Chapter 20
The oars dipped at a slow, rhythmic pace through the murky waters of the Blackwater Rush, just enough to keep the small galley oriented in the middle of the river as the current and outgoing tide did most of the work propelling the craft through the night. No lanterns hung at the stern or bow, with the half moon and the red comet being the only sources of light illuminating the boat, and the forty men within it, between breaks in the clouds. The rowlocks were wrapped in scraps of canvas to muffle any squeaks from the oars. To be discovered on this furtive trip, which had started three miles above King’s Landing, past the Tourney Grounds, likely meant a fusillade from the catapults and trebuchets atop the portions of the city wall facing the Rush. And while darkness and the ill training of most of the gold cloaks manning the artillery reduced the odds of being struck to near nothing, Sean was nevertheless a strong proponent of the maxim ‘better safe than sorry’ with anything to do with fucked up Westeros. So when an eerie screech suddenly arose from the south bank of the river, it quickly drew the actor’s jumpy attention.
“Two toms fighting over a queen in heat,” the Blackfish whispered unconcernedly.
Not Ned’s toothy grin shown through the gloom, as his gooduncle’s pronouncement reminded the actor of a Chelsea bar he’d once accidentally walked into. When his nerves settled a bit, he asked softly, “Are you certain our scouts have swept the far shore of Lannister spies?”
Brynden Tully released a low pitched but stinging retort. “Certain? No. Not unless you’d like Lord Bolton to put a few of the smallfolks over there under his knife.”
The contempt the old knight put in his voice was telling to the actor; Not Ned and his honor were still on probation as far as the wily, but duty bound ebony trout was concerned. Besides, the less he had to rely on that untrustworthy fuck head Roose the better; the last thing his ‘modern’ sensibilities wanted was to unleash a terror of torture on this pitiful world. Not that he’d have an easy time convincing Ser Brynden of that thanks to how the Green Fork ended and more recently his less than charitable public manhandling of not Aidan.
“But I’ve a hundred men on the far shore keeping their eyes and ears open for any signal betraying us,” the knight continued. “And it’s not as if there are any boats left over there if you’re worried we might be attacked that way.”
The Blackfish has taken Sean’s command from six days earlier; “Find a few more likely trout and scout out along the edges of the Blackwater, both the Bay and the Rush. The Targaryens built secret tunnels and entrances to the Red Keep. Kindly discover one, Ser,” and broadly interpreted it to include securing the opposite side of the Blackwater Rush as well. In fact the river galley they were riding in tonight had been one of many confiscated in that very action. His gooduncle had a brain to go along with his balls of steel, and knew how to take initiative.
Unfortunately, the main task assigned the Blackfish had not gone so swimmingly. A night, a day, and most of a night after the Eunuch’s unlamented, and duly deserved (couldn’t someone else have carried out the sentence?), demise, still no secret entrances into King’s Landing had been discovered. Not that Sean would rub salt into the wound of that failure and further strain his presently cool relationship with Ser Brynden. Luckily, however, fate brought a possible turncoat to not Ned, and this one driven not by gold, but by honor, or so he hoped based on the books. The truth would be discovered soon enough at the Mud Gate.
In the meantime, to keep his nerves steady, the usually taciturn Sean unexpectedly found a need to converse. As Lord of Winterfell, if he wasn’t talking shop with one of his banners or household members, his available circle for just ‘chatting’ was exceedingly small. Sitting in a boat in the dark trying to be secretive reduced it further, to one in fact. “I hope Arya hasn’t been proving a bother for you at night?”
“Nay,” Brynden replied quietly. “I hear word of the mischief she makes during the day, but she’s a docile, sleeping child by the time I make my bed most nights. And how is Sansa sleeping?”
“Not well,” Sean grunted softly. “She clings to Cat when awake and breaks into tears most times she sees me.” Much like Arya the actor had been spending a lot of time outside of the Stark House tent lately; there was only so much Stark family drama he could handle. What did he know of coping with a real life brutalized pre-teen, he was an actor, not a social worker. And to put the crowning cherry on top of his fecal sundae, even with his not daughter heavily doped at night with dream wine, not Michelle’s enthusiasms towards him had waned significantly. Not that he was all that surprise, this was the woman after all who in the books had spent three weeks, night and day, by her fallen son’s side. She’d do the same for him he didn’t doubt, not that he intended to ever find out. “Damn them,” he whispered harshly.
“The Lannister bastard and the so called honorable knights of his Kingsguard have much to answer for,” Brynden stated with deadly earnest.
Sean realized it felt good, if only for a moment, to have the Blackfish’s knightly scorn pass off of not Ned and on to others.
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“Ship oars,” the steersman called lightly from beside the rudder.
The locks barely groaned or creaked as the twenty rowers slipped their sculls out and, with only a few loud seeming clunks in the still night, laid their dripping paddles down on the deck. As the galley glided the last few dozen yards amongst the quays jutting out from the burned out remains of the Fishmarket, a handful of men gathered at the bow, preparing to dock the boat.
“Now,” hissed the self-designated boson, a graying man whose only job throughout the length of the journey seemed to be periodically offering unsolicited suggestions on proper river craft. ‘Actors aren’t the only ones full of themselves,’ Sean noted. Then three at the bow reached up and grabbed on to the stones of the wharf’s retaining wall, absorbing the force of the initial impact. The padding on the galley’s starboard side started to bump and scrap not too noisily across the rocks and the ten starboard rowers joined in with strong, callused hands to further cushion the boat’s coupling with land. Almost now stopped, two others from the bow, holding ropes, jumped the four feet up to the top of the stone wall, the tide being more in than out, and quickly secured the galley to the nearest iron cleats sunk into the dock’s granite.
The hemp cords twanged briefly as they grew taut, completing the stop of the boat’s forward momentum. Now at rest, the guards in the middle of the galley propped a wide boarding ladder against the pier and Brynden gestured at the rest of the night’s ‘muscle’ to move off. As each one scuttled out on top the wharf, they seemed to head out in a slightly different direction than the previous fellow; spreading out to ensure no gold cloaks waited in ambush. In less than a minute, an indistinct bird called out. Brynden twirled a finger and half the oarsman left the boat too, warily fingering the knives and cudgels at their side. None of the men, either scouting on land or still on the galley, wore anything other than dark leather armor and black clothing in order to stay invisible, quiet, and stealthy.
“My Lord?” a voice finally whispered after ten near silent minutes, taking Sean by surprise. The figure crouched low on the pier, a barely visible shadow of gray in the blackness.
“Yes?” he answered.
“No sign of treachery. The agreed signal shines. Follow me.”
