are free. He wrenches his helm off and throws it to the floor, revealing a sweat soaked face, hair plastered to his scalp, his eyes harrow and haunted. "You killed Preston. Would you kill the boy, too?" No answer comes. Jaime sheathes his dagger and hoists Tommen over his shoulder, the little prince at last passed out from shock. "What kind of knight are you? What manner of man? You've disgraced our order!"
"Oh, I did that a long time ago," Jaime sighs and turns. "I'm the Kingslayer, remember?"
He begins to walk away. Slowly, then faster to catch up with Kevan. Arys stands stiffly in the doorway, sword pointed accusingly, marking the direction of his flight.
"If I see you again, I will be the last man you see!" he shouts, his voice following Jaime like a mad dog as he moves faster, faster still, Tommen bouncing on his shoulder until he is out of sight. And behind them both, on the floor of the solar, Joffrey kneels still, rocking back and forth, hands scratching the stone beneath him as Cersei's blood stains his fingertips.
"I'm the king," he gasps, again and again. "I'm the king… I'm the king… I'm the king…"