Crimson Song

by Pepitas de Oro

During their confrontation with Kronya and Solon, Edelgard and the rest of the Black Eagles are struck by Solon's spell and transported to a familiar yet strange world. Alone in a continent ravaged by a war between a Mad King and a Usurper, Edelgard and her companions must seek a way of surviving this confict and find a way back to their world. But destiny may have other plans.

12. The Hour of the Eagle

THE HOUR OF THE EAGLE

ARYA

"Up," commanded Syrio Forel, with a swift strike to the head. The wooden swords clashed forcefully as Arya parried. "Left," he shouted this time, and his blade whistled. Hers moved to intercept, and the force of the blow almost made her drop her weapon. Syrio frowned, concentrating.

"Left!" Syrio intoned again, but Arya saw through it. Her teacher's eyes were looking the other way, and his arm stretched in the opposite direction. When he attacked, Arya sidestepped to the left and slashed at his chest. She almost touched him, but Syrio moved, quick as a cat. His eyes seemed to gleam with joy.

"Well done, wolf girl, well done," the bald man said. "You're starting to see. This time I won't say anything, let's see how you handle it."

Without warning, Syrio thrust towards Arya's chest, which she barely managed to avoid. Then he swung left, which she managed to block with her wooden sword, and then another left swing, much faster, which she also managed to stop. Then another vertical strike from above, two more from the right, and one from the left. She had seen Syrio make these same moves so many times that blocking them was almost mechanical, although with each strike he launched, it became more challenging, stopping the sword closer to her each time.

Syrio's wooden blade rose to launch another vertical strike from above when a sound like the roaring of a furious storm filled the room. Syrio was distracted for barely a second, but Arya managed to stay calm enough to slash at his side. The wooden blade struck against the Braavosi's breastplate, and he grunted, bringing his free hand to where the wooden sword had struck him. Arya pushed aside the sweat-soaked hair from her forehead with the back of her hand and allowed herself to smile from ear to ear. She had done it. After many months of endless training, she had finally managed to land a blow on her teacher, even if it had been due to a momentary distraction on his part.

"As calm as still waters. Fear cuts deeper than swords," he had told her many times, but on that occasion, it had been the master himself who had been surpassed by his student. He remains impassive when a sword grazes his face, but he has been scared by the wind, Arya thought. Then she glanced at the large wooden doors of the room. They were still firmly closed, but she had heard that sound, and so had Syrio. Could it have come from the kitchens?

"Very well done, Arya girl," said Syrio Forel, as he sat down on one of the benches against the wall. "I am dead. Opening your eyes and listening with your ears is all that's necessary, but this old man's mind played him a trick. He thought too soon."

"It was just the wind," Arya replied.

"Your words lie, wolf girl. The doors are closed, and the air doesn't pass through the wood. So what was that? A stable boy letting a horse loose? A knight practicing for the tournament?"

"Or boiling water in a pot," Arya replied.

Syrio Forel allowed himself to smile.

"I'm thinking that since today you managed to kill me, tomorrow it will be time for you to take Needle."

"Yes!" exclaimed Arya excitedly. Those words had made her happier than landing a blow on him. "I'll do great. I'll practice day and night, you'll see."

"Not so fast, wolf girl. Taking a man's life is not as easy as skewering him with a sword. You must be prepared so that when the time comes to act, your hand does not tremble. Do you understand?"

"Fear cuts deeper than swords," Arya replied.

"Yes. And if you fear your enemy's death more than your own, you will die, wolf girl," replied Syrio Forel seriously. "Do you remember the story of how Syrio Forel became the First Sword of Braavos?"

"You were the only one who saw that the Sealord's cat was just an ordinary cat, right?" she replied, trying to recall the story he had told her a few weeks ago.

"Exactly. And something tells me that not everything is as it seems in this castle, wolf girl. My ears, my eyes, my nose. There is something not right, so from now on, I want you to be very attentive to everything, do you hear me?"

In front of them, the large wooden doors burst open with a clamor. Arya sprang to her feet and Syrio Forel did the same, slowly, looking around. In the entrance stood a dozen armed men with their swords drawn. Some of the swords dripped with blood. She knew most of them. There was Jory, her father's guard captain, and beside him were Harwyn, Alys, Desmond, and Cayn, all wearing chainmail over hardened leather and steel helmets. They looked uneasy, but their gaze relaxed when they set eyes on her. The rest of the guards wore full armor as black as coal. She didn't recognize their faces, as the visors of their helmets were down, but she knew well what they were by the eagles emblazoned on the chest of their armor. There was one last man whom she did recognize, towering above the rest. His black hair was somewhat disheveled and his cleanly shaven face was accentuated by piercing green eyes. His only protection consisted of chainmail protruding from under his clothing and steel protectors on his joints. He had traveled from Winterfell with the king: Hubert von Vestra, the vassal of Lady Edelgard and Lord Stannis of Dragonstone.

"You don't know how glad I am to see you safe and sound, Arya," said Jory. "We feared the Lannisters might have taken you with them. Do you happen to know where your sister Sansa is?"

"No," she replied. She remembered Sansa mentioning something about Prince Joffrey and the queen during breakfast, but she hadn't paid attention. Maybe it hadn't even been that morning but any other day. Anyway, at that moment all that ran through her mind was Jory's bloodied sword and the others. What was happening?

"She's exactly where you said she would be, Ser Jory," said Vestra, his voice as cold as ice.

"The girl has been taking dance lessons almost every morning for months. We've been lucky that... Wait, Arya, what are you doing with that sword?" Harwyn asked, somewhat confused.

"Syrio has been teaching me," Arya replied. "He says it's the water dance. Harwyn, what is...?"

"It's not for me to question your father, but... Never mind, there's no time for this, come with us, quickly," Harwyn said, shaking his head.

"Lord Vestra and his men will take care of the girl, Ser Harwyn," said Jory. "We must join the rest of our men at the main gate."

"Yes, of course. Although I remind you that I don't like this plan at all. This is not what Lord Stark ordered us to do, Jory. We were supposed to barricade ourselves in the Tower of the Hand. And Lord Vestra still hasn't explained what that lightning bolt we saw was."

"Fireworks, originating from Volantis. A few men of the Hegemon Guard are enough to defend the Tower of the Hand and the girl in the midst of all this chaos. But you northerners must defend the gate until reinforcements arrive. Quickly, Arya Stark, come with us," Vestra said without hesitation.

Arya took a step forward, but Syrio held her back by the shoulder.

"I also think that Arya girl would be safer with her father's men, don't you?" Syrio said.

"I agree with the dance master, Lord Vestra," said Desmond. "I'm sure Lord Stark would consider it the right thing to do, and besides, the girl would find comfort in a familiar face." Harwyn and her father's guards approached her, leaving the men from Dragonstone behind. Jory stayed behind too. There was something odd about him; he didn't seem like his usual self.

Hubert von Vestra nodded toward Jory and his men, who responded instantly. Without warning, Jory pierced the unprotected neck of Harwyn with his sword, who fell forward to the ground, his lifeless eyes as a pool of blood began to form beneath him. Two spears pierced Cayn's back before he could even lift his sword to defend himself. Alys turned in time to parry the blows from the Hegemon Guard men, but it only took them a couple of seconds to prevail over the northerner, whose corpse soon joined those of Harwyn and Cayn.

"Arya, girl," Syrio said without looking at her, his eyes fixed on the Black Eagles. "Today we won't dance anymore. Go. Run to your father."

Meanwhile, Desmond drove back the nearest guard with a series of slashes and thrusts and lunged at Lord Vestra. However, he was barely a few steps away from him when Vestra raised his hand and drew a strange symbol of light with his fingers at an astonishing speed. In an instant, a ball of purplish air sprouted from the palm of his hand and struck Desmond in the chest. The force of the impact was such that the northerner was sent flying through the air towards where Arya and Syrio were. When he fell backward onto the stone floor, Arya saw how the ball of air had pierced through the chainmail of the guard, whose remains had melted into the flesh of his chest. Where his ribs, sternum, and lungs should have been, there was nothing but a bloody and blackened mass.

"If you cut off a wizard's head, he dies just like any other man," Desmond had told her some time ago, when she had asked about the man she had seen in the passages beneath the castle. But the guard hadn't even been able to get close to that sorcerer, who had simply raised his hand to finish off her father's guard. He also told me that each northerner was worth ten southern swords, liar. Liar! There were only five corpses lying in front of her on the ground, and they were all men from the North.

"Arya, girl, get out. Now!" exclaimed Syrio, who ripped the sword from Desmond's stiff hand and stood in front of her. But Arya's legs were paralyzed with terror, and they didn't respond to her commands. She wanted to look away from the massacre, but her eyes refused to obey her as well.

