Adam/CERSEI
Adam stared at himself a long time in the Myrish glass when he received the missive. It was with some comfort into simple cloth, a plain cape and boots that he snuck out into the godswood, and was received by the Hand of the King who sat on a log.
The air was silent, pervasive. Adam lingered only that he felt comfortable of the exchange between them: of one thing he could count on, that Ned would not presume himself upon her.
"You came," Ned glanced up, and Adam curled up on the grass, vaguely aware that he wanted to be an object of desire for surface reasons only.
"So, what did you summon me for?" Adam squinted, preparing for a Shakespearean lingo of words with which to throttle Ned. It was far too easy only to play to the script.
"I know the truth Jon Arryn died for," Ned spoke up.
Adam watched Ned's face vaguely. He looked just like a father would.
"Which is?" Adam shrugged.
"He found out," Ned paused. "About you and Jaime."
Adam's eyes drew bland and he told the truth. "The king has his way with me. It hurts."
Ned remained still as a stone, and Adam did not need this to know that adults never took him seriously. His truth was flowery and better unspoken. If such had happened in real life, he'd be expected to sweep it under the carpet.
And so Adam rose. "What power do you have over me, Ned Stark?"
"I will tell Robert, when he returns," Ned gazed up at Adam. "You must gone before he returns."
"That man cost me," Adam shook. He had no idea how Cersei had suffered it for so long. One's madness coils in the brain until, attacked from all sides by hot pincers, it unleashes like a fiery serpent gnashing with all the sweat pouring out of its body. "Jaime had my happiness and that brute soured it! I will never warm to a touch again!"
Ned stood slowly, and fixed his gaze upon Adam. "You pushed my son from that tower."
Adam shook his head less out of a desire to rid himself of guilt, but of that he expected nothing less.
"I tell you the truth and you don't take me seriously!"
Ned was puzzled at that, and Adam was fuming; it was Ned who left, and Adam shuddered that Jaime's touch alone would not renew him; he would forever know that brute's hands upon him, and his stomach roiled as though a cow pat was basting inside his gut.
He clambered for the weirwood reigning paramount, twigs clattering and held onto it as though it were a lover docked at sea for harbor, and could leave any time.
"Get me out of here," Adam whispered, shivering with the exultations that he might leave these memories behind. "Good god, get me out of here and deliver me from this farce. I can't lie - I can't lie - please take me out."
Clara/JOFFREY
Clara rode alongside the king, as he and his party travelled through the kingswood in search of prey. The trees were a canopy of sunlight above; leaves crunched underneath their horses' hooves; and the heavy grunting of Robert was not soured by his weight, he enjoyed the closeness of a kill, that which was denied him in such physical constraints.
Her horse bobbed along, and Clara bore in silence the burned face of the Hound; the clanking of Ser Barristan's white armor on its straps; the bored lament of Renly who was his brother in image of youth. Lancel hurried by with a wineskin, and Clara turned her gaze away in time.
Robert was no father, she considered. He was fat and an oaf and a drunk. And though she considered Adam naive for his complicity, that did not venerate the king. He was an abuser, and rightly so that he should not see her eyes burn into his back. She would make him pay.
The boar startled from the undergrowth and reared its tusks; Clara startled all of a sudden to hold her horse's reins, her glance to Sandor and he snorted; the king loped off his horse to wield the spear and bat off the boar, as Ser Barristan swung forth -
"Leave him to me," Robert roared, and as he arched forth, the boar dug his tusks in, and with a cry, Robert froze and dug the spear the rest of the way through the boar.
Clara spluttered tears; choked and reddened as Robert reddened and choked, she leapt off her horse with a cry as Sandor grabbed her round the middle, and Renly leapt forward with Ser Barristan to pry the king's hands from the spear, the boar spilling its guts; the silence but for the treetops.
Clara knew no rigidity such as loss and grief; and her mouth open and closed as had been only one moment in her memory. That Robert had died as a father was tantamount to losing her own; and she tore against Sandor even as the others clambered to hoist him that they might return him to the castle at once.
"Steady there," Sandor assisted her onto her horse, and Clara scratched at her eyes; stuttering heaving sobs "He won't die."
