The Dragonpit

"MAKE WAY FOR THE KING!" Heads turned as the royal assemblage - a common sight for those living in the capital - made their way into the dragonpit. At the head was the High Sparrow, arms crossed over his chest, while a cluster of Faith Militant Holy Guardsman marched behind him with their gold truncheons. The royal litter was massive, carried by dozens of slaves and ringed by Goldcloaks. To one side was the towering form of Ser Gregor Clegane, while on the other was Brother Lancel Lannister, two slaves carrying his large horn. At a single command, the slaves dropped the litter and Lancel blew on the horn. All but the Stark and Targaryen parties and the highest Lannister officials fell to various degrees of prone reverence at the blast of the horn, act drilled into them by years of protocol.

Scurrying over at the end of the final blast of the horn, the High Sparrow drew back the gauzy material to allow Joffrey to step off the litter. Watching, Sansa leaned down to whisper to Tyrion, "I had to see it for myself, but he's actually gotten more insane than when I was last here."

"We're pilgrims in an unholy land," the Imp whispered back, frowning.

Gossamer fabric swishing along the wooden floorboards of the platform, Joffrey gingerly made his way to his seat - placed on a higher dias and inlaid with jewel encrusted gold. His personal throne, mobile in case he had to leave the palace. This was the first time he used it. Sitting, he immediately spotted Tyrion. "Ah, Uncle. Riding high in the world, I see." He immediately dissolved into giggles.

Tyrion pursed his lips, trying not to laugh out loud at his stupidity. "Ah, I had a wager going with Lady Sansa over which dwarf joke you would use." He noticed a few among the collection that didn't laugh with the King. Father and Jaime he understood, but a raised eyebrow followed Cersei's taciturn expression. 'Not that Myrcella's death endeared me to her.'

"His wasn't even good," the Hand in the North replied.

Joffrey's smile widened at the sight of Sansa. "Dearest Sansa, you look as beautiful as ever. I think that I shall enjoy having you by my side again once this war is over." He undoubtedly was leering at her from behind the veil.

While both Robb and Brienne's fists clenched, blizzards howled within Sansa's ice blue eyes. "My late husband said the same thing before the fields of Winterfell. I told him that he would die the next day, and the next day I fed him to his hounds. What animal would you believe hungers for you the most, my King?"

Leering turning to sputtering, Tyrion cut in before Joffrey could respond. "She's not yours to torment, anymore. Quite the letdown, isn't it nephew?"

Cheeks flushed red, Joffrey was struggling to compose himself, so Tywin interjected to his son. "Where are they?" The two empty chairs on either side were quite conspicuous.

It was Sansa that answered him. "They will be here shortly." Firm, quite a voice like his own.

"They didn't travel with you?"

"Doesn't seem like it, my Lord."

A groan left Joffrey's lips. "How dare they leave their true King waiting like this?" He slouched in his throne, bearing the diplomatic tact of a wight - much to the irritation of his Small Council and to the amusement of the other. "I really should send Ser Gregor after them if they continue this…"

A loud yet feint roar shook the King out of his rantings. He immediately flinched as Jaime, Daario, and Littlefinger rose with hands upon their swords. Robb, Barristan, and Davos stood and moved towards the center of the dias, joined by Tyrion, Varys, and Jorah opposite them. Two bat-shaped shadows - massive ones - splayed out atop the ruined edifice of the dragonpit, growing larger and larger. Until the majesty once again arrived to the dead ground.

Two massive dragons, four others further up in the air, swooped down upon the dragonpit, Goldcloaks and Faith Militant scurrying out of the way in fear. The King shook in terror as they landed atop the ruins, the green and black beasts filling the air with their piercing roars. And atop them were two figures, crowns gracing their brows. The Targaryen Emperor and Empress making their entrance. One far grander than Joffrey could ever perform.

Rhaegal and Balerion craning their necks to the side to glance at each other with a hoot, slowly they then lowered them to the ground, allowing Jon and Dany to climb down. Descending with the spines for a ladder had become second nature to the two monarchs. It was effortless, neither of them fazed in the slightest - disconcerting to many within the Lannister camp. As soon as the two were out of their immediate zone, the dragons unfurled their wings and leapt into the sky, kicking up a cloud of dust which showered over everyone… including the Chimera himself.

