Chapter 6: The Siege of King's Landing

Tyrion Lannister was nervously observing the waters of Blackwater Bay. The task assigned to him, serving as the Hand of the King, had never felt as heavy and uncomfortable as it did at that moment.

Apparently, his noble Lord father thought he was bestowing an honor upon him, for once, by sending him to rule King's Landing in his stead while he fought the Young Wolf. Tyrion thought he almost missed the times when Tywin had ordered him to fix the sewers of Casterly Rock.

Unclogging pipes may not be a prestigious job, of course, but I've never heard of a plumber getting a sword to the head for his trouble.

He descended from the battlements, full of armed men scanning the horizon in the evening breeze, lit by torchlight.

He met Bronn and asked him if everything was ready.

"All ready, oh noble Hand of the King," confirmed his bodyguard, with the usual sarcasm, "though I'd prefer to be a little less ready and far away from here."

"We all would. Do your part, and we'll make it through."

If only I could believe that myself.

Passing people swarming in every direction, finishing the preparations for the siege, Tyrion decided to check on the women's chambers.

Who knows, I might even find my little nephew, the King, hiding there.

Cersei Lannister had never been particularly pleased to see her dwarf brother, but the circumstances would drive anyone to make an exception. Anyone except Cersei, of course.

When Tyrion arrived, the Queen Mother had already started with the wine.

"Oh, you're here, sweet brother," she began, unimpressed, "what have you come to tell us? That we should remain calm because the task of saving us all rests on your mighty shoulders?"

"Fortunately, we're still able to pay shoulders mightier than mine to do that, sweet sister," replied Tyrion, "no, I came to tell you that all preparations for the siege have been made on time and that you have nothing to fear... ten thousand men are ready to die to protect you."

"Yes, and a hundred thousand men are ready to die just to try and violate the little hens in here," she said with disdain, glancing at the ladies, young and old, praying in groups with the septas for the mercy of the Mother and the Warrior.

"And as for our soldiers," she continued, "I've seen more courage on the faces of stable boys saddling horses. If I had been born a man, I'd have to take a sword and go out there to break some heads."

You could try it anyway, sweet sister. Ask Ilyn Payne to lend you his sword and go fight in a skirt and crinoline. Actually, I'd pay to see that.

"And where is Lady Sansa, if I may ask? As the King's betrothed, she must be protected."
"Little Sansa went to the western walls to give her well wishes to Joffrey for the battle, or something like that. By the gods, that girl is so hopelessly stupid. If Joffrey marries her, I shudder to think what sort of children will come from them."

Almost certainly better than the ones YOU had with our brother, I'd say.

"All right, then I'll go to the western walls."

"To tell Sansa to come here?"

"Of course, but not only that. I'll also ask Joffrey to go and rally the troops. They'll fight more willingly if they see their King at the front."

"LISTEN TO ME, YOU WRETCHED CREATURE," Cersei roared like the lions on their sigil, and all the women in the room turned to look, "you will not put my son on the front lines, do you understand me? He is not a sacrificial pawn. HE IS THE KING. He should stay here, safe, with his mother."

Tyrion was still able to be surprised, then sighed and said:

"Listen carefully, sweet sister, if Stannis Baratheon breaches our walls, Joffrey won't be King of anything anymore, because by morning, his pretty little head will be on a spike in Maegor's Holdfast. In itself, that wouldn't be a great loss for the Seven Kingdoms, but since my head would likely be right there beside his, I am determined to do everything to prevent that. Oh, and yours too, of course. Imagine the pair: the biggest head and the prettiest head in the Seven Kingdoms, side by side. But pretty or ugly, big or small, I'd rather keep mine attached to my neck. And the best way to do that is for the men to believe they are fighting for Joffrey and not to run away at the first opportunity. And that WON'T happen if he stays hidden behind his mother's skirts. Can you get that concept into that pretty empty head of yours?" he said, almost roaring himself at the end.

Cersei's face as she looked at him was twisted with bile.

