chapter 19

Eddard was concerned that the Queen had not yet departed King's Landing. When he had met with her and informed her of what he knew and that she needed to leave with her children, she had acquiesced. Begging only for time to prepare, and to have him encourage Robert to go on a hunt in order to give them cover to leave, Ned had agreed. Not that it had been hard for Robert to agree, not after retaking the office of the Hand and agreeing to put the shameful order to murder the Targaryen girl behind them.

As much as he longed to return to Winterfell, there were things that needed doing to prepare the realm for the Queen's departure and the revelation of her horrifying crimes. If they were lucky, they could avoid war. If Robert chose to strip him of his position and send him back to Winterfell for aiding Cersei's escape, so be it; he would welcome it. But if he retained the position of Hand, he owed it to the realm to help navigate this dangerous course.

Then the howling had begun. He had gone down and checked on the wolves, and Hullen had been clueless as to what was the matter with them. .Arya had somewhat managed to calm them down, though the howling persisted. Ned was a healthy man, but the steps to his office at the apex of the Tower of the Hand were long.

He tried to put the noise out of his mind as he returned to his task. Several letters were near completion, and they would go out to coincide with Cersei leaving. The howls reached a crescendo, and he wondered what he was to do with them. Perhaps bringing the wolves south was a mistake. He could barely hear himself think with their volume.

A fist slammed against the door. "M'lord!" Alyn called from outside and then opened the door in a rush.

"The tower is under attack!" He cried out. Behind Alyn was a one of the cook boys, wide-eyed and breathless from likely sprinting up the stairs.

"What? By whom?"

The boy breathlessly replied, "G-Gold Cloaks!"

Eddard felt overcome with dread. The only explanation for what was happening was that Cersei was striking at him before he could reveal what she had done. And she would only dare do that if she had already arranged Robert's death.

Bran!

He grabbed his sword and began to descend the long spiral stairs.

"M'lord your armor!" Alyn called out.

"No time; I must get to Arya!"

He couldn't afford to worry about Sansa and Bran now. He berated himself for not realizing something was off. Why would Sansa be meeting with Joffrey if the Queen intended to flee? He had thought at the time that she had simply not finished preparations and was maintaining her activities to keep up appearances.

As he went down the stairs, the sounds of fighting, cries of pain and battle rose up to meet him. He saw Jory cut down a Gold Cloak. Together with two of his other guards, he was valiantly trying to hold back a dozen of the city watch. The area directly by the stairs was wider than the hallway, and they were at risk of being overrun.

Ned arrived and bolstered them. His longsword crashed down on a foe about to stab Jory's leg. The man had not expected his charge, and his blade bit deep, through the half helm and into the man's head. Wrenching his blade free, he slashed at another Gold Cloak, who barely brought up his spear in time to block. The Lord of Winterfell rained down half a dozen blows before besting the man. Jory slew his adversary, but one of the Stark guards fell to multiple spears thrusting at him. Alyn added his sword to the fight, and for a minute there was no thought but killing. When it was done, eight men of the City Watch lay dead, two more were dying and the last had fled.

Eddard caught his breath. "How many are attacking?"

Jory shook his head. "I'm not sure, my lord."

"I need to get to Arya."

Jory grabbed his liege lord by the arm. "You're bleeding; it doesn't look bad, but we need you in armor."

"There is no time!"

The howling had stopped. Eddard raced for the next stairwell that would take him to the floor Arya's and Sansa's chambers were on. He saw Gold Cloak corpses and his own servants savagely butchered. He, Jory, and Alyn made quick work of a trio of opponents who had been trying to strip a crying serving maid.

Around the next corner were the stairs, and Ned raced down. Arriving at the bottom, he saw the tail end of a battle. Seven corpses of the attackers were dead, and Syrio Florel danced with the last remaining man. Before Eddard could come to his assistance, the man had driven the point of his blade through the eye of his enemy. The Gold Cloak twitched as he died. The sword the Braavosi wielded was like Arya's, but longer and not quite as thin.

