In the distance, flames clawed at the night sky like the wrathful grin of a fire god. Smoke drifted above the rooftops of King's Landing, and rumors spread faster than the fire itself. Bakers' shops were being looted. Goldsmiths barred their doors. Hunger had turned the streets savage.
Beneath the walls of The Red Keep stood hundreds of exhausted, furious commoners. Their faces were gaunt, their voices hoarse.
They did not want a king.
They wanted bread.
Tyrion Lannister stood upon the walls, sweating despite the cold wind. His greatest fear was not the mob itself.
It was wildfire.
If the rioters reached the quarters of the Alchemists' Guild, the city could become a funeral pyre in moments.
"Loose a volley," Tyrion ordered sharply. "Into the ground. A warning only."
Crossbowmen obeyed at once. Bolts rained down before the crowd, striking dirt and stone. The mob recoiled, though only briefly.
"Bugles!" Tyrion shouted. "Heralds as well. Read the decree loudly enough for even fools to hear."
The horns sounded mournfully over the city.
Red-cloaked heralds stepped forward atop the walls.
"Hear the decree of Lord Tyrion Lannister, Hand of the King!" one cried. "Curfew begins immediately. All loyal citizens are to return to their homes. When the final horn and war drum sound, any person found in the streets will be slain without mercy!"
The words were repeated again and again.
Each horn blast sounded colder than the last.
War drums answered like thunder.
The crowd wavered.
For a moment, they looked ready to break.
Below, the gates of the Red Keep remained closed, but in the inner yard, mounted lancers and longspearmen waited in formation. Torchlight gleamed along their spearheads.
A promise of slaughter.
"Half-man!"
"Monster!"
"Bastard!"
The rioters hurled pebbles, rotten fruit, and scraps of refuse toward the walls. Then fear overcame rage, and the front lines began to thin as people searched for escape routes.
Tyrion exhaled slowly.
"Bronn," he said, "take enough men to guard the water carts. If you must abandon Flea Bottom, do it. But under no circumstances let the fire reach the Alchemists' Guild."
Bronn grinned as if being sent to chaos were a pleasant errand.
"As you command."
Tyrion turned to the Kingsguard.
"You each take men and a herald. Repeat the order. Once the final horn sounds, anyone remaining in the streets dies."
This time, even the reluctant knights obeyed.
Sandor Clegane strode away without comment. Ser Meryn and Ser Boros hurried after him.
Queen Dowager Cersei Lannister watched them go with open contempt.
"Cowards," she hissed. "They call themselves Kingsguard? They are not worth the king's dog."
Beside her, Joffrey Baratheon still raged like a spoiled child.
"They insulted me! I'll have their heads!"
Cersei bent to soothe him, though irritation flashed in her green eyes.
Tyrion rubbed his temples.
Weak guards. Starving commoners. A vicious boy king. A proud and reckless queen.
This was what he had to defend the realm with.
"There are rumors," Tyrion said to Cersei, "that Rosby has burned and no grain will come to the city. Also that we intend to seize all remaining stores for nobles and soldiers first."
"Then find whoever spread it and kill them," Cersei snapped.
"Words are wind, dear sister," Tyrion replied dryly. "Unfortunately, wind can still fan flames."
He watched as the gates opened and patrols rode out into the streets.
The city would bleed before dawn.
Elsewhere in the Red Keep, Sansa Stark knelt in prayer.
The shouts outside had grown louder. Horns blared. Steel rang in the distance.
King's Landing was in crisis.
But for Sansa, crisis also meant opportunity.
She touched the faint scars upon her wrists. Beatings, humiliations, threats—each one had stripped away another illusion. The city was never her home.
Winterfell was home.
The North was home.
She rose quickly and changed from her bright gown into darker clothing.
The queen changed handmaidens often so Sansa could trust no one. Every servant might belong to Cersei… or to Varys.
She missed Septa Mordane. She missed Jeyne Poole. She even thought of Arya Stark, hoping her sister had somehow made it safely north.
Then she heard movement outside.
The drawbridge lowered.
Men rushed toward the walls.
No one was watching her chamber.
My chance, she thought.
Knife in hand, Sansa slipped through the corridors.
