In the distance, flames leapt into the sky like the Fire God's savage grin. The bakeries and gold shops were likely in danger. Beneath the walls stood thousands upon thousands of exhausted faces, shouting at the top of their lungs. They did not want a King. They wanted bread.
Tyrion Lannister was burning with anxiety. What he feared most was that these blind, reckless rioters would rush toward the pyromancers' quarter and make all of King's Landing go boom.
"Fire one volley from the crossbows. A warning shot," Tyrion shouted, panting hard.
"Yes."
The crossbowmen on the Red Keep's walls pulled their triggers, sending a wave of bolts into the ground below. They were not meant to kill, only to warn.
"The horns, and the heralds. Hurry. Read my decree, and loudly. I want every one of these fools to hear it clearly."
Tyrion looked down at the furious poor of King's Landing. He truly wished he could turn into a giant and crush them all with one slap. But he could not. He could not abuse violence, especially not with powerful enemies nearby.
Lancel Lannister kept casting meaningful looks at Queen Dowager Cersei Lannister, whose eyes were as green as the jade necklace around her pale neck. Tyrion had long since noticed that the relationship between the two of them was not quite ordinary. There was something strange about it.
"Jaime, look what kind of rotten-legged woman you found for yourself. She ruined you, ruined your whole life. You lost your hand, and she is sleeping with other men." Tyrion mourned for his brother, but now was not the time to dig into that matter.
The horns wailed across the sky. Red-robed heralds stood atop the castle walls, while spearmen and lancers had already been readied in the courtyard.
"Now hear the decree of Lord Tyrion Lannister, Hand of the King. Curfew begins at once. All good citizens, return to your homes. Return to your homes. Once the final horn and war drum have sounded, anyone still in the streets will be killed on sight." The herald looked down at the mob below and shouted at the top of his voice.
The herald read the curfew order several times in succession. Then came the horns, each blast colder and more murderous than the last. War drums joined them, rumbling like thunder. The crossbowmen formed a line, their bolts giving off a cold gleam.
At this point, the crowd was already on the verge of breaking. It seemed they truly were about to face a slaughter. In the courtyard of the Red Keep, the lancers and spearmen were also ready, the points of their spears sharp as new and promising death.
"Half-man!"
"Bastard!"
The mob shouted, then hurled one last volley of pebbles and rubbish at the walls before beginning to scatter in search of escape routes. The human wall thinned and drew back.
"Bronn, take enough men and make sure the water carts are safe. If there is no other choice, Flea Bottom can be abandoned, but the fire must not be allowed to spread to the Alchemists' Guild," Tyrion ordered. He was utterly exhausted, yet he still had to summon the last of his strength.
"And you, each take a herald and a group of men. The order is the one I just gave. After the horns sound, anyone who still dares remain in the streets is to be killed on sight."
"Yes."
This time, the white knights obeyed. The Hound, Ser Meryn, and Ser Boros each led a party and began the clearing operation.
"Look at those two cravens. Are they fit to be white knights? They are not even worth the King's dog," Cersei snapped, watching Meryn and Boros hurry down the stairs.
"They insulted me. They attacked me. I want their heads cut off," the King was still shouting, while the Queen Dowager had to comfort her foolish son.
"Good. I only hope the wildfire doesn't all ignite at once," Tyrion said in distress. Cowardly white knights, starving people, a violent King, an arrogant Queen Dowager. For now, that was everything he had to rely on.
Ser Arys remained silent and expressionless. He had to admit this was the lowest point in the reputation of the white knights. Barristan and Jaime had both run off, one following the Storm, the other returning to the Westerlands.
"What in the world is going on?" Cersei asked angrily.
"There are rumors that Rosby has already been burned, and that the people will never have that grain to eat again. They say the Red Keep is going to confiscate the grain and impose rationing, feeding the nobles and soldiers first." Tyrion watched the crowd disperse as the gates of the Red Keep opened.
"Whoever said that is a traitor. Cut off his head."
"Words are wind, sweet sister." Tyrion had to admit there was something particularly vicious about this rumor, but it had also reminded him of one thing: the safety of the grain-producing regions.
