I scrambled to stand up, kicking away half-eaten dishes and golden chalices that had plunged with me from the dais. I’d only gotten both my feet under me before I fell back on my knees. Bright spots were clouding in my vision, and my back ached from the crash. I tried to breath, gulped like a dying man, but the fall had emptied me of air.

I heard the screams behind me, the prayers and the cries and the begging, but they seemed so far away. Too far to be of any help.

It was Jaime who came to me first. “Tommen!” He grabbed me from behind, lifting me up by my armpits. “Tommen, we need to go. Now!”

I could only grunt in response, pushing my feet at the ground to try and help him.

We had barely gone five steps when Jaime stopped; his weight supporting me from behind was suddenly gone, and I fell down back to the ground. When I looked up, all I could see was the shadow demon blowing down the dais like a whirlwind, and Ser Balon sliding to the ground, one hand clutching his side, his life’s blood soaking his pristine white-cloak red.

Everything came back into focus then, as if a switch had turned on me; air flooded my lungs, the blurs in my sight faded, and I could hear the screams of the desperate nobles on all sides. I could also hear Jaime yelling at me to run as he stepped in front of me, ready to meet the demon as it rushed us.

But Ser Jaime was out of his plate-armor for the night’s feast, and I knew crimson silk was no match for dark magic. So I lept off the ground and shoved my foot on his back. The last knight of the Kingsguard between me and Melisandre’s unholy creation was sent tumbling to the side, and it was just the two of us in the middle of the dance floor.

I knew who it was after; but I also knew the only way to kill it before it killed me.

Hopebringer came singing out of its scabbard, black and red ripples swirling and dancing where the torchlight of the pavilion broke on the valyrian-steel blade. The demon gave out a ghastly screech as it spotted the sword, and I knew I had a chance.

The demon charged me, single-minded aggression driving his sword in a side slash. I raised Hopebringer to meet it, half-expecting my metal blade to phase through his black shadow one and cut through me like it did Ser Balon; but the blades connected, and a thin, piercing sound filled the night.

I didn’t have time to consider the painful feeling in my ears. This thing didn’t breathe, it didn’t tire. It just came at me, relentlessly. I blocked and parried blow after blow, the strength behind each of them weighing on my arms. His sword left black shadows in its wake like ghosts, and each time our blades clashed I heard the keening wail of a thousand anguished voices.

It was fighting me, actually fighting me. I felt blood running down the left side of my face—from my ear, and swallowed the dryness in my mouth as true fear settled deep in me. I knew I had to do something or it would simply outlast me.

I dodged the demons next thrust; but my sword met it, and Hopebringer ran the length of its blade and glanced off its shadow arm. The demon howled, deep and harrowing. The black of its form turned slightly more translucent, as if just for a moment it was made of some dark-tinted glass.

I jumped on its distraction. Hopebringer flew in my hands faster than it ever had on the practice yard, cutting and slashing a shoulder or an arm. Ribbons of darkness seeped out of the demon’s wounds like black blood, and a vile smell filled the pavilion. I felt my heart beat thundering in my head and echoing through my whole body. Fear melted with the frightful and beautiful song of our clashing, and the thrill of the fight set a fire in me. Before I noticed, a wide grin had set on my face.

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The thing’s backswings came weaker and slower with each flurry of blows, and I pressed the advantage. From the corner of my eyes, I caught the nobles that were in the feast, and the soldiers that had crowded into the pavilion at the sound of screams; they simply stood there, watching the duel between king and hellspawn with awe and horror and wonder. Even Ser Jaime hadn’t gotten back up to try and help me.

It didn’t matter. I had it in the next exchange. The demon twisted from side to side and charged me, black blade leaping, but its desperate slash went wide when I side-stepped it, and it was done. Hopebringer cut the air with a whistle, then split the shadow-demon from collarbone to waist. The thing didn’t even have the strength to scream; a wet gurgle came out of its dark mouth, then it fell upon itself like a collapsing building made of ash, leaving nothing but a cloud of sulphur where it once stood.

Before the silence of the shocked crowd broke, I was already sheathing back my sword on its scabbard and striding straight at my Hand of the King. I had never seen him looking like this before, eyes wide and staring, muscles clenched. Was it the fear of both his heirs dying in front of his eyes? Of his legacy crumbling to dust with him in the audience? Or was it the more primal one, the one that made the first humans fear the night and all its horrors?

I didn’t have time to consider that. I grabbed Tywin by the shirtfront and lifted him off his chair. “Listen to me, Lord Hand. Listen!” Lord Tywin swallowed, his eyes focused back on me, and he managed a weak nod. “Listen well. I need you to close down the city. No one leaves, no matter what. Take however many men you can: yours, the gold-cloaks, reachmen. I don’t care. Scour every corner in the city, every inn and every warren. Seize all the ships in the docks, look for smaller boats, dinghies or canoes. Look in the caves and any rock shelter near the coast. Find the woman in red, Lord Tywin. Find her. Red hair, red clothes. Bring her to me.”

Tywin’s expression settled into nervous tension. “It shall be done, Your Grace.”

I swivelled around, looking for a particular man. “Bronn,” I called, picking him out in the crowd. He looked pale as a ghost, and sweat ran down his face. I walked up to him and slapped him. He came into himself quick as a cat after that. “Get some men and a cart. Get something to stop his bleeding, then take Ser Balon to the castle, now.”

Bronn exhaled a breath and nodded. “To Pycelle?”

“No, no. To Qyburn. Take him to Qyburn, and tell the man what happened. Tell him what you saw here and what caused Ser Balon’s wounds.” I turned away before he could acquiesce. He would follow my orders. This night, everyone would.

Men and women crowded around me, to speak to me, to hear my voice, to touch me and know I was real. “Away!” I ordered. I looked at the still stunned guards standing around the room. “Make room for your king, now!” The mixed group of city watchmen and Lannister red-cloaks rushed around me and started ushering people away.

I wasn’t even paying attention anymore. There was one more person I needed. I knew Varys was somewhere back in the Red Keep, too far away, and I couldn’t trust him with this.

Olenna Tyrell was sitting in the same place she’d sat the whole night. Margaery was at her side, her eyes red and puffy and tear-stained, being cradled by a mumbling Loras Tyrell. When the curtains fell and the real demons came out to play, few could say they had looked them in the eyes and still held their head high. The Queen of Thorns was one such person.

I strode up to her table and slapped both hands down in front of her. “Somewhere out there, there’s a silver-haired girl who dreams of power; she has the right name to sit the throne, and three dragons to make it a reality. And she won’t be marrying your granddaughter, I can guarantee you.” I leaned in closer, so only herself and I could hear my next words. “Use your network, Lady Olenna. Let the whole of the Seven Kingdoms know what happened here tonight. Let them know how a Targaryen shadow-demon came to slay their king, and how it was beaten back to whichever of the seven hells it came from. Tell them the Seven smiled down upon the king, and the Warrior gave him the strength to defeat the abomination. You tell them that.”