"You… you… little MONSTER! How… how dare you speak like that to your Queen… to your sister… to ME? Don't you think… you've already made me suffer enough? You came into this world killing our mother…"

Here we go again.

"Then you took my daughter away! You sent her to those Dornish vipers as a hostage, far from me!"

"I sent her as a betrothed to Quentyn Martell, to secure them as allies," he reminded her, "and to keep her safe. And right now, she is safer than all of us, you can't deny that."

"And now… now you want… to put my firstborn on the front lines? It won't happen! I'd rather see this city burn than let that happen."

"You will see this city burn if it DOESN'T happen," Tyrion retorted, and he left, abandoning her.

Joffrey Baratheon was terrified and, like all cowards, flaunted his bravado to hide it. He kept weighing his beautiful, gold-plated crossbow and taking aim, as if he could hit targets half a city away.

The Hound stood a short distance from him, impassive.

Then Sansa Stark arrived, beautiful, radiant, in a blue dress and a shawl over her shoulders. Her face bore a solicitous expression, and she seemed pleased to see the King. Even too pleased.

"You're about to go into battle, my Liege? I've come to give you my blessing."

"Of COURSE, I'm going into battle, what do you think? With this crossbow, I'll pierce my uncle Stannis's head the moment he dares show himself here."

"Oh, you're so brave," the girl chirped, "and where will you fight? In the front lines, I imagine."

"Oh, well, I... I don't discuss my strategies with a woman!"

"Oh, forgive me, how silly I am," Sansa demurred. "But OF COURSE you'll be fighting on the front line, that's obvious. My brother Robb always does, and his men adore him, and he is nothing but a traitor. The rightful King would never do any less."

As Joffrey stammered something, astonished, one could almost swear they saw the shadow of a smile cross Sandor Clegane's face.

Just then, Tyrion Lannister arrived.

"My King, my Lady, pleased to see you both.
Lady Sansa, my sister the Queen wishes for you to join her in the women's quarters. For safety. Joffrey, my dear nephew, I need you at the Mud Gate to address the troops. They're all asking for you."

"I… oh… really? Well, but… yes, of course. Naturally. I'm coming right away."

When Joffrey had left, Sansa trotted toward the women's quarters but, after a few steps, turned back to address Tyrion.

"I'll pray for your safe return, my lord."

Tyrion was surprised. "Truly, my Lady?"

"Of course. Just as I'll pray for the King."

Davos Seaworth felt uneasy. On the one hand, their fleet had an overwhelming advantage, but on the other, he was a smuggler. He had never participated in a battle.

There was something else. Their enemies seemed too complacent. They had to have prepared defenses, but he couldn't see them. A trap? If so, it wouldn't be anything too obvious.
The great harbor of King's Landing was their target. The most logical place to land, the only side of the city not covered by walls.

His eldest son was with him on the flagship, whose sails bore Davos' banner, a large red onion. It was by delivering onions and dried fish to Stannis and his garrison at Storm's End, besieged years earlier during the Rebellion by the Tyrell forces, that Davos had earned a pardon for his crimes and his knighthood.

But it was what Stannis had done afterward that had won his loyalty forever: he had still had four fingers cut from Davos' left hand as a symbolic punishment for his years as a smuggler. Davos had decided he would follow that man for the rest of his life: someone so just and honest that he would punish even his own savior, but also so grateful as to knight a humble smuggler, was someone who would always do what was right, not what was useful for himself.

Ever since Stannis had killed his brother and Courtney Penrose with that... shadow born of Melisandre, however, Davos had begun to doubt.

Would he still be the same man as before? I swore to put him on the Iron Throne so he could be a just King for his people.

The good thing now was that they weren't using sorcery. They were fighting as men.

At that moment, the battle had to be won. With the Baratheon fleet and the royal fleet, made up mostly of Velaryon and Celtigar ships, plus Sallador Sahan's pirate fleet, about half of Stannis' troops were being transported toward the city, ready to attack and conquer it.