Each were clad in all black, Longclaw and Saracen sheathed on their respective owner's hip. Jon wore his black cloak over the black leather cuirass bearing the snarling direwolf, the mighty appearance clashing with his face, oddly subdued and preoccupied for the legendary White Wolf that entered atop dragonback. Perhaps it was the shaved face and loose hair, perhaps the faraway look in his eyes. Quite the contrast with the Dragon Empress. Hair braided in the northern style, her black leather battle dress, black gloves, and silver chain along her torso transformed the petite girl of twenty-three into a mighty conquering monarch. Visenya reborn, bearing a cold, expressionless mask. Crowns atop their heads, they walked towards and onto the dais together before separating. Jon sat in his chair, looking skywards. Daenerys settled into hers with hands on her lap, eyes boring directly towards Joffrey.

Watching the mighty beasts sail high into the air - returning to their brother and sisters in a holding pattern circling the dragonpit, home of their long-dead ancestors - Joffrey felt his white terror shift to indignant anger. Catching the cold yet satisfied twinkle in Daenerys' eyes, he turned to the High Sparrow. "Now, you fool!"

The High Sparrow nodded, hands moving to drape over his face while addressing the Chimera. "At once, sire." Stepping forward several paces, fully bare and modest before the world in his outfit aside from the gold fingerclaws that betrayed his high title, the former nobleman turned servant of the Seven gestured to the draped monarch with a flourish. "You stand and give tribute to His Highest Joffrey, His most Holy Chimera. Messiah of the Seven, born of the womb of the Maiden. King of the Andals, Rhoynar, and First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm. Representative of the Gods upon the Earth."

Beside him, Jon could hear Sansa softly retch. Across, he could tell his utterly regal wife having the same reaction underneath her cold exterior. It was as he would feel, had he not been confident. 'Soon, you sadistic idiot. Soon.'

Clearing her throat, Missandei rose. "Before you is Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen and Stark, First of Her Name. Empress of the Targaryen Empire, rightful Queen of Westeros. Queen in the North and New Valyria. Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea and Protector of the Realm. Mother of Dragons, Breaker of Chains. Unburnt and Valyria Reborn." Quietly sucking in a deep breath, she took her seat beside her Empress.

Eyes shifted en masse to the northerners, awaiting the formal introduction of an equal monarch. Mind whirring with various strategies, Jon didn't notice until Davos - shrugging - decided to handle it. "Oh, um… this is Jon Stark." Uncomfortable silence. "Uh… he's the Emperor." Sansa and Robb bit back smirks while Joffrey looked to be shaking in anger. With barely two sentences, Davos had put Joffrey in his place.

Shifting in his seat, aching bones communicating that he wasn't in his prime anymore, Tywin's eyes flickered from Daenerys, to Jon, and then back to Daenerys. 'Why are they sitting apart?' "A significant delay in this meeting. If you wish to negotiate in good faith, not a good start."

"Our apologies," Daenerys said flatly, hands resting in her lap.

"So," announced Joffrey, voice loud but scratchy as the veil-covered face turned towards Jon. "Bastard. I remember you. At Winterfell, how you were a whipped dog not allowed near his betters. You don't look much different, false legitimacy notwithstanding."

Dark glares directed Joffrey's way from both northerners and southerners, along with a growl from the resting Ghost. "My King," whispered Tywin. "Perhaps we should avoid insults at the moment." Bored already, Joffrey waved him off - implicitly handing the reins of negotiation to his Hand and advisors.

"Lords and Ladies of Westeros." Littlefinger stood, hands clasped together piously. "Even in this time of war, it warms my heart greatly that we may all gather together as befitting our highborn status before our King, to discuss matters of import. As…"

"There is only one matter of import, today, Lord Baelish," Daenerys cut him off. "Normally, I would not seek to discuss peace. Your family murdered my family, tried to murder me and my family by marriage, and seek to oppress the entirety of my people under your heel. I very much would like the war to continue until my husband and I are victorious."

Tywin tilted his head at her. "Ah, so what is the point of all of this? If you wish to rub our noses in the dirt, it seems a bit premature."

"True, which is why I'm not seeking to do so." She watched as Tywin raised an eyebrow. "I am under no illusions as to the history between our families. However, for as much as we oppose each other, we share the fact that we are living."

"Go on." Tywin didn't follow, but wouldn't tell the Dragon Queen that.

"This meeting is not about who should rule, but about whether we as a whole, survive." Dany motioned for a very specific person, one she and Jon had jointly decided would make their case after Jon ruled himself out. "May I present Samwell Tarly, acting Maester of Castle Black and chief science advisor to His Majesty the Emperor."

