You whirl, hand darting for the knife at your belt, but it is only rat-faced Joram, a smudge of a man, his cloak stiff with grime and a dozen teeth missing from his rictus of a grin. The stench of the alley, blood and offal and the sour leak of the tanneries, is nothing compared to Joram’s breath.
“You’re late,” you say in your slight lilt.
Joram shrugs, makes a show of pissing against the wall before he sidles closer. “Queen’s walk’s about to start. The crowds are thick as maggots and thrice as hungry.” He eyes you, shrewd, yellow irises flicking. “You sure you want to do this? There’s to be a thousand eyes, every gold cloak in the city, half the damned Faith—”
“There’s no choice,” you snap, too quick. “She’s the only thing left. They took everything else.” The words cut, but you force them out, the way a smith forces a stubborn iron. The memory of your sister, Mary, her laughter ringing in the little moss-stained street by the West Gate, feels like a knife in your chest.
Joram shakes his head, but does not argue. He’s been paid, and small men in this city never die for free. “Best get moving. If you want your chance, it’ll be past the steps of Baelor’s Sept.”
You follow, head down, shouldering your way through throngs that have already begun to gather, every tongue wagging with anticipation. The Queen’s walk is the kind of spectacle that draws worms from the mud, and the alleys are packed with eyes, all seeking a glimpse of power brought low. The city smells of blood and yeast and shit.
You taste bile behind your teeth, thinking of her—Mary, with her clever songs and hands quick as spiders, fixing the kitchen’s broken stone, always smiling even when the masters shouted. You told her to stay away from the Keep. You told her it would ruin her, stain her as surely as any butcher’s apron. She’d laughed, laughed at her silly brother, and had gone anyway, because the Lannisters paid in gold and the city paid only in pain.
You never saw her again. Not truly. There were whispers, always, rumors of what a young maid might see, working late at night. You heard she caught the Queen with her brother—caught them at their games, and for that her tongue was cut out, her wrists opened on the damp black stones below Maegor’s Holdfast. The official story was a suicide. But no one believes official stories in King’s Landing.
You move now with Joram, winding through narrow cuts, each step bringing you closer to the open square before the Great Sept. The crowd is a wall of bodies, boys on shoulders, whores and septons, old soldiers with boiled leather patching their wounds. Above, the sky is the color of lead, and the bells are already pealing, a sound that makes your teeth vibrate. On the steps the High Sparrow stands, flocked in sackcloth and the stink of sanctimony.
Joram leans in, the cords of his neck straining. "Most o' the Sparrows on this side have agreed," he mutters, breath rank in your ear. "And word is, that the High Sparrow told them true grace will shield the Queen, if she is truly repentant. But if she isn’t…" he leaves that dangling, not needing to finish.
You watch the square, the anticipation in your gut winding tighter. You weren’t able to protect your sister, but this you can do. This, you tell yourself, is why the gods gave you the one thing you have. The only thing that anyone ever remembered about you, back in the hamlets and undercrofts — your cock—long like a spear, blunt and thick as a Dornish sausage, girls giggling in corners, your aunt cursing your mother for birthing a brute.
You grip it now, through your hose, feeling the old animal pulse. Let the gold cloaks watch. Let the Sparrows look away, if that's what the gods want. All you need is a moment.
The handbell rings, sharp, a second before the Septa’s voice: "Shame! Shame!" You search for her, the Queen, and there she is, descending the steps, naked as a babe, head held high.
What had you expected? Tears, perhaps, or shaking hands.
But she is not broken.
She is beautiful, even now, the curve and gleam of her skin, the loose gold of her hair over her shoulders. Her eyes are like polished emeralds, and there is a little twist to her lips that says she has measured this moment and found it wanting. She walks as if she rules this place, as if every peasant and pox-ridden merchant is a lesser creature.
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A boy of six hurls an apple. It strikes her hip, and the Queen doesn't flinch. She glances only once at the crowd, as if to commit every face to memory.
You push yourself forward, shoving past a knot of squabbling bakers, ignoring their curses. Your heart hammers, throat dry as a bone. Joram is beside you, knife already unsheathed, hidden in the folds of his sleeve.
Another chorus of "Shame!" rises, and you add your own voice to it, until your throat is raw, until you feel you might choke. The Queen staggers, just for an instant, and you see your chance—the gods themselves might have parted the crowd for you.
You leap the first step, then the next, Joram right behind you. For a second you are a boy again, chasing Mary through the wet streets, but this time you are not too slow.
She sees you—of course she does—and her expression flickers. The smirk is gone. Now, only cold, animal calculation. She raises a hand to shield herself, but you catch the wrist, wrench it behind her, and with your other hand you grab her by the scalp, yanking her head backwards.
