Prologue
Part IV: The Sack
The bells had started ringing again, some time before uncle finally burst in. Not that she’d paid much attention. Like most in the city, she just wanted to be put out of her misery. After what had been done to her, it was still beyond her to hate, even now that her rapist was peacefully snoring next to her, so disturbingly boyish it made her feel like puking. She didn’t understand and she didn’t want to understand, she wanted to be with mother, to be sung to, to forget...
As the door was thrown open and uncle saw them, Joffrey fast asleep, Myrcella pressing her body against the wall, just to be as far as possible from Joffrey as was possible, naked and soiled, he paused. First, there was sadness, then, there was rage.
He stormed at his king, one furious waddle at a time, and tore him from the bed. Joffrey screamed: “Ah!” but Tyrion ignored him. He looked up Myrcella, his face trembling, his eyes powerless, mouthing a word, never succeeding at actually saying it out loud. Failing to face her, he looked down again, near shaking with rage, but how could he possibly vent it? He might want many things: to kick the king, torture him, depose him, throw him out of a window… but they were firmly outside of the realm of the possible.
And so he just stood, so angry, yet so powerless, and hissed: “You… you… you little monster! Even for you…”
Joffrey opened his mouth, but Tyrion said: “Ser Balon? The northmen are attacking. The king must prepare himself for the coming battle.”
The big kingsguard nodded slowly and picked up his king. He didn’t look at Myrcella as he escorted a screaming Joffrey away.
Uncle stared at her face, sadness in his eyes. He looked to the floor, but the only clothes he found were torn. There were no maids in sight, they were probably running for their families in the cities, hoping to spend some time with time before Robb’s barbarians snuffed their young lives out of existence with rape and slaughter. In the end, he just lifted her off the bed, took its bedsheets and wrapped them around her small frame. She leaned on her uncle, her face pale, her eyes gaunt, her steps unsteady as they shuffled on.
“This is the line,” Tyrion muttered, “Out of all the little monsters here, I am the only one with a heart. Fuck them all. Let them burn.”
“Uncle,” She said, “What are we going to do?”
“What we are not going to do, is die for the little mongrel that serves as your ‘brother’. Stark is going to lop his head off, and good luck to him! We are getting out of this city, one way or the other!”
As they walked through the palace, its red stone cold yet reassuring beneath Myrcella’s feet, she felt more horrible every time someone running by shot her a look or frowned at her ‘attire’, as if her story was etched on her face with a pen, clear for all to see…
“But, uncle, there are only… ah…”
“Yes, my dearest cousin… we are going to surrender to the Young Wolf.”
*
The man’s left eye popped as Hosten’s sword ripped into its socket. He fell, his body spasming.
“Fuckin’ Lannisters!” He hissed.
Another soldier, a broad-shouldered one swinging his sword rather fast. Hosten managed to block the slash, but was pushed back, his men rushing past him and overpowering the fool.
Other Northmen came up the ladders, finally scaling King’s Landing’s walls, setting rough shoes on its fine brick, brandishing northern axes awaiting to bite southern necks. The false spirits of the south would not save these fools, alas, the ‘Seven’ could not protect anyone from the fury of the northmen.
“FOR EDDARD!” Hosten’s men shouted, and started to push the Lannister gold-and-red back, ever closer to the edge, where only the hungry air awaited their bodies. The foes tried to flee, but were pushed back by an ever-present line of attackers. Yet, as their skulls burst and lungs were cut open, as their life left them and their future was ended, they still struggled, anything not to fall, anything to live.
But they had chosen to be on the wrong side of the war. They fell, screaming in fear, trashing, holding on even to the swords of their attackers, but they fell all the same. When it was over, the ground below was littered with a thick layer of dead ‘lions’, and the wolves roared their victory.
Hosten muttered a quick prayer to the gods, just some words, probably unheard, floating away on the musk of blood and piss that passed for air now. After that, he cleared his throat and shouted: “TO THE KEEP, LADS! TO THE KEEP!”
*
Truly, the gods were merciful, for They had given Maege the opportunity to plunder the Great Septry before her strength finally failed her. The thought of it brought tears to her eyes: to see the heathen construction burn by her hand was a dream so beautiful it ought to be captured on a painting and paraded around Winterfell and the Bear Island.
