The sound of the massacre followed me everywhere I went. In the tunnels, the screams were muffled, reduced to a hollow vibration that reached me. Still I kept moving, my paws light on the layers of dust that had sat undisturbed for decades.
I'm nervous and scared, not sure how it's gonna end. Every time a door slammed or a man shouted in the distance, I flinched. As a man who had seen this scene play out on a screen a dozen times, the screen could never give you the same dread as when experiencing it firsthand. The Red Keep was giving off a dread I never wanted to experience.
Later I found a crawlspace overlooking the Small Hall. Through the iron slats of the floor grate, I saw the training area.
Syrio Forel stood in the center of the room. He looked small against the five Gold Cloaks and Ser Meryn Trant. He only had his wooden practice sword, the lead-weighted one.
"Be gone, child," Syrio said. His voice was calm, the Braavosi lilt as steady as if he were teaching a lesson. "Run to your father."
Arya was backing away, her eyes wide, her hands trembling as she gripped the doorframe. She looked small. Too small for what was happening.
I pressed my muzzle against the grate. My [Detection] was pulsing. There were more boots coming down the hall behind Arya. If I went out there, I'd be pinned in seconds. I'm sorry Arya..
Then Meryn Trant drew his longsword. The steel shrieked against the scabbard. "The girl comes with us. Step aside, dancing master."
"The First Sword of Braavos does not run," Syrio replied.
The wooden sword moved faster than I could track. He took out the first two Gold Cloaks before they even leveled their spears. A crack to the temple, a thrust to the throat. They went down hard, their armor clattering against the stone.
Meryn Trant stepped in. The Kingsguard didn't play. He swung with the full weight of a man who knew his plate armor would protect him from a stick. Syrio dodged, the wooden blade cracking against the stone floor as Trant's blade sliced through the air where his head had been a second before.
Trant was coiling for a second swing, a heavy, decisive blow meant to break both the stick and the man holding it. He wasn't guarding his face.
I focused on the narrow eye-slit of his helm and activated [Ember].
It was a small effort, barely more than a spark, shot from the shadows of the grate. Trant's armor was heavy steel, but the fire didn't have to melt it. I shot the ember straight through the visor.
Trant let out a strangled grunt as the searing heat of the ember connected. His heavy swing buckled mid-air, and his gauntleted hand instinctively clawed at his helm. He stumbled backward, his balance shattered as he fought the blinding pain.
Syrio didn't hesitate. He didn't know why Trant had faltered, and he didn't care. He dropped the wooden stick. In a single motion, he kicked the fallen longsword of the first Gold Cloak into the air, catching it by the hilt.
The wooden sword was gone. Syrio Forel now held real steel.
"Arya, go!" Syrio shouted, his voice changing, hardening.
She turned and ran. I watched her disappear into the shadows of the outer hallway. Syrio didn't look back. Trant was recovering, his sword coming back up, but the remaining three Gold Cloaks were hesitant now. Syrio moved. He was no longer "dancing." He thrust the steel blade under the gorget of the nearest guard, dropping him instantly, before turning to face Trant.
I backed away from the grate. The "human" part of me felt relief. Syrio isn't going down easily this time. He was the First Sword of Braavos, and I'd just leveled the playing field. He might not win against a Kingsguard and three men, but he wouldn't die in the first minute.
Aside from that, I still needed to find a way to save Ned. But I don't know where to start
When I reached a junction near the spiral stairs that led to the pits. Two Gold Cloaks stood at the top, leaning on their pikes.
"How many did we get?" one asked.
"Few," the other said.
"The boy-king's pissed about the hound, though. Heard it took a piece out of Hallyne's leg."
"Let the boy-king whine. I'm not going into those tunnels after a hound. Let it starve in the tunnels."
I looked down into the dark of the stairwell. I'd helped Syrio, but I don't know if I could do anything for Ned. Unless....
I guess I don't have any other option in the end.
…
The Black Cells were colder than the rest of the keep.
The dark sat heavy in the dungeon, broken only by a faint line of torchlight leaking in from the corridor beyond. The stone walls held the chill, and the damp straw beneath Ned's back did nothing to keep it out.
He lay where they had left him, leaning to the wall. He was hurt since the Gold cloaks didn't show any mercy when he resisted. But having watched his own men die hurts him more than his own physical pain.
Water dripped somewhere above him.
He didn't open his eyes when he heard the scratching.
"No," Ned rasped.
His voice was dry enough to crack. The rats had been coming closer these past hours, bold enough to test the edges of his boots. He waited for the light skittering sound along the stone.
It didn't come.
Instead, there was a low breath.
Ned forced his eyes open.
His vision was blurry, but he could see the narrow ventilation slit near the ceiling. In the faint glow of a torch from the far corridor, a pair of eyes looked down. They were wide, amber, and fixed on him.
"Red?"
The word barely left his throat.
For a moment, he thought it was the fever again.
Then something dropped through the grate.
It struck the floor beside him and rolled into the straw.
Ned turned his head slowly. Reaching took more out of him than it should have. His hand dragged across the stone until his fingers closed around it.
A knuckle of ham, salt-crusted and hard.
He stared at it.
Then he looked back up.
"Run," Ned whispered, the word breaking into a cough. He tried to sit up, the chains on his wrists dragging with a rusted clank. He slumped back, gasping for air. "Get out of here... before they find you."
A soft sound came from above.
Ned tightened his grip on the meat without meaning to. His hand shook.
"Listen to me," he said, forcing the words out between breaths. "They're looking for you. Joffrey… he was shouting for you. If they find you.."
The words didn't come easily after that.
He closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them again, fixing on the shape above.
"Go," Ned said.
There was still something of command in it. Not much, but enough.
"Get out of here. Don't come back for me."
His hand dropped back to the floor.
"I'm done."
The cell fell quiet again, save for the slow drip of water.
I stayed where I was.
From the shaft, I could see enough of him, the way his chest rose, uneven, the way his hand stayed curled against the stone like it had nowhere else to go.
He looked smaller.
Not weaker. Just… worn down.
The meat had come from the kitchens. Left too close to the edge of a table, taken while no one was looking. No one notices a dog carrying scraps in this place.
Down here, no one expected anything to come through the walls.
Boots passed somewhere above the corridor, distant. Voices, low, not stopping.
They weren't looking here.
Not yet.
I moved back from the grate, the stone scraping faintly under my paws. The sound carried more than I liked in the tight space.
I paused, looked down once more.
He hadn't moved.
If I stayed, I wasn't helping him.
So I backed further into the passage, turning only when the light from the slit faded completely behind me.
The tunnels ran narrow beneath the keep where a man would have to crouch to pass. The air changed the deeper I went. Still I moved through them without slowing.
There were other cells below. But no one there is alive if I'm not wrong. Just empty cells.
No one came this far unless they had to.
I didn't stop until the last of the sound from above was gone.
I just kept going.
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