Scene 1: The Ratway
Location: The Blackwater Sewers (Beneath the Hook).
Time: The Dead of Night.
The smell hit them first.
It wasn't just the stench of excrement and rot; it was the sharp, chemical tang of something ancient and volatile. It smelled like old oil and burning sugar.
Robert Baratheon waded through the knee-deep sludge of the main drainage tunnel. He moved with a surprising quietness for a man of his size, his gambeson padded to muffle the shifting links of his mail. He had shed his heavy riding boots, wearing soft leather soles that gripped the slick stones. His warhammer was wrapped in oiled cloth to prevent the metal from ringing against the masonry.
He felt naked without his plate.
At Castle Antlers, he had stripped down to chainmail and boiled leather to save weight for the horses. Now, in the cramped darkness of the "Ratway," even the chainmail felt too heavy. He was a tank trying to be a rogue.
The tunnel narrowed.
"Head down," Siro whispered from the front. The spy moved like a shadow, his dagger drawn. "The brickwork is low here."
Robert ducked, his broad shoulders brushing against the slime-coated walls. He hated this. He hated the claustrophobia. He hated the hiding.
I should be kicking in the front gate, Robert thought, grinding his teeth. I should be smashing Rhaegar on the Trident.
But the System reminded him of the reality.
Robert blinked. The Hud overlaid the darkness with a faint, pulsing red haze. It wasn't magic; it was the System interpreting the subtle chemical signatures in the air.
He saw it. Thin, spectral trails of green gas drifting down from the ventilation shafts above.
The city is bleeding poison, Robert realized. The jars are already unsealed.
"Hold," Robert whispered.
The twelve men froze. The Ashford hunters, Corwin and Kirth, looked nervous. They were used to tracking deer in the Kingswood, not crawling through the bowels of a city about to explode.
"You smell that?" Robert asked.
"Smells like piss and lamp oil, Your Grace," Corwin muttered.
"It's the substance," Robert said grimly. "The Pyromancers are working. They're prepping the caches."
They reached a junction where a rusty iron grate looked up into the streets of Flea Bottom. Faint moonlight filtered down, illuminating the floating filth.
Siro climbed the ladder, listening for a moment, then pushed the grate up. It squealed softly.
He peeked out, then signaled. Clear.
They climbed out of the sewer, emerging into a narrow alley behind a tannery. The air here was better, but the tension was thicker.
King's Landing was a city holding its breath.
To the west, the sky was glowing faintly from the thousands of campfires of Tywin Lannister's army. The sound of distant horns and shouting drifted over the walls.
"Look at the walls," Robert pointed to the battlements of the Lion Gate in the distance.
They were crowded. Torches bobbed back and forth. Every Gold Cloak in the city was staring west, watching the Lion.
"They are looking at the hammer," Robert whispered. "They forgot about the dagger."
He turned to his men. This was the moment.
"We split here," Robert commanded.
He looked at Corwin and the nine other hunters.
"You ten take the lower city. Split into pairs. You know the targets I gave you."
He pointed toward the looming dome of the Great Sept of Baelor on Visenya's Hill.
"Corwin, take four men. Get into the Sept's undercroft. If you see a man in robes holding a torch near a jar of green piss... put an arrow in his eye."
He pointed toward the Dragonpit on Rhaenys's Hill.
"Kirth, take the rest. The Dragonpit cellars. Same rules. Silence is good, but dead is better. Do not let them light the fuses."
"And if we are caught?" Corwin asked, his hand trembling slightly on his bow.
"You aren't rebels tonight," Robert said. "You are ghosts. If you are seen, you kill. If you are cornered, you die before you let them take you."
He gripped Corwin's shoulder.
"Half a million people, Corwin. That's the hunt tonight."
The hunter nodded, steeling himself. "We won't miss, Your Grace."
The ten men melted into the shadows of Flea Bottom, moving with the silent grace of woodsmen.
Robert turned to Siro.
That left two.
"The Head of the Snake?" Siro asked, looking up at the massive, dark silhouette of the Red Keep dominating Aegon's High Hill.
"The Keep," Robert confirmed. "The Pyromancers' guildhall is near the base. Rossart will be with the King."
Robert unwrapped the cloth from his warhammer. The black steel seemed to drink the moonlight.
"We have twelve hours before Tywin knocks," Robert said. "Let's make sure the King is home."
[End of Scene]
Chapter 29: The Ghost in the Machine
Scene 2: The False Friend
Location: The Lion Gate.
