RICKARD I
It was sometime past the hour of the owl when Ser Rickard Thorne approached the battlements of the tower and looked down. Beneath him was the sprawl of King's Landing, the political and religious capital of the Seven Kingdoms. From the Red Keep atop Aegon's High Hill, he could see the Sept of Baelor's dome in the west, as well as the gargantuan Dragonpit in the east. Between them was a mass of humanity crammed into an assortment of residences. Roiling flames illuminated everything from manses to huts, inns to brothels. The sum of all these small fires was still dim in comparison to the radiance of the full moon shining over Blackwater Bay, which stretched out behind him.
It was a brisk autumn evening, with a stiff chill breeze blowing in from the Blackwater Rush. On it was the stink of all the human and animal excrement a city of this sort produced, but Rickard was used to that. He was not, however, familiar with the cold. Winter was coming. It had been a long summer, one also full of peace and prosperity.
Yet all good things must someday end.
He heard footsteps behind him. He turned to see Alys Fossoway before him, small and shrinking. She was, as ever, one of the most beautiful women Rickard had ever encountered in his thirty and three years. Her thick and wavy hair was a natural bright red, so assertive as to announce her whenever she entered a room. Her green eyes and voluptuous figure kept whatever eyes came her way fixed upon her. Tonight, she was wearing a fine silk dress with a blanket about her shoulders. It was wool and yellow, and the dress beneath it was a smooth burnt orange. The color emphasized her hair all the more, as well as the rows of freckles across her impish button nose. She usually had a mischievous look about her, playful rather than malicious, that excited in Rickard a feeling unknown to him since childhood. Having to appear the paragon of virtue most of his life, he had forgotten what it was to be—and there was no better word for it— "naughty." Now, however, she seemed uncharacteristically timid and unsure. She glanced over her shoulders as she drew closer to him, seeking refuge in his arms.
"Were you followed?" he asked, gently pushing her away and looking her in the eyes.
The emerald irises were moist with tears. "Last night was a mistake."
"What are you talking about?"
"I don't love you. I love Harys. It's just that when I'm around you… I can't control myself." She leaned forward and placed the side of her face against his chest. He wore a suit of white-enameled plate armor with a white cloak fluttering behind him, the insignia of the elite Kingsguard, the seven knights sworn to protect the king. As a lady-in-waiting at the Red Keep, Alys had no required uniform, but her finery was typical of her class, even above average. Her dress had been custom-tailored by the finest clothiers in the city. House Fossoway was in the ascendancy, along with House Redwyne, attached to the dominant power that was House Hightower. That noble family included the current Queen, Alicent Hightower, whose father was the Hand of the King, Ser Otto Hightower. The families of the Reach were wealthy as a rule, that region being the most bountiful and prosperous in Westeros. It was also known for its chivalric knights and comely maidens, of which Alys was certainly a picture-perfect example. She had been in King's Landing only a fortnight, the companion of the Master of Coin's granddaughter, Lynesse Beesbury, who had come to marry some young lord. The consensus of court was that Lynesse was as dull as she was plain. Alys, however, had turned heads and set tongues wagging immediately. It was known she had married Harys Meadows the month before, but it was speculated how tethered she was to her husband when away.
Rickard had found out.
"We both wanted to," Rickard pointed out. "And no one else knows."
She laughed, her dimples all the more obvious, even if the mirth was absent from her voice. "Are you serious? This is the capital. This place is a cesspool of spies and cutthroats. Someone always knows. Whatever I was to be in life, I never wanted to bring scandal upon my house. I would have content to become so fat lady in a nice big hall..." She choked down the words and gripped Rickard tighter around his broad chest. "Gods be good, Harys will kill me! My father will disown me! My poor mother will die!"
"What do you mean? Why are you so certain?"
She looked up at him with wide eyes. "I'm with child."
The blood drained from Rickard's face. Had it been nine months since his last venture through the Reach? Alys had not been betrothed to Harys Meadows then, but she had had no shortage of suitors. Rickard had not come to court her but as part of the king's entourage. He had given the eager girl a good tumble and thought little of it, until she had reappeared in King's Landing among the Beesbury retinue. Last night, there had been something different about her, but she had not refused him, and showed much of the same keenness as before. Now, she was nothing but tears, tenderness, and remorse.
