Chapter Text
Robb had been nervous for his first battle, but after that, the fear had largely left him. Instead, a calmness would envelop him as his thoughts moved of their own volition toward the best way to take down his foes: how to encircle them, find the weak point amid the press of enemies, and work together with his men to bring them down.
Today was different. Robb spotted Grey Wind in the stands, muzzled. He had come to trust Grey Wind as surely as his own two feet. Yet today, Grey Wind seemed apprehensive … and sorrowful?
Would that he was by my side now.
Robb's blade rested in his gauntleted hand. This was no mere arming sword, but a true longsword, meant to be wielded with both hands. Myrcella had urged him to consider other weapons or a shield, but Robb was at ease with this blade. His skill, paired with those strange visions of clarity that revealed what was to come, had grown to the point where he could trust his body to move and evade strikes that might harm him.
And should evasion not be an option, encased in plate armor, he had ample protection from most blows. Beneath the castle-forged steel lay a layer of chain links, and beneath that, the padded gambeson. His head was shrouded by a full helm, with a narrow slit to see through. This was the typical war panoply of every noble, whether from a minor or great house across Westeros, with Dorne and the Iron Isles being occasional exceptions. With such protection, even a man of average skill could best a more talented but less armored foe.
There were three primary ways in which Robb could be harmed. The first was a blow to the head. Such strikes could concuss him, even if the helm held firm. A strong enough hit, particularly from foes like the twin giants, might even break his neck. The second was an attack on the necessary gaps in his armor that allowed for movement – elbow and knee joints, armpits, and where the inner thigh met the groin. These were the vulnerable points, though awkward to target in the chaos of melee. That was where Myrcella's keen understanding of knightly warfare had impressed Robb. Their tactics relied on sudden, precise coordination to exploit a weak point before turning back to their primary adversary. Simply stabbing or slashing at a gap in the plate was no guarantee of success, as the interlocking chain beneath could thwart weaker thrusts. A move had to have power behind it.
The third way was to get him off his feet and drive a dagger through the gap in his helm, or to force his chin upward, exposing the vulnerable space between gorget and helm, and strike there. While there were other plausible ways he could be harmed, these were the most likely.
The High Septon had finished speaking. Aegon rose from where he sat and commanded the Trial of Seven to begin!
Robb advanced alongside his comrades, slowly at first. He noticed Barristan deliberately limping slightly, while the Hound devoured the ground with his long strides. The enemy advanced as well, and Robb found himself opposite a knight wielding a hammer and shield. As discussed earlier, Robb and his partners began to move diagonally, crossing each other's paths. The idea was that their opponents would have planned their engagements, and disrupting an enemy's plans was almost always advantageous.
There was a moment of confusion, but then they were upon each other. Robb abruptly quickened his pace and slashed at the man in copper scales. The large man stepped back a half-step and struck out with his long axe, but Robb anticipated it and parried the blow. His vision blurred for a moment, and shock almost led to a fatal error against the white-haired opponent. Robb's mind's eye saw his ally, Ser Rolland, struck by a pulverizing blow to the head.
"ROLLAND, WARE THE HOUND!" Robb screamed as his opponent's axe skittered off his breastplate in a glancing blow.
Robb saw the bastard from the Stormlands take a blow on his shield from Ser Gerold, and then twist his body away from a vicious strike from a hammer-wielding Sandor Clegane. The evasion was only partially successful – instead of striking his helm, it smashed into his pauldron. Robb winced at the blow; hopefully the layers of plate and padding had dampened the powerful impact.
The shock of the betrayal was muted by his mind's instinctive effort to figure out what to do. A seven-on-seven had turned into an eight-on-six. His eyes scanned the battlefield in an instant and saw Ser Barristan driving Jon Connington before him with ease. He saw the Hound's own foe, one of the twins, look momentarily confused, but then pounce toward his brother, who was fighting Ser Guyard. Bronn had initially been attempting to drive back Ser Garlan to create an opening to assist Ser Addam, but Garlan was instead advancing on him, and Bronn was backing away, doing all he could to stave off the Tyrell's attack.
Robb launched a blistering attack on the axe-wielder for but a moment, then sprinted toward Rolland. Ser Gerold had struck while Rolland was off balance, and the large knight had fallen to one knee. Before he could rise, the Hound delivered a mighty kick from his boot onto the man's shield, sending him sprawling onto his back.