"Lord Stark." He gave an elegant flourish.

"We need to get to Arya, this way," Ned replied. He sensed Syrio behind him. Arya's "Dancing Master" had come highly recommended. He had once been the First Sword of Braavos. That meant he had been a deadly fighter, the Essosi equivalent of a Kingsguard. With him and Jory at his back, he did not fear any group of Gold Cloaks in his way. No, his only fear was that he wouldn't get to his daughter in time.

***

I arrived in time to see Tomard and Porther fighting a trio of Gold Cloaks. Once again, the hallway didn't allow all three Gold Cloaks in at once, and so it was evenly matched for the moment. As the saying went, shovels were one of the truest friends a soldier could have, but narrow hallways were a close second for those outnumbered! Fortunately, both Stark guardsmen had been on duty and were armored properly in chain mail. Before I could bring my throwing knives to bear, I saw two direwolves rush from the room. Arya must have freed them, and they wasted no time in darting into the battle.

Lady rushed in low and bit into the calf of one Gold Cloak, tearing flesh and sending him to the ground. Nymeria leapt up and crashed into the face of another, her teeth finding the throat of the hapless man. Porther saw an opening and cut down the last one standing, while Tom's sword rose and pierced down on the one Lady had tripped.

"Well done." I congratulated them. It was always important for good work to receive proper acknowledgment to further incentivize doing it again. "Arya, this way. We need to make for the Small Hall."

Arya was clutching her weapon with wide eyes and stared at the dead bodies around her. I thought she might go into some variation of shock; however, she shook herself and followed me. Her guards didn't object to the plan, and we quickly made our way down. The direwolves remained near Arya for the moment, and showed no signs of wanting to rush ahead. Brienne was where I had left her, with two additional dead members of the City Watch at her feet. She had also sheltered another guardsman and a few of the non-combatants Stark had brought with him from the North.

"We make for the Small Hall. If you aren't a soldier, pick up a spear, dagger or whatever else you can use from the bodies. Stay behind Brienne and the guards."

Arya was holding Needle, still wide-eyed. "Arya, make sure you stay behind Porther. Porther, your one job is to guard Arya, keep her safe."

We encounter one more group of Gold Cloaks as they were trying to batter in a door to someone's room. It had been barred somehow, so they were taking an axe to it. Brienne smashed into them, and I tried to assist more surreptitiously, but I couldn't risk our progress being halted. Brienne was an incredible fighter – her ferocity and momentum were a thing to behold – but if she got bogged down it would not go well. With that in mind, I still managed to have my throwing knives find their way into a couple of throats.

The ones who had been behind the door were Heward, another guard, and half a dozen of the servants along with Jeyne Poole.

Now, with a sizeable group, we pushed into the Small Hall. Brienne took the lead, and I was right behind her. Coming into the room, I saw a mass of twenty-three Gold Cloaks taking on half as many Stark guardsmen. Most of the Hand's guards who were still alive were the ones armored. Others were dead on the ground next to several of the attackers. They had also turned tables onto their side and created a small, if flimsy, barrier in the corner. This forced the Gold Cloaks to come at them without the advantage of numbers.

Right away, I could see the City Watch was already wavering. They likely had come expecting an easy rout of their surprised foes. Now, facing stiff resistance, they became hesitant. In a one-on-one fight, the Northerners were better; these were professional soldiers whose only purpose was to guard the Starks and face the dangers of the North. In comparison, the Gold Cloaks lacked that experience; some even seemed to be novices with their spears. Most used truncheons for their everyday duties policing the city.

All this I took in within a moment. "Smash through them; focus on disrupting any attempt at organization," I told Brienne.

"FOR THE KING!" Brienne bellowed and charged forward like the tank she was. Plate armor and strength were such a deadly combination. My sworn shield's armor literally could not be pierced by a spearpoint in all but a few spots around the joints. As she ran forward and parried aside a spear, she bulldozed into two foes, who were sent painfully to the hard stone. My knives whistled out and found an eye and a throat before they could get up.