You half expect the blow to come, the sparrow's rod across your skull, the boot of a gold cloak shattering your teeth against the steps. But no blow lands. The circle holds, a barrier of sandaled feet, and the crowd behind it is so loud, so frenzied, that you are invisible in your violence.
You jerk her up by the hair, and put your lips to her ear. Her scent, even now, is sour with fear and under it the salt of sweat, a hint of rosewater clinging to the golden strands. You speak, low and plain, so she alone hears: "This is for Mary." Your voice is gravel. You feel her tremor, but when you twist her to face you, her gaze is flat as pond ice, green and depthless. She doesn’t even remember the name.
You force her down, harder than you meant. The Queen lands on the hard edge of a step, wrists scraping raw, knees splaying, but her chin juts in defiance. Joram flashes his knife, the dull blade catching the watery light, and Cersei looks from it to you with a sneer sharp as a razor.
"Lie back," you say. You put a boot on her shoulder and push. The sparrows, now in a ring around you and the Queen, look on without a word, only the crowds screaming, pressing forward to see the shameful work the Queen herself is being made to endure.
Cersei Lannister lies on the road in front of the Sept, hair tangled across the cobblestones, face up to the sky. She glares at you as you fumble your trousers open, the iron-hot flush of your cock leaping free. The sight of it makes her lips part, just a flicker, and there—there is the fear, the true terror, the knowledge that she is not in control, not here, not now.
"This is your justice?" she spits, voice a blade of ice. "The mercy of smallfolk and whoresons?” She gives a laugh, then narrows her eyes at you. “It's very simple. Stick that filthy thing in me and every living member of your family will be dead by the morrow. And when I'm done with you, by the gods, you'll wish you'd had as kind a fate as theirs."
You press yourself to her, the heat of her skin shocking against your cock. She turns her face away, jaw clenched, but does not cry out.
"Is that so?” you say softly, “Well you can't kill my family, can you now.You fucking cunt. Because they're already dead by your hand. Your Grace."
And with that, you push inside her, slow, slow, savoring the first moment, a gasp wrung from her lungs as you fill her. The crowd is a wall of thunder, but here in the circle, in the silence of her shame, you own her.
At first the Queen’s body arched, resisting. She made a strangled gasp in her throat, teeth bared, face a mask of rage—not fear, not submission, but pure, searing hatred. There was nothing soft in her, nothing yielding; even her cunt was a fist, clenched around you, fighting.
You begin to hammer her with everything left in your body, your hips slamming into her, the sound lost in the riot of the mob. The Queen’s snarl fractures, and her mouth falls open as she gasps, ragged, the mask of royalty melting with each thrust. Her hands claw at the cold stones, fingers scraping for purchase. You see the whites of her knuckles, the tremor of her thighs. Each time you drive into her, you feel her resist, then yield, then resist again, like the rhythm of a tide fighting itself.
Your vision narrows to the flush across her chest, the swell of her breasts, the muscles knotting and uncoiling beneath the pale, perfect skin. You want her to remember every inch, every grinding second, every humiliation. You think of Mary, of every girl trodden underfoot by the likes of Lannisters, and you fuck the Queen harder, splitting her open for the world to see.
Out of the corner of your eye, you catch a flicker of movement. The Sparrows—the true believers, the ones who’d promised to look away—are not looking away. Not anymore. Instead, they stand in a half-moon, hands inside their roughspun robes, their cocks emerging gnarled and angry from the folds of sackcloth. The Queen sees it, too; her eyes snap open, and she tries to sit up, to twist away. But Joram is on her in an instant, holding her down, pinning her shoulders to the stone.
You bend over her, and fuck her harder and deeper, punishing, driving her into the hard stones. She stares up at the sky, lips parted, and now you can hear her—soft, helpless whimpers, leaking from her as surely as the tears leaking from her eyes.
The first Sparrow steps forward, dragging his cock across her cheek, smearing her face with the thick, unwashed length of it. She twists her head, jaw clenched, but he slaps her with it, once, twice, then grabs her by the hair and forces it between her lips. The Queen gags, recoils, but Joram holds her fast. Another Sparrow comes up beside her, his cock already streaming, and he aims it at her temple, spattering her golden hair with streaks of white. Another, and another—soon there’s a ring of them, all jerking themselves over her face, their froth running into her eyes, her nose, her open screaming mouth.
You fuck her through it, driving her hips into the stone with the force of a siege ram, feeling her body quake beneath you. You close your eyes, thinking of Mary, and you do not stop, even as the Queen chokes and sputters, her beautiful face now dripping with seed.