Robb arrived, and Dayne moved to parry a blow that was, in truth, a feint. Robb slipped to the side and slashed downward at the back of the Hound's leg. Sandor moved as fast as Bronn, and with far more power, and checked the attack. Robb once again saw the future, where Sandor would ram him with his shield and send him crashing to the ground.
When the shield came a moment later, Robb was ready and hastily shuffled to the side. His vision saw the Hound reorient in an instant and slam his hammer down with enough force to break his clavicle. So, instead, Robb allowed his shuffling sidestep to turn into a diving roll. Plate armor made the move difficult, but as it was well balanced and Robb athletic enough; he managed to roll and find his feet with momentum.
Again, the Hound came on, and again Robb saw vision after vision of Sandor besting him – slamming him to the ground, smashing his helm with the hammer, striking the side of his knee with the hammer. Each time, he had but a moment to course-correct, yet never enough time to mount a counteroffensive against the implacable, never-tiring Clegane.
The crowd's roar was deafening, and Robb had only a moment to catch glimpses of the rest of the fight. What he saw did not bode well for their chances. Connington had blood running down one side of his plate but was still in the fight. That was the only aspect of this conflict going well. With Robb desperately trying to stave off the Hound, the once seven-on-seven had turned into an effective seven-on-five. Ser Barristan's smoke-grey blade flashed with skill and speed, but he was beset by Connington and the massive giant.
Bronn was losing his fight. Rolland had been battered, but was on his feet, roaring in anger. Ser Guyard and Ser Addam were now back-to-back, facing off against one of the twin giants – Robb's initial opponent – and Ser Daemon from Dorne. Three-on-two were not good odds, though their foes had yet to score a telling blow.
Robb had to think. He had to fix this. If only he had the time to. His mind was filtering visions of his crippling or demise almost every second, and it took all his attention and focus to stay in the present, coming up with last-second efforts to avoid having his body caved in by Clegane's relentless hammer.
***
Garlan had worked with the Hand to determine who might match well against their foes. Connington had said he knew Ser Barristan and how he fought. The man readily admitted that, in his prime, Barristan would certainly have bested him. However, with age and a lack of mobility due to his leg, Connington felt confident he could take him down – and do so without killing the honorable old knight.
Thanks to the odd movements of their foes before the clash, Garlan did not find himself facing his chosen opponent. Instead, he found himself up against the sellsword named Bronn. It was immediately clear that the sellsword possessed phenomenal reflexes, moving with a lithe grace that reminded Garlan of a mongoose.
Deadlier than he looks at first glance.
Despite that easy grace, Garlan was more than a match for him. His sword met Bronn's at every exchange, forcing a steady retreat, pressing step by step with tightly-woven, confident strokes. Yet, despite backpedaling, Bronn never lost his footing, and Garlan couldn't close the distance to properly finish him.
Garlan deliberately turned his head toward the other fighters, attempting to bait Bronn in, but his opponent didn't fall for it. Perhaps it was for the best, as what he saw jolted Garlan out of his rhythm. Sandor Clegane had seemingly betrayed the Lannisters and was now fighting against Tommen's Seven – and effectively so.
But why?
At first, Garlan thought it must be some clever scheme or trick, but it wasn't. The Hound moved with brutal and deadly efficiency, leaving the heir of Winterfell struggling just to fend him off. Even as Garlan advanced on Bronn, he kept a watchful eye on the fight.
Has the Spider somehow found leverage over the man? Robb Stark was instrumental in killing the elder Clegane brother, but by all accounts, the two had despised each other.
Garlan left opening after opening for Bronn to exploit, hoping to finally corner the ever-retreating man, but still, nothing. His attention also flicked to the stands, where the mood had turned ugly, and chaos was rapidly brewing. Gold Cloaks struggled desperately to maintain order as the crowd erupted. The onlookers were all on their feet – some shouting and pointing, others arguing, and many even fighting among themselves, including members of the nobility. His eyes darted to his sister, who remained safe, encircled by a knot of Tyrell soldiers and the Kingsguard.
For now.
Chaos begot more chaos – he knew; the longer the Trial of Seven dragged on, the worse things would become. He changed tactics. Halting his advance, he turned away from his opponent and strode back toward the main fighting.
As he approached the other combatants, he heard footsteps behind himself and, at the last moment, whirled around, swinging his shield in a wide arc. The swift-footed sellsword tried to dart away, but not quickly enough. Garlan's shield struck Bronn's shoulder, sending the man tumbling to the ground.