Lady let out a howl and Nymeria lunged forward. She seemed mad with rage and uncontrolled, but I could see how she was dodging and feinting. This was no mere animal intelligence, these direwolves were something else. Tomard and the Stark guardsmen pushed into the Gold Cloaks in Brienne's wake. The Stark men, who had been on the defensive, changed strategies and charged out. Caught between two sides and already wavering, the men of the Watch fled the Small Hall.

"Hold," my voice called out. "Do not pursue; we need to secure this area and then flush out any Gold Cloaks who have made it to the upper levels."

Brienne was breathing heavily. I didn't see any injuries, but the fighting had been fierce, and she had been doing the most. I retrieved my knives and pointed toward Desmond, one of the guards who had been fighting behind the tables. "Desmond, gather five men and take the stairs up and find Lord Stark." I turned to Tomard. "Tomard, organize the non-guardsmen to help triage the wounded. Anyone with cooking or sewing capabilities can help patch up wounds." I looked to Porther. "Porther gather the remaining non-wounded and barricade the staircase to this floor.

All obeyed, though Desmond looked hesitant until my order included finding Lord Stark. I glanced to see Arya still looking around wildly. Jeyne was trying to breathe the way I had taught her at the Tourney of the Hand, but her sobs were interfering too much. I wondered if others would think me odd for not having this sort of emotional reaction. If so, I would just have to deal with the rumors. If I pretended to get emotional about soldiers dying, I doubted everyone would be following orders like they were now.

***

Janos Slynt stared dumbfounded as over twenty Gold Cloaks stumbled out of the Tower of the Hand. He had done as the Queen had asked him. March the men he could trust, the men who wouldn't hesitate to kill every man, woman, and child in that tower. He had been advised to keep a strong enough company outside, to ensure none of the other knights and their household guards would seek to relieve the beleaguered Hand.

Janos had been dutiful; he had sent 150 of his men into the Tower. It should have been simple. They should have been caught flat-footed, most not even outfitted for battle, whereas he had thrice their number fully armed and armored. The slaughter at the stables had been simple, but the Tower proper had gone awry somehow.

"Report, damn you! What is going on in there?"

The man he was speaking to tried to catch his breath. "W-wolves, and they have knights in there too!"

"Knights? From what house?" But the man did not know.

Janos could not afford to fail here. He was promised a lordship and gold. There were 2,000 men in the City Watch under his command, but he did not trust all, or even most, would have the stomach for total butchery. He had also been ordered to provide a heavy guard at all the gates and to allow no one out of the city. Dragon Gate, Gate of the Gods, Iron Gate, King's Gate, Lion Gate, Old Gate and Mud Gate had all been heavily reinforced.

He turned to Allar Deem, a hard man who always got the dirty jobs done. "Take fifty of the men and go in. Just rush in; you must have superior numbers. Do not split your men, just find the largest group and kill them. Take half the crossbowmen as well. If you can kill the Stark Lord, resistance should crumble. Make haste!"

Good, heavy crossbows were expensive, and the Gold Cloaks didn't have many. He had brought out twenty for the group here. When fired, they could pierce chain mail easily enough, and he knew that was all most of the Stark guards had. That ought to put down any resistance quickly.

Allar nodded and called to the Gold Cloaks, and Janos watched them rush in, before turning and handing out more orders. "You, ride to the Iron Gate and bring back half the men there." He pointed to another man, "You, do the same at the Mud Gate."

He nervously drummed his hand on his leg. An extra hundred Gold Cloaks would make him feel much better. If things got worse, he might need to ask the Queen to lend him her Lannister guardsmen. Either that or recall all his men from the gates.

Time was a massive issue; the Tower could be turned into a fortress: add in archers or their own crossbowmen, and it would be a nightmare to dislodge them. He would not let the lordship slip through his fingers. Just to be safe, he ordered another 20 of his men behind Allar. So far, he'd only been questioned by one knight, a Redwyne if he recalled the coat of arms correctly, he had accepted that he was there to lawfully arrest the Hand for treason. He chewed his lip nervously, sweating in the summer sun, as he silently urged Allar to hurry.

