The main culprits were hanged in public, followed by lesser-known handmaidens and entertainers—many whose names wouldn't even be remembered.
Once Robert and the nobles returned to Highgarden, the crowd swarmed the corpses. Some stripped the bodies of their clothes, while others carved off body parts with knives.
The Faith of the Seven was the dominant religion, but strange local customs still lingered across Westeros. Some believed that consuming a specific body part could strengthen the corresponding part of their own body. By midday, the corpses on the gallows were already mutilated beyond recognition.
"Pycelle was truly foolish," Barristan said, gazing at the wild mob outside the city walls from the tower.
"He was old. And perhaps he thought the king wouldn't die so soon. Maybe he hoped to live out his days without getting involved. But with medicine as it is today, how long could he have hidden something like this?" Varys replied, folding his hands in front of him.
The two had worked alongside Pycelle for years, serving two kings—and by extension, two dynasties. They weren't exactly friends, but the bond forged through years of shared service left them both feeling regret at Pycelle's pitiful end.
Barristan sighed. "Not just here. Many will die in King's Landing too."
"The king's orders were only sent out yesterday, and ravens can only fly so fast. The Gold Cloaks are probably still rounding up those impostors posing as the queen and prince."
Varys's mind spun as he contemplated the situation. Were Cersei and Joffrey truly dead, or was it a ruse? Could the disappearance of several Kingsguard years ago be connected to this? The most unsettling thought was how all of this had happened under his nose—right beneath his vast network of informants.
The longer one worked in intelligence, the more paranoid one became. Varys' thoughts drifted wildly, his methods shifting over the years. Now, instead of analyzing reports, he preemptively imagined all the hidden factions that might exist, then sent people to investigate them. It was a dangerous imbalance, but he hadn't yet realized he was slipping into one of the greatest pitfalls of intelligence work.
---
That same night, in King's Landing
Ser Jacelyn Bywater, the Ironhand, current commander of the City Watch, led 300 Gold Cloaks to capture the impostors claiming to be the late queen and prince.
Jacelyn was a distant relative of House Bywater, a noble family in the Crownlands. He had fought in Balon Greyjoy's rebellion as a young knight, earning his knighthood for bravery. Afterward, Robert placed him in the City Watch, where he slowly climbed the ranks through sheer merit, eventually becoming the captain of the Dragon Gate.
When the previous commander of the Gold Cloaks was caught selling positions and embezzling funds during Wright's time as acting Hand, Jacelyn's loyalty, competence, and prime age made him the natural choice to replace him.
The Gold Cloaks didn't accompany the king's progress on royal tours—that duty fell to the Red Keep's guards. The City Watch was responsible for the city's defense and public order.
Jon Snow, newly promoted to vice-commander, had taken a six-month leave to study in Tyrosh. When he returned, his prospects would only improve. But Jacelyn harbored no jealousy—he lacked any magical talent, so Jon's opportunities were beyond his reach. In Jon's absence, Jacelyn voluntarily took on the additional workload, hoping to strengthen their relationship.
Catching common criminals in the city's labyrinthine alleys didn't usually require such a large force. Too many men would clog the narrow streets. But tonight, Jacelyn had brought 300 Gold Cloaks—enough to seal off every alley around the building, with fifty men left to storm the place. This was overkill, far beyond their standard procedures, but Robert's direct order left no room for restraint.
To expedite arrests, the City Watch maintained a small stable within the city walls, though it held only about fifty horses.
Jacelyn, clad in his gold cloak, rode at the head of the column on a tall white stallion. He held the reins with his left hand, while his right—an iron prosthetic—rested on the saddle. Since losing his hand, he had switched from sword to warhammer, wielding a weapon identical to the one Robert had used in his youth. The hammer hung on the side of his saddle, gleaming even in the dim torchlight.
"Humfrey, take a squad around to the back door!"
"Understood. Should we circle back to support the others once we secure the target?" asked Ser Humfrey Waters, the current captain of the Dragon Gate. The other gate captains rode just behind the commander.
Jacelyn shook his head. "No need. Petty thieves aren't the concern. These two impostors are the king's top priority. Get moving."
"Fifth and sixth squads, with me!" Humfrey barked, leading nearly a hundred men into a side alley at a jog.
King's Landing always had a theft problem, but it worsened dramatically after the king departed with a large retinue of nobles and officials. Their estates were left in the care of stewards, guards, and servants—but no masters.
Wright had once purged the city's criminals, sending many to serve in the army, but theft was a crime that could never truly be eradicated. Greed always lured more people to replace the ones lost.