"It's mine…?" Rickard found himself asking.
"Yes," Alys snapped, looking wounded. "You were not my first, but my only one in some time. What am I going to do?" Harys is going to know that the child is not his."
Rickard was frozen. A knight of the Seven Kingdoms was expected to abide by a certain code of honor, although it was possible for them to fall into low company and even turn to banditry (as many of them did). A knight of the Kingsguard, however, would be held to a higher standard; there was an abundance of qualified and ambitious candidates who would wear the white cloak, and craved the glory that came with it. House Thorne was not even a major house, and those that were—the Lannisters, the Tyrells, and so on—would happily submit one of their sons to any future openings. Siring a child out of wedlock, especially to a noble lady married to a lord, would ruin Rickard's reputation, and make him a laughingstock of respectable society. King Viserys was tolerant and gregarious, but there were plenty of pious traditionalists who would push the monarch to remove Rickard from his place of honor. He would be a humiliated pariah.
"Rickard!" Alys shouted. She could tell he was absent from the moment.
"Hush!" He clasped a hand over her mouth. Nothing would hasten his downfall faster than to be found in hiding with his paramour. "Calm yourself. I will take care of this."
She yanked her head away. "How? How can you possibly take care of it?"
Rickard did not know, so his mouth hung agape, stupidly. Suddenly, a voice cried out, yelling his name. He spun around, and could see his fellow Kingsguard member, Ser Willis Fell, walking toward the tower from the lower battlements. This was a surprise; Ser Willis was meant to be tending to the personal security of the king as he slept. The man was not known to be frivolous with his vows. If he had come so far from Viserys' chambers, then something serious was amiss. He turned quickly back to Alys.
"I don't know," he admitted. "I'll think of something. Just go back to your chambers."
She left, rushing from the tower and back into the castle. He could tell from her expression that she was not reassured, but he doubted she would be so stupid as to tell anyone else. He walked toward Ser Willis with confidence, taking a deep breath. The older knight, with his mahogany brown hair closely cropped and flecked with grey, was typically cavalier in his demeanor, but not now. He looked grimmer and more determined than Rickard had ever seen him, even on the tournament grounds. If he had noticed Rickard speaking with Alys, nothing suggested that he thought anything of it, one way or another. Instead, he looked Rickard over and let out a long, labored sigh.
"King Viserys is dead," he said at least, in his grizzled baritone.
Rickard blinked. "Dead?"
"Yes, and I don't think he's getting better." Such levity was more representative of Willis, although usually the topic was not so somber. "The Lord Commander wants us to rouse the small council from their beds. They must discuss the proper arrangements."
Rickard scoffed. He knew without asking that Queen Alicent and her father the Hand were not concerned with planning a royal funeral or ringing the bells to announce Viserys' passing. It was the most poorly kept secret in King's Landing that the Queen and the Hand wished to place Alicent's oldest son, Prince Aegon Targaryen, on the Iron Throne. The only obstacle facing them was that King Viserys had named his daughter by his first wife, Queen Aemma of House Arryn, as his heir. Princess Rhaenyra therefore expected to succeed her father. Traditionally, across the Seven Kingdoms, the eldest trueborn son inherited all titles on the passing of the father. All things being equal, Aegon was now king. Viserys, however, had used his royal authority to specify that Rhaenyra should rule after him, and had made lords and ladies swear oaths to that effect. Granted, one could argue that the established conventions of the land should overrule the whims of a single individual, but that individual had been the king. What was the point in being king if people simply ignored your orders and forgot their vows?
"I'm on my way to fetch the Master of Ships," Willis said. "Would you be so good as to collect Lord Beesbury? The old man sleeps soundly, so be sure you knock loudly."