***

Rosyn finished up her sewing. There really wasn't much of a point to it, not with Myrcella gone off because some stupid dogs were howling. As for Rosamond Lannister? She did not deserve the name Lannister; she feared her own shadow. The Westerling chit was too giggly and immature. It was a great honor to be the princess's handmaiden, but it was tiring work. The girl just wanted to find a husband and be done with this stinking city.

Myrcella was not making things easy. Oh, she was perfectly polite and courteous, and completely evasive when Rosyn tried to learn of her comings and goings. The Queen wanted to know everything her daughter did, and Rosyn tried her best, but Myrcella was by nature a private individual. She also had the oddest interests; who had even heard of a princess caring about writings by old Maesters? What was the point?

It did bring her a sense of pride. For all the vaunted intelligence the 'perfect princess' had to understand numbers and histories, she was quite the fool. She didn't even suspect that her secrets shared in confidence were reported to the Queen. Well, she was 11, so Rosyn wasn't overly proud of being able to pull the wool over the eyes of a child, but when she was being difficult, it was nice to think on.

She walked through the Royal Apartments and arrived at the Queen's chambers. Ser Mandon Moore was guarding the door. He recognized her and announced her presence. A moment later, the Kingsguard let her in.

Cersei was pacing, and she looked flushed. Rosyn wondered if the Queen had been drinking again.

"Did my daughter share anything new, or are you wasting my precious time?"

Rosyn blushed. The Queen was in one of her moods. "Forgive me, Your Grace, but I learned little. It was not my fault; she left our sewing session to go to the Tower of the Hand to see what was causing the howling."

Cersei's face paled. "She said this? That she was going to the Tower of the Hand? And you didn't inform me immediately? You useless cow, get out of the way!" Cersei rushed past her and took Ser Mandon with her.

Rosyn grew concerned; the queen's anger and… fear? They had been real, and Rosyn now worried over her position. If she was put in the bad graces of the Queen, she would be lucky to marry better than a merchant's son. Life was so unfair!

***

Tyrion did not like their odds of success at all. There were too many of those horns sounding, and he knew that any smart pursuer would not have every one of their groups giving away their position. At any moment they could stumble onto an ambush. He tried to listen if there were any rudimentary codes in the horn signals, but it didn't sound like it.

Tyrion watched as Lancel swayed in his saddle. They had slowed to a crawl to get through the undergrowth, and everyone had dismounted, but Lancel couldn't walk. He was semi-conscious and far too pale.

A horn sounded disturbingly close, and Tyrion knew something had to be done.

"Renly, I have a plan." Tyrion began. "Morrec, run ahead and then start a fire. The summer heat has sapped much of the moisture. See that it begins burning the undergrowth and the drier trees, and then run." Tyrion continued speaking as he went to Lancel and began tying his cousin's legs to the stirrups before wrapping the reins in a knot around his wrists.

Andar looked perplexed, "What are you doing, Imp?"

"Lancel is slowing us down. Loath as I am to consign him to death, I'd rather his death give us some hope."

The Vale lord looked at him in disgust but made no move to stop his actions. When Tyrion was done, he turned the horse in a direction perpendicular to their path and slapped hard on its rear, and the horse rode off.

"From here, we split up further. The fire, the false trail with Lancel, and us moving separately will give us more cover." Tyrion pointed, "King's Landing is that way. Most likely, they have cut us off, so I wouldn't recommend it. Good luck."

Renly frowned, but as another horn blew, he cursed and walked his horse at a brisker pace through the tangle of limbs and vegetation. Tyrion waited and then cut his own horse on the flank and sent him yet another direction. He then followed Lancel's mount. The trees here were his only hope since it would be foolish to believe their attackers didn't have trackers with them. He carefully stepped in spots that should leave little sign of his passing. His small size made this far easier than for a man of normal size. One of the few times being a dwarf came in handy.

