Cersei crossed the empty halls and chambers of the Red Keep, entering a small courtyard. Her mind was fixated solely on finding a place to hide in the cellars where she and her child could wait out the siege in safety. Then she would leave, find Jaime, and together they would find allies, stronger ones, who would not cave to the dragon-bitch like the people of King's Landing, who cowered in their homes and opened the gates to the invaders. Those who survived Danaerys' rampage, the traitors who had failed her, she would put to the torch herself.
For an instant she thought of Ellaria, whose cell she would come across in her flight and might recognize Cersei even in her half-mad state. Then a wall of fire erupted in the arcades before her and she screamed, stumbling back. But this was no ordinary fire, burning blue and gold and purple. She heard the dragon roar, but it was far too faint to have caused this. She also heard muted screaming that seemed to come from the flames themselves.
Cersei turned around. Two men stood in the doorway she had just exited, one a hulking warrior in metal armor and the horned helmet she had last seen in Euron's possession, the other an old man wearing wolf skins and bearing a long staff with a dead bird on top.
The old one waved his staff, and another wall of fire flared into existence to her left and right. The heat was already intense, yet the walls did not blacken or crumble.
The warrior moved towards her, arms extended. Hope flared up in her chest as she thought Euron had returned, but died as he grabbed her around the waist, as the little she could see of his face and his size made the difference obvious.
"You're not Euron!"
"I'm very glad to say I'm not."
The warrior hoisted her onto his shoulder like a sack of cabbages and turned around. Cersei's fists pattered against his back, but it might as well have been rain for all that he reacted.
"See anything worth taking?"
The sorcerer waved his staff again. Cersei felt the heat die almost immediately as the walls of flame vanished into nothingness, leaving behind only a strip of twisted stone between the arches.
"No take. We go now, Jarl Strong Wolf not want us take too long."
"Up all those stairs, and with this useless weight..."
The marauder gave his charge a shake.
"Bet you he hasn't finished the big bastard by the time we get back?"
"Faster ways lose coin. Like bet throw rock in air, rock not come down."
"I've known people who'd take that bet."
The marauders turned around and started the long climb up the stairway.
The Mountain struck, shearing a deformed skull hanging from the Wolf's shoulder.
The Wolf looked entirely indifferent, his voice flat and bored as he pulled back from the Mountain, jabbing his sword in the Mountain's arms or chest only to pull it back. The swords' points were beginning to smoke.
"You know, Molehill, I've been thinking. For both of us, since you are now even less capable of doing so than in life."
The Mountain's blade dug deep into a stone windowsill as the Wolf deftly sidestepped the blow.
"I'm starting to think you don't like the name Molehill, despite it being appropriate for something small, immobile and turd-colored, only capable of killing a man if he trips over you... what do you say to "little bitch"? Bark once if you disagree."
The Mountain swung its arm, nearly forcing the Wolf's sword out of his hands before wrenching its increasingly-battered blade out of the stonework.
"No? You don't like "little bitch" either? You are a picky one."
"How about "lapdog"? Is that better? Or something more descriptive, like "hairless half-maggot"? That's more accurate, hardly any man could be said to look more limp and wormlike than you!"
The Mountain advanced ponderously, sword swinging hard and cleaving through the steel of the Wolf's armor. Even with two swords piercing clear through its body, the Mountain showed no sign of relenting. Already the Wolf's armor bore several rents and gashes.
Qyburn felt movement under his fingers. To his shock, the Hound had regained consciousness, his one eye open wide and staring at the Mountain.
The Wolf gripped the point of his sword in his armored hand, smashing the hilt into the Mountain's mouth. Teeth flew to the ground, yellowed and smoking.
"Oh don't worry, Molehill, you don't need those. Teeth are for those who need real food, not decrepit corpse-suckers like you!"
The Mountain punched out, striking the Wolf full in the face. The barbarian fell back to the wall. The monster took a step forward, but the Wolf crouched, grabbing the Mountain's ankles.