The coarseness of his nature offended Clara. "Why not?"
"He's a Baratheon," the Hound rasped, and nodded her onward. "They're bloody hard to kill."
Max/ARYA
Max wound the dirk to his wrist with a wad of fabric, and pulled over a doublet and buttoned it smart. He took the stairs from the Tower of the Hand, and made his way across to Maegor's Holdfast, where guards at the door frowned.
"Who're you here to see?" spoke one, in clanking mail, scabbard on his belt and his hand held loosely on the hilt, in studied nonchalance.
"Prince Tommen," Max found himself saying, but the guard frowned.
"The little prince and Ser Arys went hunting in the kingswood," he snickered, to his pal. "Isn't that right?"
Max fumed that they should laugh. "Then I'll go see Myrcella."
"Princess Myrcella's in the sept with the Lady Sansa," the other guard raised his eyebrow. "Anyone else?"
"Yes," Max figured the truth couldn't hurt. "I'd like to see the queen."
And so Max was waved through, and he took to the steps two at a time; and his footsteps were his own apart from the patrolling guard; a boy carrying an overflowing chamber pot, and a servant changing the rushes in Grace/Tommen's room. Max caught the servant's gaze and quickly moved on, heart thudding.
Quiet like a water snake, Max told himself, though he could build up the mantra to still his fear. He was only a young girl, after all. And if anyone could see through him other than Clara, it'd be Adam.
He came to the queen's apartments, where Ser Mandon stood posted; his eyes were oddly lifeless, and flicked over Max when he came near.
"I want to see the queen," Max's voice came out in a squeak.
Ser Mandon only stared for a moment longer; and knocked on the door with his fist a hammering couple of times.
"Your Grace," Ser Mandon spoke without inflection. "The Lord Stark's daughter."
"Sansa?" came the curious voice from within; and the door cracked open to reveal Cersei; if Max hadn't known it was Adam, he would already be randy from the promise of her heat. "Oh, the young Lady Arya."
Max rolled his eyes; Adam was never more pompous when trying to speak like a courtier. Yet the hammering of his heart continued as the queen bade he enter and the door closed stalwart behind.
The chamber was mesmerizing; certainly better than the rooms he shared with Sansa. There was particular care given to the lion sigil, crimson fabrics and gold ornaments; books strewn that not Cersei but Adam would have actually read; jewellery laid out and the promise of a gown over a chair.
Adam sure was living his best life, Max figured. A mook in the skin of a long-haired seductress.
"Robert's gone on his hunt," the queen explained, as though she were giving a speech. "Clara - Joffrey's gone with him. I suppose I should be more careful."
"Why?" Max shrugged, sitting on the edge of the bed. He carefully folded his arms. "It's only me."
Adam shrugged. "I hope I'm up for it."
"Up for what?" Max cocked his head.
Adam gestured out the window, where the Seven Kingdoms lay. "This! All this. I don't know. Sometimes I don't know how much I don't know."
Max was older than Arya but even then too young to begin soul searching. Adam fretted and his fingers darted in his lap and his glance remained out the balcony. Max was no Robert to go rushing in; and waited for the queen to pour some wine.
"I don't usually drink, but it's good," the queen savored the taste. She turned to Max. "And are you ready?"
"Yep," Max said, as quick as a spit. The queen gestured with her arms as she spoke; free to be limber and demonstrative without refrain, it came with the territory. It came with the body.
"Of course we'll have to keep you here until suspicion dies down," Adam muttered, his eyes clenched shut with trying to remember everything. "It's Sansa that's the Stark jewel. Arya's just a hostage - but of course, you'll be glad for one thing."
"What's that?" Max eyed him like an owl, feathers ruffled and irises widening.
"God help me if you run off like Arya," the queen chuckled. "You'll survive it, no doubt; but there's Ramsay to consider."
Max gulped. He had not too genially liked the scenes of mutilation in the dungeon chamber.
"What about Ramsay?" Max asked, annoyed that his determination had begun to flag.
"Well," the queen shrugged, and with a little shake reminded herself who she was talking to. "If you were to be captured by Roose, then in time, he would seek to wed you to his son to shore up Winterfell."
