RICKARD RYSWELL
A week inside the city had taught Rickard one thing: King's Landing never stopped rotting. You only learned where it leaked.
They had spent days memorizing streets, counting steps, mapping alleys that reeked of piss and old blood. He knew which walls were loose, which lanes narrowed too quickly, which doorways swallowed sound. All of it for one purpose.
Extract Princess Sansa.
His cousin's betrothed.
And still, he hated the plan.
A riot was not a tool. It was a fire. You could point it, maybe, but never hold it. Hungry men didn't stop once fed; mobs didn't obey once unleashed. History was written in crushed skulls and trampled children.
Rickard shifted his weight, sweat slicking his spine despite the cool morning. The press of bodies was already wrong—too tight, too restless. He glanced sideways.
Domeric stood several paces away, blending as perfectly as a wolf among sheep ever could. Calm. Still. His gaze never left the procession.
Never left her.
Princess Sansa was impossible to miss. That damned red hair, pinned high and bright against the filth of the street. Rickard swallowed.
At least we can see you, he thought grimly.
The stink of the crowd crept into his mouth—sour ale and unwashed skin. He forced himself to breathe shallowly. Focus. Wait.
The royal party advanced. Gold cloaks. Kingsguard. Horses. Too many boots.
They were supposed to wait until half the procession cleared the marker. Then Hawthorn would move. Controlled. Directed.
Then a woman stepped forward, stopping the royal procession.
Rickard felt his stomach drop.
She was sobbing, arms raised—a small bundle in her hands. Dead weight. Dead flesh. Her wailing cut through the air like a blade.
She cursed Joffrey's name, blamed him for her babe's death.
The crowd stirred—a low sound, like a beast waking.
Princess Sansa leaned toward the king. Rickard saw her lips move, calm, careful. Trying, even now.
Joffrey frowned.
He threw a coin.
The moment it hit the stones, the crowd broke.
People lunged. Hands clawed. Bodies slammed together as if the street itself had tilted. Someone went down and didn't get back up as they fought over it.
Rickard's muscles locked.
No.
Too early.
The shouting swelled, uncontrolled. Then something wet struck Joffrey's cheek.
Shit.
The king screamed.
"Who did that?! Kill them! Kill them all!"
The shouts changed—not anger yet, but hunger finding words.
Steel flashed.
Kingsguard blades went red.
Everything shattered at once.
"Illborn!"
"Brotherfucker!"
"Stannis!"
"Bread!"
"Wolf King!"
People attacked the Kingsguard and soon even the other nobles in the procession.
Rickard moved as Domeric did—instantly, without signal. He shoved forward, eyes locked on Sansa.
She was running.
Hands grabbed for her skirts. Someone tore fabric. Another reached for her hair.
Rickard was slammed sideways, ribs barking as an elbow caught him. The crowd surged, bodies crushing, feet slipping on spilled blood and mess.
Coins rained—Hawthorn throwing handfuls, desperately trying to pull the mob away from her.
It barely slowed them.
A Kingsguard screamed as knives punched into his gaps. Another went down under sheer weight.
Rickard saw it then—Princess Sansa breaking free, darting into a narrow alley.
No.
Men followed her.
Rickard forced his way forward—too slow—and then he saw Domeric, already moving, already chasing them into shadow.
And then he lost him.
Panic clawed up Rickard's throat.
Someone grabbed his cloak. Another hand closed on his arm. The mob surged again, faces twisted, mouths open, teeth bared.
He punched and kicked men.
He drew his sword.
He didn't want to.
A blade flashed out—flat first, cracking a skull. Another man lunged and Rickard cut low, felt resistance, felt warmth splash his wrist.
He didn't look down.
People were screaming now. Not chanting. Screaming.
Rickard shoved through, breath tearing out of him, heart hammering hard enough to hurt. He didn't know where Domeric was. He didn't know where Princess Sansa was.
Madness.
Fuck.
___________________________
SANSA
She ran until thought shattered.
Stone blurred past her, alleys folding into one another as her breath tore at her chest. Her dress was ripped open, blood slick on her skin, shoes slipping on filth and refuse, but she ran anyway. Pain meant nothing now. Pain was proof she was still moving.
Footsteps followed.
Too many.
They were not shouting. They were not calling for bread.
They were laughing. Jeering. Calling for her.
She turned sharply into another alley and slammed into a wall, the impact knocking the air from her lungs. She staggered, bit back a cry, and forced herself forward again.
Not here. Not yet.
The alley ended.
Stone. Hooks. Rotting crates.
A dead end.
Sansa spun, wild-eyed, scanning for escape. Her gaze locked on a narrow window cut high into the wall. Too small. Too high. She dragged a crate beneath it and climbed, fingers scraping against stone as she tried to force her shoulders through.
It didn't work.
She pushed harder, breath hitching, skin tearing at her arms. Stone bit into her ribs. She couldn't fit.
Footsteps echoed closer.
She dropped down hard, nearly falling, hands shaking as she reached for the wrist launcher hidden beneath her sleeve.
The sleeve darts.
Her fingers fumbled, slick with sweat and blood. She raised her arm—
The dart fired into the stone at her feet.
No.
No no no, please!—
Her breath broke into short, panicked gasps as she tore it open and reloaded, hands trembling so badly the metal rattled. She could hear them now. Boots. Voices. The scrape of men pressing into the alley mouth.
