GOT : All Left Behind

"Fate is like a cheap prostitute, except the aches usually come sooner with fate."​

Ser Walder knew his fate had been touched by the spirit of the Dornish people. The collective will of his kind had reached out, delivered him into this den of depravity and abominations. It had placed him in the belly of the beast, had pressed a knife in his hands, and told him to do what needed to be done.

Or, to put it less poetically, he was fucked.

As was the Dornish way, really. Surrounded by enemies, most of his allies dead in a failed assassination attempt, trapped in the heart of the enemy, and facing steep odds of success.

"Calm yourself, Ser Walder," his lord whispered from his side. Lord Wyl, the false knight of Oldbridge, had managed to make it through that pitiful excuse of an ambush their countrymen had arranged. Not a single Targaryen dead! All alive! At least a few of their councilors had been killed, but he doubted that would be enough to convince them to give up their string of atrocities throughout their home. "We live yet. Not all is yet lost."

His words were the truth. Every Dornishman of at least middling birth in the city still lived. At least, all three that he knew of. Who knew how many had managed to sneak into the wedding? The lowborn had kept to the city, as had many of the retainers of the highborn, while those with at least a knighthood, and a negligible amount of Rhoynish blood, had joined the wedding as surprise guests.

"Indeed," the other knight of their number chimed in from across the trestle table laid out in the cavernous hall of the Targaryens. At least their group was yet intact. "Let us take heart that we are still here, shall we?"

The space was densely packed with tables and men alike, with guards standing along the wall. Walder could hardly lean back without colliding with another man. And yet, by the dais at the back of the hall, there was enough space to let every man eat without spilling his neighbor's wine by turning at an inopportune moment.

Despite the terrible crowding, the man's words inspired sounds of good cheer to spread through the crowd. Yes, good cheer, that was excellent. Let them cheer. All the better to drop a guard and sheath a knife in a king.

Or better yet, a king and a prince.

His targets still walked, easily and unhindered by injury, to his chagrin. As the cheers slowly subsided, there was some movement at the back of the hall, just ahead of the half-melted mountain of swords that these people considered a throne. Below two testaments to the failure of their house made of black dragonbone, on the dais, the chief abomination they called a king rose to his feet.

Compared to the fine garb he had worn to the wedding itself, he was dressed for war. There was still a fine red doublet, but it was obscured by shining black mail. But there were no bandages. No hint of blood, not on his clothes or on the floor leading up to dais where the abominations feasted.

All around Walder, a hush fell over the hall.

He could see the glint of gold as the creature at the back of the hall raised a goblet in a toast, could see the face shift as he began to speak, but no words came out.

Another moment and yet more silence, and the crowd became more concerned. The remaining white knights, all four of them, shuffled in their place. One of them, bearing a plain white shield devoid of any heraldry, briefly looked to the king but his feet remained solidly planted.

The abomination who was no doubt their queen moved closer, head close to the standing king. Walder did not doubt that words were exchanged, but they were too far away to be heard. Whatever she did, both abominations were soon back in their seat, and the good cheer of the crowd swiftly evaporated.

Damn it, how was he supposed to get closer now? How were they supposed to carry out their plan now if their target would not even engage with the crowd?

One of the princes rose- not the beast, but the elder- raising his goblet to continue where the chief abomination left off.

"My lords, Sers, honored guests, dear friends all, you will have to forgive His Grace my father for not giving the first toast." The elder abomination's voice carried well through the packed hall. A vile trick of the construction, no doubt. "His heart rests in the sept along with his dear friends, with the Hand Septon Barth, with his loyal Kingguard, with the commander of the city watch, with his Masters of Whispers and of Ships, not to mention the countless others killed for no greater crime than doing their duty, all slain through Dornish treachery."

As the crowd began to mutter in agreement, with scattered vows of vengeance towards the Dornish, Walder sought solace in his cup. Partially, at least. He, too, keenly felt the loss of life. Of Dornish life, of course, but the northerners did not need to know that. His feelings, however, were still torn. While he could appreciate depriving the chief abomination of valuable councilors and was hiding at least a small grin in the sour wine of the northerners, the true targets still walked.

"But let us not dwell on them now," the abomination continued, not paying attention to the Dornish knights he knew not existed. "They shall be honored tonight, they shall be buried with honors tomorrow, and they shall be avenged before the moon turns!"

As was to be expected from the northerners, so eager to march in in service of a man in a helmet that let in rain, ate it up. The speaker sat, no doubt satisfied with his words. Several on the dais nodded approvingly, that much was clear even from the distance. But no sooner had he settled in his seat did the beast rise, still clapping, but soon grabbing a goblet of his own.