Pushing out of his chair, Sam stepped towards the center of the dias. His eyes locked with the one person he had been dreading to see. "Father."

Randyll Tarly narrowed his eyes at him. "Still fat as ever, I see." That sent the King into a fit of giggles, mumbling something about how he was fatter than his own fool, but Lord Tarly was as serious as a corpse. "Heard you had taken up with a Wilding whore. I'm not surprised, you've always been a disgrace…"

"Enough, Lord Tarly." Tywin was losing his patience. "I want to hear what he has to say."

Fighting back the urge to slink away, Sam stammered to a beginning. "The stories of the Long Night, long thought legend, are true. The Army of the Dead and the Night King are both real, and are both lurking north of the wall for the right moment to strike."

"In Essos, children are told of a monster that would swat them with a switch and eat them at night if they misbehaved," Daario scoffed. "But that was just a story, as this seems to be."

"Make no mistake, it," Sam gulped. "It is real in this instance."

"You have to admit," Tywin replied. "Your story is quite unbelievable."

"We have proof." As if by perfect timing, a single figure lumbered in with a crate on his back. Muscles straining, Gendry Baratheon set it down upon the dias with a loud thud.

"I'm sorry, but who is this?" For the first time that day, it was Cersei that spoke. There was an odd look in her eye, one of weariness and spite.

It was Gendry that introduced himself. "Gendry Baratheon, honored stepmother." Jon couldn't help the small snort. Arya would have loved this. "Lord paramount of the Stormlands and son of Robert Baratheon."

There was silence. "One of King Robert's bastards, I take it." Tywin broke the silence.

"Legitimized by the Emperor. As his eldest, I have premier claim to Storm's End."

The King burst into giggles. "Premier claim? You must be mad. A bastard like you can never be a Lord - even of a pile of rocks and shit like Storm's End. Just like a bastard cannot rule a Kingdom," he spat at Jon.

Gendry raised an eyebrow. "From what they say, you look nothing like our father. Perhaps it is instead that you are the bastard of someone else's loins." Joffrey was noticeably fuming, but Daenerys didn't miss the subtle flicker of fear over Cersei and Jaime's eyes.

"In the name of the gods, just get it done!" Catelyn shouted. Catelyn, not Jon. His family and advisors wanted to look at him with incredulity. What was up with him? Why was he so subdued and… resigned?

Shrugging off those same thoughts himself, Sam watched as Gendry began opening the crate. "Best step back, Lords and Ladies," he warned, clutching the trusty dragonglass dagger in his hand. The seconds ticked by, Joffrey tapping his boots in annoyance while Jaime leaned forward anxiously. Surely it couldn't be…

Out of the crate jumped the wight, sunlight slamming into undead eyes for the first time in months. Quickly it locked onto the first target directly in its line of sight - Joffrey. With a snarl the undead demon charged. Joffrey screamed, scrambling back in his throne as Daario and Gregor Clegane dashed forward to block the monster. The entire Lannister host seemed to flinch back, braver souls going for their swords. Tywin and Randyll Tarly shielded themselves while Jaime pushed Cersei behind him. Jaw bared, the wight's hands reached out to claw at Joffrey before Gendry yanked it back with the chain clamped around its neck. A thud rang out as it fell to the ground.

Undeterred, it lunged at Gendry, but the former blacksmith was now hefting a large warhammer. With one swing he decapitated the creature. Upper half careening onto the wood, its screams and snarls continued unabated as it crawled towards someone or something. Stepping forward, Sam cut off its hand and handed it to Qyburn, who peered at the still writhing thing delicately.

"Only three things can kill it," said the portly pseudo-maester. "Dragonglass." He took the hand from Qyburn and stabbed it with his dagger, stilling it. Everyone was riveted to him. "Fire works best. Valyrian steel, though it is rare." A Dothraki bloodrider set the legs on fire while Daenerys stood, drew Saracen, and jammed the tip into the wight's back. Finally, it died. "North of the wall, there are over a hundred thousand of these monsters, just waiting to swarm all over the Seven Kingdoms."

A hush had fallen over the dragonpit. Those that had never seen the dead were in a stunned silence. Tywin paled, the High Sparrow mumbled prayers, Jaime trembled from the sheer weight of it all. Littlefinger and Pycelle looked like they were about to shit their pants. And Joffrey, beneath his veil, looked as if he had. "What are those things?" mumbled Jaime, first among them to speak.

"Our doom." Daenerys had actually seen their entire army, and even still her heart beat out of her chest. "There is no real war but the war against the dead."