Sansa Stark thanked the gods. Tonight, her luck had not been too bad. The Red Keep of King's Landing was livelier than ever. A poor girl praying at night would not seem so strange.
"No, King's Landing is not my home." Sansa touched the wounds on her wrist. The beatings had made up her mind to run. She was weak, and easily swayed by a handsome face. If a handsome knight had appeared, like the promise the Tyrells had painted for her, she might have been willing to marry Willas and perhaps would not have run. She did not like the drunkard Dontos either, but for now, that drunkard was her hope. She had to bring news back. Her father might still be alive.
Sansa looked out the window and saw that there was still one white knight standing guard. His armor had been made pale by the moonlight, and a heavy white cloak hung from his shoulders as he paced back and forth on the drawbridge. From his bearing, it should be Ser Arys.
Sansa heard the shouting grow louder and draw closer to the Red Keep. This time, the roar was far more terrifying than before, like a stormy sea. Thousands shouted their demands at once, mingled with the whinnying of horses, heavy footsteps, and bellowed commands.
The shouting outside the Red Keep, the reply from the battlements. Blood and fire.
Sansa climbed out of bed and leaned out to look, confirming that figures were moving along the walls. Longspears and torches flickered in and out of sight. King's Landing's crisis had arrived.
Sansa saw the Queen Dowager hurry away from somewhere, and not long after, the white knight also left gracefully. The drawbridge was down, and a group of red-robed swordsmen ran across the unguarded bridge.
"My chance. My courage." Sansa warned herself. She changed out of her bright gown and put on darker, grayer clothes.
Sansa had no friends. Every two weeks, the Queen Dowager changed her maids to prevent them from growing close to her. Besides, the maids were most likely spies serving either the Queen Dowager or Varys.
She missed Septa Mordane dearly, and her closest friend, Jeyne Poole. The septa had lost her head like the others because she had served House Stark. After Sansa met with the Queen Dowager, Jeyne vanished from her room and was never mentioned again. Sansa did not know what had happened to her. She often tried to forget them, but the memories would suddenly surge up, and then her tears would break free. Sometimes Sansa even thought of her sister. By now, Arya must have returned safely to Winterfell.
"Go back to sleep, or look for a chance." Sansa had no other choice. She chose to believe there was a way out, and she still had a table knife in her hand.
Sansa had learned from the last time. She waited for a moment perfect enough, waiting until the soldiers in the yard escorted the King back up to the walls, until they buckled on their sword belts, and the white knights gathered around the King.
The deeper Sansa went into the castle, the softer the noise became. But she did not dare look back, afraid Joffrey was watching her, or even following behind.
"Where did that cat come from?" Sansa nearly died of fright. As she walked into the shadowed colonnade, a black cat darted past her feet. It was only a dirty, disheveled black tomcat missing one ear. It spat at her, then leapt away.
Sansa let out a breath. She knew that black cat, the naughtiest and wildest of all the cats in the Red Keep.
When she reached the Godswood, all was still. The sounds around her had faded into faint clashes of metal and distant shouting. The Godswood had a primitive feeling to it. Sansa had originally followed her mother's Faith of the Seven.
The Seven meant statues and patterns on stained glass, the scent of incense, septons in robes holding crystals, altars inlaid with mother-of-pearl, agate, and lapis lazuli, and the splendid seven-colored rainbow light that shone over them. Yet the Godswood had meaning of its own, and at night, it could give one hope.
"This is the safest place." Ser Dontos appeared once more from the shadows, just as he had during their earlier secret meetings. He was heavy-bodied, thick-necked, and unsteady on his feet, dressed in a dark gray robe with the hood pulled forward to hide his cheeks.
"Oh, so this is my foolish knight. Poor Florian. Old, fat, drunk, and unable even to sit a horse properly." Sansa thought.
He was so clumsy, and not handsome at all. He was nothing like a dragon knight, nor like the Knight of Flowers. Sansa cared too much for appearances, and her impression of Dontos was terribly poor, but there was no help for it. He was her last straw.
"Have you been waiting long?" Sansa asked him.