Unlike the other combatants, the sellsword wore lighter armor. Rather than try scrambling after a quicker and more lightly-loaded opponent, Garlan chose not to follow up. Instead, he moved to defend Ser Gerold, who had just struck Ser Rolland's side with his sword to no effect, only to suffer a punishing blow to the hip from the bastard's hammer.
Garlan slashed at Rolland's helm, but the man leaned away from the blow, then surprisingly lowered his shoulder and surged forward into Garlan. The impact to the shield was heavy, but despite weighing less, Garlan was stout and had solid footing. The larger man failed to dislodge him, giving Garlan the opening to pound the pommel of his sword into Rolland's helmet. Meanwhile, Dayne was not idle and attempted to ram his sword into the back of Rolland's knee.
All of this happened in moments, but Garlan's battle instincts made time flow like honey. Despite the rattling blow to his head, Rolland kept his wits about him, pushing off Garlan. The movement of his legs prevented Dayne's sword from striking its intended target. Instead, the piercing lunge hit the greave, missing the small gap at the joint.
While this was happening, Garlan kept an eye on Bronn and saw him rise, rushing toward the beleaguered Ser Guyard and Ser Addam. Areo had swept Morrigan's legs out from under her, and Addam was furiously lashing out, trying to buy Guyard time to rise. Garlan intercepted Bronn before he could assist, and the former dance repeated itself.
The crowd roared as the chaotic thrill of battle sent their screams to a fevered pitch.
***
Margaery had a clear view of the battlefield. She was no expert, but Highgarden was the flower of chivalry in Westeros, so she had witnessed her fair share of jousts and melees. Oh, the Vale made claims of being the most honorable and knightly, boasting ancient lineages, but they never hosted as many tournaments as the Reach did.
Given their reputation now, claims of honor may well be laughed at!
What she saw was an intensity and skill that put those prior events to shame. Even with the Hound's betrayal of the Lannisters, victory would not come easily.
"Did you know about this?" Margaery whispered to her husband.
Aegon shook his head. "No, my love – we had considered attempting to bribe the sellsword, but not Clegane.
Margaery pursed her lips, her mind racing to discern what was happening. The clamor of the battlefield and her growing worry for Garlan's safety made it difficult to focus. A cheer burst forth, momentarily threatening her queenly composure, as she watched Garlan slam his shield into Bronn.
The fight raged on, and their chances seemed promising. Ser Barristan was alarmingly skilled; despite facing two formidable opponents, he had yet to suffer a serious blow. Margaery could sense Aegon's anxiety over his father figure's peril, heightened by the blood seeping from an early wound the fighter had suffered. Meanwhile, the Hound continued his relentless pursuit of Robb, with savagery both terrifying and unyielding.
Were it not for that betrayal, I doubt any save for Garlan could have stood before Clegane.
Ser Addam took a vicious blow square to the chest from one of the seven-foot-tall giant twins. Though Margaery could distinguish them in person, the distance and their full plate armor rendered them identical. The blade's edge failed to penetrate the armor, but the sheer force of the strike sent him staggering backward and crashing to the ground. From where she stood, it was hard to tell, but the breastplate appeared to be dented from the power of the two-handed blow.
Ser Guyard managed to regain his footing, his halberd lashing out to exploit the wild swing that the taller man had unleashed on his ally. He aimed for the vulnerable gap beneath the armpit but missed, his strike glancing off the heavy pauldron instead. Ser Daemon's hammer came perilously close to smashing into Guyard's helm, but the Stormlander ducked just in time to avoid the blow. The chaotic exchange left Areo free to deliver a devastating strike to Ser Addam. His two-handed axe slammed into the plate protecting the stomach. Margaery doubted it had fully pierced the steel, but it had struck deeply enough that Areo had to wrench the weapon free with a powerful heave.
Marbrand struggled to stand, clearly pained by the two formidable blows he had endured. Areo, however, gave him no quarter. The Norvoshi's axe rose again and came crashing down. Ser Addam raised his shield, but the force of a standing blow against a man still trying to rise was too great, even before accounting for Areo's superior strength. Forced down once more, Marbrand made another futile attempt to get up, only for Areo to smite him again with unrelenting power.