With a roar of effort, the Wolf lifted himself up, pulling the Mountain's feet with him. The monster keeled over backwards, flagstones shattering under its weight, the swords embedded within it snapping off. The Wolf released his grip, dropped one knee on the Mountain's chest and gripped the dagger's handle, twisting the monster's head to the side and pushing it down with his free hand. He pulled hard, freeing the blade at last, then jammed two fingers into the empty socket, keeping the Mountain's head down.
"Much better, now I can kill you without having to see your face!"
The Wolf looked at Sandor's dagger. The blade was chipped and broken from the abuse it had been through. Even as the Mountain struggled to free itself, the Wolf applied the blade to his foe's throat and started sawing.
"Grunt louder, Molehill! I would have the Plaguefather know his dull-witted farmhand will arrive to tend his garden shortly! Nothing marked by the gods can escape."
Qyburn gripped the wall and lost the remains of his breakfast as a horrible smell of rotting meat and bile struck him. The Cleganes' eyes met and did not leave each other.
The Wolf's efforts continued despite the Mountain's increasingly desperate flailing. One fist caught the Wolf square in the jaw, and he spat blood down in his victim's cheek.
"You think if swords don't work, fists will? Other way around, Molehill, small wonder you only ever killed vermin and weaklings!"
At last there was a flood of black and red fluids as the Wolf's battered blade sawed through the Mountain's throat. He did not stop then, still weighing down on the Mountain's head as he hacked through bone and sinew.
Even as Sandor fought to stay conscious, even as a black veil descended upon his vision, he still saw the moment when the dagger clinked against stone, saw his brother's eye became unfocused, and the Wolf separating the Mountain's head from its neck. Then the veil fell completely and he surrendered himself to whatever came next, feeling as though an immense weight had left his chest.
"Hold your breath, necromancer. He's going to stink even worse very shortly."
The Wolf plunged his sword deep into the Mountain's guts and pushed it further in, slicing the exposed abdomen open. The smell did indeed get worse. Qyburn winced as he recalled the difficulty he'd had in mending bone and flesh together the first time around, even with his most potent magics to aid him. The Wolf muttered something, even as he ripped the Mountain's latest heart out. He looked curiously at it.
"What'd you put in him, necromancer? Bull or bear?"
Qyburn was about to respond that it was neither, but the Wolf did not seem interested in the slightest. He picked up the Mountain's head.
"At last..."
The Wolf triumphantly held the severed head aloft, even as blood and viscous black fluids still pumping from its ragged wounds. The stone below fizzled as it came into contact with the transformed blood.
"Ah, poor Molehill, I can't say he fought well."
Moments passed, Qyburn casting fearful glances at his new master, who was now looking at the head with a puzzled air.
"Strange... what else do they require?"
The Wolf looked at Sandor.
"How is he?"
Qyburn looked at the sleeping Sandor. Strangely, his battered and scarred face looked more peaceful than Qyburn had ever seen.
"I have stopped the bleeding, and his state should be stable now, my lord, but I could do more for him in my laboratory, if-"
"No time. His fate is in the hands of the gods now."
Qyburn, who had much to say on the role of gods in saving lives, judged it more prudent to remain silent.
Noise came from below. Sven and Akkarulf ascended to the landing, still carrying the struggling Cersei on his shoulder. Qyburn avoided looking at her.
"Just in time."
The marauders started climbing the stairs, when Qyburn spoke up in a hesitant voice.
"Er... my lord Wolf..."
Sven gave the man a surprised look, while the Wolf turned, looking distinctly impatient.
"I could serve you better if I had Ser Gregor's corpse at hand. Certain rare minerals and reagents essential to the process are embedded within him, and there were certain functions I was in the middle of test-"
"Sven, send down Knut, Snorri, Geirr and Slissnarr. Tell them to bring a spare sail."
The sorcerer nodded and ran up the stairs, followed by Akkarulf. Qyburn stared, wondering how many others the Wolf had somehow brought to the top of the tower, and why they would have sails with them. Were they planning to arrest their fall by using sails as immense wings, as he had sometimes contemplated during his time at the Citadel?
As she was carried past Qyburn, Cersei spat invectives at the faithless Maester, ceasing only when the Wolf grabbed her jaw, Akkarulf pausing mid-step as soon as he felt his charge anchored.