"Don't interfere, dance master. This doesn't have to be your end," Jory said as he advanced slowly, pushing Harwyn's lifeless body aside with his foot. He smiled widely, but it wasn't his usual expression; it was one of pure joy, as if he were relishing in the slaughter. The rest of Dragonstone's men followed him, gradually surrounding them, aiming their weapons at Syrio. She didn't understand anything; why was Jory betraying them? It made no sense, nothing that was happening made sense.

"The First Sword of Braavos does not run," he replied, but for the first time since she had known him, she saw his hand, the one gripping the sword, trembling. He's afraid. Syrio is afraid.

"I've done my research, Syrio Forel. I know who you really are. First Sword of Ferrego Antaryon for nine years. When it was discovered that you were bedding one of the lord's mistresses, you were sentenced to death and had to flee the city, to be replaced by Qarro Volentin. Am I wrong in any of this, Braavosi?" Vestra said, crossing his arms with a sinister smile on his face. His viper-like eyes remained fixed on Syrio.

"The First Sword of Braavos does not run," Syrio repeated. The trembling in his hand had disappeared. "What kind of man are you, threatening a child?"

"Is this some kind of attempt to redeem yourself? Have you grown fond of the girl? Step aside, I won't repeat it."

Syrio didn't wait for the guards to surround him and reach him; instead, he lunged at Vestra. Arya had never seen anyone move so fast. "Swift as a deer," she whispered. A first air ball, like the one that had killed Desmond, rushed towards Syrio, but he avoided it with a quick feint to the left. A second projectile passed just an inch from his cheek and crashed into a nearby column. When he had covered half the distance between him and Lady Edelgard's servant, a long stake, the height of a grown man, a color that seemed made of darkness, materialized above Syrio and, less than a second later, plummeted towards him.

The water dancer managed to avoid it just in time, but a second stake pierced his shoulder. Syrio let out a scream, but he remained standing, the sword firmly gripped in his hand. He tried to take a step towards his enemy, but more projectiles kept forming over his head and rushing towards him, piercing his arms, his legs, and his torso. When it was all over, a dozen dark spears pierced his body from side to side in different places. He was still standing, with the sword in his hand, but he didn't move, and Arya knew he was dead.

"All men are made of water," Syrio had told her once. "When you pierce them, they lose water and die." And Syrio had just been pierced in every part of his body. Tears filled her eyes.

"It's almost a pity to have killed you, Syrio Forel. Even your death won't make you relevant," Vestra's venomous voice said. "Seize the girl and take her to the tower with the other one. There is still much to be done. You, join Stark's men, I don't care how many die, but the gate cannot fall under any circumstances. Understood?" He said the last part to Jory, who smiled sinisterly and hurried off. It had to be some kind of spell. Jory would never do such a thing, never.

Arya barely noticed as the men of the Black Eagle grabbed her arms and dragged her away. Her eyes remained fixed on Syrio Forel. Even when the black spears holding him vanished into thin air and his body slumped like a sack, Arya still hoped he would get up at any moment and confront those guards. But the bald man didn't move a finger, and the guards continued to drag her out of the room until his body disappeared from her sight. As they carried her through the courtyard to the Tower of the Hand, she heard sounds of battle coming from all directions. Shouts, screams, and the clangor of steel against steel echoed from all corners of the Red Keep. There were other sounds too, cries of pain, angry curses, and the moans of the wounded and dying. Outside the walls, in the city, huge columns of smoke rose into the sky.

They shoved her up the stairs of the Tower, under the watchful gaze of more men in black armor. Where were the other guards? Where was her father? They reached a room and pushed her inside, slamming the door shut behind them. When she stood up and tried to quiet her sobs, only to realize they weren't hers or, at least, not all of them. A trembling figure cried inconsolably on one of the beds, wrapped in an emerald green dress.

She got up and wiped her tears to try to comfort her sister, but the girl crying in the bed was not her sister. She had curly golden hair and green eyes, although they were reddened from crying. It was Princess Myrcella, the king's daughter.

---

JAIME

If Aerys could see this, he'd surely be grinning from ear to ear with those cruel lips, Jaime thought as he looked out from the window of his room in the White Sword Tower at the stream of light rising somewhere indeterminate in the city, hidden from his view by the crimson walls of the Red Keep. For almost two decades, that had been his room. From that austere chamber, he had heard the people cheering for Prince Rhaegar and his troops as they left the city to die at the Trident. He had heard the screams and flames as his father's troops sacked the city of King's Landing, minutes before King Aerys sent for him to appear before the Iron Throne. But in eighteen years, it was the first time he had felt a fear capable of chilling his blood.

What is that?, he kept asking himself even as that blinding light faded in the sky. What in the seven hells is that?

That morning he had dressed in his red tunic and breeches and his golden armor with the Lannister lion on the chest. A longsword hung from the left side of his hip, and his helm, also made of pure gold, rested on his bed sheets. The only thing identifying him as a member of the Kingsguard was the cloak as white as snow draped over his shoulders.

It's wrong, he thought once more, but that's how things had been since Aerys Targaryen had given him that cloak when he was only fifteen. His armor should be silver like the rest of his brothers, and the rest of his clothing white from head to toe. But he wasn't like any other who had worn that cloak. He was Jaime Lannister, the only one in the order's history who had killed his king. He stopped thinking about his cloak and the Mad King, and turned once again to the window, trying to figure out what that strange phenomenon he had witnessed could have been, but all he saw were red bricks and the blue sky. The stream of light, gone.

The creak of the wooden door of his cell opening made him turn, and instinctively, he reached for the hilt of his sword. Ser Barristan Selmy, dressed in his white armor like the strands of his hair and beard, stood before him. Behind him, Ser Loras Tyrell, the Knight of Flowers, stood wearing an identical armor. The new member of the Kingsguard hadn't particularly endeared himself to Jaime, but he had to admit that, at his age, he was more skilled with weapons than the rest of his sworn brothers except for Barristan the Bold and himself.

Perhaps in time, he could equal Ser Arthur Dayne, if that arrogance of his doesn't kill him first, Jaime thought. His appointment was the most sensible thing Robert had done in years. What really worried him was that he was in the tower at that moment. In theory, Ser Loras should be guarding the bridge leading to Maegor's Holdfast.

"Ser Jaime," said Ser Barristan in a grave voice. "I see you are ready. Good." His pale blue eyes judged him, as they always had, but this time there was something different in them. Concern, or even fear.

"You've seen it too, haven't you?" Jaime asked. "It's impossible that you haven't. Do you know anything about it?"

"I don't know what it was," Barristan the Bold admitted. "But that's not the most pressing issue at the moment."

"What do you mean?" Jaime asked, confused. "What could be more important than...?"

"Come with me. Hurry," said Ser Barristan, urging him on. Jaime followed him, climbing the spiral staircase leading to the upper floor of the tower, where the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard's chambers were, closely followed by Ser Loras. The room was no more elegant than his, although slightly more spacious, and from its windows, one could see much of the Red Keep and in the distance, above the walls, the city.

What he saw shook him to the core. In the outer courtyard, where the grounds were being prepared for the jousts that afternoon, dozens of men whose banners he couldn't make out were fighting each other. He didn't know why, but he could hear the sound of steel and the shouts of fury and pain in his mind. In the distance, a huge line of soldiers was crossing through the Mud Gate and streaming into the city streets, while to the north, columns of smoke rose in the vicinity of Flea Bottom. The River Row and Mud Alley were flooded with a tide of soldiers. Some were even ascending the Hook, a wide curving street that led from Mud Alley to Aegon's Hill. Like ants, the lines divided and branched out into the southern part of the city, but the seemingly endless torrent of troops moved swiftly and inexorably toward Aegon's Hill, toward the castle. His eyes then turned to the reinforced wooden gates of the Red Keep, which stood wide open. Above them waved, alongside the crowned stag of the Baratheons, a black eagle on a crimson background.

Cersei was right. By the Seven Hells, I didn't think the upright and disciplined Stannis would muster the courage to face his brother, but he has, or perhaps it's been his wife.

"They've taken the castle's gates," Jaime said, though he knew that both Ser Barristan and Ser Loras had probably reached the same conclusion before him.

"Not only that," said Loras Tyrell. "There are fights everywhere, both in the outer yard and inside. The Black Eagles seem to be leading the uprising, but they haven't been the only ones I've seen." Jaime noticed for the first time that the young man's white armor had recent bloodstains and dents. "Where is the king?" asked Ser Loras. "He left little after dawn from Maegor's Holdfast, and I haven't seen him since."

Where is Cersei? Where is the queen? he would have wanted to ask, but his mouth fell silent.