After traversing a brief time, he found a tree that would suit his purposes, one that was upwind from the fire. He had always been agile and surefooted. He used to impress his younger cousins with tumbling tricks. Tyrion put those skills to good use, carefully climbing the twenty-foot tree. He had picked this one due to the way two branches grew across each other.

He nestled himself in the natural crevice of the tree and closed his eyes. The pursuers would hopefully not look up, and a large tree limb shielded him from view in the direction they would be coming from. If they doubled back or came from a different direction, he would be exposed… if they looked up. If they found him, he was dead. It was as simple as that. There was no better play he had, and so he settled in and hoped, and thought about what had just happened.

Someone wanted the King dead, and they would likely get their wish. But who? Robert thought it had been Targaryen loyalists, but he always saw dragons around every bush. It was laughable to think Eddard Stark wanted him dead. Balon Greyjoy had ample reason to want Robert killed, but lacked the means. Dorne hated Robert, but while they had more means than Balon, this didn't seem like them either. Poison would have been their choice, rather than this chaos.

Sadly, he could only think of one likely suspect who had the means and the motive to put together this assassination attempt. His sister, Cersei Lannister.

***

Eddard's heart thundered in his chest as he got to Arya's room. He had passed many bodies of dead Gold Cloaks on the way. One of them looked to have had their throat ripped out.

Thank the Gods for those wolves.

Arya was not here, and there was no sign of blood in her room. A howl came from the lower levels, and he pushed on, Jory, Alyn and Syrio behind him. He threw himself forward into the Small Hall, ready for battle, only to find dozens of Gold Cloak corpses piled to one side of the room and loyal dead Stark servants in another. His men had control of the Small Hall. He scanned the room and sought Arya. Upon Finding her, he rushed over and embraced her in a hug.

"Father," Arya sobbed and clung to him.

"Shh, let me look at you. Are you all right? Are you injured?" He pulled out of the embrace in order to check her for any wounds.

Arya nodded. "I didn't even have to fight; I was protected… and useless." She sounded guilty and sad, and her voice quavered with fear.

As much as Eddard wanted to take the time to comfort and explain to Arya that no one expected an 11-year-old girl to fight grown men, he didn't have time. He needed to assess the situation and see just what forces Cersei had brought against him.

"Lord Stark, I am pleased to see you are well." An unruffled voice came from his left. He turned, and his eyes widened in surprise.

"Myrcella??" The princess had the same expression she always wore. If one did not look below her neck, one would think she was preparing to sit down for a feast. Beyond, however, her dress was stained with blood. Her hands were sticky with red as well. The incongruence stunned the Lord of Winterfell for a moment.

Before either could say more, Porther called out. "They are charging through again; we couldn't hold them." Half of his cheek was torn away, and he was bleeding profusely.

"Hold the doors!" Eddard commanded.

He and his men rushed to the huge set of double doors that were the main entrance of the Small Hall. The Gold Cloaks met them with a charge. The front rank had heavy shields, and they quite literally pushed forward, with no other purpose than to break through. Eddard saw Jory fall. The man rolled and slashed and returned to his feet after cutting out the legs of a charging attacker. For Eddard's part, he let his blade strike a shield from the side, altering the momentum of the charge and causing the Gold Cloak to stumble into his comrade. An uprising cut took the man's chin and jaw away as he shrieked.

Ned saw Cayn and Tomard use their size to bodily push back against the shield-wielding Gold Cloaks, and the charge was arrested. Spears came out, and the Stark guards held the line, using their experience, skill, and armored bodies to prevent further intrusion into the cavernous room.

Five heavy crossbows thrummed, and Eddard saw Cayn take a bolt into the chest. It pierced through his chain mail and found his heart. Eddard gave a cry of frustration as he saw Tomard take another in the shoulder, spinning him around, while two other guards also took killing blows. One bolt missed altogether. The Gold Cloaks charged forward as the front ranks of the Northerners went down.

