The sky was only just beginning to lighten, the first pale fingers of dawn stretching across the eastern horizon.
Within the barracks, four or five hundred pairs of living eyes remained, all fixed upon the terrifying figure before them, trembling like leaves in an autumn wind. The Lava Warrior they beheld was clad in crimson armor that seemed impervious to any mortal weapon. He had unleashed hell itself—a torrent of flame that had transformed men into charred corpses. The pungent odor of burnt flesh hung heavy in the air, almost unbearable, and no man among them dared offer further resistance.
The Hound wiped a streak of blood from his face with the back of his gauntlet.
"Listen well!" His voice boomed across the yard. "The former Master of Coin, Lord Petyr Baelish, and the former Master of Whisperers, Lord Varys, are plotting treason against the crown. By order of His Grace the King, the City Watch of King's Landing will immediately take these traitors into custody and seal all city gates. Any who resist are to be put to the sword!"
He surveyed the men before him, his scarred visage terrible to behold. "I am in command now. Does any man object?"
The Hound's lips curled into a savage grin, as if he yearned to tear apart more flesh and savor the hot blood of men.
Silence hung in the air, broken only by the crackling of flames and the soft moans of the wounded.
"Good. Had you obeyed from the start, none of this bloodshed would have been necessary. A pack of fools, forgetting who it was that granted you those gold cloaks."
The Hound began relaying Prince Joffrey's orders with cold precision.
"Reorganize yourselves into fifty squads, eight men to each. You shall select the squad leaders," he said, turning to the man at his side. "Understood, Grey Rat?"
The man nodded silently before moving into the crowd to identify familiar faces.
The Hound paced back and forth, his heavy boots crunching on debris. "Five squads will be stationed at each of the seven city gates. None shall enter, and none shall leave." His voice hardened further. "And you yourselves are not to move a single bloody inch from your posts."
His eyes narrowed to slits. "I care not if you see lords, ladies, ministers, or merchants of the realm. Even if you witness your own wife being mounted by beggars in some stinking alley, you'll damn well remain at your post until the morrow!"
The gold cloaks exchanged uneasy glances, their faces pale.
"The other fifteen squads will accompany me to your headquarters. The place crawls with traitors. Remember this—they are no longer your brothers. They made their choice."
The Hound chuckled, a dry, mirthless sound that made the burn scars on his left cheek contort into crimson fissures.
"The remaining men will stay here on standby, searching the corpses and buildings. Should even one rat slip beyond these walls..."
He left the sentence unfinished, allowing the gold cloaks' imaginations to conjure terrors greater than words could convey.
Grey Rat had already selected the fifty squad leaders, each man looking more uncertain than the last.
The Hound held out a mailed fist. "I shall count to five. Form up by squads!" His voice dropped ominously. "Five, four..."
The gold cloaks' hearts hammered in their chests. They frantically pushed aside their neighbors, scrambling to find their positions. The crowd descended into chaos in an instant.
"Two..."
Some men stood completely bewildered, while others, fearing the consequences of association with cowards, physically dragged the hesitant into the ranks.
"One." The Hound nodded. "Not bad."
"Grey Rat, cut a lock of hair from every man and bring them to me. If any are bald, other hair will suffice."
Grey Rat appeared confused by the strange request, but he dared not question it. He could only obey.
Taking the hair to be used as a magical locator, the Hound nodded with satisfaction and slowly walked to the far left of the neatly arranged fifty squads.
He patted each squad leader firmly on the shoulder.
"You five squads, to the Dragon Gate. You're in command." His hand moved to the next man. "You five squads, to the Iron Gate. You shall lead..."
Seven squad leaders were thus appointed as temporary commanders, their hearts filled with conflicting emotions. Was this an honor or a death sentence?
"Serve well," the Hound growled. "Fear not, I shall remember your faces."
His gaze swept across the assembled men like a blade.
Far more than seven officers felt their hearts seize in their chests as cold sweat beaded upon their brows.
"Move out immediately! I'll count to ten, and you'd best be gone from my sight. Ten, nine..."
The gold cloaks departed with a swiftness they had never before displayed, moving like a well-trained host rather than the undisciplined rabble they truly were.
Watching the thirty-five squads march through the gate, the Hound turned to face the fifteen squads that remained, staring at him with anticipation mingled with dread.
"What are you waiting for? Get your horses, and let's be about our business. Your former commander, Janos Slynt, is a traitor as well. Kill him!"
Though most gold cloaks served as infantry, the stables still housed more than a hundred horses, as the Hound had known all along.
The sky brightened steadily.