The actor and the Blackfish crept up the ladder and started following the crafty, silent guard. Sean wove between burned out remains of shacks, the detritus from the ruined harbor front, and the odd bone protruding from the muck; all of it smelling like putrid fish and smoke. A hundred yards from the Mud Gate, the trio stopped in a shallow, rubble filled pit fronted by a few heavily charred, fire eaten beams; all that remained of some hapless merchant’s stand and livelihood. He spied man sized dark lumps crouched about here and there; hopefully his men keeping a watchful eye on things.
“Look,” the Blackfish grunted, pointing through the dark at the left hand side of the gatehouse. Two candles flickered in a single loophole on a level just below the battlement, the faint welcome for an offer of treachery. Sean much preferred the idea of the Lannisters getting stabbed in the back than team not Ned.
Their guide warbled out some bird’s agitated, ugly cry.
A few similar sounding calls rose up around them. One even sounded more real, more avian, to Sean’s ear than the others.
Surprise or interest must have shown enough on his face, even in the dark, for the Blackfish to comment, “Carrion vultures, squabbling over ripe meat. Something not uncommon to find during a siege.”
One of the two candles went out.
Another round of bird cries squawked out after a minute’s exceedingly long wait.
The second light immediately fizzled out.
“Shhh!” someone called.
A low swish buzzed at the edge of not Ned’s hearing, followed by a soft thud.
“Someone comes,” a voice grunted.
Sean couldn’t see a thing until the clouds parted enough and he spotted in the night’s shadows a figure climbing a tad clumsily down from the top of the Mud Gate on some sort of a rope ladder.
“Stay here,” Ser Brynden ordered, and then he and their guide darted sneakily out, trying to use what cover they could, to reach the base of the flimsy ladder. At last they returned with a gold cloak captain. The reason for his difficulty on the rope now made evident by his readily apparent iron forged right hand.
The man stepped close enough to make Sean uneasy, but the tall man with eyes so deep set the actor could barely see them, made no untoward moves. He simply stared long and hard through the shadows at not Ned’s face and neck, an act Sean immediately recognized, and had long since privately dubbed, as ‘Searching for the Stigmata of Lord Eddard.’ At last satisfied, the medieval cop remembered himself and addressed not Ned, “My Lord Stark.”
‘Ah, acceptance. They almost always do, praise be an entire world’s uncompromising faith in its pantheon of mysterious and powerful gods.’ “Ser Bywater. I don’t remember meeting you from my brief time here as Hand. But you were on Pyke, weren’t you?” Sean began.
“My lord remembers,” the commander of the Mud Gate murmured politely, his oversized, square set jaw bobbing slightly with every syllable.
Sean shook his head no. “Not much, I fear. Many of my memories left me when Ser Ilyn shaved my neck so close,” he said with a wry grin. ‘Time to play up mystic, reincarnated Ned,’ he thought. “From the storming of Pyke I recall towers as little islands leading out into the sea, how hard the ironborn fought, and Greyjoy’s black kraken throne; but I couldn’t tell you what the castle smelled like. Salt … and blood I imagine.” He sighed softly, as if saddened. “Robert knighted you for your bravery there. And here I am, before you, seeking safe passage into my friend’s city. Will you grant it?” ‘Damn, I cut to the chase too fast,’ he scolded himself.
The knight had listened carefully to not Ned’s little speech; his ironhand twitching a bit, perhaps subconsciously at the mention of Pyke. Still, he took a long time before finally responding. “The Lions are little loved by the smallfolk. Would the wolves rule be any kinder?”
“I can guarantee that food will flow again into the city. And that the men of the North and the Riverlands will stay disciplined and not pillage or rape. But neither Winterfell nor Riverrun seek to sit upon the Iron Throne,” Sean answered.
“That is as rumor has it in the city,” Ser Jacelyn confirmed. “Then who?”
“King Stannis,” the Blackfish replied. “Robert’s eldest brother and true heir.”
The gold cloak captain gave a knowing nod, clearly revealing such was the speculation rampant among the besieged. “There are three with last name Baratheon who would give place themselves in precedence before their uncle,” he nevertheless countered.
“By their pretty blonde, Lannister looks?” not Ned scoffed. “Show me a single hint of the Stag in Joffrey Waters? By the boy’s madness, if Aerys Targaryen hadn’t already been dead, I’d have suspected him of sliding between Cersei’s thighs thirteen years ago. Did you hear how the bastard had his loyal, honorable Kinsguard torture my daughter?!” he spat, mimicking perfectly the Blackfish’s tone from earlier.
The troubled look that crossed Ser Jacelyn’s stolid face revealed that the news of his not daughter’s abuse wasn’t limited to just inside the Red Keep.
Thoughts of broken Sansa huddled pitifully in his tent, slipping the last four days between hysterical and catatonic, made Sean want to go spare. He breathed deep, trying to collect himself. “Your pardon, Ser.” He cleared his throat before continuing. “It was my gaining knowledge of that mad boy’s true parentage which drove the Lannisters to arrest me. The morning after dear Robert’s death, as his acknowledged Regent, I intended to proclaim Stannis’ ascension to the Iron Throne in front of the royal court … that is until Littlefinger’s gold and Janos Slynt’s greed intervened on behalf of the Lions. In the end, before Baelor’s Sept, they sought to silence me forever.” ‘Well it didn’t go down quite like that for old Ned, but why confuse things by bringing up some niggling details.’ “But as you see, I refused to stay silent. ‘Nice line, mate,’ he congratulated himself.
The gold cloak captain remained silent and thoughtful throughout the Lord of Winterfell’s little speech, the only emotion showing, and that a cold one, at the mention of Slynt, the Commander of the City Watch. “Stannis will be little loved,” the knight finally commented cooly.
“Yes, he won’t be,” the actor agreed. ‘I won’t piss on your leg and call it rain; at least not for the teeth grinder. I wonder who David and DB will get to play him Season Two.’ The idea that his disappearance might cause trouble for the future of the program had crossed the actor’s mind on many occasion, but for the most part he’d buried those thoughts; his sanity for whatever reason took solace in thinking life ‘back there’ meandered happily along while he valiantly struggled to set things right in George’s private hell hole. “But rest assured, were Stannis under siege, he would suffer and starve alongside his people. Can the same be said of the Lannisters or Lord Renly?” ‘Damn, shouldn’t have mentioned that bender,’ Sean winced inside.
Jacelyn Bywater grunt indicated the negative.
“And Stannis, while strict, will at least rule with justice and wisdom,” not Ned continued. “Not the capriciousness of a spoiled, coddled little boy.”
This last drew a snort of derision. “Do not be so certain, my Lord. Morality is not always the same as wisdom. While Master of Laws, King Stannis tried to forbid whores from spreading their … wares.” The knight whistled a tone of wonderment and continued. “How’s the Watch to enforce that?”
Now it was time for Sean to look thoughtful. ‘At least he referred to Stannis as King,’ passed through part of the actor’s brain. While the other half wondered, ‘What sort of bloody fool outlaws quim.’ Not Ned sighed. “I will present his Grace with a few strongly phrased … suggestions.”