Ned slashed away a spear, and then another. Slipping past a third, he rammed his blade into a man's eye and then slashed another across the chest. The chain mail absorbed his blow, and he had to step back to avoid being skewered. Another five crossbowmen moved behind the first set of Gold Cloak ranks, as the first five stepped back and began the process of reloading. Knives blossomed in two of their throats, and only three bolts were sent into the Stark guardsmen. Jory took one in the chest, but his breastplate was skillfully forged, and it only knocked him back a few paces before he recovered.

While less devastating than the first volley, they were being driven back, and more Gold Cloaks were streaming into the room. Eddard had been part of many battles and knew that retreat from the choke point while so heavily outnumbered was a losing proposition. Despite this knowledge, he and the others were forced back as the situation grew worse and worse. And yet, when the Gold Cloaks made further entry, it proved to be their undoing.

From the right side came Syrio Florel. The man moved with impossible grace, piercing Gold Cloaks through the neck, eye, and leg at will, while always ducking, sliding, or stepping away from a blow. It wasn't just Syrio as two direwolves ripped into the Gold Cloaks. More than just their teeth, it was the terror that they caused that unmanned the attackers.

From the left came Brienne of Tarth, who practically ignored the spears of the Gold Cloaks. Her collision with the line of City Watchmen bowled over three, and then her two-handed strikes broke bones and slashed exposed faces. The battle became an unorganized brawl as the City Watch died seemingly from every direction.

The crossbowmen still represented a threat, but Ned couldn't get to them. Fortunately, three more died to thrown knives. Ned briefly looked around to who was throwing them – he did not know of anyone practically skilled in knife throwing in his retinue – but he came up empty.

A more heavily armored Gold Cloak tried to rally the City Watch and restore order, and Ned had his target. Yet, before he could reach him, a bolt twanged out and ripped into the side of his shoulder. It was only a partial hit; it did not lodge into his flesh, but it ripped a piece away. The force spun him about and took him to the ground. His blade clattered to the floor. He saw Jory try to reach him, but his path was blocked by the Gold Cloak captain. A spear came down at Ned as desperately rolled from the strike.

Ned bit back a cry as he rolled on his wounded arm, and the spear came up again in a better position. He wouldn't be able to get away. Time seemed to slow as the spear prepared to come down in a killing blow. Brief flashes of his children, Jon, and Cat flickered through his mind. Only, the blow did not descend. A small golden-haired figure had jumped onto the Gold Cloak's back. A small knife was held in a tiny hand, and that knife created a fountain of arterial blood. The watchman collapsed, and Myrcella Baratheon rode him to the ground, and then the knife was gone from sight. Her face remained unruffled.

Ned got to his feet in time to see Jory viciously cut down the Gold Cloak captain. That, along with the wolves and everything else, was enough to shatter them. The Gold Cloaks turned, in a disorganized retreat. He used the respite to properly assess the situation. The floor was littered with Gold Cloak bodies, but it pained him to see another eight of his guardsmen dead or too injured to effectively fight.

"Quickly, gather the crossbows." Myrcella commanded, and Eddard's men jumped to the task.

She turned to Brienne. "Secure the entryway properly, Brienne. As they say, the reward for good work, is more work."

Jory helped Ned to a seat while others grabbed bandages for his wounds. It wasn't life-threatening, but he had lost a some amount of blood, enough to make him lightheaded. As the bandages were applied and he was passed a skin of water, Myrcella approached.

"From the windows, we can see the Gold Cloak numbers are much diminished, but we know there are more in the city. We don't know the extent of the treachery at play, but it seems we have two options, Lord Eddard."

Ned was still trying to clear his head while Myrcella continued.

"We can only assume the coup is also striking at the rest of the Royal Family. My mother and brothers will have the Kingsguard and the Red Cloaks. The Royal Apartments is highly defensible. We can either hold out here in a strong defensive position, or we can try to break out and link up with my mother's forces. Your men have been through a lot, but we can also arm your small folk and…" Ned stopped her.