The brothers and sisters of the septry raised their hands against her men, but if they resisted, they were cut down. There were no Riverlords to be found here: in the hearts of Maege’s forces, the Old Gods ruled.
A battering ram had been brought here, at her command, to beat down the marble arches supporting the septry’s great bell. As she looked on, a third arch exploded into bits of stone, leaving the bell unsupported, falling, falling, falling… and contorting as it smashed to the ground. In the distance, a statue of Baelor the Blessed looked on, its face frozen in powerless benevolence. Maege smiled.
“Lads, get yerself some ropes!”
When the battering ram had done its work on the Septry’s main doors and the Northmen poured through, poor Baelor’s stone body had been pulled down, his head smashed and his marble clothes pissed and defecated on. Maege went inside the building, and witnessed the amazing sight of its glowing lamps being smashed, the images of the seven destroyed and scratched away. She and her men entered the dome to the sound of the wailing of the religious.
“Focus on gold, not killing!” Maege shouted. The king had been clear on that.
And so the great dome was shattered by the throwing of stones and bricks, bringing down its gold, its glass, its diamonds. All was picked up and carried away, while the workers of the septry were powerless to defend themselves. Some tried, but they were cut down if they were men. If they were women… their fate was altogether more unpleasant. In the words of one soldier: “I always asked meself if the silent bitches scream if ya poke ‘em hard enough!”
Maege walked up to the statues of the Father and the Mother, and raised her arms, letting her head fall into her neck and her mouth fall open in rapture as her ‘lads’ took new ropes and swung them around the idols of the south, pulling, tearing, and finally ripping them down.
“Finally!” She shouted, “Finally! Lads, show yerself to the vaults and tombs, and avenge our gods!”
And as they flowed down into the sept in an orgy of pillaging, finding the wine, the treasures, she walked to the face of the Father, pulled down her breeches, and pissed on it.
*
Hosten’d heard the troops under Maege’s command showed little restraint taking the ‘holy’ quarters of the city, but he was very determined to follow Robb’s orders to the letter. As his troops rampaged through King’s Landing, they left the houses of the poor alone, focusing on getting to their final goal: the keep.
As the houses grew more lavish, and as a result, the sacking more intensive, the cheers of the Riverlords and Northmen were joined by those of the people of King’s Landing, as carts of food followed the soldier’s assault. Hosten, of course, never noticed: he was in the vanguard now, well ahead of the main army.
“Melord, the Blackfish has sent more men, we’re to push for the keep!” A Squire had informed him.
And that had been ridiculously easy. Resistance was nearly non-existent: Joffrey, it turned, was so unpopular that at the first sign of Northern ‘mercy’ no more soldiers were to be found, only the gold cloaks they’d worn while still fighting.
But now, there was a most curious obstacle in his way. As on his sides, the manses of the noble quarters burned and their men and women screamed, his men had suddenly held up their relentless advance. Hosten walked forward, snarling: “What the fuck are you all-”
As he broke through the line of soldiers impeding his sight, he saw them: a small girl wrapped in sheets, and a dwarf garbed in red-and-gold and wearing a badged resembling a hand, staring at down a horde of very amused northmen and riverlanders. Behind them, some scraggly mercenary and a pretty whore looking like she’d come from the east.
“Well, I’ll be damned!” Hosten hissed.
There was only one dwarf in King’s Landing with a pin on his clothes, and his name was Tyrion Lannister.
“We kill ‘em, boss?” A Riverlander knight asked, his face eager. Hosten shook his head.
The dwarf raised his hands, yelling: “No, you don’t want to do that! I can pay you!”
Hosten grinned.
“Don’t harm the little fucker and the girl! The king himself has ordered mercy for the Lannisters...”
The girl looked up at him. She had long, thick hair, a little curly, and a fine face: it was undeniable that she’d be a heartbreaker in a few years. She said: “Mercy?”
But Hosten’s smile grew mean.
“Until he judges you lot guilty or not guilty of murdering his sisters.”
He walked up to the two, the dwarf jumping in front of her. Hosten hissed: “And guess what, dwarf… The North remembers! It remembers ye Lannisters murderin’ our leader and his daughter for nothin'… oh, I really sure that you lot will be found guilty! And when yer' pretty little Lannister heads roll through the dirt, I'll be the one to piss on 'em!”
Hosten pointed at the streets behind him.
“Get them fuckers out of my sight! We need ta get fuckin’ moving!”