"Ser Arys, Ser Mandon, and Ser Preston are in charge of his protection today. Or they should be. If he's not in Maegor's Holdfast, he's most likely in the Throne Room or, may the Seven help us, in the courtyard," answered Ser Barristan. "We cannot waste any more time; we must make our way to the Throne Room without delay, before it's too late."

Too late? Jaime wondered. It's already too late, old man, or has old age already blinded you?

"Where is the queen and the princes?" Jaime asked as they hurried down the stairs of the White Sword Tower.

"Ser Meryn was supposed to keep an eye on them all day," replied Ser Barristan, not stopping to run. "He will be responsible for taking them to a safe place. Our duty is to protect the king, take him to Maegor's Holdfast if possible, and defend him with our lives if not. Trant will do the same with the rest of the royal family."

"Meryn Trant is a cruel and idiot oaf. I won't entrust my sister's and my nephews' lives to that man, Ser Barristan. Let me go; I'll get them out of the castle. You've seen Stannis's troops. The city is lost, and so is the Red Keep. Don't be a fool, Selmy; taking them to Maegor's Holdfast would be like sentencing them to death," protested Jaime. Elia and her little ones also hid there, and it didn't do them much good when the Mountain arrived. When they left the tower and went out into the courtyard below, near Maegor's Holdfast, the shouts and screams grew louder.

"Your duty is to protect the king, Ser Jaime. I am the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, and you will obey me, understood?" said Barristan Selmy, angrily.

"I don't give a damn who you are, old man. And I care even less about your orders." Jaime reached for the hilt of his sword and drew it with a swift motion of his arm. He hadn't finished pointing it at the old Selmy when Ser Loras, quick as lightning, did the same with his, aiming it at Jaime's face. "Put down that sword, Ser Loras, I won't repeat it."

"You first, Kingslayer," said Loras Tyrell disdainfully.

"Ser Loras, if Ser Jaime makes the slightest move, kill him," ordered Ser Barristan. "I won't allow you to continue tarnishing the name of the Kingsguard, Kingslayer. You have the opportunity to clear your name; I suggest you take it." The old man held his gaze without blinking, even though the edge of Jaime's sword was less than an inch from his jugular.

"I'm going to find my sister, your queen, and her children. You can try to stop me if you want, but I promise you that I'll take at least one of you down with me. You choose, Ser Barristan. Do you prefer to kill me than to defend your king? Are you sure your honor allows it?" If looks could kill, Jaime knew he should already be burning in the Seven Hells. Barristan Selmy's eyes, already filled with disdain, now glared at him angrily. He frowned, and it seemed like the veins on his face were about to burst. Beside him, the Knight of Flowers didn't look at him with much more affection. He would have liked to mention his dear Renly Baratheon, the lord of Storm's End and his beloved "friend," but he preferred not to tempt fate. Loras Tyrell might be able to put his duty before his heart, or he might have simply forgotten that Renly was also in danger, but he didn't have that luck. He had to protect Cersei and his nephews, whatever the cost.

Your children. They're your children. Don't forget that, you idiot.

"May the Stranger take you, Lannister," cursed Barristan Selmy. "Go find the princes, and save them if you can. And pray we don't meet again, Kingslayer, or I swear I'll send you to the deepest hell myself."

"Lord Commander, are you going to let him go?" protested Ser Loras.

"We must reach the Throne Room as soon as possible. We can't waste a second with this oathbreaker, no matter how much I'd like to slit his throat. Go, Kingslayer, before I change my mind," muttered Ser Barristan.

Jaime nodded, somewhat perplexed by the turn of events. He had expected the old Selmy to give Ser Loras the order to end his life, but it seemed that, against all odds, luck was smiling on him for the moment. In a fair fight, he believed he could have defeated either of the two, although he doubted it would have been easy. Against both of them, he would have had no chance. The white-bearded knight had never forgiven Jaime for Aerys' death, as no one else in the kingdom had, and Jaime thought he would have taken this opportunity to settle scores. It seemed he had underestimated the loyalty that the Commander of the Kingsguard held for Robert Baratheon.

Is it really loyalty, or does he simply not want history to remember him as the man who died against the Kingslayer? Jaime wasn't sure of the answer, and he didn't intend to ask. He withdrew the tip of the sword from Selmy's neck but did not sheath it again. His instinct told him that he would still have to use it on that fateful day.

Without further ado, he passed by them and broke into a run toward the inner courtyard, where he hoped to find Cersei or at least someone who knew where she might be. As he ascended the steps of the winding staircase that connected both courtyards two steps at a time, he glanced back to see if Ser Barristan or Ser Loras were following him, but he didn't spot anyone in white armor. They must have chosen to go over the wall. It was the fastest way to get there, and probably the safest, although if Dragonstone's troops had already taken the main gate, they wouldn't take long to set their sights on the rest of the wall once the reinforcements coming up the city streets arrived.

When he crossed the gate, the situation shocked him. Wherever he looked, armed men were fighting each other all over the courtyard. There were Baratheon men, from the Stormlands; northerners, from Eddard Stark's personal guard; Lannisters, Black Eagles, and also Gold Cloaks. There were also armed men whose banners he took a while to recognize. There was a knight with the blue towers of the Freys fighting near the kennels, but two Black Eagles and a Gold Cloak soon subdued him and slashed his throat. There were also fights in the stables, in the barracks of the Gold Cloaks, from whose windows a thick smoke was emanating, and in the royal sept, which extended to the doors of the Maidenvault. Red cloaks resisted in these last two, and they also seemed to have control of the armory, at the other end of the courtyard, while the Black Eagles and their allies fortified themselves in the Tower of the Hand and the Small Hall.

Jaime headed toward the Maidenvault, where a good part of the Lannisters' resistance seemed to be concentrated. From the windows of the upper floor, a couple of archers rained arrows down on the attackers, who were focusing on the door. In another window, he spotted his sister Cersei, wearing an emerald green dress, who recognized him and gestured for him to hurry. Jaime ran toward the main door of the building, where a tangle of men were trying to make their way through the red cloaks.

Before long, he was climbing the stone steps, leaving behind a handful of men loyal to the Lannisters on guard and half a dozen corpses beneath his feet. He felt not an ounce of sorrow. Whether they were men from Winterfell or Dragonstone, it didn't matter. If he had taken a few minutes longer to arrive, they would likely have broken through to Cersei.

His sister embraced him as he entered the room.

"Jaime. I knew you would come. I told you. I told you this would happen," Cersei said, tense. Jaime saw tears in her eyes.

"You were right," Jaime affirmed. "I didn't believe they were capable. Not like this."

They separated, and Cersei wiped away her tears with the back of her dress sleeve. Her face turned stiff, as if made of stone, in an instant.

"What are we going to do, Jaime? I won't let that bitch take me alive. I refuse to give her the pleasure," Cersei said. "I waited too long; I should have told Lancel to act sooner, but I wanted to wait for father's troops." Behind her, Ser Meryn Trant looked around nervously every time he heard the slightest noise. More than a Kingsguard, he seemed like a chicken. Behind him, huddled in a corner, were Tommen and Sansa Stark, Lord Stark's eldest daughter. The red-haired girl held him tightly in her arms, trying to calm him, but she herself had a red and wet face from tears. Right beside them, Joffrey, with a knife in hand, stood with his arms crossed. His foot moved incessantly, nervous. Meanwhile, Sandor Clegane, with his hound-shaped helmet and his gray armor, leaned against a wall, oblivious to everything.

"Should be down there with my father, killing those traitors!" Joffrey exclaimed. A sound came from Clegane's mouth, which Jaime couldn't tell if it was a snort or a laugh. "Not up here hiding with the women."

I am your father, you idiot, Jaime wanted to say. Maybe he should have. It might have been his last chance. He noticed an absence within the room.

"Where's Myrcella?" he asked no one in particular, ignoring his eldest son's comment. Cersei's expression twisted to the point where it seemed she might start sobbing again, although that didn't happen.

"She was taken by the Black Eagles, ser," said Ser Meryn Trant. If he was somewhat worried about having lost the princess, he certainly didn't show it. "I was caught off guard. By the time I reacted, they were already taking her away, and I had to protect the queen and the princes," he justified.

Arthur Dayne would have fought his way to Myrcella with one hand while protecting his queen and the royal family with the other. He wouldn't have hesitated. But Meryn Trant was no Sword of the Morning, not even close. At least he had to be grateful that he had taken Cersei, Joffrey, and Tommen to a safe place.

"You have to go save her, Jaime," Cersei ordered him. "They took her to the Tower of the Hand. You have to hurry, before..."