The other half, including all the cavalry, was instead traveling up the Kingsroad, ready not to encircle the city in a pincer movement, as might be logical, but to turn westward as a barrier against potential attacks from other forces—vengeful Tyrells, returning Lannisters from the Riverlands, or even soldiers from the Crownlands—Staunton, Darke, Bar Emmon, Kettleblack, Stokeworth—who might try to flank their troops once they landed.

It's unlikely; if I were them, I'd let them all into the city to defend it better, but you never know. Stannis' plan is a good one, but why don't I see even a few ships defending the harbor? Still...

At that moment, hundreds of meters away, Tyrion Lannister waved his arm from the battlements, and two torches were dropped.

In unison, hundreds of people worked together to turn a massive wheel.
Davos heard a strange noise, like something familiar, yet different, hard to define even for someone who had spent his whole life at sea.

Then he saw something. A dark shape emerged from the waters, like a sea serpent.

"STOP THE SHIPS! GIVE THE ORDER TO THE ONES BEHIND!"

The entire fleet tried to halt its advance, stopping the rowers, lowering the sails, and even dropping anchor if necessary. Even so, many ships failed to stop in time and crashed into one another, those in front with those behind, and so on, though without suffering significant damage. Still, they were all now crowded together.

Davos stood up to get a better look at the thing that had made him give the order.
It was a gigantic chain, each link as thick as three men's arms, and long enough to block, width-wise, the entire dock they were trying to reach. It had been lifted three meters above the water.

If they had delayed even a little, the ships at the vanguard would have crashed into it at full speed and suffered far greater damage, as would those following close behind.
Moments later, something began to approach them. A small, dark figure moved quickly.

"Ready to attack at my signal!" and all the men prepared bows, crossbows, and harpoons.
But it was a single boat. Small, covered by tarps.

"Just one? Let it pass… but stay alert."

The small boat moved into the middle of the mass of enemy ships.

At that moment, Tyrion Lannister knew they had a chance.

"NOW!"

A messenger started waving two torches in an "X" shape.

From afar, on a hill, Bronn saw the signal. He lit a flaming arrow and drew his bow. He didn't need to hit the boat; it was enough to land near the water.

The arrow shot forth, hissing through the air, red against the black sky, then started to arc downward.

Davos understood what was wrong. He smelled a strange scent.

"That boat… it's releasing something into the sea. It's a liquid. It's… oh gods. It's WILDFIRE! Flee..."

The arrow hit the water. The wildfire ignited all at once, brilliant green flames shooting high.
The flames raced madly toward the small boat, which had reached a third of the fleet.

And then it happened. An explosion, huge, gigantic, deafening.
A blinding flash, a ball of green fire that engulfed the ships around it, disintegrating several, scattering pieces all across the bay.

Davos felt himself swept away and could no longer understand anything.

Seeing a third of his fleet in flames, with men throwing themselves into the water or turning their ships around to survive, Stannis Baratheon gritted his teeth.

"So, the Imp made his move. Men, steer to the left. We'll land the troops further south and attack through the Mud Gate."

And his men, obedient to their supreme commander, complied.

Tyrion had bet everything on that move.

The enemies were too many; they could never have brought enough supplies to feed the entire army for many days. Either they conquered the city immediately, or they would have to retreat. This way, they could buy a bit of time, perhaps even a week, and who knows—reinforcements might even arrive by then.

The small Hand of the King inspected the troops. He had stationed five thousand men just behind the Mud Gate, smaller contingents at each of the other gates, and a reserve unit in one of the main squares, ready to intervene where needed.

With him were also his cousin Ser Lancel Lannister, King Joffrey, and the Hound.

"Men! Get ready to fight! Whatever happens, don't let them through! Try to push them back from the walls, but if they get too close, make a sortie. If they use battering rams or siege engines, use fire."

At the mention of "fire," Sandor Clegane flinched but said nothing.

Stannis's army landed and charged, a black tide barely visible in the scattered torchlight along the walls, making them even more terrifying.

A rain of arrows, followed by a hail of stones, fell on the attackers but couldn't stop their advance. The front lines carried long ladders, which they quickly leaned against the walls, beginning to climb, while others threw grappling hooks onto the battlements.

