A/N: I'm so sorry this took so long! This is a kinda short one but I split the chapter for a reason. Also so you could have this sooner. I know some of you are getting impatient. ;)

Heat. It was a word Effie was slowly trying to get used to from inside the stuffy carriage being dragged along the King's Road by reluctant horses who were not used to the summer sun. It'd been a long month's ride down to King's Landing and it still wasn't over. One month spending her days inside an old creaking carriage instead of feeling the Southern sun on her skin. One month of admiring the strange, changing landscape from a tiny window, watching as the lush meadows and trickling streams and the beautiful wild-flowers of the North faded into the distance behind them. One month of listening non stop to the relentless voice of Lady Portia Howell, her father's ward. What the girl was even talking about anymore, Effie had no idea, but she let her speak, drowning out the voice with songs in her head and dreams of home; a place she didn't know if she'd ever return to again.

"I cannot get over that gorgeous pendant!" The pendant again? Really?

Those words that a month ago had triggered a lively conversation from the young Lady Trinket were now just beginning to grate on her last nerve. With no real animation to the movement, she tore her gaze from the bizarre red castle in the distance and gave the other girl a look of pure indifference.

"It's rude to stare, Portia."

"Rude to admire a friend's style?" Portia had the nerve to laugh, much to Effie's annoyance.

"Yes! When you've done nothing but stare every time I've worn it in the past month, it's rude!"

An awkward silence fell between the two women after Effie's frustrated outburst, and part of her felt bad already. She knew Portia was just trying to make conversation and Effie loved talk of fine jewels as much as any young lady, but there was only so much she could take and she'd well and truly had enough. Admiring is one thing, but the staring was making her uncomfortable. That was all there was to it, and when Portia murmured a quiet "sorry", all Effie could do was sigh and turn her attention to the world outside the carriage. That strange red castle still loomed in the distance and her mind suddenly recognised it as King's Landing. A feeling of dread settled in the pit of her stomach, but it couldn't be that bad, could it? Could the King be as bad as they said? Were the people savages with no sense of community? That's what the travellers and adventurers and knights all said. They said the Keep was hot, humid and stunk of human waste. They said diseases swept through the lower town like a blizzard, and the high Lords and Ladies would be dragged from their horses and have all their gold stolen if they were not surrounded by guards. The thought terrified Effie. She could not defend herself. Why should she defend herself? The North had always been so kind and civil; a loving, caring community, where her father's guards would let the children play with old, misshapen armour and blunt practice swords, and the bakers would hand out sweets and cakes when they had some to spare at the end of each day. Thinking of it made Effie's heart pang with longing. It all felt so long ago now; a distant memory in a far away past.

She missed home.

—|—

The clang of steel from the courtyard was always a sound Haymitch despised. He was sure they did it on purpose; fighting with blunt swords in the yard right below his window at ridiculous hours just to annoy him. Many a time he'd been tempted to swap the weapons for sharp ones and let them fight until only one man remained, but his advisers had said it would be unwise to thin out the guard, considering how the North could attack at any moment. Still, he couldn't help the thought regularly crossing his mind. Part of him thought it would be well worth losing to the North if he got to sleep in for just one morning without being disturbed.

Slowly, other noises began to register in Haymitch's head; shouting, the sound of horses, a horn in the distance; but there was one noise especially that made his mood instantly sour. As if the Gods themselves were forbidding him to sleep in, a drumming echoed through the room like thunder, causing his skull to feel like it was vibrating; cracking; crumbling into tiny pieces. He groaned, lifting his hand in a pathetic attempt to shield himself from the noise, but on and on it continued, until eventually, a familiar voice accompanied it.

"My King?" His uncle's voice called loudly. "Nephew? May I enter?"

Haymitch grunted in response, but his uncle knew well to take that as consent first thing in the morning.

"Nephew, you're needed for council."

"Thought I was your King, not your nephew."

"You are my King, but still my brother's son. I would not see you shame the Abernathy name."

"Haven't I already?" His voice was a slurred grumble as he steadied himself on his feet, squinting his eyes against the painful light of the sun.

"You may have. But there is hope. You are young and beloved by -" Haymitch scoffed, but his uncle ignored him and continued. "- Your people. Even if you deny that fact." Landon added, with one scolding look at his nephew.

"Don't want them to love me. Want them to leave me alone. Let me drink and die in peace." Haymitch's voice was a low, gruff mumble - something that had become his regular voice in recent years - and the cup of wine he'd lifted to just an inch away from his lips was suddenly slapped from his hand. He shot his uncle a glare as the cup clattered to the stone floor. "What in seven hells-?!"

"They might let you drink until you die, but I most certainly will not! Your father made me swear by the old Gods and the new that I would protect you, should anything happen to him. I shall not break that oath."

"Father's dead."

"He is. And we will not insult his memory or dishonour his family name. Now, I expect you in the throne room in one hour."

The stern sense of finality in his uncle's words had Haymitch sighing and nodding his consent. At that, his uncle turned and marched towards the door, only pausing briefly to add one final command.

"You will be sober, nephew." It wasn't a question, and Landon did not wait for an answer before leaving the room. His footsteps had barely faded into the distance by the time Haymitch had a bottle in hand. He stood in place, glaring at the empty doorway and slowly lifting the bottle to his lips.

Surely one drink wouldn't hurt.