"Not too long, child." The moment Ser Dontos opened his mouth, the thick smell of wine came out.
"Are you going to take me away? My Florian." Sansa forced herself to endure it. This knight who had fallen from the sky was a drunkard and terribly ugly, but she had to be brave and play along.
"Yes, the chance has come, good child. Kiki."
He was drunk again. He called himself poor Florian, and he truly lived up to the name. But for now, Sansa could only rely on him.
"We are safe here for the moment. This is a wood. The Spider cannot survive here. The Spider pays for every scrap of news, and I think Moon Boy has been serving him for many years," Dontos said.
"The riot is our chance?"
"That's right. While the castle's attention is all on the mob, just think how lively this riot is. All of King's Landing is burning. I have arranged a boat on the river. There are still fishing boats on the river now, since they help feed those poor wretches, so the Imp has not sealed the river off," Dontos said.
Sansa trembled with fear. The people of King's Landing were not like the people of the North. They were arrogant, self-important, and loved making trouble.
"Please keep quiet, my dear," Ser Dontos said. "Once we leave the Godswood, we'll have to be especially careful. Pull up your hood."
Sansa nodded and did as she was told. She followed the drunken jester. Since Ser Dontos was neither fully drunk nor fully sober, his steps were clearly slower and weaker than an ordinary knight's, and Sansa had to stay close. Sometimes she even had to support him. At times, she worried Dontos might drop to his knees and start vomiting, but thankfully, the fool did not fail her that badly.
Angry horns and war drums sounded, flames climbed into the sky, and the city was falling beneath the iron tread of violence. Sansa lowered her head and walked through the shadows, beneath the blood-red comet, keeping close behind Dontos.
During a pause, Sansa soon noticed that this foolish knight had dressed himself in gaudy colors. Beneath Ser Dontos's brown hooded cloak was an old surcoat: red and pink horizontal stripes below, and three golden crowns on black above, the arms of House Hollard.
"Why are you still wearing your family's clothes? Didn't Joff forbid you from dressing like a knight again?" Sansa asked. Dontos's drunkenness, ugliness, and clumsiness made her doubt he had the ability to rescue anyone on his own.
"I want to be a knight again, even if only this once. If Duskendale were still here, I wouldn't have to be a fool. I would be a true knight." Dontos swayed to his feet and grabbed her hand. "Come with me. Don't speak. Don't ask questions."
Sansa was puzzled. Wasn't the castle that had driven the Mad King mad still there?
Dontos and Sansa continued down the stairs, then crossed a sunken little courtyard. Ser Dontos pushed open a heavy door, lit a candle, and led her into an abandoned gallery. Along the walls stood rows of empty armor, black and dust-covered, with dragon scales set from helm to back. They hurried through, and the candlelight glimmered over the scales, twisting their shapes. As if a thousand dragon knights had risen from the dead, Sansa thought. They descended the steps and came to a heavy door of oak and iron bands.
"Be strong, my Jonquil. We're almost there." Ser Dontos lifted the iron bar and pushed the door open. A cold wind struck them. Sansa passed through a wall twelve feet thick and found herself outside the Red Keep, facing a cliff. The river lay far below, and the sky stretched endlessly above her. Both were black.
"Climb down, Jonquil," Ser Dontos called. "Someone will take us to the great ship, but we have to reach the bottom first."
"I'll fall, just like my brother." Sansa's face went pale. She was a sheltered lady, not a wild girl like Arya.
"You won't. There's a ladder here, a secret ladder, carved into the rock. Here, feel it, my lady." Ser Dontos knelt and let her lean toward the cliff's edge, guiding her fingers to the hollows cut into the stone. "As firm as iron rings."
"It's too high." Sansa did feel the hollows, but she did not dare climb down.
Yet there was no other way. This was the only path to life.
"Come now, good lady, brave girl. Hold tight, don't look down, be strong. We can do this." Ser Dontos knelt before her. If they went back, it would be a road to death. Dontos spoke of how they had met, how he had been drunk, fallen from his horse, and Joffrey had wanted his poor head, only for Sansa to step forward and save him. Sansa was his savior.