Arrows flew from both sides: the defenders could shelter behind the stone merlons, the attackers raising their shields.

The first attackers, armed with axes, reached the top and began fighting furiously. The Hound soon reached the top to reinforce the defenders.

At first, Tyrion didn't hate their odds, but then he saw heavy wooden siege towers advancing, followed by an enormous battering ram.

"This isn't good. Not good at all. Prepare the flaming arrows, then as many torches as you can."

At that moment, a man came running toward them, panting and drenched in sweat as if he had sprinted the whole way.

"Bronn! You're here? You made it back before they arrived?"

"Of course. But I had to run to the other gate to avoid getting intercepted. See, Great Strategist? I executed your plan on the ships, but I don't think our situation has improved much…"

"Well, at least now our enemies are outside the walls and not inside. But they're still too many. Do what you do best and cut down their numbers."

"As you wish. You're the one paying, after all."

The Lannisters launched a sortie from the walls, setting the siege towers on fire.
A ferocious clash erupted around the battering ram. It was crucial to set that on fire too, but seeing men with torches nearby, Stannis sent reinforcements.

Sandor Clegane was covered from head to toe in the blood of men he had killed.

But when he found himself surrounded on all sides by burning wood fragments, he started to sweat, then tremble. Then he turned on his heels and fled.

Cersei was uneasy. She hated waiting without doing anything. Her cursed brother. He wanted to take her children away from her, wanted to…

At that moment, Ser Lancel Lannister entered. He told the women that the situation was dire but to stay calm, as their men were fighting valiantly.

"Lancel," she said, drawing closer so only he could hear, "where is Joffrey?"

"He's with the others, my Queen. At the gate."

"Listen to me carefully," she hissed. "You go there now and tell my son to come here to safety, understood?"

"But… my Queen… the KING cannot abandon his post," the young man protested, horrified.

"Dare to contradict me, and I'll have your throat slit in your sleep! Bring my son here, do you understand?"

Lancel glared at her with contempt and walked away.

Cersei was desperate.

Fools. Incurable fools.

No one listened to her, not even her own family members.
She had to protect at least her youngest son, Tommen.

Taking advantage of a moment when all the women were engrossed in prayer, she slipped out, pulling Ilyn Payne along as her guard.

Sansa, busy reassuring the other women, was the only one who noticed what had happened.
As the others prayed, Shae, her handmaiden, approached and whispered in her ear: "We must leave here, my lady. It's not safe. If the enemy enters the city, this will be the WORST place to be."

Tyrion decided to join the final sortie. They would either push back the enemy or all die. Meanwhile, for safety, he had ordered reinforcements to be summoned.

The Imp hid behind a large shield and wielded a war axe—he was strong, despite his small size—to join the charge. Soon the battle broke into a hundred individual duels, a cacophony of clashing metal, war cries, screams of the dying, bursts of flame, and sprays of blood.

Tyrion did his best: he tried to get close to the enemy under the cover of other Lannister soldiers, aiming for their legs and crippling them with the axe before moving on. His squire, Podrick, stayed by his side, wielding a long spear so they could function as a single unit.

After a while, Tyrion turned around. Bronn was nowhere to be seen.

Still, by their third sortie, they had managed to push the enemies back almost to the ships—some of their men even began tossing torches at them—but soon, more of Stannis' reinforcements approached from the left: the Baratheon troops were far too numerous.

Fighting broke out once again.

Standing beside a small landing boat, Tyrion realized he was next to Ser Mandon Moore of the Kingsguard: one of the few competent men to have joined the order recently.

"Ser Mandon, how's the situation?" he asked, lowering his shield.

The man responded by raising his sword and slashing it diagonally across Tyrion's face.
Tyrion's face was cut from left to right, from forehead to chin, and his nose was cleaved off completely. He fell backward, ending up leaning against the landing boat.

Mandon Moore raised his sword again to deliver the killing blow. He never brought it down. Podrick, from behind, ran him through the throat with a spear. The knight collapsed to the ground, dead, as Podrick Payne clutched his master's body desperately while the battle raged around them.