"Impossible," Jaime cut her off. He was skilled with the sword, and if he managed to gather the scattered Lannister troops, maybe they could fight their way to the tower and Myrcella. But it was too risky, and that would endanger Cersei and the rest of his children. Plus, they didn't have much time before the reinforcements advancing through the city arrived. They might only have a few minutes. "Myrcella is out of our reach right now. I'll get you out of here, and then I'll go for her," Jaime lied. He couldn't even guarantee the first part.

"Get us out of here?" Cersei asked angrily. "And how do you plan to do that? We should go to Maegor's Holdfast. We'll be safe there until the storm passes."

"Maegor's Holdfast is a death trap. Ser Gerold Hightower, the White Bull, told me there are dozens of passages beneath the Red Keep, built by Maegor to escape from the castle in case of danger. But he built none in Maegor's Holdfast. It's the safest place in the Red Keep, true, but if I take you there, we'll be trapped."

"What do you propose, then?" Cersei asked. "Do you know any of these hidden passages?"

"I won't hide like a rat, uncle. I plan to skin those traitors and hang their bodies from the walls. That's how they'll learn," Joffrey said, irritated.

"You'll do as I say, or it'll be your corpse hanging from a rope," Jaime replied with a voice that brooked no argument. That seemed to silence Joffrey, whose face turned as white as ivory. His eyes, once full of anger, now only reflected deep fear. Still, Jaime heard him mutter a few curses under his breath, but he had too much on his mind to give them any importance.

"Ser Gerold knew of a passage that led from the kitchens behind the Small Hall to Visenya's Hill. He said there must be dozens of them, but that was the only one known to him or Aerys's Kingsguard."

"The Black Eagles and the northerners control that part of the castle," Clegane's cold voice indicated.

"It's impossible to get there, Ser Jaime. We'd have to fight through dozens of them. Impossible," muttered Meryn Trant. "A member of the Kingsguard should never worry about his own safety, but about that of the king and his family," a Kingsguard had told him a long time ago, but he couldn't remember who. He was sure it hadn't been Ser Meryn, certainly. Unfortunately, the coward was right. Even in the unlikely event that they managed to get there, it would mean having to escort Cersei and the children along the way. And trying to protect them while facing Dragonstone's men, northerners, and Gold Cloaks was simply unfeasible. No, there had to be another way.

"Varys," Jaime said with conviction. The idea had come to him suddenly, but he knew that could be their only chance. "The eunuch has been the Master of Whisperers for years, and he's always been very elusive. I don't believe he doesn't know several of those passages. He'll get us out of here; we have to find him." There was only one small problem, and that was the last part of the plan. The eunuch always seemed to be in the right place at the right time, and his network of little birds seemed to know everything. However, he was as good at surprising others as he was at slipping away. Just wanting to find him was enough for the Spider to vanish like a ghost.

"And where is he?" Cersei asked, voicing her fears. "As far as I'm concerned, if I were him, I'd be miles away from the city already. The Seven know Stannis Baratheon and he don't have much affection for each other. And while he escapes, we'll be floundering."

"Maybe he didn't see this coming," argued Jaime. If he had known, he would have warned Robert, or so he wanted to believe. Unless he's also involved in all this, damned fool. It was a far-fetched possibility, but he'd seen stranger things. "I'll go to his chambers to look for him. If he's still in the Red Keep, I'll find him and bring him here, I promise."

"To get there, you'll have to cross the entire courtyard on your own, amidst all this chaos. I won't allow it, Jaime. I need you here, protecting us," Cersei protested.

"Ser Meryn and the guards downstairs will protect you while I'm gone. And don't think I plan to go alone. I'll gather the men we have scattered below, and Clegane and I will organize a party. We'll find the Spider." The Hound looked at him with a grim expression, but he didn't say a word.

"It would be easier to find a needle in a haystack than the Spider in the Red Keep. That is if you last more than a few minutes out there," a mocking voice came from behind him. "As the queen says, by now Lord Varys will be far away from the castle." Jaime turned abruptly and was about to slice the man's head off if he hadn't stopped the blade of his sword just a few fingers from Littlefinger's neck.

The slender, sharp-featured man didn't even blink, but Jaime could see a hint of fear in his gray eyes. Moreover, the Master of Coin had brought his hand to his chest in a defensive posture in a sudden reflex, as if doing that would protect him from Jaime's steel.

"What are you doing here? Who let you in?" Jaime roared. Baelish had always been a man who liked to please everyone and make himself feel indispensable, but he was only loyal to himself. Men of his ilk always managed to end up on the winning side, which made Jaime deeply question his intentions. We clearly aren't the winning side, so what is he doing here? He should be in the Tower of the Hand, groveling to Stark. Suddenly, he remembered the old story of Littlefinger with Catelyn Stark, the wife of the Lord of Winterfell. Is that the reason why he is there?

"I am an unarmed man, and everyone in this castle knows me well. I told your guards that you were expecting me, and none of them doubted it for a second. Why would they?" said Petyr Baelish, shrugging with a mocking smile.

"How did you know we were taking refuge here? Did you tell anyone?" Jaime said, not removing the sword from Littlefinger's neck.

"I saw you take out those men and rush in as if you were possessed. It wasn't difficult to imagine why. And it seems I guessed right."

"You didn't answer the previous question, Baelish," Cersei said. "What are you doing here? If you're trying to curry favor with Stannis and his bitch by handing us over, rest assured you'll pay dearly." Jaime pressed the sword against Littlefinger's neck, and a trickle of blood ran down the steel blade.

"Please, Your Grace, please. That can't be further from my intentions, truly. I know full well where my loyalty lies, and it's not with Stannis Baratheon or Eddard Stark. They wouldn't appreciate the talents of someone like me," said Littlefinger. "No, everything I have, I owe to our beloved King Robert. So I thought, what better time than this to repay that great debt? Come with me, Your Grace. I'll get you out of the castle."

"You?" Cersei was incredulous, and Jaime was also unable to hide his astonishment.

"The eunuch is not the only one who knows the passages of the Red Keep. I also have a few secrets. I know a way out of the city. I have some horses ready, and in a few days, we could reach Riverrun or Casterly Rock. Well, are you coming? We must hurry, my lords. I, for one, have no intention of waiting for the Black Eagles to capture me."

"I suppose we don't have many more options," Cersei agreed, tense. "We'll follow you, Baelish."

"If you try anything, the slightest thing, I'll slit your throat," Jaime threatened. "I don't want any surprises, understood?"

"Crystal clear," Littlefinger replied. His smile remained intact, but there was no affection in his eyes.

"Wait a moment," said Joffrey, who had remained oblivious to the discussion until now. "We can't leave yet."

"I've already warned you..."

"I'm not talking about that!" Joffrey cut him off, stepping away from him. "What do we do with Sansa Stark?"

"Fuck. I had forgotten about the damned girl," Jaime muttered. Upon hearing her name, the girl lifted her head and stared at them with frightened eyes.

"Please, I haven't done anything. I love Joffrey, I'm not a traitor, I swear," the redhead said tearfully. "My father... it can't be. He's loyal, he's been deceived, that's all. Please, no..."

"That's enough, girl," said Cersei, grabbing Tommen and tearing him from the trembling arms of Ned Stark's daughter. "We don't have time. Ser Meryn, be quick." Meryn Trant hesitated a bit before putting his hand on the hilt of his sword. Clegane had done the same, although Jaime couldn't tell if he intended to oppose Cersei's order or comply with it. The man's horrific burned face showed no emotion.

Jaime's stomach churned at the mere thought of the bloody corpse of the Stark girl. Why do I care what happens to her? Will Stark have any mercy on Myrcella?

"Your Grace, I don't think it's necessary," Littlefinger intervened before the white knight could draw his weapon. "For my part, I believe the poor girl is right. Her father is just a confused fool, but her brother is in Winterfell. Besides, she's still betrothed to the young prince. We should bring her with us; I'm sure she'll be useful."

"I am loyal, I swear it. I'll tell Robb. I'll tell him it's all a misunderstanding. Please," the frightened girl said.

"Look how scared she is, Cersei," Jaime added. He almost felt like laughing. Why was he protecting Stark's daughter now? He hadn't even exchanged more than a couple of sentences with her. Was it a way to make up for not doing the same with Rhaenys and Aegon?

"Very well," Cersei said. "Come with us, Sansa. And pray that your brother is more loyal than your father."

---

BARRISTAN

"We shouldn't have let him go," said Loras Tyrell as he ran alongside him on the outer wall walk of the Red Keep. A dozen guards followed them. Only half of them, those belonging to the queen's guard, wore leather armor, and one of them wore plate armor. The rest were city guards, and they were as confused as they were, if not more. Barristan knew that the young knight from the Reach could move at a faster pace than him, but he was feeling the weight of the years on his legs. He was slowing him down, he knew, and he saw the frustration reflected on the face of the young brown-haired man. A part of him urged him to let him go so that he could reach the king as soon as possible, but he didn't. If they encountered resistance before reaching the Throne Room, two swords would be better than one in a fight, even if one was wielded by an old man. If at least it served to ensure that the Knight of Flowers reached King Robert safely, the slight delay would have been worth it. The sound of war horns and drums echoed in the distance, throughout the city, drowning out the noise of steel clashing heard below the wall.