“Or he can damn well fight Renly alone,” the Blackfish muttered, obviously dismayed by Stannis’ act of priggish stupidity.
The actor half grimaced, bothered that the other competitor for the Iron Throne was mentioned again, and half smirked, amused that apparently whores did not run contrary to the knight’s precious sense of honor. He waited nervously to see whether Bywater might find George’s amiable Renly a more palatable King than the dogged Stannis and not open the gate to them after all. Thankfully his worry quickly proved needless.
“So where is the King?” the gold cloak captain inquired.
“His fleet has already sailed from Dragonstone.” ‘Or at least he damn well better have now that I’m almost assured of making him permanently beholden to me,’ Sean thought with Machiavellian like clarity. ‘There’s lots to do and little time to do it in!’ “His army shall join mine within a week.”
“And you’ll hand him the Iron Throne?”
“No. With your assistance, I’ll happily present him with King’s Landing, but he must take the Red Keep and the Iron Throne himself. Right of conquest will mean as much for his claim to Kingship as being Robert’s eldest brother and true heir. Much as I crave vengeance on the bastard Joffrey Waters, it will be better for the realm if King Stannis passes that judgment.”
“Clever,” Ser Jacelyn murmured with a tone of approval and then moved business like on to the gritty details encompassed in gift wrapping an entire city. Or at least one gate into it.
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“I’m soaked,” Robb complained to not Ned; displeased at the brief, just ended, downpour that had interrupted the mere steady drizzle of the last six hours. The cover provided by bad weather had been the prerequisite for opening the Mud Gate to the, if luck held, not so forlorn hope of the group of warriors riding down a hodgepodge of craft on the Blackwater. That, and Bywater’s treachery not being double crossed by one of his men for Lannister gold.
Water had slid between the rings of the actor’s chainmail and dripped down inside the collar too, turning his tunic and smallclothes into a giant sodden mess. The nasal guard of his open faced helm had, as expected, proved useless at keeping the rain out of his eyes. The chill ten centigrade or less temps didn’t make the situation any more comfortable either. But the lad from Sheffield stoically shrugged inside; miserable as it was, there wasn’t a thing he could do about it. “All the better then should they start dropping wildfire on us,” he responded with fake cheer. Sean suspected burning to death would be far worse than say drowning, though he feared that fate enough he had reluctantly not worn Harry and Clint’s magical and heavy plate armor. All-in-all he much preferred the idea of dying comfortably in bed … at a very, very old age. ‘Ha! As if Westeros will let me, you bastard, George.’
Next to his not son, but strategically as always for whatever reason on the side away from not Ned, stood Grey Wind. The rain wicked off his thick coat and steam left his snout with every breath of nippy air. The weather didn’t appear to bother the direwolf in the least. Neither did the rocking of the boat, as it heaved through the wind churned, rain pelted wave tops of the river. Grey Wind didn’t appear impressed with the actor’s gallows humor. But the beast did perk up when the galley’s rudder got thrown over and turned them in towards shore; one of the thirty odd mismatched boats working the river in order to unload near five hundred men beneath the city’s walls. Then, before the galley could kiss the wharf, Grey Wind bounded up to the bow, knocked a few men over on their arses, distracted several rowers hauling in their sculls, and leapt through the late night gloom to land silent as death on the retaining wall.
“Grey Wind,” Robb hissed in disapproval.
“Leave him be, nephew,” the Blackfish commented through the darkness. “If there’s trickery a foot, he’ll smell it out soon enough.”
Sean agreed. The books indicated the beast, in fact all the direwolves, had a sort of sixth sense for danger and treachery. Even if the overgrown mutt never warmed to the actor, so long as he never became aggressive towards the actor, Sean intended to keep the beast or one of his siblings near him at all times. ‘Westeros sucks,’ was his watch word, well the only one of his many watch words that didn’t have at least a single profanity in it.
Crack. Crack. Crack.
Boats began abutting the quays. Ladders were planted. Men in chain and leather began to scramble out.
The butterflies in Sean’s stomach churned faster as he climbed up and joined the ranks of killers, murderers, and savages trying unsuccessfully to form up in five tight squares. A few sergeants barked softly at their squads, trying to make sure they were grouped with the right banner; an almost impossible task in a dual night and water borne operation. ‘Well no plan survives first contact with the enemy, or the shore,’ the actor thought sarcastically.
The uneven blocks of men started to shuffle their feet, as if uncertain how to proceed. An elbow nudged him none too gently in the side. Sean turned and saw Brynden staring back at him. ‘Oh.’ “To the gate,” he called out in a low, clear voice; “Wolves first, Twins second, Mermen third, Eagle fourth, Blue Eyes fifth.” And with that command, not Ned started marching forward toward the protrusion in the tall city wall formed by the towering gatehouse around the Mud Gate.
Nearing the wide, thick doors, his hundred or so wolves slowed down and not Ned continued on alone. He drew his longsword and pounded the pommel against a black band of reinforcing iron on the gate. Thud. Thud. Thud. The rain muffled the clashing some, but it still sounded impossibly loud to Sean.
“Who comes?” a voice called down from above.
“Justice,” the actor cried back.
“Who’s justice?”
“The King’s!”
A score of men high up on the battlements or behind arrow slits chorused back, “Stannis.”
Sean swallowed heavily. The part of him that remembered cell phones and email couldn’t believe grown men would use such childish sounding phrases as the preface for murder and mayhem. Most of him was simply relieved nothing, yet, had gone cock up.
Creeeeeeeeak!
Not Ned practically jumped out of his skin as one half the gate fought inertia, rust, and several tons of weight to nudge five feet open. He felt certain they’d sent a clarion cry of alarm all the way past the Red Keep and deep out across Blackwater Bay.
A light flickered and Jacelyn Bywater stepped through the gap into the wet night carrying a hooded lantern. Tiny pricks of bright color danced through narrow slits revealing the knight no longer wore a gold cloak. Instead, across his shoulders rested a grey cape, with the hint of a wolf embroidered near one shoulder. “I’ve two trusted squads ready to take your men through the city,” he announced without preamble or pretense for quiet.
Sean waived an arm and his ears immediately picked up the sound of his wolves moving forward. He gestured at Ser Jacelyn to turn back through the gate and followed after the iron hand man. “What about the whores?” he stage whispered.
The question must have brought memories of the conversation two nights before and the knight smiled. “Hamstrung,” was all he answered, knowing full well the question pertained to the three largest of King’s Landing’s catapults, located not too far past the Mud Gate in Fishmonger’s Square.
“Good,” not Ned exhaled. He quickly spotted two separate clumps of the captain’s men, a dozen no longer gold cloaks each. “Which is for the King’s Gate and which for the Gate of the Gods?”
Ser Jacelyn pointed towards the group further back in Fishmonger’s Square and to the north. “The Gods,” he uttered.