Soon after, under the relentless pounding of the battering ram, the Mud Gate gave way, and Stannis' men began pouring into the city, thousands of them, shouting like madmen.

Sansa had been taken to her room by Shae, who had told her to lock herself inside before disappearing who knew where.

The girl remembered how that room had been chosen for her by Petyr Baelish himself—a spacious chamber where he had promised she would be comfortable—but now, being alone in such a vast place, in total darkness, terrified her.

Especially when she saw something move in the darkness: she practically jumped back in fear.

"Calm down, Little Bird… it's just me."

"Sandor? What…what are you doing here?"

The warrior stood up from the couch he'd been lazily leaning against and approached her. His breath smelled of wine.

"I came for you, isn't it obvious?"

"C-came for me? But why? Aren't you supposed to…be out there fighting?"

"AH! Fighting… for what? This city is lost, Little Bird… Stannis will take it soon, and there's nothing we can do."

Sansa was frightened to hear him say that, but she was almost more afraid to ask the next question.

"So…what do you intend to do?"

The man turned and looked at her strangely before blurting out, "Leave, isn't it obvious? I'm sick…sick of it all…TO HELL with the King! To hell with that little shit Joffrey, to hell with the Lannisters, to hell with Stannis, to hell with the Starks, and all the damned Seven Kingdoms!"

Once he calmed down, he approached her and grasped her arms with his hands. Sansa could feel his breath as he spoke.

"Come with me, Little Bird. Let's get out of here. Away from all of this. It'll be better than staying here. I will protect you. If you stay, soon you'll either be raped by the soldiers, or you'll remain an hostage—this time for Stannis. Aren't you tired of it all? This…can end."

Sansa's eyes widened.

"I…but…no, I…I can't go with you. I think…this is still the safest place to be."

Sandor looked at her for a long time. "Is that it? That's the only reason?"

"And besides…I don't know if I can trust you. In the past, you've helped me, and I'm grateful…when Joffrey…had his Knights beat me…I know you're not like the others, but… still, you're a killer."

"AH! Of course I am! And you know what? Your father was a killer. Joffrey is a killer. Stannis is a killer. My brother is a killer. YOUR brother is a killer. Your children will be killers! That's the way of the world, and the sooner you make peace with that, the better."

Then he seemed to grow sad and slumped into a chair with a sigh.

"Do me a favor, Little Bird? Before I go…sing me a song."

Cersei sat on the Iron Throne with Tommen on her lap, singing him a song.

It was a nursery rhyme, a lullaby, one she had composed just for him. The little boy was eight years old and adored rhymes.

His mother was singing one about a little lion venturing into the forest…where he met other animals, mean ones who wanted to hurt him…but the little lion's mother wouldn't let anything happen to him.

As she sang, she stroked his hair with one hand and fiddled with a small vial with the other. It was full of Tears of Lys. She would not let her son be taken hostage. Nor herself.

The battle was raging in the heart of the city. Stannis' troops had paid a heavy price to break through the Mud Gate because those small doors allowed only a few defenders to hold off many more, but the last of the Baratheons had ordered his excess troops to attack the other gates as well, and Tyrion's reserves—left in the city's squares without any leadership—had split into units to defend those points and never regrouped to try and repel the enemies flooding through the breached gate.

Stannis himself led the charge, fighting house by house.

His men held an overwhelming advantage in numbers, but that very multitude worked against them, fighting in the narrow confines of the city's streets. Fires from burning buildings soon illuminated the city like daylight, but it was only a fleeting impression before the smoke from the flames obscured the moon.

Retreating soldiers had blocked the streets, building barricades with overturned carts and barrels. Some of the lesser church towers had been turned into guard posts where defenders acted as snipers, raining arrows down on the attackers.

To climb up there, they had forcibly cleared out the faithful who had gathered to pray, begging the Seven for mercy, and those people scattered to pray in the most unexpected places: in squares, in homes, in taverns. A larger group had gathered in a granary, led by a brown-haired septon with bare feet and a dirty robe, who implored the gods for forgiveness and proclaimed the End of Times unless people repented.