"His time will come," replied Ser Barristan. Or so I hope. The damned Kingslayer had once again broken his vows, and it couldn't have been at a worse time. What weighed on him the most was that he wasn't entirely wrong. The city is lost, and the castle will soon be too. I hope that for once you do something right in your life, Lannister, and manage to get the prince out of here. They would try to do the same with the king, but he doubted that such a thing would be possible. The gates were in the hands of the rebels, and all the postern gates led to the city or the river. He also knew of a couple of secret passages, but neither of them would serve them, as both also led to King's Landing. Furthermore, he was quite convinced that King Robert would not stoop to fleeing. He won't flee. That fool will charge against the enemy forces, hammer in hand, if he hasn't already done that. That was what troubled him the most, that the king had died or been captured before they could reach him. And you would have failed two kings. The worst Kingsguard in the pages of the White Book, even worse than Jaime Lannister.

Half a dozen more gold cloaks, not much better equipped than their companions, joined their small detachment as they passed the next bastion, the last one on their way before reaching the tower behind the Throne Room building. Unlike the others, these men were bruised, and more than one had cuts that were still bleeding. Leaning against the battlements, from that part of the wall they could see the city and the interior of the Red Keep more clearly. The column of soldiers dressed in black was already almost at the castle gates, like a line of ants reaching their anthill. Time was running out for them, and he was still there, catching his breath leaning on a battlement.

"We'll go down to the courtyard from the next tower, and then we'll go straight to the Throne Room, with the king. Let's hurry!" Barristan urged.

"My lord," said one of the gold cloaks who had just joined their group, hesitantly. "We come from that tower, my lord. The Black Eagles took it in just a few minutes. We barely managed to get out of there alive. I'm not going back there. We won't be able to handle them; there are too many." His companions nodded, crestfallen. These men have had their courage broken, observed Barristan.

"You didn't have us," said Loras Tyrell. "The knights of the Kingsguard don't flee so easily." The boy was everything Barristan could wish for in a Kingsguard brother, but in the little time he had had to get to know him, he had noticed that the young man was too impulsive and trusting. Too proud of himself. But in this case, he wouldn't reproach him for it. These men may be right, but we have to try. It's our duty.

"We must protect the king," proclaimed Ser Barristan.

"Fuck the king," spat one of the gold cloaks. "It's best to surrender." When he remembered who was in front of him, he lowered his head, ashamed. Still, in his eyes, it was clear that he didn't regret his words too much.

"Surrender, and you'll be ashamed for the rest of your lives," Ser Barristan tried to rally them. He had to get those men to follow him, or their chances would vanish. However, his words didn't seem to have any effect on those defeated men.

"And I swear that I'll throw the first one who flees or thinks of surrendering off the wall. Now, drow your weapons and retake that tower," said Loras Tyrell with a threatening face. The soldiers looked at each other uneasily, as if deciding whether they feared the Knight of Flowers more or the enemy that awaited them ahead. In the end, they seemed to lean towards Ser Loras. Barristan observed it all with tired eyes; where loyalty had failed, fear triumphed.

These are my men. This is what the kingdom has been reduced to.

With renewed strength, Barristan the Bold led his men towards the tower of red bricks that stood before them, seemingly guarding the back part of the outer courtyard of the Red Keep, where the Throne Room was located, where he hoped to find his king. Just as the gold cloaks had said, the entrance to the tower was guarded by several soldiers in thick black armor, as well as some gold cloaks, Stark men, and even soldiers from the Stormlands. For every man who followed him, the enemy had two, or perhaps more if there were more soldiers inside the fortification. Above the tower, next to the crowned stag, the black eagle waved on a red background.

"For the king!" shouted Ser Barristan, charging forward, fervently hoping that the men he had left behind would follow him in his desperate endeavor. The enemy soldiers watched them as they formed a defensive formation. The sound of war drums seemed to be getting closer.

Swift as lightning, Loras Tyrell lunged at one of the armored soldiers. The soldier defended himself well and deflected the blow with his sword, but the Knight of Highgarden moved quickly and thrust his sword between the visor's bars before the soldier could react. Before his enemy had hit the ground, the young member of the Kingsguard had three more enemies upon him: a northerner with the sigil of a direwolf on his chest and two more armored soldiers. Barristan charged at another of the soldiers in black armor, but this one reacted in time and easily parried Barristan Selmy's thrust. The sound of swords clashing drowned out the war drums.

Beside him, a gold cloak's spear reached the armor of one of the Black Eagles, but it only caused a mere scratch. The armored soldier grabbed the spear that was trying to impale him and split it in half with a strong blow. The gold cloak, shocked, didn't even know what to do with the broken handle of his spear when his enemy thrust his sword through his guts.

We cannot win, Barristan immediately recognized, as the men accompanying him fell one by one. They are too many, better equipped and trained. This is a slaughter. He lamented having led those men to certain death, but he couldn't think of another way to reach Robert. I will be remembered, but who will remember them? Who will remember their valor?

His enemy's thrust distracted him from his thoughts, and Barristan was forced to redouble his efforts against his opponent's furious attacks. He blocked the blows aimed at his head with his shield and deflected those aimed at his joints with his sword. These men were not fools; they knew what they were doing. All the attacks were aimed with precision at the weak points of his white armor.

"Ser Rolland has ordered us to capture you alive, Ser Barristan. Surrender," echoed the metallic voice inside the dark helmet.

A Kingsguard never surrenders. Barristan seized the distraction and launched his own offensive, but his attacks were as futile as his opponent's, and the ones he managed to land only made scratches on the armor.

"As you wish, old man. Die already," said the man, annoyed at receiving no response from Ser Barristan. He thrust his sword furiously at Barristan's neck, and that was his downfall. Barristan managed to deflect the thrust slightly so that the blade barely made a dent in his gorget and swiftly pierced his opponent's unprotected armpit, piercing through the jerkin and mail that covered it. The man stumbled and fell to the ground groaning in pain. Blood flowed from the wound, staining his armor and the stones of the wall. Barristan imagined that under the armor, the sight must be even worse.

Barristan wielded his sword with both hands and lowered the blade, pushing with all his weight, piercing the chest of his opponent, who was trying to rise. When he withdrew the sword, now red where it had once been white, the man collapsed onto the ground, dead.

He was a worthy opponent, for not being a knight. But there is no time to rest.

With the tip of his sword, he lifted the visor of the fallen soldier, and to his amazement and horror, he discovered that it was not a man hiding behind the black armor, but the unmistakable face of a woman. She had brown eyes with a vacant stare looking up at the sky, and her brown hair had a few gray strands. She looked nothing like the woman he had loved an eternity ago, but he couldn't help but think that it was Ashara Dayne hiding behind that helmet. He knew that woman wouldn't have hesitated for a second to kill him if she had the chance, but his conscience still felt uneasy.

He passed with heaviness over the corpse of the woman he had just killed, but not a second passed before another defender took her place. This man, however, wore no armor like his companion, only a simple mail shirt and a gray jerkin with the white direwolf of the Starks. Barristan didn't give him a chance to prepare and launched his attack. The northerner managed to stop the first three attacks, but on the fourth, Barristan decided to feint. The northerner fell for the trap, and Barristan's horizontal slash shattered the rings of the mail shirt and slashed his guts.

He glanced back and saw how his men barely held off the Black Eagles. If at first they had remained on the defensive when they saw the fierceness of his charge, now it was they who exerted the pressure. His men had lost the momentum, and now they were struggling to hold the line against an enemy superior in every aspect.

We will lose, but I will not die on my knees. Never.

"Ser Barristan!" shouted a voice. Beyond the enemy lines, the figure of a knight in bloodstained white armor was barely standing, leaning on his sword. "Come! Hurry!"

It was at that moment that he realized he had also managed to break through the defenders' lines. Without a moment's hesitation, he started running, careful not to stumble over the Northerner lying on the floor, groaning as he tried to staunch the wound with the hand that had previously wielded the sword. Looking back, he saw how the defenders quickly closed ranks again, and he thanked the Seven that they had not yet noticed his presence behind them.

"This is our chance to attack them from behind," Selmy said to the Knight of Flowers when he reached him. "Our men won't hold out much longer."

"Attack them from behind? Have you lost your mind? We're behind their lines. Let's get out of here before they notice us or their reinforcements arrive," Tyrell said, turning his back and running toward the solitary tower door. At the top, the black eagle still fluttered, and with a start, an arrow flew from the battlements and came within an inch of piercing him between the eyebrows. The sharp blast of a war horn sounded from above.