Waking and herding the members of the small council to Queen Alicent's quarters in Maegor's Holdfast proved simple enough. Lord Lyman Beesbury, having eighty years, was the most senior of those gathered, and his face went pale at news of Viserys' passing. Grief soon gave way to an iron resolve, and Rickard reckoned the old man entered the queen's chambers like a soldier going to war. Already present in the chambers were Queen Alicent and her father, Ser Otto, sitting at the head of a large table. Behind them stood the imposing Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, Ser Criston Cole, a man whose knowledge of war was surpassed only by his ignorance of subtlety. Arriving behind Lord Beesbury was Grand Maester Orwyle, a dithering and bookish man also advanced in years, along with Lord Jasper Wylde, called "Ironrod" for his inflexible nature, the Master of Laws. Ser Willis came later, escorting the Master of Ships, Tyland Lannister, a stern and officious fellow with long straight blonde hair that cascaded down his shoulders to the middle of his back. Presumably it was meant to invoke the regal mane of the lion, the sigil of his house, but came off vain (but perhaps that was also the point). The last to come was the Master of Whispers, Larys Strong, known as "Clubfoot" because his left foot was perpetually turned inward. He dragged it as he limped inside, taking the last remaining seat at the table, directly across from the Queen and the Hand. A silence fell as the last chair scooted across the stone floor.
"You may leave us," Ser Criston said to the rest of the Kingsguard, dismissing them with hardly a thought. Rickard exchanged a knowing glance with Ser Willis and obeyed.
Of the seven under oath to defend the king, only five were in King's Landing that evening: the Lord Commander, Rickard, Ser Willis, and also Ser Arryk Cargyll and Ser Steffon Darklyn. With Ser Criston inside the queen's chambers, the four others congregated on the other side of the door. Different men, they were connected by their oaths and a shared exclusion from decision-making. After all, theirs was not to lead or govern, but to follow, and in this gap of time between sovereigns, they naturally felt excluded and directionless. They would cease to exist (in a sense) until a new monarch was proclaimed, at which point they would have a purpose again: to serve and protect.
Ser Steffon, one of the oldest and most respected Kingsguard members, let out a snort. His hair was as dark black as Rickard's, though while Rickard kept his hair long and wore a bushy beard, Steffon kept his hair short and his leathered cheeks cleanshaven. A thin scar cut across his forehead to his right eye, then resumed on the cheek to just before the chin. Ser Willis had described Steffon as "brooding." To Rickard, he always looked like he was bored, tired, or constipated. "Politics," he said quietly with a grumble.
"You have no opinion as to who should succeed His Grace?" Ser Willis asked.
"I will serve either Prince Aegon or Princess Rhaenyra to the best of my ability," replied Steffon coolly, "but it seems to be in the best interest of everyone that Rhaenyra be crowned. His Grace told us his will, and it was clear: Rhaenyra should rule after him. Oaths were sworn and vows were made. Surely swearing a vow still means something."
Willis chuckled. "Do you really think people will remember who made what promise and who swore what oath? The winners will write the history they like, and the stories and songs that come after will repeat that version, at least if the tellers and singers want to keep their tongues." He lifted a hand and shrugged. "I have nothing against the princess. It's her husband, the rogue prince, who is the problem." Willis meant Prince Daemon Targaryen, the notorious younger brother of the late Viserys, and now husband (and uncle) to Princess Rhaenyra. "Rogue" was the most common word for what Daemon was, Rickard knew, although hardly the most profane. Daemon was known as "Lord Flea Bottom" because he had spent his youth in the seediest squalor of that hive of crime and debauchery. Even so, he was still the quintessential Targaryen: bold, dashing, a rider of dragons and a wielder of a Valyrian sword. He had as many followers as he did foes, and it seemed to Rickard that no one ever had a lukewarm opinion about the man.
"And there are the rumors about the children." Ser Arryk was reclined against the wall, trying to look apart from the conversation while still part of it. He had a boyish face, with fair apple-sized cheeks and bright blue eyes. His blonde hair was thick, curly, and shaggy, and it was a struggle keeping it managed. He had always nurtured a carefree swagger, one of the few distinctions between he and his twin Erryk, who was also part of the Kingsguard. "The boys have brown hair, like Harwin Strong, her old sworn shield."
"And who is her sworn shield these days, ser?" asked Willis. "Oh yes, your brother."
"What Erryk does in his own time is his business," Arryk said with a wry smile, "although I think after six children the Princess's figure isn't quite what it used to be."