Now, with so many vacant mansions in the city, thieves flocked to King's Landing like vultures, targeting jewelry and gold dragons. By the time a theft was reported, hours—or even days—had usually passed, giving the criminals ample time to vanish.
After years in the City Watch, Jacelyn knew the game well. When a piece of jewelry went missing, a steward might claim that two had been stolen, pocketing the second one himself. Sometimes, there wasn't even a thief—just corrupt household staff looking for an easy payday.
Tonight, though, Jacelyn wasn't chasing after petty crooks. His warhammer rattled against the saddle as his horse's hooves clacked against the cobblestones. They weren't here to protect the nobility's wealth—they were here to unmask a threat to the throne itself.
The city watch didn't need to investigate these matters too deeply—it was all noble affairs. They had been enjoying their leisure when, at last, they received an important task from the king.
---
"Where exactly are we going?" Clad in a black robe, Cersei stopped in her tracks, unwilling to take another step, and questioned Sandor Clegane, who was leading the way.
Even now, this woman was still acting crazy. Sandor turned around, his face twisted with frustration. "You and Donnel have already been exposed. The Gold Cloaks are coming to arrest you. You want to stay here and wait to die?"
"Hahaha! Did Robert order my capture? Is he planning to execute me again?" Cersei sneered at the mention of the Gold Cloaks but, despite her words, she started moving toward Sandor.
Donnel, standing beside her, also asked, "Does Robert really want to kill us?"
Wasn't that obvious? They had been hiding in the Westerlands for years—did they really have no idea? Sandor thought so, but he didn't dare say it outright. Instead, he said, "The king's order is to arrest impostors. And right now, you two are impostors pretending to be the deceased queen and prince!"
Cersei was so furious she could hardly speak, her body trembling in rage. Donnel, on the other hand, pointed at himself and roared, "What?! I'm an impostor now?"
There was no time to explain. Sandor took two quick steps, grabbed Donnel's arm, and started dragging him forward. "We have to move. All seven gates of King's Landing have been sealed. Our people are at the Steel Gate to the west—that's the only way out. Follow me!"
Those with official identities had already left their residence ahead of time. Lancel and several other Lannister girls, for instance, had joined a trade caravan heading west. The only ones who needed to escape in secret were Cersei and Donnel.
It wasn't just the two of them following Sandor. A dozen knights and household guards from the residence were also with them. Bringing the guards along was Sandor's decision—he knew their escape wouldn't be smooth, and if necessary, he would sacrifice them to slow down their pursuers.
At that moment, noise erupted behind them.
They turned to look. Their former residence was now bathed in torchlight, with an overwhelming number of Gold Cloaks swarming the place. When they found no one inside, they fanned out, calling for reinforcements and conducting a large-scale search, moving in squads through the surrounding streets and alleys.
"Stay quiet. Keep close," Sandor whispered, pulling his hood lower as he led them through the narrow alleys.
Even Cersei was growing anxious now, but she still spoke to her son to bolster her own courage. "Donnel, don't worry. We won't die in King's Landing."
Donnel crouched low, following behind her, and asked, "Why are you so sure?"
"Because the old witch's four prophecies have all come true," Cersei said with absolute certainty. "So, the fifth one—the one about my death—must also be true. That means I won't die here."
With the rise of Viserys and Odahviing, more and more people had started studying High Valyrian. Though the language was notoriously difficult to learn, it wasn't hard to find someone who could translate a few words. Cersei had paid to have a particular phrase from the old crone's final prophecy translated.
The prophecy read: "They (her three children) shall wear golden crowns, and be shrouded in golden burial cloths. One day, when you are drowned in your tears, the valonqar shall wrap his hands around your pale throat and choke the life from you."
The key word she had translated was valonqar, meaning little brother. Her three children were still young, and Jaime and Tyrion weren't in King's Landing. So, in Cersei's mind, she couldn't possibly die here.
"Who's there?!" A loud shout came from around the corner.
Damn it! Too many people. They had been spotted while crossing an intersection.
Sandor tensed but forced himself not to reach for his sword. He stood up, pulled back his hood, and approached the Gold Cloaks with a forced grin. "We're merchants from outside the city, trying to leave tonight. But it seems you're all out on patrol."
He pulled the coin pouch from his belt and gestured for the knights behind him to do the same. There were five Gold Cloaks. Sandor sized them up and then shoved seven or eight coin pouches into the hands of the one standing at the front. "The tariffs are too damn high, so we smuggled some goods into the city."
As he spoke, Sandor subtly curled three fingers while extending his pinky and ring finger toward the ground—a smuggler's signal for "water route". He wanted to pass himself off as a sea smuggler. Smuggling was a matter for the tax officials, not the Gold Cloaks, who were mere guards. They wouldn't know the intricacies of trade laws.