Jaime ran a hand down his face, still reeling from the beast. "I can't believe it."

"Neither did I, Ser Jaime," replied Daenerys, using his title rather than the normal 'Kingslayer.' "Not until I saw them."

"Are they all like this?" The voice belonged to Tywin, who had composed himself. "Walking skeletons?"

"Most are human, varying based on how fresh they were," Sam answered. "The Night King has others in his army. Mammoths, bears, giants…"

Belching out a half-laugh, half-cough, Pycelle sounded like every one of his over eighty years. "Please, young fool. There are no such thing as giants. Stories for the children."

"Tell that to the northern warriors, who fought with the giants at Winterfell." Sansa regarded the doddering old idiot as one would an insect. "I bet you would have said the same thing about dragons, had they not flown over you just today." Despite indignant mutterings from Pycelle, no one could find fault with her logic.

Reeling from terror and humiliation, Joffrey turned angrily to Jon. "You, Stark Bastard! You were the one that warned of this in Sansa's dispatch! What have you to say?"

Attention drifting back to the parlay, Jon spared a short glance in the direction of Catelyn Stark, who gave the slightest nod. Pushing himself up from his chair, Longclaw jostled on his hip as he walked right next to the still corpse of the fallen wight. "Much of what needs to be said has already been said."

Daenerys blinked. 'That's all he has to say?' This whole thing was his idea.

"You brought us here, Jon Snow," Randyll Tarly stated coldly. "Surely there is more that you have to say."

Sighing, the Emperor looked the full fatigue of his throne. "Since I joined the Night's Watch, I have been fighting the Army of the Dead. Fighting them, fighting the Free Folk, fighting my own men at times. Endless fighting, endless war." He ran a hand down his face. "I'm sick of it. All I wish for is for a realm at peace… where my children need not hear the battlecry."

Among the combined imperials, a collective shock fell over them. Robb's jaw had dropped, as had Sansa's. Davos and Tyrion shared wide eyes, while Varys tried to make sense of all of this. Missandei, seeking to be the voice of calm, whispered in her Empress' ear. "He would never do this if he didn't have a plan." But Daenerys didn't hear any of it. Conflicting emotions of anger, confusion, and betrayal were bubbling inside her. Jon, the strongest man she knew, was basically signalling to the entire Lannister host that he was a weakling.

"I ask for a truce, on both sides, so we can fight the Night King together. Afterwards, we can have a negotiated settlement."

"Your Majesty," Sansa spoke up. "Perhaps we should…"

"Truce along the current lines of control, while we secure an equitable peace once the dead are dealt with?" Tywin clarified. "You and the Dragon Queen stay in the north."

Jon nodded, looking at Joffrey. He understood where the mind of the vicious idiot was taking him. Time for the kill. "It would be acceptable." Daenerys felt like screaming.

"Hmmmm." Looking at his advisors, and then at the so called White Wolf, Joffrey couldn't help but smirk. 'What a fool. A weak, sentimental fool. Just like his father.' "Tell you what, bastard." One could almost see the smug, sadistic grin under his veil. "Surrender your entire army to my control. Declare me the rightful ruler of all the lands you claim to be yours. Get on your knees and bow before me. Kiss my feet and proclaim me your god, as I am in truth. Then, and only then, will I offer my divine powers to vanquishing this menace."

Watching her husband hang his shoulders in near defeat, Daenerys wouldn't stand for this. "Enough games!" She rocketed out of her seat. "I won't let you play petty politics with this. The entirety of humanity is in doom, and you want us to swear allegiance to you as the price for all that serve you? Have you no concept of decency?!"

"He is the Messiah of the Seven, Lady Targaryen," the High Sparrow stated. "If he chooses to fight these monsters, then he has the power of the Seven behind him and shall truly triumph."

"My Lady…" Jon began, making sure his voice was pleading.

Shooting a withering glare at Jon out of sheer frustration and anger - just as he intended - Daenerys drew her line in the sand. "Either you accept our offer of a truce, or you have chosen war."

Risen to his feet, Joffrey snarled back at her. "You will bow down before my power or face my wrath, Dragon bitch!"

Jaime moved to plead his son for sense. "All Highest, perhaps we should…"

To no avail. "My father wiped out your family before, and I shall finish the job! Bend the knee or I shall have you, your bastard lover, and all your half-breed children will be drawn and quartered and fed to the crabs!"

