GOT: My Secret Lover is sansa-Chapter 131 Blood Scout

Joffrey froze. "Close them!!"

"The City Watch threw down their spears," the guard said. "The Tyrell army is walking through the streets. The smallfolk are letting them in."

Joffrey grabbed his sword. The steel rattled as he pulled it from the scabbard. "Liar! The Gold Cloaks are mine. I pay them."

"It is true," Ser Boros said. His voice was quiet. "They will be at the Red Keep soon."

Joffrey pointed his shaking sword at Boros. "Go down there and kill them."

Boros shifted his weight. "We have two hundred men. There are thousands outside."

Joffrey slowly lowered his sword. His breathing steadied. The panic in his eyes turned into a cold, hard stare. A vicious smile crept across his face.

"The Stark girl," Joffrey said.

He turned to Boros. "Go to her room. Drag Sansa Stark out by her hair. Bring her here. I want her on her knees in front of this throne before Thorne walks through those doors. I want him to see her headless body."

Boros swallowed hard. "Yes, Your Grace."

Boros waved to the kneeling guard and three others by the wall. They drew their swords and ran out of the hall. Their boots echoed down the corridor.

Joffrey laughed. He shoved his sword back into its sheath. He walked up the iron steps and sat on the throne. He gripped the metal armrests.

He waited.

The hall was dead quiet. The torches crackled.

Five minutes passed. Ten.

Joffrey tapped his foot against an iron sword hilt. "What is taking so long?" he muttered. "It is just one girl."

Then, a sound echoed from deep inside the castle.

It was not the clash of swords. It was a scream. A loud, raw yell of a man in terrible pain. It echoed down the stone hallways.

A second scream followed. It was cut short by a loud, wet crunch.

Joffrey stopped tapping his foot. His smile vanished. He squeezed the armrests until his knuckles turned white. He stared at the open doors.

No one came back.

The castle went completely silent again.

High up in the Maidenvault, the silence was heavy.

Ser Boros Blount lay on his back in the hallway. His white Kingsguard armor was torn open like wet paper. His sword was snapped in half on the stone floor.

The three Lannister guards were dead. One was missing an arm. Another was thrown entirely through the heavy wooden door of Sansa’s bedchamber, shattering it into splinters.

Inside the room, Sansa Stark sat calmly in her wooden chair. She wore a simple, dark Northern dress. Her hands were folded neatly in her lap. She didn’t look scared.

Standing between her and the broken doorway was Nyx.

The shadow-wolf was massive barely fitting. Its pitch-black fur absorbed the light from the hallway torches. Fresh blood dripped from its massive jaws, pooling on the stone floor.

Nyx let out a low, vibrating growl that shook the floorboards. The beast stepped over the body of a dead guard, its yellow eyes locked on the empty hallway, waiting to see if anyone else was stupid enough to come prize.

Sansa reached out a steady hand and rested it on the thick black fur of the wolf’s neck.

"Good boy," Sansa whispered.

...

Deep in the dimly lit bowels of Maegor’s Holdfast, Cersei Lannister stood in the shadows of a narrow, forgotten corridor. The frantic shouting of guards and the distant, heavy thud of marching boots echoed through the stone ceiling above her, but down here, it was suffocatingly quiet.

She held a bundle of black velvet in her hands. Slowly, she peeled the fabric back.

The dagger inside did not look like standard castle-forged steel. The blade was jagged, twisted like a snake in mid-strike, and forged from a strange, porous dark metal that seemed to drink the torchlight.

Cersei held it out. A small, cloaked figure stepped forward from the deeper darkness of the alcove. A pair of pale hands reached out from beneath a heavy wool mantle and carefully took the hilt.

She leaned in closer, her green eyes locking onto the hidden face beneath the hood.

"Do exactly as I taught you," Cersei commanded, her tone dropping to a dead, emotionless flatline.

The figure didn’t speak. They simply offered a single, stiff nod, slipped the strange dagger beneath their cloak, and melted away into the dark passageways, leaving the Queen entirely alone in the dark.

The Mud Gate was wide open.

There was no battering ram, no boiling pitch, no rain of arrows.

Alaric rode at the front of the column on his massive black destrier. Beside him, Margaery rode her pristine white mare. She sat perfectly straight, her chin held high. She didn’t look like a conqueror forcing her way into a city; she looked like a beloved Queen finally returning to her people.

Surrounding them was a vanguard of Alaric’s Blood Knights.

The smallfolk of King’s Landing lined the streets by the thousands. They stood on wooden balconies, hung out of windows, and pressed themselves against the muddy alley walls. No one threw stones. No one shouted insults. They just stared in absolute, paralyzing awe at the sheer scale of the army.

Every few dozen paces, the conquering host passed pockets of Lannister resistance—or what was left of it. Men in crimson cloaks and lion-crested half-helms lay flat on the cobblestones, their hands laced tightly behind their heads, their swords tossed uselessly into the gutters.

As the royal procession neared the base of Aegon’s High Hill, the shadow of the Red Keep looming overhead, a man in a plain brown tunic casually stepped out from the terrified crowd of smallfolk.

He didn’t draw a weapon, nor did he flinch as a Blood Knight turned its featureless red visor toward him. He simply walked smoothly into the center of the street, dropped to one knee in the mud, and pressed his fist over his heart.

"My Mighty Lord," the Blood Scout said, his voice carrying clearly over the din of the marching army.