Ser Dontos began to wail, begging Sansa to repay him. If they did not leave, they were dead. Everyone knew Joff's temper.
"You go first, Ser."
Sansa watched Dontos climb down, feeling through the dark for the handholds. The fool tried for a long while before he finally found them and dared go down himself. He was clumsy, yet he kept urging Sansa to hurry after him.
I'll risk it, Sansa thought, listening to the drums, the horns, and the fire and clamor of King's Landing.
Sansa counted the horn blasts. Only when she reached ten did she carefully step to the edge and stretch out her toes, searching for a foothold. The castle wall loomed before her, and for a moment, all she wanted was to run back to the warm bedroom in the kitchen keep. Be brave, she told herself. Be brave, like the ladies in the songs.
"I want to go home." Sansa did not dare look down. It was too high and too dark. The night wind howled, and she was a frail rose in the gale. She fixed her eyes on the rock face and took one step, then another. The stone was cold and rough. Again and again, she felt her fingers slipping, and the hollows were not large enough. The horns kept sounding. Before she was halfway down, she began to tremble, feeling as if she might fall at any moment. But hanging there was even more dangerous. If she fell, she would be half-dead. If she stayed, she would freeze.
At last, Sansa reached the bottom. Her heart pounded, her head spun, and her legs shook. She looked back at the path she had climbed down and realized how hard it had been. Then joy rose inside her. She had done it. Freedom tasted like earth. I did it. I can go home.
Ser Dontos led the poor girl onward. "Don't speak. Hurry."
In the shadows at the foot of the cliff, a small boat was well hidden ahead.
Sansa looked at the boat. Everything seemed like a dream.
A man was waiting in the boat. Ser Dontos wheezed for breath and staggered toward him. "Oswell?"
"Don't speak! Thankfully, there aren't many fishing boats out tonight. The river is cold this late." Oswell answered, "Get in." He used the pole as a seat. He was tall and thin, but old, with long white hair and a great hooked nose, his eyes hidden beneath a headscarf. "In with you, quickly," he muttered. "We're nearly late."
Once both of them were safely aboard, the headscarfed Oswell slid the pole into the water and, with all his strength, pushed the boat toward the river mouth.
The little boat moved along the great river, Oswell straining every muscle as he carried the two shaken passengers away. With each firm, slow, rhythmic stroke of the pole, they drifted farther and farther out.
"Good thing the Imp's tower isn't finished yet," Oswell said with relief. The winch tower built at the mouth of the Blackwater still had not had its chain raised.
Because the weather was cold, there were few boats out. A thin mist rose over the river, hiding the little boat's trail, and they slipped smoothly past the bustling city.
Sansa's heart beat hard. She felt as if she had entered a world of ghosts, silent on every side, everything like a dream, beautiful and doomed to vanish.
Sansa realized the riverbanks were gone from sight. The mist grew thicker and thicker. The horns slowly faded, and at last even the lights disappeared. The little boat slipped deep into Blackwater Bay. The whole world had become boundless black water, drifting mist, and two silent companions.
"How much farther?" Sansa asked.
"Don't speak." The boatman was old, but strong, and his voice was fierce. His face seemed strangely familiar to Sansa, though she could not say why.
"Not far now." Ser Dontos took Sansa's hands in both of his and rubbed them gently. Sansa felt a little repulsed. The jester's face was truly unpleasant to look at. "Your friend is waiting for you over there."
"Don't speak!" Oswell the boatman growled. "Voices make ripples, Ser Fool."
The little boat cut through the mist until it found a larger ship. By then, the first light of dawn had appeared in the sky, marking the start of a new day.
"The big ship is here." Dontos pointed it out to Sansa. It seemed to be a merchant ship, its sails furled, moving slowly under a row of oars. As they drew closer, Sansa saw the figurehead at the prow, a towering Titan of Braavos in armor, holding a torch.
A command sounded through the fog, and the merchant ship moved toward the little boat. Then the broad-bellied merchant ship dropped a rope ladder for Sansa to climb. The boatman threw aside his pole and helped her. But neither the boatman nor Ser Dontos seemed to have any intention of boarding.
Two crewmen helped her onto the deck. Sansa was trembling.