"That could be our queen you're talking about," Steffon said gruffly. There was always something of the uptight maester about him. "You could be calling the heirs to the Iron Throne bastards in the Red Keep itself." He kept his voice low, so as not to disturb the goings-on in the council meeting, but he was clearly becoming agitated.
"Calm down, calm down," Willis said, touching a hand to Steffon's breastplate. "Nothing's decided yet. There's a reason we spend our days and nights looking after them." He jabbed a thumb at the door to the queen's chambers. "They will figure this out." He looked at Rickard, then gave a little nod. "Ser Rickard, your thoughts?"
Rickard swallowed. Of the Kingsguard, only the Cargyll twins were younger than him. There had been no major wars in their lifetimes, so Willis and Steffon had made their names through years of hard adventuring, jousting tournaments, and suppressing outlaws. They each had a decade of service, Steffon a bit more, whereas Rickard had only received the white cloak two years prior. While he was fully aware of the importance of the office, he hadn't really been trying to attain it; he was good at riding and good at fighting, and since he belonged to a noble house, he had become a knight. And since winning tournaments meant plenty of gold, women, and wine, he had felt little reason to complain. Now, as Willis waited for his answer, he felt totally at a loss.
"No one wants war," he observed. It was an obvious statement, but no less true. King Jaehaerys the Conciliator had ushered in an age of peace when he had resolved the dispute between the Targaryens and the Faith of the Seven, who had started a rebellion when King Aenys Targaryen had wed his eldest son to his eldest daughter. That had been over eighty years before. Since then, the Seven Kingdoms had known only peasant uprisings and occasional bandit marauders. The lords and ladies of Westeros had gotten soft and rich as a result, since trade within the continent and across the Narrow Sea was booming. Even relations with Dorne, that arid and stubbornly independent kingdom at the very south of Westeros, were remarkably good. The smallfolk, blissfully ignorant as they were about most current events, only knew that peace was preferable to war, when it was them who tended to suffer the most. It was them who lost their sons to battles whose outcomes had no personal stake in, or who felt most acutely the diversion of crops and gold—often at the end of a sword—to keep the wars of the wealthy going.
"The Iron Throne was forged in war," Steffon pointed out. "Wars are fought for power, and this dispute is about who will rule the land and whose bloodline will sit the throne, from now until the end of time. You're a good lad, Rickard, but you're still a bit naïve."
Rickard bristled at the criticism. He was many years Steffon's junior, that was true, but he had no less proven himself than any other man who served on the Kinguards. Although many years separated them, they had made their names in the same way, through winning countless melees and tourneys. To succeed, much less survive, in so many tests of skill was no easy task. The last man Rickard had faced in a match—Ser Olyver Mallister—had fallen badly from his horse, landing on the crown of his head. It was said he spent his current days bedridden, in an unresponsive stupor, servants needing to assist him when he emptied his bowels. Compared to such an ignoble fate, the scars and minor disfigurements worn by all the Kingsguard members seemed like mere trivialities. Unlike Ser Steffon at least, Rickard noted, he himself wore no obvious evidence of an old wound that was as visible as a facial scar. Steffon felt entitled to respect, and perhaps he was, but Rickard felt the older man was no better than him.
"I think you're a bit too hungry for war," Willis suddenly countered. "When King Jaehaerys' eldest son and heir died, and the choice was between the daughter of the heir and King Jaehaerys' second son, Prince Baelon, the king named Baelon his heir without bloodshed. When Prince Baelon died too, a Great Council convened and chose Baelon's eldest son, His Grace, King Viserys. Here we have another dispute, and again, I wager the great houses will side with the eldest son rather than the daughter, regardless of what His Grace wants… I mean, wanted." He had inched closer to Steffon, looking up at him; whereas Steffon was tall, his features angular, Willis was short and heavyset, not fat, but a squat fellow made of big bones and muscle, crammed into a suit of armor.
Before Steffon could reply, the door to the queen's chambers swung open. The Lord Commander stood in the doorway. His intense grey eyes were fiery in his rugged face. "Come in," he ordered, and without question the four knights entered the room.