At that moment Sean felt the direwolf bound past him. Many of the gathered turn cloaks gasped in surprise and fear. “Grey Wind, heel,” he called. The huge beast let loose a brief whimpered as it pulled into a sit, instead of coming back to heel by the actor. ‘Damn dog.’
Then the monster started nonchalantly scratching an itch with a hind paw. “Ser Brynden? Robb?” he called.
“Here, father.”
“Here, Lord Stark.”
“Take the Wolves, Twins, and Mermen as soon as they’re all through with those of Ser Jacelyn’s men.” Not Ned pointed at the group the knight had earlier indicated. “They’ll take you to the Gate of the God’s. You’ve the furthest to go. Understand?”
Both his not son and not uncle nodded. Of course they understood, the Blackfish had come up with the two pronged plan. Sean, scared enough at the possible prospect of battle, or worse ambush, to piss his pants, wished to go over it again, but knew it pointless. He must become Ned; cool, calm, and deadly. “Old Gods watch over you,” he called, and then stepped back, making sure he didn’t block the steady stream of his loyal killers slipping in through the cracked open gate.
Soon enough the designated banners were gathered together and started heading across the square towards Muddy Way for the twisting, turning alleys that passed through the heart of the city. Grey Wind of course led the way. And as the last two hundred Mallister and Flint troops formed up near Sean, he heard the first distant cries of surprise echo out as some late night reveler or early morning worker encountered a direwolf and a bevy of hard charging fighters.
“Shall you lead, my lord,” Ser Jacelyn asked courteously.
“You know the way, Ser,” not Ned responded graciously and swept his hand to the left, the southwest.
A feral grin brightened the turncoat captain’s face and he snapped his fingers. A dozen grey cloaks holding spears immediately started marching towards the entrance of River Row and the shortest way to the King’s Gate.
Sean looked sternly at the Eagles and Blue Eyes around him. “Time to crack some heads, lads,” he announced.
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“Who goes there?!” an agitated, surprised voice shouted out through the drizzle and darkness.
“Bugger,” Sean snarled. The King’s Gate lay just visible a mere fifty yards away, but between the front of not Ned’s force and the unsuspecting gatehouse, some stupidly, over-enterprising patrol of gold cloaks had apparently decided to chance the rain and make their rounds.
“Charge!” Ser Jacelyn bellowed in response to the challenge.
Instantly the closest ranks lowered spears or yanked out swords and drove right at the impediment to their destination. The impediment, at least initially, didn’t prove to be much. The thunder of feet and screaming of battle cries startled the ten or so hapless members of the watch until they recovered their wits and turned tail back to the gatehouse. The last of the fleeing shits slid in through the closing door a second before the crowd of Northmen and Riverlanders arrived.
“Don’t let them drop the bar in place,” some clever dick yelled.
The first wave of men threw themselves at the door and heaved, inching the barrier open. A spear and a sword got shoved into the narrow gap. A good thing too, since more weight got thrown against the entrance from the inside, pulling it almost shut except for the obstructions.
“Pull!” “Tug harder!” “Fuckers!” men from both sides screamed.
The hinges squeaked as the door peeked open again, but this time spear came lancing both inward and outward. A man grunted. And then a second gave a mortal shriek and pitched down into the gutter. Shouts of triumph rose as Sean’s lads started to realize there was no way the gold cloaks could secure the door against them.
Taaaa-Dooooo. Taaaa-Dooooooo.
The alarm horn peeled out from atop the King’s Gate, drowning out the now feeble sounding cries of victory and letting all know this entrance to the city was under attack.
From the middle of the crowd, Sean at last saw the door pulled open far enough that dangerous men wielding swords could now force their way into the gatehouse.
“Move!” men shouted. “Find the winch!” “Raise the portcullis!” “Open the gate!” they bellowed and cried.
Slowly, like sand dripping through an hour glass, the riled warriors started pushing the defenders within further and further back; making room for their compatriots to follow in behind and add to the butchery.
“Piss,” a man next to Sean hissed painfully. The actor looked over; an arrow stuck through the meaty part of the man’s arm.
“Bows!” the cry went up. And those still on the outside of the gatehouse surged forward even more to avoid the threat of shafts lashing down from the outer wall. Sean shoved ahead as hard as any of them, looking for both relief and an outlet to discharge the shame at the cowardice he felt while not wearing his plot deflecting armor. Was there no end to the deadly tricks George could literally throw at him?
Not Ned at last squeezed through the doorway, stepping on and over bodies already bled out from ghastly slashes and deep punctures. Longsword in hand he headed for the nearest egress from the guard’s room, looking in his sudden spiral of madness to add to the death about him.
Sean ran down a hall. All the doors already kicked open. He snatched a sight of a gold cloak, begging for mercy, getting stabbed in the chest.
“Stairs?!” a voice shouted.
“Back here,” another behind the actor shouted.
Sean snapped his head around in surprise. He’d run past the doorway to the stairs without even noticing it. Everything was happening both too fast and too slow. He turned and followed the lads. His breath came in heaving gasps as he tried to rush up the stairs; eager to push past his mates while also careful to not trip and get trampled.
“Do ya hears?! Do ya hears?!” a man laughed with excitement.
Woosh. Creeeeaak. Woosh. Creeeeaak. Woosh. Creeeeaak.
A resounding cheer shook the stones of the gatehouse. Somewhere, up, down, Sean hadn’t a clue, his men had found the winches and were opening the gate. He prayed that Lords Glover and Bracken were paying attention and had their designated two thousand men ready to swarm in from the staging area back at the edge of the Tourney Grounds.
“AAAH!” a crazed man screamed, hurtling down the stairs. The gold cloak smashed into a distracted Flint man at arms, knocking him down and into several of his mates. The attacker kept coming, his sword flashed, blood sprayed from a loped off forearm. A Mallister tried to grab the gold cloak around the waste, but a pommel to the back of his neck dropped him like an ox in a slaughter house.
The killer’s blade came close, close, close. ‘Shit! He’s aiming at me,’ flashed through Sean’s mind. He snatched his head and chest back. The blade scrapped across his chainmail. The actor might have seen sparks, but wasn’t sure. He raised his arm. It all seemed so slow.
“Oooof!” The breath exploded out of the gold cloak. He slumped, staggering down onto Sean. The man felt incredibly heavy, yet also ridiculously light. Not Ned shifted his back foot for a better purchase and then twisted his weight, shedding the body trying to trap him, push him over. The dying man, with blood already frothing at his lips, fell, fell, fell.
Clank.
The gold cloak hit the stairs.
Snarls of approval met his foe’s defeat. He looked at the sword in front of him, swathed in blood. “Let’s go kill some more of the fuckers!” he roared, exhilarated that he wasn’t the one losing his life.
The snarls turned into outright cheers.
‘Gods I feel alive!’ he thought in amazement.