"You've caught a chill, my lady," Petyr said. "Rest now. Everything is all right. You're safe."
Petyr placed his cloak over Sansa's shoulders. Sansa found it strange. Hadn't Littlefinger already gone to the Vale of Arryn? Of course she recognized his figure.
Lothor Brune stood nearby with a torch in hand, watching coldly.
"Lord Petyr," Dontos called from the skiff, "I must hurry back before anyone grows suspicious."
Petyr Baelish rested one hand on the rail. "You want me to pay your reward in full. Ten thousand golden dragons, if I recall?"
"Yes, ten thousand golden dragons." Dontos wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "That was the sum you promised, Lord."
"Oswell, give it to him," Petyr ordered.
The old boatman drew a dagger from his breast and drove it into Dontos's body. Once, twice, three times. The first thrust pierced Ser Dontos's chest, right through the leftmost crown on his surcoat. The other two struck his throat and belly.
It happened in an instant. No one had time to react. Least of all Dontos, who was only a drunk.
Afterward, Oswell bowed and turned back toward King's Landing. The boat and the body would soon burn, and it would be as if nothing had happened.
"You killed him!" Sansa clutched the rail, turned her head, and retched. Had she escaped the Lannisters' claws only to fall into another trap?
"My lady," Littlefinger said softly, "a man like that is not worth grieving over. He was a drunk, a useless man."
"No. He sold you for ten thousand golden dragons. Think about it. People will certainly connect your disappearance to the riot. The Gold Cloaks will search everywhere, the eunuch will offer a reward, and Dontos... you heard him just now. He wanted money. Who knows whether he might sell you again the next time he was drunk? A bag of golden dragons buys safety for a moment. A good arrow buys peace for a lifetime." Petyr smiled with faint pity. "In truth, everything he did was done at my command, and this was the only way I could save you. When I learned you had saved him at Joffrey's tourney, I knew he was the best choice."
Sansa felt sick. "He said he was my Florian." So it had all been a lie. She should have understood long ago that the fool had never been capable of this on his own.
The little boat faded into the mist, and Oswell never looked back.
"Lord, shall we stop at Gulltown?" Lothor asked suddenly, torch in hand, interrupting Littlefinger's triumph.
"Gulltown? Are you mad?" Petyr was startled. In his memory, Lothor never spoke out of turn.
Lothor's words made Littlefinger's heart sink. The agreed destination had been The Fingers, and there was a cold, ruthless chill in Lothor's eyes.
"I bring Lord Gendry's warm greetings." He seized Littlefinger's sleeve and twisted it.
The Storm. Petyr thought of that tall figure. He was still watching him.
"No!" Petyr wailed. If that was so, then he and Lysa had already stepped into a larger and far more dangerous game.
Lothor smashed a heavy fist into Petyr's face, and blood flowed from his mouth. Then came a blow to his belly, and Petyr felt his insides churn. Several others stepped forward, tied Littlefinger up, and stuffed scraps of cloth into his mouth.
"You must be wondering, aren't you?" Lothor asked Petyr.
"You truly deserve to die, Lord. Enough people have died for your absurd games. But the Storm wants you to die knowing why." Lothor snorted.
"No, you're not my..." Littlefinger's pupils widened. Pain in his face, chest, and belly left him unable to catch his breath.
"But I have long been a man of the Kingsguard. Sellswords may love coin, but friendship between men is something you will never understand. Isn't that right? You thought copper and gold were invincible?"
Sansa looked at Petyr, lying there like a dead dog. No one was willing to help him.
The sailors and his own guards ignored him. Without the backing of the Master of Coin and the Vale, power had already left him.
"My lady, I am sorry you were frightened." Ser Lothor bowed. "This man is guilty of monstrous crimes. He is suspected of conspiring with your aunt Lysa to poison Lord Arryn."
Littlefinger lay limp on the deck, without even the courage to resist.
At that moment, tears filled Sansa's eyes. Whether they were for Ser Dontos Hollard, for Joff, for Petyr, or for herself, she could no longer tell. "Was everything false? From beginning to end, every person, every event, all of it lies?"
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