What they saw shocked them. The Master of Coin, Lyman Beesbury, sat reclined against a chair, his head cocked to one side, a huge gash across his wrinkled throat. A curtain of blood ran down his neck and onto his well-made clothes. The rest of the council looked somber, perhaps a bit embarrassed, but otherwise there was no emotion apparent in any of their faces. Grand Maester Orwyle was the only who looked like he might be sick.
"Take this body away and dispose of it," Criston Cole said, pointing to the corpse. He paused, as if debating whether any more words were necessary, but at last he said: "Lord Beesbury showed himself a traitor and declared his intention to raise arms against our one and rightful king, King Aegon." He studied each of their faces as he said the name. He must have been satisfied, because he continued. "You will speak of this to no one. On the morrow we will continue to deal with any additional renegades in our midst."
Ser Criston assumed that the rest of the Kingsguard would be loyal. Perhaps he figured, Rickard guessed, that seeing the old man with his throat slashed would be ample warning to the four of them the cost of supporting Princess Rhaenyra's claim. To Rickard, however, the significance of the scene was in revealing the extent to which Aegon's faction would go to eliminate any opposition. They would go as far as to kill a highborn man, leader of a noble house and a representative on the small council, if they felt it was warranted. They would have no qualms about sending legions of smallfolk into battle. Despite Ser Willis' reasonable words uttered just moments ago, it seemed certain the realm would bleed. Rickard could not grasp what that would mean.
As the most junior knight of the Kingsguard, Rickard volunteered for the unenviable task of moving the dead man's body. He slipped his hands under Lord Beesbury's limp arms, picked him up, and carried him to the door. "Gods, he's heavy," he muttered. Wearing a suit of plate armor was hard enough, even given Rickard's considerable strength and endurance, but lifting the body of Lyman Beesbury made him understand the term "dead weight." Not only was the plump carcass heavy, but its appendages dangled wildly. One of the old man's feet failed to clear the doorway, and Rickard had to twist awkwardly to pass the threshold. Only on the other side, when the door to the queen's chambers had closed again, did Ser Willis step forward to assist him.
Steffon looked at them both, a hard look. Rickard was familiar with it but there was an energy behind it that was he unacquainted with. It felt like contempt. The older knight started to speak, grimaced, and then with a dark chuckle, forced a smile. "Please excuse me. It seems you have this well in-hand. I need some rest to be prepared for the grim work tomorrow brings." He turned and left, the torches reflecting their fire in his white-tiled armor. The sound of voices murmuring on the other side of the queen's chamber door mixed with the sound of Steffon's steps as he hurriedly vanished down the hallway.
Rickard shot Willis a troubled look. "Should we just let him leave like that?"
Willis raised an eyebrow. "Do you want to stop him?"
"He's insulted," Ser Arryk suggested. "We're knights of the Kingsguard, not servants to dispose of bodies. He likely thinks this sort of things is beneath him."
It was indeed beneath them, Rickard thought, but this was not the first time that the lofty and noble descriptions of the Kingsguard had proven more the work of poets than a reflection of reality. Over the last two or so years, he had done little but stand either in the throne room or outside the king's chambers while he and his family had enjoyed the luxuries of their station. He would spend his day shadowing some royal body while it lived a life—laughing, loving, eating, sleeping—while his life was forfeit, reduced to opening doors or guarding them. Now he could add the disposal of dead bodies to his duties. Still, he knew better to complain. His purpose as a knight was to serve, not whine like some pampered, petulant child. Gods knew there were plenty of undisciplined rabble in the Seven Kingdoms, and many of their fine lords and ladies were little better.
As he carried Lyman Beesbury to his rest, most likely in some dank cell in the Red Keep's dungeons, his mind went back to Alys and the child growing inside her. Something would have to be done about that, and somehow, he would have to figure out a way of protecting his reputation. It was unlikely that Alys wanted his baby any more than he did, but the girl might feel obligated to have it and keep it. Normally, Rickard would then decide whether to denounce the child or acknowledge it as a bastard. That could not be an option now. The child could never be allowed to enter the world.
He was decided. He would call upon the Clubfoot.