"They've seen us. Run!"

May the Seven forgive me.

Barristan firmly gripped the sword and ran after Ser Loras, leaving behind the groans of scared and dying soldiers. Men who were dying so that he and Ser Loras could reach Robert. And he repaid them like this, fleeing instead of standing by their side fighting shoulder to shoulder until their last breaths.

"Duty is a heavy burden," Lewyn Martell had said once, on one of the many occasions they had talked on the way to what would be known as the Battle of the Trident, so many years ago. "And only death will free us from it." Death had reached the Prince of Dorne a few days later, but Barristan Selmy still had to bear that burden.

Ser Barristan set off running and pushed aside Ser Loras, who was struggling with the tower door, which was tightly closed. More screams came from behind him. Barristan dared not look back for fear that his brain would think twice. He trusted that they were curses and valorous speeches, and not warnings from someone who had discovered them. He slammed his shoulder into the wooden door, and the bolt shattered into a thousand pieces, but behind it, he found no one. For once that day, luck seemed to be on their side.

"Going down here should bring us out just behind the Throne Room," Barristan Selmy informed Ser Loras as they hurriedly descended the marble steps, two at a time. His strides were so long that he almost stumbled when the steps narrowed and he almost rolled down the stairs. "Right on the wall overlooking the backyard, between some bushes under an apple tree, there's a hatch leading to the adjacent kitchens. I hope they haven't barricaded it from the inside." Or worse, that someone has found it.

Fortune smiled on them again, for not only did no one follow them, but they also did not encounter anyone in the backyard of the building, which was completely deserted, although the sounds of battle could still be heard not too far away. The small wooden hatch was right where Barristan remembered it, covered by several feet of weeds and bushes, without anyone having used it recently. In fact, it seemed to have been unused and forgotten for so long that the rusty iron fastenings squeaked loudly when Barristan opened it, so much so that he feared they might come loose.

The passage was narrow, and only an adult man could barely fit through it. Not only that, but when Ser Loras closed the hatch behind him, darkness enveloped them completely. As they moved on all fours, accompanied by the constant clattering of their armor against the stone, Barristan heard the sound of hurried footsteps above him. He also heard other noises and some voices, but the words were lost in the walls. After a few minutes of crawling blindly, Barristan bumped into a wall, a dead-end alley that led nowhere. He tried to lie on his back, rolling as best he could, and put his hands on the ceiling. As he expected, he touched a solid block of stone, but all he had to do was exert a little force to start moving it and let a trickle of light into the tunnel. He could smell the food the cooks had prepared for today's tournament perfectly. He pushed harder until he managed to dislodge the tile and throw it out of the hole above his head. The light coming in through the high windows of the room almost blinded him, and he had to blink several times until his eyes adjusted. A sharp squeal surprised him when he stuck his head out through the hole left by the tile.

Huddled in a corner and trying to hide as best they could under the tables and stoves, the cooks and kitchen assistants looked at him as if they had seen a monster. They had knives, pots, and pans in their trembling hands, but for what it was worth, they might as well not have had anything. Have they taken the building already? No, they wouldn't still be here if they had. His bones creaked as he stood up, and he felt the weight of the years more than that of his white armor, although the breastplate bore stains of dirt and blood. As soon as he managed to get out, Ser Loras followed him, his movements much faster and more graceful. Seeing their armor and cloaks, the cooks let out a sigh and lowered their improvised weapons, clearly relieved.

"Cover this up again before anyone can see it," Ser Barristan ordered them, as if they were soldiers and not scared cooks. "And put a table or something on top, I don't want any surprises. Where is the king?"

"In the Throne Room, Ser Barristan," one of the cooks finally said, pointing with his trembling index finger to one of the corridors. "They barricaded the main door and ordered us to hide. Are you bringing reinforcements? Have you come to save us?"

"We've come to fight," he replied. It wasn't entirely a lie, and maybe that would give them strength to weather the storm. Or at least, to make them think twice about switching sides. "Now, do as I've told you and hide."

Barristan began to worry when they saw no soldiers as they ran through the corridors toward the Great Hall where the Iron Throne was located. He told himself they had made it, that they hadn't arrived too late or they would have already encountered some Black Eagles. Still, it seemed a neglect that there was no one patrolling the inner hallways of the building, even just to make sure there were no infiltrators among the defenders or that someone could have sneaked in through some hidden passage, like his own case. It wasn't until they emerged through one of the doors just behind Aegon's monstrous throne that they saw the first signs of life.

Golden cloaks, soldiers from Baratheon and Lannister were bustling around, overturning furniture and barricading doors, trying to set up makeshift defensive barricades, all with nervous and fearful expressions. At the main door, tightly closed, a couple of dozen men were piling up tables and chairs and pushing the huge wooden gates, trying to hold back the enemy hordes. Every few seconds, there was a resounding thud throughout the hall, and the doors shook, but they held firm. Above all this, with a fierce and determined look despite the deteriorated figure he had acquired during his years of reign, King Robert Baratheon stood before the Iron Throne, giving orders with his deep and powerful voice, while wielding his huge hammer menacingly in his hands. He wore a horned helmet, a golden cape over his shoulders, chainmail over his prominent belly, and joint protectors. It was a much sadder sight than when Barristan had seen him at the Trident or the Iron Islands, leading his troops, but he knew a warrior when he saw one. Facing him, under the steps of the throne, stood the remaining brothers of the Kingsguard, except for Ser Jaime and Ser Meryn. Ser Arys Oakheart's face when he saw them arrive was one of astonishment.

"Ser Barristan! Ser Loras! How? How is this possible?" he asked, bewildered.

"We thought you were dead, or that you had been captured," added Ser Preston Greenfield. Next to them, Ser Mandon Moore gave them nothing but a silent, cold look.

Thud! The thunderous sound of the battering ram was constant.

"These old bones are tough to crack," said Ser Barristan, trying to show more confidence than he had at that moment. "I'm glad to see you've done your duty well."

"It won't be thanks to him," replied Ser Preston, lowering his voice, trying to keep Robert from hearing him, though it seemed difficult. The king was too busy shouting orders. In fact, he might not even have noticed Barristan and Loras's arrival. "The damn fool killed a gold cloak with his bare hands, and he would have attacked the rest if we hadn't dragged him away. We almost got killed because of him. One of his squires, Tyrek, can't say the same."

Your duty is to obey the king, he would have liked to remind him. Even when he's behaving like a fool or a madman.

"Where is the rest? Where are Lord Renly and the members of the Small Council?" asaked Ser Loras.

"Who knows," said Ser Preston. "If they're smart, they've already left the city or are in hiding."

Thud! The noise of the battering ram hitting the door sounded again, this time even louder, followed by a loud creak as the soldiers pushed again against the door to put it back in its original position. They wouldn't take long to breach it.

"Selmy!" the king's voice resounded. "Ha, ha, ha. I didn't expect to see you here. I thought by now you'd be dead or captured. Or am I seeing a ghost?"

"Not yet, Your Grace. Ser Loras and I fought our way here, not without difficulty. Ser Jaime and Ser Meryn will take care of getting the queen and the princes out of the castle. Perhaps we can still get you out of here too," said Selmy, hoping his words would be heard, even though that endeavor was doomed to fail before it began. Even if Robert agreed, returning the way they had come was impossible, and he didn't know of any other passage that could get them out of there beyond the one in the Small Hall, for which they would have to leave the building and cross the courtyard, which by now would be filled with enemies.

"And flee? I think not," snorted Robert, as if his words had wounded his pride. "I fled once, against that damned Randyll Tarly, and on top of that, my brother and his damned bitch robbed me of taking my revenge. Well, this time it won't be like that. Let no one say that Robert Baratheon fled like a coward when his enemies were closing in on him."

Selmy stared at him intently, and for a brief moment, Robert Baratheon seemed to him again the man who had defeated Prince Rhaegar at the Trident, the same one who had brought down the walls of Pyke on the ironborn. This is how he should always look, thought Sir Barristan, dispelling the doubts that had plagued him for years. Next to this king, I am willing to die.

"What's the situation outside, Ser Barristan?" asked Ser Arys. "We haven't heard anything since we took refuge here and closed the doors, not a single piece of news from the outside. If the rest of the garrison has regrouped, perhaps we can still turn the situation around and drive them out of the city."

"I doubt it," Barristan replied with sincerity and sorrow. There was no point in deceiving them. "There were still pockets of resistance, but the Black Eagles and their allies control the outer courtyard, the gates, and much of the walls. And not only that. Thousands of troops from Dragonstone are pouring into the city, it will soon be completely theirs, if it isn't already, and the castle won't be far behind."