"Myrcella, the coup," Ned paused, and then soldiered on, "it is your mother. Cersei is behind this."

The princess opened her mouth, but no words came out. Her jaw closed, her eyes grew blank, and she sat heavily.

"Oh."

***

The knight of the Vale smiled beneath his full helm. The hunt was just about finished. Robert had chosen to make his stand, and the sellswords had descended in numbers. He dismounted from his horse and pushed past the branches and brush, his suit of plate armor allowing him to ignore the thorns.

He came upon the end of the battle, and he narrowed his eyes in surprise. The King and his Kingsguard were still up. Robert had three arrow shafts, broken off at the tip, in his shoulder, side, and belly. His face was awash with blood and one eye was so swollen, it was doubtful he could see through it. The Kingsguard was limping, and blood was seeping from one side. His helm was dented, and he sagged with exhaustion.

The archer knight, Ser Balon he believed his name was, had finally been brought low. His handiwork could be seen: over a dozen dead swords with arrows through them. Most happily, he saw the Lord of Runestone, Yohn Royce, dead. The man had gone down fighting; only Robert had more dead around him.

The sellswords had not wanted to lose any more of their number when he and another pair of knights in his service had arrived. With nearly 30 of their fellows dead at the hands of four, he could understand their cravenness.

"King Robert and his loyal Kingsguard, the last remaining. Shall we make the end entertaining?"

"Go fuck yourself." Robert wheezed. He struggled to lift his spear but stumbled and had to brace himself against the nearby tree.

"Let's not be hasty. I have always wanted to duel a member of the vaunted Kingsguard. I will give you a generous chance. Should your man kill me in single combat, we'll let you go." That of course wasn't true, but it didn't matter; he would not lose.

Robert spat on the ground; it was more blood than spittle. "As you like, Ser Boros, duel him if you will."

"Yes, Your Grace." The knight's voice was bone-weary. The man knew he was dead.

The knight of the Vale drew his blade. It was heavier than what he was used to, but it would do. They circled for a moment, and then he struck. Ser Boros was late to parry and his helm rang with the strike. It didn't pierce but blows like that could daze and rattle a man.

They came together again, and Ser Boros simply could not keep up. Be it due to skill, injury, or simple exhaustion, it would never be known. In a matter of moments, he was on his back and being mocked.

"A pity Ser Barristan wasn't here; that would have been a fight. This… this is pathetic. You don't deserve to wear that cloak."

He stomped on the knight's elbow and dropped a knee onto the man's chest. Ser Boros had no fight left in him. His visor was lifted by his killer, and the sword stabbed through his eye. Hardly the duel he was hoping for. Standing back up, he looked back at the King. Time to finish the job and find the stragglers.

The boar spear was not made for throwing, yet that did not stop Robert Baratheon, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm from hurling it with the fury and power of the Demon of the Trident.

The knight was struck right in the breastplate. As powerful as the throw had been, it could not pierce the castle-forged steel. The force, however, drove him back and planted him on his ass. And then Robert was on him. He had charged forward, pinned the knight's sword arm to his side, raised a massive fist and smashed it, bare-knuckled into his helm. The knuckles split and broke from the steel, and yet the steel too gave way, becoming dented and deformed as Robert punched again and again as the knight struggled in vain to dislodge the berserk King.

Two arrows struck Robert in the back. A man hacked at him with an axe and another with a sword. Despite these wounds, he smashed his broken fist another half a dozen times before his heart thundered to a stop. His last breathy whisper of life… "Lyanna."

The man who had so easily slain Ser Boros now had what felt like a broken jaw and at least one broken tooth. The mad bastard had caved in the steel of the helm with his bare hands. He doubted he could even get the damned thing off his head without the aid of a smithy. The knight of the Vale's victory had turned sour. He staggered away, back to his mount. Let the damn sellswords finish up. He was done here.