"Tonight, I shall stand vigil over men who have been with me as long as I can remember," this monster spoke clearly, his voice resonating impressively. But there was a cadence to his voice that did not sit right with Walder. There was a weight to his words, a tension, an unnatural control that made sure every last sound was enunciated clearly. Walder should not have been surprised. He had seen the lizards of the Greenblood weep, too, and those beasts cared little for what happened to other creatures. "And I invite you to join me. Tonight, I shall pay my respects to men who have raised me near as much as my own royal father did. But now? Now I shall celebrate. Celebrate what these helped build, so I can mourn them properly. But most of all, celebrate my dear sister Saera Targaryen! Celebrate my newest brother, Ser Braxton Beesbury! Celebrate that we yet live to celebrate them! Now let us present the first gifts!"

What?

As that beast, the Breaker of the Dornish left the dais, even as the hall erupted with at least as many cheers as for the elder, Walder was struggling to understand what he was seeing. Where were the proclamations of vengeance? Where were the promises to exterminate entire houses?

Where was the monster?

The creature descended with a woman at his side, marching over to one of the pillars. Pillars which, Walder noticed, had no shortage of boxes and crates behind them, only barely visible. It moved hind the nearest and quickly returned carrying two boxes. One was small, and Walder only noticed it because the woman carried it. The other, however, was a massive trunk that even the beast seemed to struggle to carry with at least a grain of grace.

A grace that was wasted on a creature such as him.

One of the remaining white knights stopped them before they approached the dais, opening the boxes before allowing them to pass. Walder did not see what it was that was given, but he did see the bride reach over the filled table to embrace the other woman. The groom, that creature from the Reach, was even less reserved, his hearty laugh ringing through the hall.

It was then that the beast sealed his fate.

He turned to one of the pillars, no doubt searching for the next gift to be given by an acceptably submissive well-wisher, and called out the best possible name.

"Ser Walter of Oldbridge!" The beast's voice rang clearly through the hall, unaware of the doom it was singing.

Walter Wyl, his lord, rose slowly, and made his way to the front of the hall. As the lord wove through the densely packed guests, moving at a crawl, nervousness began to take root in Walder's gut. The time for action was approaching. The knife at his waist grew heavy, the assassin's knives in his sleeves. The beast returned to its seat, granting his soon-to-be killer the full honor of appearing before his victims.

His lord retrieved a small box from the pile, barely large enough to carry a few baubles, and paused. He did not move to give it to the white knight who waited to receive it.

"I have waited for this moment for quite a while," the man who was once Lord Wyl said, coming to a halt before the guards. "But I could not have made it without the men who accompanied me to the city, men who kept me safe in perilous times. By your leave, might they join me here? Might they share the honor of presenting this gift?"

"Of course." The voice of the bride was bright and joyous, as though the attack less than an hour in the past had already been forgotten. "We could hardly deny them the opportunity, can we?"

A few minutes later, Walder stood alongside his lord, with another Dornish knight on the lord's opposite side. Their lord approached the white knight, holding the box out to him to be inspected. As he neared, Walder noticed a Reachman cast to the knight's skin. Rather swiftly, the nervousness dissipated. In its place were excitement and eagerness.

The soon-to-be dead knight took the box, fiddled with the mechanism, opened it-

and froze.

For there was nothing in the box.

In Lord Walter Wyl's hand, by contrast, was a rather sharp knife.

And soon, much the same was true of the knight's throat.

Walder wasted no time on watching the Reachman die, already running to the dais where the true targets, the important targets, were seated. There was shouting, screaming, calls to arms all around, but he paid it no mind.

After one step, he was already past the collapsing knight.

Another step and he danced around another knight, only barely avoiding the spear that had been aimed to skewer him through the throat.

Another step and he was bounding up that dais, knife in hand. Walder would have loved to go for the chief abomination, the creature that had commanded his home razed. Walder would have loved to aim for that beast who had singlehandedly split Dorne in half. But they were too far from him, too far off to the side.

The king especially, with yet another knight in the way.

That meant as his path had already sent him halfway to the high table, he had to choose a target quickly. Not the unresponsive king, not any of the princes that were already drawing steel, not the groom or the bride who looked a combination of fear and fury, no, they would not do.

There, the blonde girl, the child who looked as though she did not belong. She would do. He could kill a child. Even if he could not kill the king, he could still send a message.

Within seconds, he was at the table, knife held ready to strike. Dark eyes, wide and filled with fear, looked up at him as the pregnant woman beside the future victim pulled her away, but she was too slow.

The knife descended, and the blood rushing through his ears, singing in his veins, drowned out all other sounds, but Walder did not care.

The sudden blow to the chest that drove the air from his lungs, forced the knife from his hands before it could cut flesh, that did make him care. The sudden blow that arrested his forward progress and sent him tumbling from the dais, the knives of pain spreading through his chest as he tried to force a breath into his lungs, the taste of blood on his tongue… Walder cared very much about all of those things.

But not quite so much as the pale blade sticking through his chest.

And far less than he cared about the creature leaping towards him, purple eyes flat and devoid of any hint of pupil.

Yet all of it was inconsequential compared to the scene at the edge of his vision, of dozens of men cutting their way through the crowd.

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