The great city was stirring from slumber, and the commotion created by the gold cloaks hastened its awakening.
The broad Street of the Silent Sisters had held only a few scattered travelers, but now the thunderous sound of hooves and angry shouts echoed through the narrow ways, instantly rousing countless dreamers from their beds.
Common folk frantically sought refuge in alleys and doorways. Windows opened throughout the street, and faces peered out in alarm.
They beheld an ominous sight. Hundreds of mounted men galloped wildly past, each armored and bearing weapons. Some were splattered with bright blood, and others bore the unmistakable marks of fire.
The knight who led them wore an exquisite helm shaped like a snarling hound. Some recognized it at once. "The Hound," they whispered, drawing back from their windows.
He led his men straight to the central square, then veered northwest toward Cobbler's Square, near the headquarters of the City Watch. This would become the day's greatest battlefield.
The gold cloaks' headquarters stood quiet, yet something in the air spoke of wrongness.
The snores emanating from the various chambers were noticeably fewer than was customary.
The reason was plain.
Some knew action would be taken today; others knew something would happen soon. Some had learned that someone might strike this day; others simply sensed they were in peril. Some merely felt the strange atmosphere that hung over the barracks like a shroud.
Whatever their knowledge, all understood they were caught in a deadly vortex. How could any man sleep soundly in such circumstances?
The Mud Gate Captain, "Ironhand" Jacelyn Bywater, was among these wakeful men, and a particularly singular one at that—a double agent. No, a triple agent.
He hailed from a minor branch of House Bywater, of little status or influence. The king had knighted him for valor during Balon Greyjoy's rebellion, where he had also lost his right hand, earning him the name "Ironhand."
For three years, he had served as Mud Gate Captain. None called him dishonorable or craven, yet none knew of his clandestine relationship with the infamous Master of Whisperers, Lord Varys.
And more recently, emissaries from both House Lannister and the Master of Coin had approached him. He had pledged himself to them as well.
A true triple agent.
By virtue of these conflicting loyalties, he ought to have been among the few who possessed the most detailed and comprehensive knowledge of the events soon to unfold.
The Lannisters sought to stage a coup while King Robert was absent from the capital, elevating the Crown Prince to the throne. The two loyal ministers were forced to resist, quell the Lannister conspiracy, and report their success to the king upon his return. Such was the tale spun by these ministers.
But was this the truth? Would it become the truth? Ironhand harbored his doubts.
Which side should I choose?
He stared blankly at the dim ceiling until a clamor arose from the camp gate, growing louder and more distinct by the moment.
Ironhand immediately seized the sword that lay beside his bed and took up position behind his door.
He heard wooden doors being kicked open, the chaotic tramping of boots from left to right, from right to left, the clash of steel upon steel, triumphant shouts, agonized screams...
Before long, the sizzling sound of roasting meat and the desperate shrieks of men pierced the air outside.
Ironhand shuddered. What manner of horror was that?
Yet this proved merely a brief prelude. The roar of flames soon drowned out all other sounds.
So hot!
He hastily retreated several paces from the walls and the inferno that raged beyond his door.
BANG!
His door burst inward, revealing a familiar face framed in dazzling red armor.
Ironhand cast aside his longsword and dropped to one knee. "Lord Sandor, I, Jacelyn Bywater, captain of the Mud Gate, stand ready to serve you and His Highness at your pleasure!"
The Hound regarded him with narrowed eyes. "You're mistaken. You serve His Grace the King."
Ironhand hastily amended his words. "Yes, yes, forgive me. I'm overwrought. Of course, it is His Grace's will I follow. Long live the King!"
The Hound extended a hand and helped him to his feet. "The situation here grows too chaotic. You shall identify the traitors for me."
Ironhand exhaled slowly, relief washing over him.
The Hound was about to continue his grim work when the Prince's instructions suddenly filled his mind: "The gold cloaks sent to Mud Gate are slaughtering one another. The rebel faction has enlisted a dozen sellswords to their cause. Stop them."
The Hound retrieved the locks of hair taken from the gold cloaks and employed his magic to sense their positions. All seemed normal. The men dispatched to Mud Gate were already approaching Fisherman's Square.
Yet their adherence to their path did not preclude other complications.
This development troubled him. The Hound felt genuine surprise. What promises did the Spider and Littlefinger make to inspire such foolhardy defiance?
The Mud Gate required attention, but the Red Keep demanded it even more urgently. He could not divide himself in two.
Therefore...
The Hound's gaze fell upon Ironhand, who had just risen to his feet.
It's you.
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