Seeing the snipers decimate their men from atop the belltowers, Alistair Florent, brother of Queen Selyse and Stannis' Hand of the King, cast a quick glance at his king and brother-in-law.

"My Lord, we must take those towers. I will take twenty men and go to the bell tower on the left, and you can go with thirty to the one on the right."

"Understood, Ser Alistair," Stannis declared. "Once we are done, we will regroup in this square. The path will be clear, and we will move forward with the bulk of our forces toward the Red Keep."

Eager to please his king in the hour of triumph, Ser Alistair rushed up the stairs ahead of his men—he, who had never been braver than average—and found himself facing half a dozen defenders protecting the crossbowmen.

"To arms, men!" he shouted, and a close but fierce melee broke out.

Bronn was among the defenders, and after each had felled a couple of opponents, he found himself crossing swords with the Hand of the King's rival.

After a few exchanges, Ser Florent realized that his adversary was superior. But just as he yelled, "Come help me!" he was distracted by something he saw in the direction of his foe, in the glow of the fires from the street.

"Huh? What is there—" His words were cut off as he was run through by his enemy's sword. Bronn drew near, looking him in the eye.

Then, from the opposite bell tower, arrows were fired. One of them struck Bronn in the throat, and the mercenary collapsed onto the fallen foe.

Sansa was alone in the room once more and realized that not leaving had been a terrible choice. From where she stood, leaning at her window, she could see the city burning—ten, a hundred, a thousand fires, great and small, erupting everywhere, and their smoke merging into one dark shroud, blotting out the sky.

She could hear noises, the screams of countless people being slaughtered, the shrieks of an incalculable number of women being raped, the crash of an incredible number of objects being smashed as the soldiers sought plunder: hungry for blood, women, and gold, the victorious men had become beasts. The whole city was their prey.

Cersei was right-she thought—no one is safe. It doesn't matter that their commander is an honorable man: even if he wanted to, no one could stop his men once they've been unleashed.

In that moment, she heard noises that made her jump: the bells tolled in alarm, the Red Keep itself had been breached.

She began hearing more screams, hysterical cries of noblewomen, the footsteps of fleeing servants, and heavier footsteps—those of booted men, the sounds of furniture shattering, bestial roars, and the clash of swords.

They're here-she realized—and soon they'll be here for me. Should I have gone with Sandor? But no, he wouldn't have been able to protect me from all these soldiers; we would have fallen right into their hands. Yes… I wonder if he managed to escape.
And me? How will I be safe?

I'm Robb's sister; surely Stannis doesn't want me harmed… but his men might hurt me before he knows who I am and where I am.

These doors… how long will they hold? Perhaps I should…

At that moment, she heard a sound different from all the others, making her jump.

A door, which hadn't been there before, opened in her wall.

For a long moment, a dark archway framed by falling dust appeared where the back of her bookcase had been.

"What…?"

Then a head that seemed monstrous emerged from the darkness.

"Hey! Are you there, my sweet Jonquil?"

It was the last voice she expected to hear. Only one person in all of King's Landing called her Jonquil, like the heroine of the old ballad.

"You… Ser Dontos?"
It was the court fool of the Red Keep. His "monstrous head" was only his tricorn hat.

Sansa had saved his life months earlier when he'd shown up drunk to a tournament, and Joffrey had ordered him drowned in a cask of wine. She had convinced the king to spare him, and Dontos had been made the court fool.

But he was grateful to Sansa and had sent her a note weeks ago, promising to help her, just as the legendary Florian had helped his beloved Jonquil. But even in a thousand years, Sansa would never have expected to see him there, in the middle of a siege.

"What… are you doing here?"

The man stepped fully into the room and gave her a grateful look.

"You saved my life, Lady Sansa, and I promised to repay you. A knight's word has meaning, even if he's been made a lowly fool. You must come with me, Lady Sansa… it's the only way."