The oars dipped at a slow, rhythmic pace through the murky waters of the Blackwater Rush, just enough to keep the small galley oriented in the middle of the river as the current and outgoing tide did most of the work propelling the craft through the night. No lanterns hung at the stern or bow, with the half moon and the red comet being the only sources of light illuminating the boat, and the forty men within it, between breaks in the clouds. The rowlocks were wrapped in scraps of canvas to muffle any squeaks from the oars. To be discovered on this furtive trip, which had started three miles above King’s Landing, past the Tourney Grounds, likely meant a fusillade from the catapults and trebuchets atop the portions of the city wall facing the Rush. And while darkness and the ill training of most of the gold cloaks manning the artillery reduced the odds of being struck to near nothing, Sean was nevertheless a strong proponent of the maxim ‘better safe than sorry’ with anything to do with fucked up Westeros. So when an eerie screech suddenly arose from the south bank of the river, it quickly drew the actor’s jumpy attention.
“Two toms fighting over a queen in heat,” the Blackfish whispered unconcernedly.
Not Ned’s toothy grin shown through the gloom, as his gooduncle’s pronouncement reminded the actor of a Chelsea bar he’d once accidentally walked into. When his nerves settled a bit, he asked softly, “Are you certain our scouts have swept the far shore of Lannister spies?”
Brynden Tully released a low pitched but stinging retort. “Certain? No. Not unless you’d like Lord Bolton to put a few of the smallfolks over there under his knife.”
The contempt the old knight put in his voice was telling to the actor; Not Ned and his honor were still on probation as far as the wily, but duty bound ebony trout was concerned. Besides, the less he had to rely on that untrustworthy fuck head Roose the better; the last thing his ‘modern’ sensibilities wanted was to unleash a terror of torture on this pitiful world. Not that he’d have an easy time convincing Ser Brynden of that thanks to how the Green Fork ended and more recently his less than charitable public manhandling of not Aidan.
“But I’ve a hundred men on the far shore keeping their eyes and ears open for any signal betraying us,” the knight continued. “And it’s not as if there are any boats left over there if you’re worried we might be attacked that way.”
The Blackfish has taken Sean’s command from six days earlier; “Find a few more likely trout and scout out along the edges of the Blackwater, both the Bay and the Rush. The Targaryens built secret tunnels and entrances to the Red Keep. Kindly discover one, Ser,” and broadly interpreted it to include securing the opposite side of the Blackwater Rush as well. In fact the river galley they were riding in tonight had been one of many confiscated in that very action. His gooduncle had a brain to go along with his balls of steel, and knew how to take initiative.
Unfortunately, the main task assigned the Blackfish had not gone so swimmingly. A night, a day, and most of a night after the Eunuch’s unlamented, and duly deserved (couldn’t someone else have carried out the sentence?), demise, still no secret entrances into King’s Landing had been discovered. Not that Sean would rub salt into the wound of that failure and further strain his presently cool relationship with Ser Brynden. Luckily, however, fate brought a possible turncoat to not Ned, and this one driven not by gold, but by honor, or so he hoped based on the books. The truth would be discovered soon enough at the Mud Gate.
In the meantime, to keep his nerves steady, the usually taciturn Sean unexpectedly found a need to converse. As Lord of Winterfell, if he wasn’t talking shop with one of his banners or household members, his available circle for just ‘chatting’ was exceedingly small. Sitting in a boat in the dark trying to be secretive reduced it further, to one in fact. “I hope Arya hasn’t been proving a bother for you at night?”
“Nay,” Brynden replied quietly. “I hear word of the mischief she makes during the day, but she’s a docile, sleeping child by the time I make my bed most nights. And how is Sansa sleeping?”
“Not well,” Sean grunted softly. “She clings to Cat when awake and breaks into tears most times she sees me.” Much like Arya the actor had been spending a lot of time outside of the Stark House tent lately; there was only so much Stark family drama he could handle. What did he know of coping with a real life brutalized pre-teen, he was an actor, not a social worker. And to put the crowning cherry on top of his fecal sundae, even with his not daughter heavily doped at night with dream wine, not Michelle’s enthusiasms towards him had waned significantly. Not that he was all that surprise, this was the woman after all who in the books had spent three weeks, night and day, by her fallen son’s side. She’d do the same for him he didn’t doubt, not that he intended to ever find out. “Damn them,” he whispered harshly.
“The Lannister bastard and the so called honorable knights of his Kingsguard have much to answer for,” Brynden stated with deadly earnest.
Sean realized it felt good, if only for a moment, to have the Blackfish’s knightly scorn pass off of not Ned and on to others.
--------------------------
“Ship oars,” the steersman called lightly from beside the rudder.
The locks barely groaned or creaked as the twenty rowers slipped their sculls out and, with only a few loud seeming clunks in the still night, laid their dripping paddles down on the deck. As the galley glided the last few dozen yards amongst the quays jutting out from the burned out remains of the Fishmarket, a handful of men gathered at the bow, preparing to dock the boat.
“Now,” hissed the self-designated boson, a graying man whose only job throughout the length of the journey seemed to be periodically offering unsolicited suggestions on proper river craft. ‘Actors aren’t the only ones full of themselves,’ Sean noted. Then three at the bow reached up and grabbed on to the stones of the wharf’s retaining wall, absorbing the force of the initial impact. The padding on the galley’s starboard side started to bump and scrap not too noisily across the rocks and the ten starboard rowers joined in with strong, callused hands to further cushion the boat’s coupling with land. Almost now stopped, two others from the bow, holding ropes, jumped the four feet up to the top of the stone wall, the tide being more in than out, and quickly secured the galley to the nearest iron cleats sunk into the dock’s granite.
The hemp cords twanged briefly as they grew taut, completing the stop of the boat’s forward momentum. Now at rest, the guards in the middle of the galley propped a wide boarding ladder against the pier and Brynden gestured at the rest of the night’s ‘muscle’ to move off. As each one scuttled out on top the wharf, they seemed to head out in a slightly different direction than the previous fellow; spreading out to ensure no gold cloaks waited in ambush. In less than a minute, an indistinct bird called out. Brynden twirled a finger and half the oarsman left the boat too, warily fingering the knives and cudgels at their side. None of the men, either scouting on land or still on the galley, wore anything other than dark leather armor and black clothing in order to stay invisible, quiet, and stealthy.
“My Lord?” a voice finally whispered after ten near silent minutes, taking Sean by surprise. The figure crouched low on the pier, a barely visible shadow of gray in the blackness.
“Yes?” he answered.
“No sign of treachery. The agreed signal shines. Follow me.”
The actor and the Blackfish crept up the ladder and started following the crafty, silent guard. Sean wove between burned out remains of shacks, the detritus from the ruined harbor front, and the odd bone protruding from the muck; all of it smelling like putrid fish and smoke. A hundred yards from the Mud Gate, the trio stopped in a shallow, rubble filled pit fronted by a few heavily charred, fire eaten beams; all that remained of some hapless merchant’s stand and livelihood. He spied man sized dark lumps crouched about here and there; hopefully his men keeping a watchful eye on things.
