Flour room first.
We move between the sacks. I point at the barrel with the gap, the one I have checked a hundred times. I slip through, show her it still works even when the world outside screams.
Rhaenys swallows and follows. Shoulder scrape, elbow thump, a quick breath. Good girl. I nudge her wrist once. With me.
Smoke slides under the door in thin lines. Someone shouts nearby, steel hits steel. My legs want to run twelve ways at once. I make them choose one.
Chute next.
We reach the linen drop behind the panel. The hook fights her small hands. I butt the plank where it loosens, it gives. She stares into the dark hole, eyes wide.
"Feet first," I think. She can't hear thoughts, but she understands.
She sits, legs in, palms white. Looks back once, the kind of look that asks if I'm coming. I nod. She lets go.
Dust bursts up. A muffled "ah…" smothered by her sleeve. She lands on rags and bad smells, knees scuffed, pride intact. I drop after her, wings brushing cloth, claws catching the rim before sliding down.
The room is small, dirt-floored, lit by a slit of light from a high grate. Air filled with molded linen. Two doors from the ash flue, if no one's moved it since dawn.
Boots stamp above. Goldcloaks. One coughs."Who left the bloody oven door open?" he barks.They pass.
We wait. Ten heartbeats. Fifteen. Silence settles.
I hop ahead. She crawls after, through a low arch stacked with broken buckets. The gap I left is still there. Thank the same world for once.
The ash flue door is warm at the seam. I press my side to it, heat hides scent. Dangerous, but everything else is worse.
I shoulder it open. Soot rolls out, biting our throats. Rhaenys coughs once and covers her mouth. She's shaking. Of course she is. four years old.
Inside is narrow black. Air pulls upward, tugging hair and fear alike. I go first, small steps, wings tight so I don't leave marks.
She crawls behind, palms scraping stone. No complaint. Breath slow through her nose, in sets of four, the way her mother taught her when she panicks. She forgets once; I brush her knuckles and she remembers.
Noise hammers the wall, boots above, men running. Lannisters.
We freeze.
I press her hand down. Don't move. Don't breathe deep.
"Bridge secure!" one shouts."Holdfast sealed!" another answers.
The echo lingers, then fades.
We crawl again.
At a turn, soot deepens. I smear a line across her cheek, darker is safer. She blinks, then copies me. Attagirl.
The flue narrows. My chest tightens with old memories, locked rooms, sirens, windows that never opened. I shove it down. I'm here. With her.
We reach the oven vent. Heat stings. I test the grate, loose. Thank you, lazy baker. I work it sideways, open a gap big enough for a child.
We drop into a crawlspace smelling of burned sugar and wet wood. Her hair sticks to her face; she wipes it, leaves a black streak, keeps moving.
Shouts echo from the corridor."Smoke's worse near the Queen's rooms," one says."Wait for the men," another answers.
We flatten. I cover her hands with my wings. Stay.
Their boots move off. One spits; it sizzles on the stone.
We breathe again, slow.
Through the scullery next. Flagstones slick with leaks. She slips twice, catches herself both times. No crying.
A kitchen boy bursts through a swinging door, eyes wild, sack over his shoulder. Doesn't see us. He's running for "out." He vanishes with a clatter.
We wait. Waiting is where bad thoughts live. I think them anyway.
Elia and Aegon are behind us. I can't go back. Not because I won't, because I can't. A child dies on that bridge. I can save one.
We reach the ash room. Big chute, bigger pit. I wedge the latch with the bit of wood I left nights ago. It holds. Small mercies world offers.
Rhaenys crawls under the half-lifted bar, covered in gray from head to heel. She spits soot, looks like a ghost that won't quit. I peck her sleeve; she blinks back to me. With me.
The corridor beyond runs toward the pantry and the postern hall. Smoke thins, traded for damp river air. We're close. Close means risk.
Two Lannister men burst from a side door, coughing hard."Fuck this," one wheezes."Keep your feet," the other snaps, then vomits on his boots.
They stagger off. We count to twenty. People forget things and come back for them.
Silence again, broken in chunks.
Cool draft ahead. The postern. Good.
Then bad armor in formation. A pack of Lannister hired mercenaries crossing the landing above.
We go still. Her pulse runs like a rabbit. I don't tell her to be brave. She already is.
They cross above us, their steps fading into the distance. "Orders are to hold the bridge," someone says. "We're holding the bridge." They fade into distance.
We move again, fast but quiet, where running is just walking with fear chasing you.
The pantry waits. The broken amphora still hides the wedge. Not moved. I want to thank the gods. No time.
The postern door. Iron and hate. Built for men, not children.
I use the hinge pin. Two sharp hits, a third to remind it who's winning. It shifts. I chirp the lift-then-pull call she knows.
Rhaenys grips the bar, hauls up and back. It groans, then gives.
Cold air rushes in. Outside.
Steps lead down to darkness. River sounds, rope creak, oar splash, someone swearing at something. It's enough.
We slip through.
I look back once, down the black throat of the service ways.
No miracles. Just timing. And the plans I built for the day like this.
We keep moving until the door shuts behind us, and the world becomes river, rats, and the chance to live.