Ghost snarling at the King, Daenerys almost drew Saracen and sliced off his head. "My dragons will enjoy your corpse." Turning, she motioned to a grim-faced Tyrion. "This parlay is over."

"The night is dark and full of terrors, Lord Joffrey." Melisandre enjoying his fear, she spared a knowing look upon the Emperor before turning back to Joffrey. "But you will die before the Long Night begins. Enjoy what is left of your life"

Sharing a glance with his brother, the two Lannisters knew that the damned scrap of steel called the Iron Throne would have rivers of blood spilled over it in the near future.

"Get this soiled rag off of me!" screamed the Chimera, back in his private quarters. Safe behind the curtains that shielded his holy form from the world, the blind slaves moved to clean his buttocks of the dried fecal matter that the snarling monster forced out of him. Never had he been so humiliated - not since Arya and her wolf disarmed him years ago - and it morphed into rage. "I want her and her bastard lover killed. All of their armies burned to the ground!"

The four members of the small council kept their heads down, affording him their respect - even if it was false in most cases. "Their armies cannot break through ours, all Highest," stated Tywin. "Our position is impregnable. If they attack, we will be ready."

Joffrey nodded, feeling the slaves wipe his asscheeks with wet washcloths. "Sacrifice several slaves to the Maiden, my mother. She will bring us good fortune."

"At once, all Highest," bowed the High Sparrow.

Gulping, Jaime still found himself shellshocked from the ordeal. "All Highest. That… thing is the one sight in my entire life of travels and fighting that honestly terrifies me. After seeing it, I cannot unsee it. Hundreds of thousands of those things are waiting to attack us, perhaps we should…"

He didn't continue, his father slapping him. "Enough, Jaime!" Army of the Dead or not, he needed to learn to keep his mouth shut and stick to strategy and cunning.

"Good, grandfather. I am troubled that you accepted their lies, Lord Lannister. It had to have been some kind of trick." Jaime shut up, something inside him snapping, but quietly. "Baelish!"

"Yes, all Highest?"

"It's time the Starks found another one of their precious pack beheaded. Find me Arya!"

Across the city, in the diplomatic train the Lannister soldiers were ordered to leave unmolested, the fire held off from Jon was finally being unleashed. "What in Seven Hells, brother!" Robb yelled.

"Do you have any idea what you just did?" Sansa couldn't believe her brother. Jon was the strongest man she knew, one who faced enemies ranging from Ramsay Bolton, the Masters of Slaver's Bay, and even an entire herd of mammoth - only to wither in the face of Joffrey Baratheon of all people? "Joffrey thinks you're a weakling. And now so does Tywin!"

"I gather you're an honorable person, your Majesty." Gears were turning in Tyrion's head, figuring how he could solve this. "But instead of bearing your soul, couldn't you have lied or something?"

Jon ignored all the pleas, staring straight ahead. Riding beside him, at least until they could mount their dragons once more, Dany fought between anger and concern. "Jon…" This was not like him. This was not like him at all. "Why did you do that? Tell me," she commanded firmly.

Suddenly, Jon turned his head. "Davos." The Onion Knight looked up. "Send a raven to Wayfarer's Rest. Tell General Caryn to begin the assault at once." Without waiting for a response from any of them, he spurred his mount forward - likely to where Catelyn Stark was riding.

Daenerys gaped at the back of her husband. 'What the…' She did not know what to say - the Dragon Empress could read most people, including the enigmatic Jon Targaryen, but he was utterly alien to her now. "I would say he's drunk," remarked Tyrion, "But our Emperor doesn't drink." Drinking sure would explain it, though.

The torchlight lit up the slave pen, bathing it in a low, flickering illumination. Most of those within had already passed out from exhaustion - or starvation - being whipped and labored all day in the construction of the monument to Joffrey's hubris. Four that weren't asleep rested within the special corner, blocked off by all unwanted trespassers by a semicircle of Brotherhood bruisers and Essosi guards.

"The Lord of Light shines upon your family, young Arya." Reaching into a chest, Kinvara pulled something out that Arya couldn't see. "You use deception and agility to attack your enemies with your Needle, a gift from his grace upon the family tasked with setting the world to its proper path."

"Ugh." Clegane rolled his eyes, turning over on his cot. "Give me a broadsword any day. I'll smash any fucker in the face that comes at me."

"I'm sure the little wolf here can't just smash any shitheads, Clegane," retorted Thoros, taking a swig of cheap ale. Whether it tasted like horsepiss or Arbor gold, it didn't matter. All that mattered in the slave pens was that it got one drunk.