"That's a very pretty mouth you have there, whore-queen. Loud, too. Do you think you can keep it shut or shall I ask my crew to find something they can plug it with?"
Cersei fell silent, her eyes wide and terrified. The Wolf released her and turned his attention back to the Mountain, where Qyburn was collecting fluids in a glass vial. Akkarulf continued upwards.
The Wolf pushed a steel hook chained to his armor through the back of the Mountain's head just as a group of marauders descended, carrying a folded and waxed sailcloth between them. The corpse was dragged onto the makeshift tarp while the Wolf pushed Qyburn forward.
"Wrap it tight, I'm not having that bastard stink up my ship. It was bad enough having the Crow Brothers aboard."
After Qyburn had wrapped his creation in the waterproofed cloth, it was manhandled up the winding staircase, accompanied by words he did not understand but took as heartfelt cursing at the Mountain's weight, even deprived of its head, armor, and intestines. He followed his new master up the winding stair, unsure of how they planned to escape or get the corpse onto a ship.
At times the Wolf would hold out his hand, and progress halted as Drogon careened by. They noted the dragon's progress would occasionally be checked as if his rider had ordered him to fly in a different direction, which Qyburn noted caused the Wolf to frown. The sound of bells grew louder.
Finally the group reached the last intact floor of the keep. Hovering a few feet above the charred floor and the piles of rubble was an enormous longship, its prow carved into a snarling dragon's head. To Qyburn's horror, the figurehead actually turned to look at him. The Wolf gave the ship's hull a sharp slap as he passed it by, and the wooden head turned away.
The Wolf barked out several orders in a guttural language, then turned, watching the sky.
Several ropes and a ladder were thrown over the side, and the Mountain's corpse hauled up onto the ship. The marauders climbed back aboard, and Qyburn had grasped the ladder, when the sound of bells reached the top of the tower. The Wolf had clearly heard them as well, for he stared fixedly at a point in the distance and growled. Qyburn saw him look disgusted and hurriedly climbed the ladder before the angry barbarian could vent his frustrations on him.
Aboard the Seafang, the marauders had stowed away the Mountain's corpse and taken their positions at the oars. Two of them bound Cersei's eyes and mouth and tied her limbs together before dragging her into the hold.
Akkarulf looked out to the dragon devastating the city and touched Sven on the shoulder.
"How much longer will it last?"
Sven snarled as he looked at the smoldering remains of a small amulet.
"Near finish, hurry!"
Akkarulf rushed to the mast, grabbing a longbow and a quiver of arrows, pushing the Maester to the deck. Qyburn stared in some confusion as the Wolf yelled something that grated at his ears. A hole seemed to open in midair just before the prow of the flying ship. He had heard reports of something similar the first time the Mountain had been killed, but-
"Put your head between your knees, cover your ears and shut your eyes, fleshcrafter! And keep them shut!"
The rowers pulled back in unison, and the longship shot forward.
Minutes later, only Sandor's inert form remained on the ruined landing far below.
In the air, Danaerys whipped her head left and right, snarling as the hated sound struck her ears, surrounding her. She could no longer ignore it by flying elsewhere. She wheeled Drogo around, looking for its source, and all the while the veil of fury slowly lifted until she suddenly recognized it.
Bells, hundreds of them, ringing in desperate cacophony in a sea of fire.
She looked down at King's Landing. The city was a raging inferno, and despite the altitude she thought she could hear the agonized screams of men, women and children being burned alive. Here and there a flash of green flared up as an undiscovered cache of wyldfire ignited.
All of it, done by her hand. The very atrocity her father had been murdered for, now completed, and far greater extent than he had managed. Jaime Lannister had sacrificed his honor and his name to stop such an atrocity, and she had wanted to kill him. Who was she now to judge him? Where was her talk now of breaking the wheel? Of bringing an end to the cycle of violence, of tyrant overthrowing tyrant only to become even worse?
Tears sprang to her eyes, and she urged Drogon forward, anywhere, to flee the carnage she had inflicted on the city. Drogon screeched, and pushed forward.
Even as the city shrank in the distance, even through the wind whistling through her ears, even through the pounding of her heart, she still heard the bells.