She lifted her arm again.
The first man rounded the corner and she fired.
The dart struck him square in the chest.
He grunted.
Staggered.
And kept coming.
Why—why isn't he falling?
He lunged at her, arms outstretched. Another man burst in behind him, slamming into her side. She screamed as she hit the ground, stone ripping skin from her back.
Hands pinned her down.
She fought.
Kicked. Bit. Scratched. Screamed until her throat burned raw. Fingers tore at her skirts. Cloth ripped open.
No—
The man gripping her left arm—the one she'd shot earlier—suddenly gasped, a wet choking sound tearing from his throat. His weight sagged. She twisted free, rolled, shoved the launcher up and fired again.
The dart punched into the second man's neck.
He collapsed, clawing uselessly at himself.
Sansa scrambled away, palms burning, breath sobbing out of her. She looked around wildly, searching for anything—a bar, a hook, a length of metal she could swing.
More men poured into the alley.
Too many.
Her eyes fell on a clay jar by the wall. She grabbed it and smashed it against the stone. The crack rang sharp and final.
She took a shard.
It sliced her palm. She barely felt it.
She backed away until the wall pressed cold and unyielding against her spine. The men slowed when they saw the bodies on the ground.
Their eyes gleamed.
Not fear.
Anticipation.
One. Two. Three.
More behind them.
This is how it ends.
She had survived the beatings. The threats. The humiliation. The hands. The words meant to break her. She had endured everything she could endure.
But this—
This was a choice. She won't endure what they intended to do to her.
She raised the shard to her throat and pressed until skin tore, until warmth slid down her neck.
I will not let you.
Better this. Better now. Better death than—
A man's head went flying.
Another was cut through, torso opening as his innards spilled.
Blood sprayed as someone hacked into them.
The alley erupted into screams.
Men fell in pieces. Red slicked the stones. The world lurched, sudden and violent and unreal.
Someone stood in front of her.
"Sansa."
Her knees nearly gave out.
Domeric.
She wasn't dreaming. He was real. He was here.
He moved fast—cloak around her shoulders, bonnet over her hair, hands steady and sure. He took the shard from her fingers and pressed something else into her palm.
A knife.
"Hold this," he said. "Don't let go."
She didn't.
He closed his hand around her wrist and pulled her toward the exit.
Two men appeared at the alley mouth, breathless and ready.
"Let's go."
And they ran.
______________________
DOMERIC
By the time they reached the safe house, two of Princess Ruyan's men were already inside.
Rickard was not.
Domeric registered the absence without reacting. Rickard would find his way or he would not. There was no space to dwell on it now. If the worst had happened, explanations would come later—to their grandfather, and to the North.
Not now.
He looked at Sansa.
She had not let go of the knife.
Her fingers were locked around the hilt, knuckles white, blade angled instinctively outward. Her body trembled in small, uncontrollable shivers, eyes tracking corners, doors, shadows—already mapping exits, already measuring how fast she could run again.
"We're safe here," Domeric said. He paused, then added, more honestly, "For now."
Sansa nodded once. She did not lower the knife.
Domeric set his pack down and knelt, moving carefully, deliberately slow. Sudden motions would startle her. He'd seen it before—in battlefields, in burned villages, in men who had survived only by refusing to relax.
He unpacked the medical kit.
When he turned to the basin, he scrubbed his hands longer than necessary. Water ran over skin already clean, already raw. He kept scrubbing until his knuckles reddened, until the sting gave him something solid to hold.
Too late.
The thought pressed against his skull again, unwelcome and relentless.
Not late enough. But close.
Seconds. Another step slower. Another turn wrong.
She would have been dead.
Or worse.
His jaw tightened. The riot had been their plan. Controlled chaos, they'd told themselves. A spark to draw guards away, an opening to extract her.
They had not planned for that.
He dried his hands and returned to her.
"May I?" he asked quietly, gesturing to the wound at her neck.
Sansa hesitated, then gave a small nod. The knife stayed in her hand.
He cleaned the cut carefully. She flinched, breath hitching, but she didn't cry out. Didn't pull away. She endured it the same way she'd endured everything else—silent, rigid, refusing to break.
They did not speak.
When he finished bandaging her neck, his fingers lingered for half a second longer than necessary. Not to reassure. To ground. To remind her there was something solid in front of her.
She swallowed as Domeric started cleaning and treating the other wounds on her arms.
"I…" Her voice cracked. She tried again. "They… they almost—"
She stopped, breath shuddering. Her shoulders drew in.
"I couldn't let them," she said finally, the words coming out raw and small. "I couldn't—"
Domeric exhaled slowly, steadying himself before speaking.
"You did well," he said.
Her eyes flicked up to him, startled, disbelieving.
"You endured. You fought," he continued, voice low but firm. "You survived."
Her eyes filled then, tears spilling over despite her effort to stop them.
"Thank you," she whispered. "For coming."
That—that was when his control finally cracked.
Domeric stepped forward and pulled her into his arms.
Not tight. Not crushing.
Just enough to let her feel that she was held.
For the first time since the riot, Sansa's legs gave out. She sagged against him, knife finally loosening in her grip as the trembling worsened—not fear now, but release.
Domeric held her and stared over her shoulder at the wall, jaw clenched, rage coiled and contained where she could not feel it.
He had been seconds from losing her.
He would not be seconds late again.