Margaery would have remained entranced by that portion of the fight, were it not for her King's grip tightening around her hand. Her gaze shifted, focusing on Lord Connington as Ser Barristan made his move to stave off disaster for his side. She watched as the blade lashed out at Connington again and again. The speed of the strikes was too quick for Margaery to fully follow, but she saw Connington faltering. Meanwhile, the other twin approached from behind the focused Ser Barristan, raising his massive two-handed blade. Barristan abruptly halted his forward momentum, backstepped, bent his knees, and reversed his grip. The Valyrian steel blade shot upward, striking the groin of the much taller man. It must have struck just to the right or left of the codpiece, piercing the thinnest section of armor.
Connington was clearly shocked by the sudden reversal. His ally, struck in a dangerous spot, groaned, and collapsed forward as Ser Barristan wrenched his now-bloodied blade free from the falling knight. Margaery despaired as the crowd erupted into a frenzy of screams.
"BOLD! BOLD! BOLD! BOLD! BOLD!"
It pained her that she still had so much work yet to do to win the hearts of the people. She quickly scanned the rest of the battlefield for any hope and found it in several places. The Hound seemed tireless, while Robb had clearly taken at least a glancing blow or two, movements now slowed by exhaustion. She glanced again at Ser Addam, whose shield had been split in two. Her brother had finally managed to catch the darting sellsword, and the man now bled from the shoulder. Margaery prayed someone would hurry to Lord Jon's aid.
"FURY!" came a roar as Rolland hurled his hammer at Areo Hotah's back in a desperate attempt to save Ser Addam. The throw proved successful. The hammer's aim was true, careening into Areo's helm. The blow knocked him off balance, and he crashed to the ground on one knee. Margaery watched as he tried to rise but stumbled over his own feet.
Ser Gerold dashed forward, seeing his opponent disarmed and seemingly easy prey.
If only that were true.
The bastard of Nightsong undid the strap on his arm and then wielded his shield as a two-handed bludgeon against the Darkstar. Had this been a tourney melee, Margaery might have found it amusing, but the man had strength behind his strike, and Ser Gerold was utterly flummoxed. The blade lashed out, but Ser Rolland moved his body in such a way that it struck only the most armored portions. His counter was a crushing blow to Ser Gerold's body, nearly sending him off balance. Gerold's blade lashed out at Rolland's leg, but the knight shifted his stance, and the strike bounced off his greave. The next shield bash knocked Ser Gerold to the ground, and Rolland pounced upon him.
Margaery saw Ser Barristan raise his blade in salute to Connington before charging forward, his leg showing no signs of weakness.
***
Bronn, the sellsword, vexed the Queen's brother. Garlan had managed to wound him once, and the man was now far more wary. In a direct one-on-one duel, all Garlan would need to do was take it slow and steady, but with Ser Barristan's prowess and the Darkstar in peril, that was not an option. Garlan swiped at the sellsword again before abruptly running toward Ser Rolland, who was attempting to pummel Ser Gerold to death. Dayne tried to shield his face with his arms, but the bigger man had far more power in his gauntlets.
Garlan saw several vulnerable points and noted that Bronn was not chasing him. He shouted a quick warning to his companions before striking down at Rolland. The bastard of Nightsong raised his vambraces and blocked the blow, allowing it to carry him off Ser Gerold. Garlan was momentarily delayed, having to step over Dayne, and the big man regained his feet with absurd alacrity.
He had no shield or weapon, but that didn't mean he wasn't dangerous. Garlan still advanced confidently, his blade lashing out before him. Rolland circled to his shield side and then charged. Garlan lowered his center to absorb the charge, then bashed the man in the head again with the pommel. Rolland grunted and pushed off the shield, but Garlan followed up his devastating strike, aiming for the man's shoulders. Another grunt, and Rolland grabbed Garlan's shield.
"FURY!"
He knew the man was going to yank on it, so he stepped forward into his chest. Garlan let his shield be pulled away from his body while he lashed out with a punishing strike to the side of his foe's knee. The leg crumpled. With the height advantage, Garlan rammed the point of his sword into his opponent's neck. The gorget gave slightly, the metal creaking as it twisted under the force of the blow. A coughing gargle followed, the reward for his efforts, and Rolland finally released his hold on the shield.
Looking up, Garlan shouted a warning for Areo, but the man either didn't hear or was too dazed to comprehend. The damnable sellsword had thrown his buckler aside and used a two-handed decapitating strike. Areo didn't lose his head, but it was a killing blow nonetheless, as his life's blood erupted from the wound.