Max shook at that. The idea of being Ramsay's plaything - and he was ever more disgusted to hear Adam's recollections of something about dogs and and on the wedding night. He tore his gaze away, too horrified to consider.
"This land is brutal," the queen gathered her furs. "That's why I have to continue. I have to continue no matter what… "
Max thought that there would be no one so bound to protect him as Adam. Foppish and sycophantic he might be; but wrested out of the capital, while he might enjoy the life of a ruffian; as a girl, he would be fodder for every man with a certain pair of eyes. And he could not stomach receiving that which in his fantasies he himself was so keen to give.
"Fuck," Max got to his feet and stormed out, and the queen called after him with surprise but to no avail.
Grace/TOMMEN
The kingswood was alight with merriment; and even if it was shared only by Grace who smiled up at Ser Arys and he who nodded back, the woven paths and wriggling ants in dirt and scrub scattered like treasure were something to make the heart beat a little faster. A half dozen guards picked their way through on their heels.
It was not usually her type of fun: Myrcella and Sansa might prefer more highbrow affairs, but Grace had grown up on a farm after all; and so to hear the birds and spy rabbits pointed out by Arys and a deer loping, cantering, a dot in the bushes by the time she saw it, it was a relief to breathe fresh air and be at one with nature.
She closed her eyes and took in the measure of her wellness: she wished she could be back with her friends, for time to stand still and for events never to have parted them; and yet, as she heard footsteps, she didn't quite think that her wish had come true.
Horses and men drove a path as Grace took to one side, Ser Arys by her side, and the soldiers who watched, open mouthed as Robert lay bloodied and unconscious. Renly was blood-splattered; Ser Barristan's white armor was red, and Clara rode up, red-eyed and shaking as she caught sight of Grace standing with her guard.
"What are you doing here?" Clara scathed, and Grace took a step back at the vehemence.
"What's going on?" Grace whispered, and Clara gestured to the horse leading the charge with the king loosely hanging from behind.
She sadly glanced up at Ser Arys and mournfully traipsed back to the castle with his sword clanking by his side.
Zoe/GREGOR
Zoe continued up the kingsroad, and found the rushing banks of the Trident a soothing calm for the nerves which beset her anxiety. The riverlands were beautiful enough, and she loved the solitary life; but she would need gold to continue, and soon enough, she came upon the sight of two castles joined by a bridge across the rushing waters below. Rain clouds had begun to gather.
She cantered up to the gates, met by weaselly outriders bearing sigils of twin towers, and they met her with some harried and studied deference. Theirs was an escort, an honor guard almost pointless as Zoe rode across the drawbridge, threw her reins to a servant and gladly came into the warmth.
"Lord Walder is resting, ser," nodded one of her greeting party. "Please help yourself to mead and food."
If not out of fear than simply for good hospitality, Zoe was glad to be permitted of such. And she was served bread and salt and the soldiers watched her like she was the first rat carrying the plague, and ate in silence though a larger crowd came to collect on the eaves of her peripheral, and she had since become used to the whispers.
A grey-haired man who held himself erect with some pride approached her table with a little bow. Zoe scuppered the trencher and rose.
"Lord Walder," she bowed, and her recipient knew not how to begin.
"My father is honored to have you under his roof," the man continued, after a start, and turned to a nearby retainer. "Isn't that correct, Perwyn?"
"Yes, Ser Stevron," Perwyn sniffed and wiped his nose; and the tumult of rain continued to hail above their volume.
"Apologies," Zoe muttered, and their awe was hidden by blank, blandly pale faces.
Ser Stevron took a seat, and Zoe aped him.
"Is it news of our lord of Lannister which brings you north, ser?" Ser Stevron queried.
"No," replied Zoe. "I'm looking for work."
Ser Stevron raised an eye. "Lord Tywin has since written to my father, yet we have not seen any sight of his son… surely he will have enlisted you to find him?"
Zoe tensed. "But I'm not with him anymore."
Ser Stevron frowned ponderously. Zoe's hackles were raised, and he beckoned to a servant.
"More food and ale for our guest. I'll have a room prepared for your stay."
"My thanks," Zoe added, and faced boldly the glittering gallery of weasel eyes muttering until she dispersed them with her gaze.