Time: Dawn.
The sun had risen, and with it, the Lion had come to the door.
Grand Maester Pycelle stood atop the inner battlements of the Lion Gate. The morning wind ruffled his white beard and his heavy robes of office. Beside him stood the Captain of the City Watch, a man named Ser Manly Stokeworth, who looked down at the massive army encamped outside with trembling hands.
"Fifteen thousand men," Stokeworth muttered. "If they attack, we cannot hold. The garrison is depleted."
"They do not come to attack, Ser Manly," Pycelle said, his voice quavering with the carefully practiced frailty of an old man who knows more than he says. "Lord Tywin is the King's oldest friend. He has marched day and night to save His Grace from the Usurper."
Pycelle clutched the parchment in his sleeve—the order he had coaxed out of Aerys only an hour ago. Open the gates, he had whispered to the Mad King. The Starks are wolves, but the Lion is noble.
Pycelle knew better. He knew Tywin Lannister. He knew that Tywin did not back losers. The Targaryen dynasty was a sinking ship, and Tywin was not here to patch the hull; he was here to salvage the cargo.
But Pycelle also knew that a swift end was better than a long siege.
"Open the gates," Pycelle commanded, presenting the King's seal. "Let the Hand of the King... the true Hand... enter."
Stokeworth hesitated, then signaled the gatekeepers.
The heavy winches groaned. The massive iron portcullis began to rise. The oak doors creaked open, revealing the dusty road and the sea of crimson armor waiting beyond.
Tywin Lannister did not ride in first. He sat on his horse on the hill, watching.
Instead, a column of heavy cavalry, led by Ser Gregor Clegane, trotted toward the open maw of the city.
The Mountain That Rides was a terrifying sight. His armor was thick, scarred plate. His helm obscured his face.
Stokeworth rode out to meet them, a smile of relief plastered on his face.
"Welcome, friends!" Stokeworth called out. "The City is yours! We are—"
The Mountain didn't slow down. He didn't speak. He swung a six-foot greatsword with one hand.
CRUNCH.
Stokeworth's head separated from his shoulders, spinning into the dust.
For a second, there was silence. The Gold Cloaks on the walls stared in disbelief. Pycelle took a step back, clutching his chains, his heart hammering against his ribs. So it begins.
Then, the roar.
"LANNISTER!" Clegane bellowed.
The trot became a charge. The Westerlands cavalry surged through the open gates, trampling the body of the City Watch commander. They didn't form up. They didn't secure the perimeter.
They fanned out. They began to hack at everything that moved.
Spears thrust into the bellies of confused guards. Swords slashed through the throats of merchants who had come to watch the parade.
The Sack of King's Landing had begun.
Location: A Rooftop overlooking Flea Bottom.
Time: Minutes later.
Robert Baratheon lay flat on the slate tiles of a tenement roof, his chest heaving.
He had spent the last hour navigating the rooftops, using the strength of his upper body to haul himself up ledges and jump across narrow alleyways. It wasn't the graceful parkour of a dancer; it was the brutal, athletic climbing of a bear. Tiles cracked under his weight. Beams groaned.
But he was high above the street, invisible to the chaos below.
He watched the Lion Gate from a mile away. He saw the doors open. He saw the red stream pour in.
"He's early," Siro hissed, crouching beside him. "The sun is barely up."
"He didn't wait for the parade," Robert muttered, watching the distant slaughter. "He's in a hurry."
Then, he saw it.
A squad of Lannister men-at-arms, drunk on the sudden violence, kicked in the door of a tavern down the street. A woman screamed.
One of the soldiers, laughing, tossed a lit torch onto the thatched roof of a nearby stable.
The dry straw caught instantly. Whoosh.
Orange flames licked up the side of the building. Smoke began to curl into the sky.
Robert froze.
The System screamed in his vision.
"The fool," Robert growled, rising to a crouch. "He's lighting fires in a powder keg."
He looked at the Red Keep, looming high on Aegon's Hill. Smoke was already starting to rise from the lower city.
If Aerys saw the smoke... if the Pyromancers saw sack and got fresh orders from Aerys...
"The timer has started," Robert said, drawing his sword.
He looked at the distance to the Keep. It was a labyrinth of winding streets, now filling with panic, rape, and fire.
"We can't sneak anymore," Robert told Siro. "We have to run."