Fortunately, Ser Addam was still on the ground. Ser Erryk had come to the aid of the beleaguered Hand, likely the only reason Connington still lived. Broad, sweeping strokes, filled with fury at the apparent felling of his brother, forced Barristan to halt his barrage, which had nearly ended his one-time friend's life. Garlan had the time and focus now, so he turned to the task of finishing off Ser Rolland.
Rolland rolled away from one strike and tried to kick out with his boot, but Garlan was too canny and quick with his footwork. He punished the attempt with a stomp on the ankle and another strike with his sword. And then another. Rolland heaved himself upward in a desperate attempt to find his feet, but a shield to the faceplate of his helm was his only reward.
Now!
Garlan's blade struck true, cleaving through the gap between the gorget and helm he had long sought. The steel pierced deep, and the bastard of Nightsong let out one final, garbled cry of "fury" ere he fell silent, his breath stilled for all time.
Guyard was fending off Ser Daemon, while Garlan once again intercepted Bronn before he could interfere in another fight. If Ser Addam rose before Ser Gerold, things could take a dangerous turn. Garlan felt his lungs heave, and he silently thanked the countless hours of training he'd endured. Without that, this brutal battle would have left him gasping for air.
***
Robb was on the razor's edge of death no matter which way he turned. The Hound was relentless – never tiring, never slowing, and wielding the hammer with perfect precision. Each blow came with the force of a battering ram, threatening to shatter his defenses entirely. The advantage of foresight was the only reason he had avoided a fatal or crippling wound, but even so, the glancing strikes had left him in a precarious situation.
His lungs burned, and the inside of his helm was sweltering despite the mild weather. Robb ducked and attempted to strike back at the Hound's helm, but the man leaned aside, and the hammer came down toward Robb's skull. Only it would have, had Robb not already been moving away from the strike. He had only a moment before the hammer came up again, and he would need to slide to the right and… he was too slow.
The hammer caught him on his left side, and the sheer force behind the blow was insurmountable. Plate buckled and did what it was designed to do, but the momentous impact was too great. The padded gambeson underneath further diluted the blow, and yet even that was not enough. Robb felt bones break as he collapsed onto the churned earth at Clegane's feet.
"Stay down," Sandor rasped and then turned back to where the others were fighting.
Robb couldn't stand even if he wanted to. Blood coated the inside of his helm; the coppery taste was something to focus on instead of the pain. His breathing was labored, and he feared something was wrong on the inside. It was all he could do to look up and watch as the unstoppable menace crashed into the melee.
He saw the Hound first come across Ser Guyard. Tommen's sworn shield stepped back, having seen another foe come to harry him while he was engaged in battle. The halberd jabbed toward the Hound's helm but was parried aside with contemptuous ease. Before he could bring his weapon back into position to defend, Clegane had already caved in his breastplate.
Robb winced as the Hound moved toward Ser Addam, whose arm hung uselessly at his side. The hammer smashed into his leg with crippling force, and the Westerlands knight went down with a cry of agony. Ser Barristan whirled around, then redoubled his efforts to put down one of his opponents. Robb gave a silent cheer as the old knight charged the seven-foot-tall fighter from the Reach. The two-handed sword seemed ready to lay out Ser Barristan, but somehow, he dodged and moved past, his borrowed Valyrian steel sword ripping into the back of the knee and sending the gigantic knight crashing down.
The Hound sprinted at Bronn, who fled. Robb watched as the sellsword narrowly avoided a solid strike and gained some distance, with the Hound fast on his heels. Robb coughed up more viscous fluid into his helm and tore the damn thing off. Even the lowliest squire could kill him with hardly any effort. There was no sense in keeping it on.
Connington was in bad shape, but Ser Garlan now moved in on Ser Barristan. Robb's vision blurred slightly, but he focused to see the clash. Barristan attempted a quick victory, something he desperately needed, but Garlan took advantage of his haste. His shield bashed into Barristan's face after the elder knight overextended. Garlan followed up with an overhand strike to the shoulder, but its full might did not connect cleanly. Then, Tidebreaker reentered the fray, forcing him to retreat and rely upon his shield.
