Amidst the heavy breathing of Rain and Snowball, Sandor Clegane opened his eyes in the darkness.
The moment of truth had arrived.
"Begin the operation," he heard Prince Joffrey say, the words cutting through the stillness like Valyrian steel.
Silently, Clegane rose from his bedroll, donned his armor with practiced hands, strapped on his sword, and—reeking of strongwine—pushed open the creaking wooden door of the inn chamber.
The narrow corridor was black as pitch, where a man couldn't see his own hand before his face. It stank of sour wine and vomit, the fetid air punctuated by sudden, meaningless roars and shouts from the rooms—the desperate cries of hopeless drunkards driven to oblivion by whatever demons haunted them.
Thump... Clack... Creak...
Clegane had made every effort to tread lightly, but the staircase leading to the tavern below was more fragile than the spine of a dying crone. With each step, he couldn't help but wonder how much longer the ancient wood might hold.
Fortune favored him, and he reached the bottom without incident.
"Hey!" He shoved the young pot-boy sprawled out asleep behind the bar, limp as a slaughtered pig. "I'm going out on business, so get that damned door open! Is this how you're meant to be guarding the place?!"
The lad mustered what little strength remained to him and barely managed to part his eyelids.
This squalid tavern wasn't prosperous enough to keep its doors open throughout the night; like most of King's Landing, it lay dormant in the darkness.
Click. The iron lock on the door yielded to the key's persuasion.
"Safe travels, m'lord," the boy mumbled, "just try not to get caught by the gold cloaks on patrol."
Torn from whatever pleasant dream had occupied his slumber, the lad dared not curse the scarred giant directly, and could only vent his grievances in such oblique fashion.
By the king's decree, no man was permitted to walk the streets of King's Landing after nightfall. Though the city watch patrols were few and oft neglected their duties, if those greedy curs caught you abroad after dark, a flaying would be the least of your concerns.
Clegane didn't waste breath arguing with the whelp and strode into the cool night air. Still smells like living people, damn it all.
He identified his direction and made straight for the Dragon Gate, near which stood a gold cloak barracks.
Tonight's task weighed heavy, but he knew that he had grown much, much stronger of late. The city watchmen might excel at terrorizing smallfolk, but in true sword-to-sword combat? The Mountain himself could send them all crying for their mothers.
Why did I think of that one again? Clegane shook his head irritably, yet still couldn't master his restless thoughts.
Is he even my match anymore?
Clegane turned down an alley.
A small figure in the shadows trailed him from several dozen paces back, never noticing when the tall target halted.
Shing~
The short, dark figure blinked in confusion, belatedly clutching at his spurting throat. Unable to move, he could only watch as his quarry grew smaller and smaller in his vision, darker and darker as the blood drained from his body...
Clegane reckoned this might be one of Varys's "little birds." The Spider was skilled at finding fearless orphans to do his bidding. Damn it all.
A few moons past, Clegane couldn't have guaranteed he would detect the rat behind him, but now matters stood differently. He possessed the power of fire and light, the wondrous gift of magic, and a mental strength that transcended his physical form.
He felt as though he could slay all seven hundred gold cloaks stationed at the Dragon Gate.
It merely depended on whether these wretched souls possessed sufficient wisdom.
Ahead, a rail-thin man and seven sellswords with gleaming blades blocked his path. Clegane halted.
Again?
He wasted little more time than before.
Clegane continued forward, his boots treading upon steaming, half-dried bloodstains and charred limbs. Seven hells, there's a bit of a meaty smell. An even more revolting stench, reminiscent of that day when he was but a child.
He resolved to use fire more sparingly hereafter.
After dispatching several more waves of vermin, when the sky overhead had already lightened to a faint blue, Clegane finally arrived at the gate of the gold cloak barracks.
The still-burning bonfire allowed him to see the world for dozens of yards with his naked eye.
But Clegane possessed better "eyes."
As expected, the gate was sealed tight. The solid, towering stone wall offered no weakness, and the battlements—wide enough for two destriers to pass abreast—were dotted with guard posts, a dozen ballistae, and countless arrow slits.
An unassuming man materialized silently at Clegane's side.
Mere heartbeats later.
Seven gold cloaks emerged from the guard post, descending the wall along the steps without exchanging a word, drawing ever closer to the gate.
The scheme appeared to be unfolding without complication.
But through the stone barrier, Clegane observed the three gold cloaks at the rear draw their daggers.
"Damn it all to seven hells!"
Clegane cursed, swiftly produced two short knives and drove them into the stone wall, hauling himself upward one blade at a time.
The instant he reached the top, he leapt forward without hesitation, landing squarely in a fresh pool of blood.
The three traitors had already finished their companions.
Clegane unsheathed his longsword.
The trio trembled as one. "Enemy attack! Someone—"
His head had already taken flight from his shoulders.
"Brothers, awaken! To arms—"
"Have mercy—"
The gate fell silent, but throughout the barracks, the din of alarm gradually swelled.
Clegane wrenched the gate open with brutal strength.
The man rushed in immediately. "Don't be rash—guard the gate and let none escape. I'll help you distinguish between foe and ally."
Clegane's scarred face twisted into a mirthless grin. "Bloody nonsense! You think I can't tell?"
The barracks had erupted into chaos.
This was the smaller of the two gold cloak barracks, housing some seven hundred men.
The barracks commander bore responsibility for logistics alone, while the seven centurions operated independently of one another. Beneath them served eighty-one squad leaders and more than six hundred men-at-arms—a motley assortment where corruption flourished like weeds after a spring rain.
The atmosphere within the barracks had grown tense and peculiar of late. The clever ones had long dared not succumb to deep slumber, fearing death might find them in their dreams.
Now those fears proved prophetic.
The officers and soldiers loyal to the royal family and House Lannister took the initiative, but those who had been coerced or tempted by the agents of Varys and Littlefinger stood equally prepared.
The two factions erupted almost simultaneously, and those caught unawares suffered the heaviest losses.
The clash of steel upon steel and agonized howls rose and fell in a macabre symphony. Bonfires toppled and flames spread, while shadowy figures darted to and fro, creating the impression of a battlefield where two great hosts contended for supremacy.
Clegane heard the man beside him grow frantic with worry.
"This cannot be right—we command far greater numbers than the rebels. Five of the seven centurions stand with us, and one bears no enmity. How could matters have gone awry?"
Clegane snorted derisively.
"What else could it be? You've been outplayed! By my reckoning, show these greedy bastards the glint of steel, and they'll bend the knee soon enough!"
Clegane remained undaunted.
The barracks offered no alternative egress. So long as they secured the gate and slew enough men to establish their authority, what threat could these gold cloaks truly pose?
He knew not how much time had passed, but at last, throughout the vast compound, only the crackling of burning timbers could be heard.
Military officers, their black breastplates adorned with four golden discs, approached. In their wake followed hundreds of black-armored, gold-cloaked soldiers wielding spears.
"Clegane, clear the way at once! Trouble brews in the Red Keep—we must provide support without delay!"
The officer at their head wore an expression of righteous fervor, as though justice itself stood at his shoulder. Yet in the midst of rebellion, where could true justice be found?
Clegane sighed deeply. It seemed he must employ fire after all.
"Long live the King!" Clegane raised his longsword high, channeling rich, blinding light magic that scorched the eyes of all who beheld it. "Fight for the King!"
He charged toward the assembled host, their eyes streaming as they wailed in agony.
Flames erupted with savage intensity.
Like the seven hells themselves made manifest—a realm of molten fire and torment.
...
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