He backed up to the edge of the roof, looking at the gap to the next building—a jump of eight feet.
"Keep up, Siro."
Robert sprinted. The slate tiles shattered under his boots. He launched himself into the air, a massive, flying figure of black chainmail against the rising smoke.
He landed hard on the next roof, rolled, and kept running.
Toward the King.
[End of Scene]
Chapter 29: The Ghost in the Machine
Scene 3: The Interception
Location: The Kitchen Cellars (Beneath Maegor's Holdfast).
Time: The Sack Begins.
The door to the scullery splintered inward.
Robert Baratheon didn't use a lockpick. He used his shoulder. He burst through the heavy oak frame, sending splinters flying into the damp, stone room. Siro slipped in behind him like a shadow, dagger drawn, his eyes scanning the corners.
They were in the bowels of the Red Keep now. Above them, the castle was waking up to the nightmare of Tywin's betrayal. They could hear the distant, muffled screams of servants and the clang of steel on stone echoing down the ventilation shafts.
But down here, it was quiet.
Too quiet.
Robert scanned the long stone hallway that led toward the lower vaults—the foundations upon which the massive Holdfast rested.
The System flared.
"Ahead!" Robert hissed.
Around the curve of the spiral staircase, a light flickered.
A man came running down the steps. He was dressed in the flowing, shimmering robes of a Wisdom of the Alchemists' Guild, but over them, he wore the heavy chain of the Hand of the King. His face was pale, sweating, manic.
In his right hand, he held a lit torch.
It was Lord Rossart. The man Aerys had named Hand after his previous Hand. The man who had cooked Rickard Stark in his armor.
He wasn't running to escape. He was running toward the vaults.
Robert saw the realization hit Rossart's eyes. The Pyromancer stopped, staring at the giant in black chainmail blocking his path.
"You!" Rossart squeaked. "You are not—"
Then he looked at the torch in his hand. He looked at the heavy iron door behind Robert—the door that led to the oil stores and pantry.
"Burn it all!" Rossart screamed, raising the torch to throw it down the corridor.
Robert didn't think. He didn't monologue.
He exploded into motion.
He covered the twenty feet between them in three massive strides. Rossart brought his arm back to hurl the fire.
He was too slow.
Robert hit him like a collapsing wall. He lowered his shoulder and slammed into the Pyromancer's chest, driving the air from his lungs with a wet CRACK.
The impact lifted Rossart off his feet. They crashed into the stone wall together, a tangle of limbs and robes.
But the momentum did what Robert feared.
The torch flew from Rossart's grip.
It spun end over end, a wheel of orange fire, arcing through the damp air.
Time seemed to slow.
Robert watched the flame. It was heading straight for open door of the Pantry and Oil stores, where there were old, dry rushes on the floor, with lard and oil stored alongside walls. If that dry rush was lit, the fire would be uncontrollable in the pantry. If the pantry caught... the heat would reach the vaults.
"Siro!" Robert roared.
The spy was already moving.
He didn't run; he slid. He threw himself across the flagstones like a lizard skittering across rock, his leather armor rasping against the stone.
The torch hit the apex of its arc and began to fall.
Siro's hand shot out.
Snap.
He caught the torch by the haft, mere inches above the pantry door. The flame wobbled, casting wild shadows, but it did not touch the fuel.
Siro exhaled, his face illuminated by the fire he had just snatched from the air.
"That was close," Siro whispered.
Robert was still pinning Rossart to the wall. The Pyromancer was gasping, blood bubbling from his mouth where his ribs had punctured a lung. He clawed feebly at Robert's face.
" The... the King..." Rossart gurgled, his eyes rolling back. "He... gave the order..."
Robert looked at the man who had burned Stark men alive. He felt no pity. Only disgust.
"Order revoked," Robert growled.
He drew the dagger from his belt and drove it into the side of Rossart's neck. One clean, brutal thrust.
The Pyromancer went limp.
Robert let the body slide to the floor. He wiped the blade on Rossart's expensive robes.
He looked at the Hud.
"One head cut off," Robert said, turning to Siro. "But the Dragon has backup."
"The King is alone," Siro said, extinguishing the torch in a bucket of water. The hiss of steam sounded like a dying snake. "Jamie Lannister is guarding him."
"Jaime is a boy," Robert said, picking up his warhammer. "And Aerys is a madman cornered."
He looked up the spiral staircase, toward the screams of the dying castle.
"We finish it now."
[End of Scene]