There is a moment when her body goes slack, and you feel her surrender: the fight is gone, the pride stripped away, only the animal remains. You take her then, over and over, until you are spent, until you’ve emptied yourself into her and she sobs, hoarse and broken.
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Afterwards, everything is noise and blur, a cataract of sound and pressure and heat. You stagger to your feet, cock still slick and half-hard, and your legs nearly buckle as you pull from her, from the Queen, leaving her on her back, shuddering. For a moment she stares up at you, green eyes flaring hate, spit and tears and seed painting her cheeks. Her lips move, but whatever curse she breathes is lost in the bellow of the mob.
The crowd surges forward—the dam is broken—and men are climbing, crawling, clawing over the ring of Sparrows. You see the first wave: a butcher with blood on his apron, cock in hand; a black-toothed carter, fumbling his breeches; a ragged, barefooted boy no older than sixteen with murder in his face and nothing but hunger in his gaze. The Sparrows push back with staves and whips and rods, keeping the horde just barely at bay.
You watch, for a heartbeat, the chaos you have made—a carnival of vengeance, the city itself rutting and howling, all decency burned away. Someone grabs your shoulder, a panicked, bony hand, and you whirl, knife ready, but it is only Joram, wide-eyed and grinning and covered in the blood of his split lip.
"Did you see her?" he shrieks. "Like a fucking pig on a feast table!" He cackles, then ducks away as a stone whistles past his head, vanishing into the crush of bodies.
You glance back, just once, at the Queen. For one second, through the tangle of writhing flesh, you catch her face—eyes wide open, mouth a black o of animal terror, golden hair plastered to her skull with spunk and blood. She locks eyes with you. In that moment you see her, the last of her, the hatred and the pride and the certainty that you, a nothing, have ended her world. You almost bow. Instead, you turn and push your way from the square, the din fading behind you, the city’s screams still echoing in your head.
You walk in a daze, the world tilting. No one recognizes you; why would they? You are just another rat in the tunnels. You drift through streets that are all at once strange and wholly familiar, like a dream you can't quite wake from. Your feet take you to the old quarter, where the stones are mossy and the alleys are so narrow two children could reach across and hold hands.
You remember Mary here. She was always faster than you, ducking down side streets, calling out riddles and rhymes. You remember her face, not as they found her, but as she was, laughing with a mouthful of stolen custard, her hair wild and her eyes bright.
There was a baker on Pepper Alley who used to give you both sweets every Sunday, always with a wink and a warning not to let the Gold Cloaks catch you. You remember the taste, the way Mary would break her bun in half and press the bigger piece into your hand.
Your memories distract you from the man in the plate and crimson cloak who has been following you, and from the steady footfalls that are not your own. You turn, and there he is: a monster built from the bones of war, a hound’s helm over his skull, the black eyes burning from inside.
He says nothing, only fills the alley, his shadow a slow tide. You know that death was always coming for you, had been coming since the day Mary’s blood dried on the street and the world failed to notice.
You do not run. You do not beg. The thing in the armor lifts you by the neck as if you are a sack of flour, and presses your face to the mossy wall. The world is a wheeze and a flicker. Your skull strikes stone, hard, and again, and you hear something inside split apart.
It is not pain you feel, not exactly. It is a suffusion, as if light were pouring into you, through the fractures, flooding your bones, your lungs, your battered heart. You smile, or try to, and think of Mary, her hands pressing the warm roll into your palm, her love for you always outpacing your own. In the instant before the darkness rushes in, you think: it is enough.
The monster lets you drop. Your legs buckle beneath you; you slide down the wall, leaving a bright, arcing smear behind. The city sounds rush in, louder than ever, then recede, then are gone.
If there are gods, you hope they have the sense to know this: that a man can live his whole life as a shadow, and in dying, cast the only light that ever mattered.
In the days that follow, the Queen disappears from public view, and the city is clogged with rumors. Some say she is dead, trampled by the mob, her body torn apart. Some say she lives, but her mind is broken, her beauty ruined, her nights haunted by the echo of her own laughter, mocking and sharp as glass. Others say the Sparrows held back the crowd, and she made it to the Keep though dripping with seed.
In a little alley off the moss-wet street, in the spot where you last stood, there began to appear each morning a small, perfect crust of sweet bun, broken in half and left on the sill.
Joram had remembered the story you told him of your sister, Mary, and the half sweet bun she would always give you. And soon enough the story spread, along with the whispered memory of that fateful day when the cruel Queen was finally broken.
Not by an invading army or by a dragon or by one of the great houses.
But by a humble rat of Kings Landing.
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