Every shadow looked dangerous.
At one point, a black cat sprang from the darkness and darted past her feet. She nearly screamed.
It was only the one-eared tomcat that haunted the castle halls.
She pressed onward until she reached the godswood.
Here, the chaos of the castle seemed distant.
The old trees whispered softly in the wind.
Sansa had been raised in the Faith of the Seven, among crystal lamps, incense, and colored glass. Yet tonight, the silent godswood felt kinder than any sept.
Then a shape emerged from the darkness.
Ser Dontos Hollard.
He was thick-bodied, red-faced, and unsteady on his feet. Wine fumes surrounded him.
Sansa had once dreamed of gallant knights.
Dontos was no such thing.
Yet he was all she had.
"Have you waited long?" she whispered.
"Not long, sweet child," he slurred.
"Will you truly take me away?"
"Yes. Tonight is our chance."
He led her through hidden passages while battle sounds echoed above.
Sansa noticed he wore old colors beneath his cloak—the faded sigil of House Hollard.
"Why wear that?" she asked. "The king forbade you to dress as a knight."
"For one night," Dontos said, "I would be a knight again."
They descended stair after stair, passed abandoned halls lined with dusty armor, and came at last to a heavy ironbound door.
Cold air burst in when he opened it.
Beyond lay the outer wall and a sheer drop toward the river.
"There are footholds carved in the stone," Dontos said. "We climb down."
Sansa stared into darkness.
"It is too high."
"It is this or remain," he said.
Behind them, horns blared again.
That decided her.
Dontos went first, clumsy and muttering prayers.
Then Sansa edged over the lip of the wall.
The stone was icy beneath her fingers.
Wind clawed at her clothes.
She dared not look down.
Step by step, gripping shallow hollows in the rock, she descended.
Twice her foot slipped.
Once she nearly cried out.
But she continued.
Be brave, she told herself. Be brave like the maidens in songs.
At last she reached the ground below.
Her knees shook so badly she could barely stand.
Yet joy surged through her.
She had done it.
She was free.
A small boat waited hidden in the shadows.
An old man stood within it, tall and thin, with white hair and a hooked nose.
"Quickly," he said. "No talking."
Dontos stumbled in after her, panting.
The boat pushed out into the dark water of the Blackwater Bay.
Mist gathered around them. Behind, the city glowed red with fire.
Sansa's heart pounded.
The farther they drifted, the more unreal it all felt.
At length, through the fog, a larger ship emerged.
A merchant vessel moved by oars, its sails furled.
A rope ladder was lowered.
Crewmen hauled Sansa aboard.
She shivered violently.
Then a familiar voice spoke.
"You are safe now, my lady."
Petyr Baelish stepped forward and laid a cloak over her shoulders.
Sansa froze.
She had believed him far away in the Vale.
Below, Dontos called upward.
"My lord, my payment. One thousand gold dragons, as promised."
Petyr smiled faintly.
"Yes. Oswell, give it to him."
The old boatman moved like lightning.
A dagger flashed.
One stab.
Two.
Three.
Dontos gasped and collapsed into the boat, blood soaking his chest and throat.
Sansa screamed and turned away, retching over the rail.
"You killed him!"
Petyr's expression remained calm.
"He was a drunkard and a fool," he said softly. "Worse, he knew too much. Gold buys silence for a time. Steel buys it forever."
Sansa stared at him in horror.
Everything had been arranged.
The rescue.
The knight.
The promises.
All lies.
Then something changed.
One of the men on deck stepped forward.
Lothor Brune seized Petyr by the sleeve and twisted hard.
Petyr's smile vanished.
"No—"
A heavy punch smashed into his face.
He fell to the deck.
Others rushed forward, binding him and stuffing cloth into his mouth.
Lothor looked down coldly.
"Too many have died for your little games."
He struck Petyr again.
The crew did nothing.
Without power, coin, or title, Petyr Baelish was suddenly only a man.
Broken and helpless.
Sansa watched with tears in her eyes.
For Dontos.
For herself.
For every lie she had believed.
She looked at the fallen man who had manipulated kingdoms and whispered:
"Was any of it ever true?"
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