“Look,” the Blackfish grunted, pointing through the dark at the left hand side of the gatehouse. Two candles flickered in a single loophole on a level just below the battlement, the faint welcome for an offer of treachery. Sean much preferred the idea of the Lannisters getting stabbed in the back than team not Ned.
Their guide warbled out some bird’s agitated, ugly cry.
A few similar sounding calls rose up around them. One even sounded more real, more avian, to Sean’s ear than the others.
Surprise or interest must have shown enough on his face, even in the dark, for the Blackfish to comment, “Carrion vultures, squabbling over ripe meat. Something not uncommon to find during a siege.”
One of the two candles went out.
Another round of bird cries squawked out after a minute’s exceedingly long wait.
The second light immediately fizzled out.
“Shhh!” someone called.
A low swish buzzed at the edge of not Ned’s hearing, followed by a soft thud.
“Someone comes,” a voice grunted.
Sean couldn’t see a thing until the clouds parted enough and he spotted in the night’s shadows a figure climbing a tad clumsily down from the top of the Mud Gate on some sort of a rope ladder.
“Stay here,” Ser Brynden ordered, and then he and their guide darted sneakily out, trying to use what cover they could, to reach the base of the flimsy ladder. At last they returned with a gold cloak captain. The reason for his difficulty on the rope now made evident by his readily apparent iron forged right hand.
The man stepped close enough to make Sean uneasy, but the tall man with eyes so deep set the actor could barely see them, made no untoward moves. He simply stared long and hard through the shadows at not Ned’s face and neck, an act Sean immediately recognized, and had long since privately dubbed, as ‘Searching for the Stigmata of Lord Eddard.’ At last satisfied, the medieval cop remembered himself and addressed not Ned, “My Lord Stark.”
‘Ah, acceptance. They almost always do, praise be an entire world’s uncompromising faith in its pantheon of mysterious and powerful gods.’ “Ser Bywater. I don’t remember meeting you from my brief time here as Hand. But you were on Pyke, weren’t you?” Sean began.
“My lord remembers,” the commander of the Mud Gate murmured politely, his oversized, square set jaw bobbing slightly with every syllable.
Sean shook his head no. “Not much, I fear. Many of my memories left me when Ser Ilyn shaved my neck so close,” he said with a wry grin. ‘Time to play up mystic, reincarnated Ned,’ he thought. “From the storming of Pyke I recall towers as little islands leading out into the sea, how hard the ironborn fought, and Greyjoy’s black kraken throne; but I couldn’t tell you what the castle smelled like. Salt … and blood I imagine.” He sighed softly, as if saddened. “Robert knighted you for your bravery there. And here I am, before you, seeking safe passage into my friend’s city. Will you grant it?” ‘Damn, I cut to the chase too fast,’ he scolded himself.
The knight had listened carefully to not Ned’s little speech; his ironhand twitching a bit, perhaps subconsciously at the mention of Pyke. Still, he took a long time before finally responding. “The Lions are little loved by the smallfolk. Would the wolves rule be any kinder?”
“I can guarantee that food will flow again into the city. And that the men of the North and the Riverlands will stay disciplined and not pillage or rape. But neither Winterfell nor Riverrun seek to sit upon the Iron Throne,” Sean answered.
“That is as rumor has it in the city,” Ser Jacelyn confirmed. “Then who?”
“King Stannis,” the Blackfish replied. “Robert’s eldest brother and true heir.”
The gold cloak captain gave a knowing nod, clearly revealing such was the speculation rampant among the besieged. “There are three with last name Baratheon who would give place themselves in precedence before their uncle,” he nevertheless countered.
“By their pretty blonde, Lannister looks?” not Ned scoffed. “Show me a single hint of the Stag in Joffrey Waters? By the boy’s madness, if Aerys Targaryen hadn’t already been dead, I’d have suspected him of sliding between Cersei’s thighs thirteen years ago. Did you hear how the bastard had his loyal, honorable Kinsguard torture my daughter?!” he spat, mimicking perfectly the Blackfish’s tone from earlier.
The troubled look that crossed Ser Jacelyn’s stolid face revealed that the news of his not daughter’s abuse wasn’t limited to just inside the Red Keep.
Thoughts of broken Sansa huddled pitifully in his tent, slipping the last four days between hysterical and catatonic, made Sean want to go spare. He breathed deep, trying to collect himself. “Your pardon, Ser.” He cleared his throat before continuing. “It was my gaining knowledge of that mad boy’s true parentage which drove the Lannisters to arrest me. The morning after dear Robert’s death, as his acknowledged Regent, I intended to proclaim Stannis’ ascension to the Iron Throne in front of the royal court … that is until Littlefinger’s gold and Janos Slynt’s greed intervened on behalf of the Lions. In the end, before Baelor’s Sept, they sought to silence me forever.” ‘Well it didn’t go down quite like that for old Ned, but why confuse things by bringing up some niggling details.’ “But as you see, I refused to stay silent. ‘Nice line, mate,’ he congratulated himself.
The gold cloak captain remained silent and thoughtful throughout the Lord of Winterfell’s little speech, the only emotion showing, and that a cold one, at the mention of Slynt, the Commander of the City Watch. “Stannis will be little loved,” the knight finally commented cooly.
“Yes, he won’t be,” the actor agreed. ‘I won’t piss on your leg and call it rain; at least not for the teeth grinder. I wonder who David and DB will get to play him Season Two.’ The idea that his disappearance might cause trouble for the future of the program had crossed the actor’s mind on many occasion, but for the most part he’d buried those thoughts; his sanity for whatever reason took solace in thinking life ‘back there’ meandered happily along while he valiantly struggled to set things right in George’s private hell hole. “But rest assured, were Stannis under siege, he would suffer and starve alongside his people. Can the same be said of the Lannisters or Lord Renly?” ‘Damn, shouldn’t have mentioned that bender,’ Sean winced inside.
Jacelyn Bywater grunt indicated the negative.
“And Stannis, while strict, will at least rule with justice and wisdom,” not Ned continued. “Not the capriciousness of a spoiled, coddled little boy.”
This last drew a snort of derision. “Do not be so certain, my Lord. Morality is not always the same as wisdom. While Master of Laws, King Stannis tried to forbid whores from spreading their … wares.” The knight whistled a tone of wonderment and continued. “How’s the Watch to enforce that?”
Now it was time for Sean to look thoughtful. ‘At least he referred to Stannis as King,’ passed through part of the actor’s brain. While the other half wondered, ‘What sort of bloody fool outlaws quim.’ Not Ned sighed. “I will present his Grace with a few strongly phrased … suggestions.”