Unfortunately, Ser Gerold was now back on his feet. Daemon Sand had also moved in and sought to flank the Commander of the Stormguard. Against three foes, what chance was there? Robb bit back a groan. Breathing was now very difficult; his thoughts veered toward his family. He hadn't seen his mother in nearly two years. Would his father be proud of how he'd fought? Had Bran's fearful concern been accurate?
At least, Sansa, Arya, and Rickon are safe.
Try as he might, his eyes would no longer stay open as his belabored breathing stole away all awareness.
***
I had expected treachery, but not from my hand-picked seven. And certainly not from Sandor Clegane! Why? What did he hope to gain from this? If he thought the new King would reward him for this base treachery, he was a fool. And what could even drive a man of his physiology? Strong drink barely brought him pleasure. What had they bribed him with?
My uncle was cursing and insisting he had always hated the Hound, which was probably true. The Hound had always been a brutal monster, serving the least likable member of our family.
Stupid, stupid, stupid. How many times will I be betrayed until I learn?
I had glanced over at Aegon and his Queen, and either they were phenomenal actors, or they had truly known nothing of Clegane's planned treachery.
As if I could possibly ferret out a bloody mummer any better than a village fool. My own mother tricked me. I was led by the nose to the Eyrie, and now a damned brute who is barely literate pulled the wool over my eyes.
I took a deep breath to prevent my thoughts from spiraling in unproductive ways. Ultimately, irrational people could not be understood through the lens of logic. The fault wasn't within me but within them. I simply needed to become more adept at discerning who was rational and who was not.
I watched as Ser Barristan once again proved why he was the greatest living knight in Westeros. Sadly, it was not enough. With Robb down and the Hound free to demolish at will, it marked the death knell of our hopes. Ser Barristan would fight to the last, but I refused to let this farce continue any longer. Summoning my magic, I raised my voice.
"ENOUGH! I, MYRCELLA BARATHEON, ON BEHALF OF MY BROTHER, TOMMEN BARATHEON, YIELD! AEGON TARGARYEN IS THE TRUE KING OF THE SEVEN KINGDOMS!"
In my anger, I may have overdone it. Tyrion was wincing, clutching his ears in pain, and even Brienne seemed affected, though her full helm obscured her features.
The crowd's reaction was stunned at first, but it quickly grew raucous. Shouts of treachery and cheating echoed through the air. Some began hurling objects at the combatants or the royal box. The Gold Cloaks were present in force, but they were outnumbered ten to one. I could see supporters of the new dynasty clashing with those who still sided with me.
Once more I used my magic to amplify my voice, using a slightly less powerful formula.
"CEASE! I HAVE YIELDED. IF YOU CLAIM ANY LOYALTY TO ME, YOU WILL JOIN ME IN FEALTY TO KING AEGON!"
It was important for me to immediately prove my usefulness to the new order. I was bitter, but I wasn't stupid. My plan, my training, and my chosen fighters would have crushed the opposition if not for the Hound's betrayal. It was galling, but perhaps it was for the best. My mind was already spinning with ways to ensure Tommen's safety in the Night's Watch. No doubt, some pious fools would accept my suggestion of taking the Black as an honorable gesture to serve as her brother's protector. The Stormlands would ensure that the Wall was well-provisioned in exchange for the Lord Commander's agreement to keep him safe.
Perhaps this is for the best. Had we won, I still think it would have been at best even odds that Aegon and Connington meekly accept as I have.
The crowd finally died down, and the wounded could be seen to. Maesters and their assistants were working with squires to check on the status of the downed fighters. Ser Guyard, Areo Hotah, Ser Rolland Storm, and Ser Arryk were dead.
What a mess.
Ser Addam and Robb were among the most severely injured. Addam suffered a concussion, a broken arm, and a shattered leg. Robb's injuries were more singular, though no less serious – several ribs were broken, and one of his lungs was partially punctured. I would need to ensure his survival personally. It was crucial – and not just because he had fought under my banner. His brother – or cousin, depending on whom you believed – would need to relinquish his claim, and Robb alive made a peaceful resolution far more likely.
Several Targaryen guards pushed forward. "Lady Myrcella, your presence is required by the King."
"After I've seen to Stark," I replied with complete confidence while giving their captain a frosty look, the kind that had once made my brother terrified.
He stammered, but then bowed his head in acquiescence.
I turned to Brienne. "You'll need to shoo the Maesters out while I ensure Stark lives, and then make sure we are undisturbed. This will not be as difficult as with Lum… hopefully."
"Yes, my lady," she obediently replied.