"But… I don't…"

Just then, the door began to thunder with the blows of people pounding against it. From behind, she could hear the crazed shouts of men wondering if the room held women, wine, gold… or all three.

"There's no time. Do you want to save your life? This is the only way. Do you trust me?"
Sansa didn't understand, but the door was starting to splinter under the blows of an axe.

Moments later, just before the wood was completely shattered, the wall sealed up, as if the passage had never existed.

Sansa and Dontos, who held a torch, carefully descended a spiral staircase that seemed to go on forever, making sure not to slip.

After an indeterminate amount of time, they reached the bottom and entered a maze of tunnels, which the fool navigated with confidence, Sansa following.

At a crossroad between several passages, however, Dontos paused, as if unsure of the way. He pulled out a sort of map from inside his collar and consulted it.

"What is it?" Sansa finally asked. "Where are we?"

"You must have heard of the secret passages built by Maegor the Cruel," he replied, briefly lifting his eyes from the map. "Many still exist, untouched even by the rulers themselves. Few know about them. Even fewer can navigate them without getting lost. Follow me."

He chose the central corridor with assurance.

Sansa noticed that they were now in a wider tunnel that frequently intersected with other tunnels. Stranger still, some of these had torches mounted on the walls, as if they were used regularly.

In recesses carved into the walls, various items were stored—books, weapons, and bundles that looked like clothing.

"How do you know this place?"

"Later, later, Lady Sansa. There will be time for explanations. We have to reach one of the exits. It leads to a cave by the sea, much farther north of the city. I have a small boat there. I bet we can slip past Stannis's fleet blockade, but we must hurry, before daylight."

At that moment, Sansa nearly let out a scream.

In one of the tunnels that intersected with theirs, thirty meters away, she thought she saw two people walking in another direction. One was fat and bald, wearing a tunic. The other was a woman with dark curls, which reminded her of…

But Ser Dontos grabbed her hand to hurry her along. And that's when she noticed one last thing.

Along the corridors, there were grates in the floor. And beneath them stretched, seemingly without end, wooden barrels with glass lids, filled with a green liquid.

Cersei had finished the lullaby. Her sweet Tommen had fallen asleep forever.

She gently laid him at the foot of the Iron Throne. He had been such a beautiful child.

She uncorked the second vial and was about to drink it when the doors to the Throne Room burst open.

The person who stepped in was not who she wished to see.

At the head of no fewer than a hundred men-at-arms, Stannis Baratheon strode forward into the throne room.

His dark armor looked bloodstained, and he appeared to have suffered a wound to his arm, though not a severe one.

"Cersei Lannister!" he shouted upon seeing her. "In the name of the Seven Kingdoms, I, Stannis Baratheon, first of my name, rightful heir to the Iron Throne, take possession of King's Landing!

Men, arrest the Queen Regent!

You will stand trial for your crimes, woman! For the death of my brother!"

"NEVER! We shall meet in the Seven Hells first, Stannis," she retorted and swallowed the contents of the second vial.

"Stop her!" the king snarled, but he lunged forward himself, ahead of his men.

The Tears of Lys work quickly, though not instantaneously, but there is no escaping their effect.

Cersei began to cough and convulse, unable to stay upright, as the empty vial shattered into a thousand pieces on the floor.

Stannis himself grabbed her, trying to force her to spit or vomit the poison from her mouth.

"You won't get away so easily, witch!"

And he began to tighten his hands around her throat, causing her to convulse even more.

Author's Note

Now, after the novelty of last chapter, that was fairly long, we're back to a rather short one with things happenings mostly like in the original story, save for some, important, changes, not last the conclusion: Sansa being saved, but not by the Hound, and of course, as it was easily foreseeable, King's landing being taken by Stannis, being no chance of last minute save by anybody.

The fate of some characters will be left hanging…some until next chapter, some for a longer time.

Chapter 7 will see the many consequences of 5 and 6 and lay the foundation for how the story will continue.

You will see mostly a mix of original events and of events happening more of the same as books/show, but in a different timeline and context: the endgame of it will be entirely original, though.