“Or he can damn well fight Renly alone,” the Blackfish muttered, obviously dismayed by Stannis’ act of priggish stupidity.
The actor half grimaced, bothered that the other competitor for the Iron Throne was mentioned again, and half smirked, amused that apparently whores did not run contrary to the knight’s precious sense of honor. He waited nervously to see whether Bywater might find George’s amiable Renly a more palatable King than the dogged Stannis and not open the gate to them after all. Thankfully his worry quickly proved needless.
“So where is the King?” the gold cloak captain inquired.
“His fleet has already sailed from Dragonstone.” ‘Or at least he damn well better have now that I’m almost assured of making him permanently beholden to me,’ Sean thought with Machiavellian like clarity. ‘There’s lots to do and little time to do it in!’ “His army shall join mine within a week.”
“And you’ll hand him the Iron Throne?”
“No. With your assistance, I’ll happily present him with King’s Landing, but he must take the Red Keep and the Iron Throne himself. Right of conquest will mean as much for his claim to Kingship as being Robert’s eldest brother and true heir. Much as I crave vengeance on the bastard Joffrey Waters, it will be better for the realm if King Stannis passes that judgment.”
“Clever,” Ser Jacelyn murmured with a tone of approval and then moved business like on to the gritty details encompassed in gift wrapping an entire city. Or at least one gate into it.
--------------------------
“I’m soaked,” Robb complained to not Ned; displeased at the brief, just ended, downpour that had interrupted the mere steady drizzle of the last six hours. The cover provided by bad weather had been the prerequisite for opening the Mud Gate to the, if luck held, not so forlorn hope of the group of warriors riding down a hodgepodge of craft on the Blackwater. That, and Bywater’s treachery not being double crossed by one of his men for Lannister gold.
Water had slid between the rings of the actor’s chainmail and dripped down inside the collar too, turning his tunic and smallclothes into a giant sodden mess. The nasal guard of his open faced helm had, as expected, proved useless at keeping the rain out of his eyes. The chill ten centigrade or less temps didn’t make the situation any more comfortable either. But the lad from Sheffield stoically shrugged inside; miserable as it was, there wasn’t a thing he could do about it. “All the better then should they start dropping wildfire on us,” he responded with fake cheer. Sean suspected burning to death would be far worse than say drowning, though he feared that fate enough he had reluctantly not worn Harry and Clint’s magical and heavy plate armor. All-in-all he much preferred the idea of dying comfortably in bed … at a very, very old age. ‘Ha! As if Westeros will let me, you bastard, George.’
Next to his not son, but strategically as always for whatever reason on the side away from not Ned, stood Grey Wind. The rain wicked off his thick coat and steam left his snout with every breath of nippy air. The weather didn’t appear to bother the direwolf in the least. Neither did the rocking of the boat, as it heaved through the wind churned, rain pelted wave tops of the river. Grey Wind didn’t appear impressed with the actor’s gallows humor. But the beast did perk up when the galley’s rudder got thrown over and turned them in towards shore; one of the thirty odd mismatched boats working the river in order to unload near five hundred men beneath the city’s walls. Then, before the galley could kiss the wharf, Grey Wind bounded up to the bow, knocked a few men over on their arses, distracted several rowers hauling in their sculls, and leapt through the late night gloom to land silent as death on the retaining wall.
“Grey Wind,” Robb hissed in disapproval.
“Leave him be, nephew,” the Blackfish commented through the darkness. “If there’s trickery a foot, he’ll smell it out soon enough.”
Sean agreed. The books indicated the beast, in fact all the direwolves, had a sort of sixth sense for danger and treachery. Even if the overgrown mutt never warmed to the actor, so long as he never became aggressive towards the actor, Sean intended to keep the beast or one of his siblings near him at all times. ‘Westeros sucks,’ was his watch word, well the only one of his many watch words that didn’t have at least a single profanity in it.
Crack. Crack. Crack.
Boats began abutting the quays. Ladders were planted. Men in chain and leather began to scramble out.
The butterflies in Sean’s stomach churned faster as he climbed up and joined the ranks of killers, murderers, and savages trying unsuccessfully to form up in five tight squares. A few sergeants barked softly at their squads, trying to make sure they were grouped with the right banner; an almost impossible task in a dual night and water borne operation. ‘Well no plan survives first contact with the enemy, or the shore,’ the actor thought sarcastically.
The uneven blocks of men started to shuffle their feet, as if uncertain how to proceed. An elbow nudged him none too gently in the side. Sean turned and saw Brynden staring back at him. ‘Oh.’ “To the gate,” he called out in a low, clear voice; “Wolves first, Twins second, Mermen third, Eagle fourth, Blue Eyes fifth.” And with that command, not Ned started marching forward toward the protrusion in the tall city wall formed by the towering gatehouse around the Mud Gate.
Nearing the wide, thick doors, his hundred or so wolves slowed down and not Ned continued on alone. He drew his longsword and pounded the pommel against a black band of reinforcing iron on the gate. Thud. Thud. Thud. The rain muffled the clashing some, but it still sounded impossibly loud to Sean.
“Who comes?” a voice called down from above.
“Justice,” the actor cried back.
“Who’s justice?”
“The King’s!”
A score of men high up on the battlements or behind arrow slits chorused back, “Stannis.”
Sean swallowed heavily. The part of him that remembered cell phones and email couldn’t believe grown men would use such childish sounding phrases as the preface for murder and mayhem. Most of him was simply relieved nothing, yet, had gone cock up.
Creeeeeeeeak!
Not Ned practically jumped out of his skin as one half the gate fought inertia, rust, and several tons of weight to nudge five feet open. He felt certain they’d sent a clarion cry of alarm all the way past the Red Keep and deep out across Blackwater Bay.
A light flickered and Jacelyn Bywater stepped through the gap into the wet night carrying a hooded lantern. Tiny pricks of bright color danced through narrow slits revealing the knight no longer wore a gold cloak. Instead, across his shoulders rested a grey cape, with the hint of a wolf embroidered near one shoulder. “I’ve two trusted squads ready to take your men through the city,” he announced without preamble or pretense for quiet.
Sean waived an arm and his ears immediately picked up the sound of his wolves moving forward. He gestured at Ser Jacelyn to turn back through the gate and followed after the iron hand man. “What about the whores?” he stage whispered.
The question must have brought memories of the conversation two nights before and the knight smiled. “Hamstrung,” was all he answered, knowing full well the question pertained to the three largest of King’s Landing’s catapults, located not too far past the Mud Gate in Fishmonger’s Square.
“Good,” not Ned exhaled. He quickly spotted two separate clumps of the captain’s men, a dozen no longer gold cloaks each. “Which is for the King’s Gate and which for the Gate of the Gods?”
Ser Jacelyn pointed towards the group further back in Fishmonger’s Square and to the north. “The Gods,” he uttered.