"Then this is the end," said Ser Mandon Moore, participating in the conversation for the first time, although his dead face betrayed no more sorrow than usual. Dressed in his white armor and cloak, the Kingsguard looked more like a corpse wrapped in his shroud than anything else.

"It may be so, but I'll take more than one of them down with me. And hopefully that dragonspawn and my damn brother too if he's involved," King Robert replied.

"We could consider surrender. Perhaps their terms—" Ser Preston began, but he didn't have time to finish before Loras interrupted him.

"When my father surrendered after the rebellion, she wanted to execute him and hang his head from the walls of Storm's End. Make no mistake, there will be no mercy coming from Lady Edelgard," the Knight of Flowers reminded them vehemently.

Ser Arys bowed his head heavily at such a statement, as did Ser Preston, but a moment later he reached for the hilt of his sword and drew it, letting the light of the lamps reflect off the cold steel. Ser Preston and Ser Loras didn't hesitate to follow suit, and even the taciturn Ser Mandon ended up holding his sword in front of him. Barristan couldn't help but be moved by such a display of valor, and he drew his own sword, stained with blood and somewhat dull from recent battles. There, before their king and amidst their four sworn brothers, they seemed invincible. A sight for eternity.

"That's the spirit!" roared Robert Baratheon. "Let's teach those traitors a lesson they won't forget! And remember, the dragonspawn is mine!" If the king had had a Black Eagle in front of him, Barristan Selmy had no doubt he would have crushed its skull with his own hands. However, the defenders were still managing to keep the gates shut.

"I haven't heard the battering ram hitting the gate for a long time," commented Ser Barristan, realizing how long it had been since he had heard that thunderous sound echoing through the gallery. "What's—" He couldn't finish the sentence. Suddenly, the door burst open with a thunderous blow, and behind it appeared not soldiers dressed in black, golden cloaks, or northerners, but a torrent of smoke, fire, and charred debris that completely engulfed the defenseless soldiers who a second earlier had been trying to prevent the door from giving way. The flames advanced dozens of feet, and the thick gray smoke covered half the hall, rising up the tapestries and hiding the hunting trophies hanging from the walls, where the Targaryens had once hung the skulls of their dragons. The sound of the flames soon gave way to the agonized screams of the red cloaks and city guards as they burned alive. Screams that Barristan hadn't heard in an eternity, but that surfaced from the depths of his mind as vividly as if they had happened yesterday. In all his years, he had never heard a more horrifying sound.

There were men with the golden lion emblem of the queen's house and others with the crowned stag desperately rolling on the ground trying to extinguish their crimson cloaks as they cooked in their armor, while others watched them, pinned in place, not knowing what to do. A young man in golden armor and a crimson cloak lay on the ground with his face disfigured as the flames consumed him. More than one golden cloak had already dropped his spear and fled. Behind the smoke, no human form could be distinguished, only shadows that could well be the soldiers he had just seen expiring their last breath. Wildfire, was the first thought that came to his mind, it couldn't have been anything else, it was impossible. It doesn't make sense, the tongues of fire should have that beautiful and malevolent emerald green glow at the same time, was the next thing he thought as he watched the fire gradually die out, leaving behind a trail of smoke, ash, and corpses. But if it's not that, then what?

"Surrender! Surrender and your lives will be spared!" sounded an unmistakable female voice from where the door had been before, the woman from whom it originated hidden by the smoke and embers, although he didn't need to see her to know who was hiding behind that darkness. "Drop your weapons!" Edelgard von Hresvelg shouted once more. He caught the clang of steel against stone, but they were isolated sounds and eclipsed by the cries and sobs that could still be heard, although less and less. Instead, most of the defenders remained motionless, not knowing what to do or what to expect.

"Never!" roared Ser Arys Oakheart, raising his sword, more courage than sense. "For the king!" He descended the stairs leading to the throne and charged against the hidden enemy. "Stop, you fool", Barristan wanted to shout, but by the time he managed to snap out of his stupor, Ser Arys had already covered more than half the distance between him and his opponents. A couple of soldiers drew their swords and followed him with determination, but they were only three.

"That idiot... what does he think he's doing?" murmured Ser Loras without moving an inch.

Ser Arys was almost touching the black and dusty smoke, his white cloak waving behind him when, abruptly, almost as if by magic, a gust of wind from outside pushed the smoke back into the hall. The strong wind hit them in the face, and the smoke and ash reddened their eyes. Still, Ser Barristan could horrifiedly see an imposing figure pouncing on Ser Arys and his two companions, who shielded their eyes with his shields while looking around, even more confused and lost than the rest. The sunlight that had broken through hit their faces, and the Ser Arys slashed with his sword wildly, despite only cutting through the air. He was blind, and couldn't see what was coming. The lady of Dragonstone occupied the space just behind the door, previously hidden, followed by a brown-haired woman, who wore nothing but a simple leather armor and soon withdrew among the advancing soldiers entering the building. Dozens of Dragonstone men formed behind their lady, as well as northerners and golden cloaks, while the charred corpses of the king's men lay at their feet, motionless. The lady of Dragonstone's armor was black as coal, with golden trimmings, and an ornate helmet covered part of her face, although it couldn't completely hide her silver hair, like the ancient rulers of that castle.

It took no more than a few seconds for her to stand before Ser Arys, and without even attempting to shield herself from the furious blows of the white knight with that huge shield, she lowered her axe, which became a dark and deadly blur. The steel severed Ser Arys's sword arm at the shoulder, as if the white knight's armor were no more resistant than the woolen clothes underneath, leaving a trail of blood behind. Arys Oakheart collapsed to the ground, and Barristan knew it wouldn't be long until he bled out. He only hoped he had passed out from the pain and wouldn't have to suffer it. With a wide horizontal slash, Edelgard's axe severed the chests of the two men accompanying Ser Arys, who died alongside him. The Valyrian steel cleanly cutting the the blades of their swords in half.

"To me! To me, the guard! Fall back!" Barristan shouted, trying to get his men to assume defensive positions again.

"Charge! Bring me her head!" Robert shouted, his booming voice completely overshadowing Barristan's efforts, whose orders faded without reaching anyone. He strode down the stairs and launched into the attack, followed by the remaining members of the Kingsguard and most of the defenders, with much more success than Ser Arys had had.

"Highgarden!" shouted the Knight of Flowers, following the monarch in his charge. Barristan had no choice but to run after them, or they would soon leave him behind. A barrage of arrows rained down on them, but those that hit him bounced off his armor or embedded themselves in his shield, although some of the defenders, less well-equipped, were not so lucky. It wasn't long before they clashed with the enemy ranks, and everything around them turned into pure chaos.

King Robert lunged at two soldiers, a golden cloak and a Black Eagle. His hammer crushed the chest of the former before either could react, and then he struck the shield of the latter so hard that he lost his balance and fell backward onto the ground. The king's heavy hammer crushed his helm before he could get up. Not far from him, Ser Loras's sword felled upon a couple of northerners before their swords could even touch him, the both of them dead in a few seconds. Ser Barristan did the same with a young golden cloak who looked at him incredulously as life left his eyes.

However, things didn't take long to turn sour, and the moment they had gained with the charge soon faded, and the defenders were quickly overwhelmed by the overwhelming numerical superiority of the attackers. Ser Preston, who until a few moments ago seemed to have the upper hand against a soldier in black armor, soon found himself on the defensive when two soldiers in identical armor joined their comrade. Barristan tried to reach him, but before he could make his way through the enemies separating them, the edge of one of the swords found the gap between Preston Greenfield's helmet and gorget. Thus, Robert Baratheon's Kingsguard lost another member, drowned in a pool of his own blood, under Barristan's helpless gaze.

"May the Mother embrace you," Ser Barristan murmured the brief prayer as he tried to fend off the attackers surrounding him. A northerner fell after a brief exchange of sword blows, and he almost finished off a Black Eagle until another intervened in the fight and forced Barristan to go on the defensive. His arms grew tired as he held off the onslaught of his two opponents, unable to find an opening to attack. Whoever they were, they were well-trained.

"There you are, wench! You won't have any mercy coming from me!" Robert Baratheon exclaimed. Barristan glanced quickly in his direction, not keeping his eyes off his opponents for long, who seemed tireless. Among the ranks of the Black Eagles, the lady of Dragonstone had reappeared. Her axe, armor, and face were still splattered with the fresh blood of Ser Arys and who knows how many men more.

"Don't presume too much, Robert. I have no intention of dying today, let alone by your hand," said Edelgard von Hresvelg, her voice icy as the ice. "Now surrender and end this. I promised Stannis that I wouldn't bring him your corpse."