All five Gold Cloaks noticed his gesture. They exchanged glances, then the one holding the coin pouches weighed them in his hand before nodding at his companions. He then pointed to a side alley and grinned at Sandor. "If the taxmen don't catch you, it's not smuggling! Take that path to the Steel Gate. Fewer people."
"Much obliged, ser."
Sandor bowed his head in thanks, then motioned for the group to move. As they passed by the Gold Cloaks, none of the guards drew their swords. They simply watched, their eyes tracking them as they left.
Sandor gave a brief nod of acknowledgment and quickly followed after Cersei and the others. After taking a right turn and then a left, they found themselves trapped in a dead-end alley.
At that moment, the sound of marching boots echoed from outside, the clang of steel hitting the stone ground growing louder. Then came the familiar voice of the Gold Cloak from earlier:
"The fugitives are cornered in this alley! Dead or alive, this is a great merit for us! Charge!"
"The law is the law, and every trade has its rules. The soldiers here are disgracefully lacking in etiquette!" Sandor spat in frustration, cursing the bribed Gold Cloak for betraying them.
"What do we do now?" Cersei was panicking, her hands frantically searching the walls for anything climbable, but the lowest point was nearly ten feet high.
This was the moment the guards from the estate would prove their worth. With no time to hesitate, Sandor started barking orders:
"We make a human ladder! Get them up first! Move!"
The knights Sandor had brought along were stronger and more skilled, mostly landed knights and minor nobles, while the estate guards were relegated to the bottom, acting as footstools for their betters. Only after the nobles had climbed would they get their turn.
"Get them!" The Gold Cloaks surged into the alley, seeing their quarry scrambling up the walls. Swords were drawn as they charged forward.
"Aaargh!" A thrown axe found its mark, sinking into the back of a knight who had just reached the top of the wall. He gritted his teeth against the pain, unwilling to let go. With blood seeping through his tunic, he reached for Donnel's leg.
"Ser Donnel, help me!"
Cersei had already dropped down to the other side. Donnel hesitated at the top, unsure whether to jump, but as he was about to take the leap, the knight clutched his pant leg desperately.
Donnel grimaced in disgust. "You have hands, don't you? Climb up yourself!"
"I..." The knight's words faltered as blood filled his lungs. With no armor to protect him, the axe had punctured deep into his back. He could no longer speak, only cling to Donnel like a drowning man clutching driftwood.
"Get off!" Donnel kicked at him, but the knight's grip remained firm. With the Gold Cloaks rushing toward him, Donnel made a split-second decision—he drew his sword and hacked down at the knight's hands.
The blade struck true.
"Agh!" The knight groaned in agony as his severed hands fell away. He tumbled back into the alley, landing among the advancing Gold Cloaks.
This knight was from House Sarsfield and had followed Donnel for nearly seven years. The clean, ruthless strike sent a chill through the other knights who had served alongside him for years.
"Forget them! Everyone follow me!" Sandor snapped, cutting off any thoughts of rescue.
The wall had briefly halted the Gold Cloaks' pursuit, giving Sandor the chance to lead the remaining escapees toward the Iron Gate.
The gate's commander, Ser Oswell Kettleblack, was waiting for them. A minor noble from the Crownlands, he had three sons serving under him in the City Watch.
Sandor's face was well known, and though Oswell's hair had turned gray, his mind was still sharp. Recognizing the Hound, he quickly signaled for his men to open the gate.
"Who are you?" Sandor asked warily, uncertain why a Gold Cloak would be aiding their escape. The darkness made it difficult to discern faces clearly.
"I serve Tywin," Oswell answered promptly, dispelling any doubt. The gate opened just enough for one person to squeeze through, and he hurriedly motioned for them to leave.
Tywin had ruled King's Landing as Hand for decades, and even in his absence, his influence lingered. To secure this escape, he had made an offer—Oswell and his family would be declared outlaws, but the reward promised in return was clearly worth it.
Just a few hundred yards beyond the Iron Gate lay Blackwater Bay. As Sandor noticed Oswell and his three sons following them outside, he shot the older man a questioning look.
Oswell explained, "We had to kill a few Gold Cloaks to open the gate. There's no going back for us now."
Sandor nodded in understanding. "Is there a ship waiting?"
Oswell's second son, Osfryd Kettleblack, took over. "Ser Adam Marbrand's ship has been anchored here for days."
Sandor frowned. "Are we sailing back to the Westerlands?"
Osfryd shook his head. "No. We head north first."