At that moment Sean felt the direwolf bound past him. Many of the gathered turn cloaks gasped in surprise and fear. “Grey Wind, heel,” he called. The huge beast let loose a brief whimpered as it pulled into a sit, instead of coming back to heel by the actor. ‘Damn dog.’
Then the monster started nonchalantly scratching an itch with a hind paw. “Ser Brynden? Robb?” he called.
“Here, father.”
“Here, Lord Stark.”
“Take the Wolves, Twins, and Mermen as soon as they’re all through with those of Ser Jacelyn’s men.” Not Ned pointed at the group the knight had earlier indicated. “They’ll take you to the Gate of the God’s. You’ve the furthest to go. Understand?”
Both his not son and not uncle nodded. Of course they understood, the Blackfish had come up with the two pronged plan. Sean, scared enough at the possible prospect of battle, or worse ambush, to piss his pants, wished to go over it again, but knew it pointless. He must become Ned; cool, calm, and deadly. “Old Gods watch over you,” he called, and then stepped back, making sure he didn’t block the steady stream of his loyal killers slipping in through the cracked open gate.
Soon enough the designated banners were gathered together and started heading across the square towards Muddy Way for the twisting, turning alleys that passed through the heart of the city. Grey Wind of course led the way. And as the last two hundred Mallister and Flint troops formed up near Sean, he heard the first distant cries of surprise echo out as some late night reveler or early morning worker encountered a direwolf and a bevy of hard charging fighters.
“Shall you lead, my lord,” Ser Jacelyn asked courteously.
“You know the way, Ser,” not Ned responded graciously and swept his hand to the left, the southwest.
A feral grin brightened the turncoat captain’s face and he snapped his fingers. A dozen grey cloaks holding spears immediately started marching towards the entrance of River Row and the shortest way to the King’s Gate.
Sean looked sternly at the Eagles and Blue Eyes around him. “Time to crack some heads, lads,” he announced.
--------------------------
“Who goes there?!” an agitated, surprised voice shouted out through the drizzle and darkness.
“Bugger,” Sean snarled. The King’s Gate lay just visible a mere fifty yards away, but between the front of not Ned’s force and the unsuspecting gatehouse, some stupidly, over-enterprising patrol of gold cloaks had apparently decided to chance the rain and make their rounds.
“Charge!” Ser Jacelyn bellowed in response to the challenge.
Instantly the closest ranks lowered spears or yanked out swords and drove right at the impediment to their destination. The impediment, at least initially, didn’t prove to be much. The thunder of feet and screaming of battle cries startled the ten or so hapless members of the watch until they recovered their wits and turned tail back to the gatehouse. The last of the fleeing shits slid in through the closing door a second before the crowd of Northmen and Riverlanders arrived.
“Don’t let them drop the bar in place,” some clever dick yelled.
The first wave of men threw themselves at the door and heaved, inching the barrier open. A spear and a sword got shoved into the narrow gap. A good thing too, since more weight got thrown against the entrance from the inside, pulling it almost shut except for the obstructions.
“Pull!” “Tug harder!” “Fuckers!” men from both sides screamed.
The hinges squeaked as the door peeked open again, but this time spear came lancing both inward and outward. A man grunted. And then a second gave a mortal shriek and pitched down into the gutter. Shouts of triumph rose as Sean’s lads started to realize there was no way the gold cloaks could secure the door against them.
Taaaa-Dooooo. Taaaa-Dooooooo.
The alarm horn peeled out from atop the King’s Gate, drowning out the now feeble sounding cries of victory and letting all know this entrance to the city was under attack.
From the middle of the crowd, Sean at last saw the door pulled open far enough that dangerous men wielding swords could now force their way into the gatehouse.
“Move!” men shouted. “Find the winch!” “Raise the portcullis!” “Open the gate!” they bellowed and cried.
Slowly, like sand dripping through an hour glass, the riled warriors started pushing the defenders within further and further back; making room for their compatriots to follow in behind and add to the butchery.
“Piss,” a man next to Sean hissed painfully. The actor looked over; an arrow stuck through the meaty part of the man’s arm.
“Bows!” the cry went up. And those still on the outside of the gatehouse surged forward even more to avoid the threat of shafts lashing down from the outer wall. Sean shoved ahead as hard as any of them, looking for both relief and an outlet to discharge the shame at the cowardice he felt while not wearing his plot deflecting armor. Was there no end to the deadly tricks George could literally throw at him?
Not Ned at last squeezed through the doorway, stepping on and over bodies already bled out from ghastly slashes and deep punctures. Longsword in hand he headed for the nearest egress from the guard’s room, looking in his sudden spiral of madness to add to the death about him.
Sean ran down a hall. All the doors already kicked open. He snatched a sight of a gold cloak, begging for mercy, getting stabbed in the chest.
“Stairs?!” a voice shouted.
“Back here,” another behind the actor shouted.
Sean snapped his head around in surprise. He’d run past the doorway to the stairs without even noticing it. Everything was happening both too fast and too slow. He turned and followed the lads. His breath came in heaving gasps as he tried to rush up the stairs; eager to push past his mates while also careful to not trip and get trampled.
“Do ya hears?! Do ya hears?!” a man laughed with excitement.
Woosh. Creeeeaak. Woosh. Creeeeaak. Woosh. Creeeeaak.
A resounding cheer shook the stones of the gatehouse. Somewhere, up, down, Sean hadn’t a clue, his men had found the winches and were opening the gate. He prayed that Lords Glover and Bracken were paying attention and had their designated two thousand men ready to swarm in from the staging area back at the edge of the Tourney Grounds.
“AAAH!” a crazed man screamed, hurtling down the stairs. The gold cloak smashed into a distracted Flint man at arms, knocking him down and into several of his mates. The attacker kept coming, his sword flashed, blood sprayed from a loped off forearm. A Mallister tried to grab the gold cloak around the waste, but a pommel to the back of his neck dropped him like an ox in a slaughter house.
The killer’s blade came close, close, close. ‘Shit! He’s aiming at me,’ flashed through Sean’s mind. He snatched his head and chest back. The blade scrapped across his chainmail. The actor might have seen sparks, but wasn’t sure. He raised his arm. It all seemed so slow.
“Oooof!” The breath exploded out of the gold cloak. He slumped, staggering down onto Sean. The man felt incredibly heavy, yet also ridiculously light. Not Ned shifted his back foot for a better purchase and then twisted his weight, shedding the body trying to trap him, push him over. The dying man, with blood already frothing at his lips, fell, fell, fell.
Clank.
The gold cloak hit the stairs.
Snarls of approval met his foe’s defeat. He looked at the sword in front of him, swathed in blood. “Let’s go kill some more of the fuckers!” he roared, exhilarated that he wasn’t the one losing his life.
The snarls turned into outright cheers.
‘Gods I feel alive!’ he thought in amazement.