Robert Baratheon didn't respond but raised his hammer and unleashed a tremendous blow on his sister-in-law, which was stopped by her immense shield. When he withdrew it, the red and golden shield had a slight dent, but the woman hadn't stepped back a single inch and had remained as firm as a statue. Ser Mandon Moore tried to take advantage of the opportunity to approach the lady of Dragonstone from the side hidden by the shield, but he didn't even take two steps when an arrow pierced his eye through the small opening in his visor, with frightening precision. The wood went through his entire skull when Ser Mandon's head hit the ground and then split with a slight crunch. The arrow had come from somewhere among the enemy ranks, but he couldn't see where.

Ser Barristan's heart almost stopped beating. It had been too long since he had felt a similar sensation. He had almost forgotten it. Barristan the Bold had remembered what fear was. In the fleeting moments when his enemies gave him a respite, Barristan glimpsed how his allies fell one by one. The only white cloak still standing, besides him, was Ser Loras, who faced three enemies, all Black Eagles, although they didn't wear complete armor. However, the next time he saw them, those three enemies had become six, and one of them pierced the Knight of Flowers's knee with his spear. Men in red and gold cloaks fell like flies, without Barristan knowing for certain who were enemies and who were allies.

"Defend His Grace!" shouted Ser Barristan hoarsely. "Defend the king!" However, he himself was not able to fulfill that task. His enemies didn't give up, and at the slightest attempt by Barristan to break free and go to Robert's aid, they prevented him by getting in his way. If a third one appeared, Barristan knew he wouldn't last much longer.

A soldier came to Robert's defense, but the lady of Dragonstone barely paid him any attention, and moments later, he fell under the edge of her axe. Robert Baratheon himself lost ground to the onslaught of his opponent until one of the blows from the Valyrian steel axe slashed his forearm and made him drop the hammer after a furious groan.

"No!" shouted Barristan Selmy desperately. He redoubled his efforts and struck a blow with his shield to the helmet of one of the enemy soldiers. The man lost his balance and fell to the ground, semiconscious. His companion tried to swing a horizontal slash at Barristan, but he managed to duck just in time, and the blade of the sword only grazed his helmet. Selmy seized the opportunity to lunge at him, grabbed his ankles with all his strength, and threw him over him. He hit the ground, uttering unintelligible groans of pain. It was his chance. He had little time, but now the path to the king was clear.

One step, two, three. Just a little more. The battle was lost, he knew that long before it started, but if he could reach Robert, if he could kill Lady Hresvelg, at least it would have been worth it. Maybe he could even prevent war from ravaging Westeros once again. He had almost reached them when a woman stood in his way, just a few steps from his goal. He cursed himself for his old age; he hadn't even seen her coming until she stood in front of him.

"So you're Barristan Selmy, aren't you?" said the woman, with a strange accent. He had seen her before, on several occasions. She was the foreigner who usually accompanied the lady of Dragonstone or Lord Stannis everywhere. She had dark skin and hair of an unnatural violet color, undoubtedly the result of some eastern dye. Her brown eyes looked at him calculatively, never losing sight of him. She had a tattoo under her right eye and also on her arm and other parts of her skin, those exposed by the leather and fur armor she wore. In one hand, she wielded a curved sword, similar to those carried by the Dornish, and in the other, a black dagger. She didn't look like a knight at all, but rather like a savage. "My lady would prefer that no harm come to you. Surrender. This is over."

Barristan looked around. Wherever he looked, defenders lay dead or dying, or surrendered their weapons to the northerners and the Black Eagles. Two soldiers dragged Ser Loras, he didn't know if dead or unconscious, and King Robert knelt before Lady Edelgard, defeated, yet with a look of hatred and rage on his face. Apart from him, very few remained standing, ready to fight. And soon there would be even fewer.

"Step aside," Barristan snapped, determined. "If I must cut you down, I will." He would, but he wouldn't like it. He had killed many men in his life, some little more than boys, but never a woman until that day. That's not true, many died because of you, because you weren't good enough. She too, reminded a voice in his head. That may be true, but never by his own hands. That day he had already stained them with one, and everything pointed to him having to do it with another. "I don't want to have to kill you."

"I cannot let you pass. Drop the sword, or I'll kill you. For Lady Edelgard... and for Brigid." The latter was nothing more than a whisper. He didn't even know what she was referring to.

Barristan Selmy firmly gripped the sword and raised it, pointing it at his enemy. He knew he wouldn't come out of there alive; there would be no regrets to gnaw at him. "So be it then."

Barristan attacked. He leaped forward, wielding the sword with a flurry of blows against the woman. He shouted as he struck blow after blow, aiming for the woman's unprotected head and arms. But the woman didn't flinch and deflected all his attacks with her curved blade. She ducked under a swing from Barristan aimed at her head, which only cut off a strand of hair, and none of his thrusts reached her. In a quick movement, her saber struck his helmet and shoulder, but couldn't penetrate Barristan Selmy's heavy armor. Unlike him, that woman was quick as lightning. If the fight dragged on, Selmy knew he would be the one to tire first. Barristan stopped thinking, allowing the flow of battle to embrace him and merge with him.

This is what I was born for. This is what I am. He left behind all doubts and regrets. He was not doing this to defend the king he had sworn to protect. He wasn't doing it for the realm or for honor. He was doing it for himself.

The swords clashed incessantly. Barristan's attacks failed to find their mark, and hers bounced off his white armor, causing little more than mere scratches. He didn't care; with each blow, he felt the weight of the years that had once burdened him vanish, and he became young again. A circle formed around them, with no one, ally or enemy, daring to intervene for either of them.

They continued to dance to the tune of steel, that beautiful and deadly dance.

"I know your weaknesses. You're good, but you're slow. Surrender, I won't repeat it," the woman said, catching her breath. Barristan responded with a thrust that grazed her thigh. A trickle of blood ran down the woman's leg as Barristan withdrew the sword.

As if unaffected, the savage's strikes became a gray blur, so fast and furious that Selmy let most of them hit his armor and only stopped those aimed at his helmet or joints with the sword or shield. He allowed a dagger thrust aimed at his left shoulder to hit him. The significant blow would come later, and he would be ready. That could be the opening he needed.

"Fire meets water!" the woman shouted.

The dagger pierced the plate of his armor, the mail underneath it, his flesh, and reached the bone. She twisted it, breaking muscles and cartilage. When she pulled it out, it was red, and blood flowed from the wound like a fountain, staining his armor crimson where the dagger had pierced it. It was impossible. No weapon could have done that so easily, much less a simple dagger. He couldn't stifle the groan of pain, and just raising the shield made him see stars. The mere weight of the shield pulled on him and caused immense pain.

A roar of fury erupted, and he delivered a downward blow on the woman, putting all his energy into it. She stopped it with her saber, with a strength Barristan didn't expect, slipped past it, and stabbed the bloody dagger several times into his chest. Once again, his heavy armor yielded without offering many resistance to the weapon, and the repeated stabbings left severe wounds on his chest. He struggled to breathe. At least one had pierced his lung. His last strength left him, and Barristan Selmy collapsed.

He had to get up. He had to. Somehow. He tried to sit up on his arm but he couldn't bear his own weight and fell back against the ground.

"Save your strength. It's over," the woman said as she sheathed her dagger. He realized now that it must have been made of Valyrian steel. An impressive weapon. There was no contempt in the woman's gaze, but rather a certain admiration.

"No. Not like this," Barristan said through coughs. Along with the words, a red and sticky liquid came out of his mouth. His opponent crouched down and lifted his visor. He didn't know her name, but that woman had given him a fight that Barristan didn't expect to enjoy again in his old age. She had taken the glory, but that mattered little to him now. Even in defeat, he couldn't feel prouder. "Your name. Tell me your name."

"Petra," said the savage. "You fought well and honorably. Rest. Help will come soon."

"No," he said with a faint voice. "No, please. Please. This. This is how I must die. How I want to die. Please." He realized he was crying, but he didn't feel any sadness, quite the opposite. He was happier than he had been in years. Ashara. Ashara, I'm coming. Forgive me. I've taken too long. The woman's eyes reflected deep sorrow. She lifted the saber with both hands and lowered the blade, pointing the tip at Barristan's perforated and bloody breastplate.

"Thank you."

"May the spirits embrace and watch over you wherever you go, Barristan Selmy," said Petra. She grasped her saber with both hands and brought it down on Barristan's chest, putting all her weight behind it.

That's how Barristan the Bold died. Defending his king, with a sword in hand and a smile on his face.

---

Hello again. Well, shit has definitely hit the fan. I had thought about the layout of this chapter since the moment I started writing this fic, but finally writing it has been a bit more difficult than I had expected. Hope you all enjoyed it!

Next chapter: The Road to War.