Arya smirked at the Hound's back. It was just the four of them in Kinvara's corner, Beric off doing… old gods' know what somewhere. Any operations by the weak 'resistance' within King's Landing were kept decentralized and need to know. Her eyes flickered back to Kinvara, widening. "What is that?"

In her hands, Kivara balanced a dangling necklace. The chain was gold, but that wasn't what drew her eyes. Held by the chain was a pendant, a diamond in the most brilliant shade of yellow, glittering in the low firelight. "A gift from the Lord of Light for the sister of the Promised Prince."

Unlike her sister, Arya had no love of 'pretty things,' such as silks, jewels, or other finery. And yet here was Kinvara, gifting her with one of the most beautiful stones she had ever seen. "So what is that supposed to do?"

Smiling knowingly - as if she understood something that no one else could, Kinvara approached her. "Stealing faces is an art, but only those in service to the Lord of Light can truly assume the skill that every Faceless Man seeks." Fastening the necklace to her neck, Kinvara tucked it underneath the fabric of Arya's tunic. Out of sight from the prying hands of overseers or the Faith Militant, both more than happy to loot and then rape a hapless slave.

"Enjoy going to the royal ball and dancin' with all the handsome princes and lords to be," grumbled the Hound.

"Shut up," Arya said back, Causing Thoros and Kinvara to laugh.

The priestess composed herself, normally serious eyes full of mirth. "One strand of hair atop the stone, and whoever wears it shall assume the power of a thousand Faceless Men. Keep it close, and when you see the need, use it wisely."

"Your holiness." All turned to see Beric, face contorted in worry, one eye wide. "They're coming."

There was no need to define who 'they' was. "Who for?" Kinvara asked in return.

The one-eyed lord looked straight at Arya. "The wolf." In the distance, shouts and scuffles could be heard as the gate to the slave pen swung open and torch bearing men stormed inside.

Kinvara was unflappable, snapping into action without hesitation. "Come with me," she whispered, grabbing Arya by the wrist. The young Stark followed, instincts to blend in with one of her faces overridden by the insistent priestess. Her eyes widened when Kinvara buried her hand wrist-deep in the sand and pulled open a hidden trapdoor. Beneath was a shallow tunnel. "Go. Go quickly."

Arya blinked. "What am I supposed to do?"

"The Lord of Light will bring opportunity upon you, now go." Kinvara practically shoved Arya in before slamming the trapdoor shut. Soon after, the sand was back in place, as if it was undisturbed.

She had just exited her little hut as Thoros and Beric greeted the guards. A Goldcloak led them, a motley mix of Essosi overseers and Faith Militant thugs. "Are you in charge?"

"Some persons may say so," Kinvara replied innocently. "As for myself, I consider the term 'servant' a better description."

The Goldcloak seemed to be too puzzled. "I am looking for the bitch, Arya Stark. I was told she was here." Kinvara's eyes flickered to Beric, who nodded imperceptibly. One rule of the slave pens, crossing the Lord of Light's Priests and the Brotherhood network that served it was forbidden. The Goldcloaks must have had an informant, and by the day after tomorrow someone in the pen would be found with his severed head mounted on a pike for all to see. "Well. Where is she?!"

"Small girl, bout ye high? Looks like a boy?" All turned to Clegane, still in bed. "She was my fucktoy. Stole her off some Dornish cunt. She was tight, for a while at least."

"Where is she, you little buggerous shit," hissed a Faith Militant, only to back away as Clegane stood tall, towering over him. Even with his truncheon, it wasn't a fair fight.

"Dead. Wasn't good for me, so I slit her throat." And so it was that the message went up the chain of command to Joffrey, that the girl who had tormented him and his dreams for so long was finally dead - much to his glee and the anger of the Small Council.

In the middle of the massive junkyard on the outskirts of the great city, the ground gave way and a lone figure darted out. Without waiting for even the hint of a sound, Arya made a run for it. The ground was soft, uneven to the point where it was easy to lose one's footing, but years of experience had made the highborn girl agile. Ducking and dodging through the detritus and dilapidated buildings, she avoided the obvious patrol routes until the slave pens were a distant memory.

It wasn't long before she found an abandoned home. By its size it was likely that of a lowly craftsman, and by the dust covering the broken furniture he must have been one ripped out and impressed into service for the King. Arya sat in the one unbroken chair, catching her breath. Hand reaching up to feel the precious pendant within her clothes, Arya swore she felt it pulse with heat for a split second.