Queen Cersei Lannister pours two goblets of wine and delicately carries them to the table in the royal solar where Ser Barristan Selmy sits in front of an open window, the noon sunlight shimmering blindingly off of his white armor. The old knight waves his hand to decline the drink but she places it before him anyway, taking a seat opposite him.
"It is blistering hot weather for the end of summer," Barristan muses. "The maesters say that means winter will be twice as cold."
"Spare me talk of the weather, Lord Commander," Cersei rolls her eyes. "Why are you here?"
Barristan straightens his back. "To be plain, your grace, it is a matter concerning your lord father. Lord Varys has had word from the west, and…"
"I am well aware of my father's actions. That I am not granted a seat at the council table does not mean that I am death. Both of my brothers have been beaten and chained by House Stark. My father is only doing what my husband has refused. Defending the honor of my family."
"Your grace!"
"What, have I offended you? You mustn't take criticism of Robert so personally, Barristan, it will only age you more," Cersei chuckles to herself, sipping her wine. "But I can assure you this, whatever you wish me to do, it will be for naught. I will not betray my brothers. And even I would, no words of mine could sway my father."
"Your grace," Barristan lurches to his feet, the clumsy rise betraying his injury. "I had spoken before of the seasons. This has been a long summer. A long, hard winter is coming. And when it does, we must be strong. A war now would be devastating. Thousands dead on the battlefield will mean tens of thousands dead in the cold. I know you love your brothers. And I swear they will receive what justice they deserve. But this is for the good of the realm."
"The realm, Ser Barristan? I am sorry to disappoint you. But blood runs in my veins, not dirt."
The white steel of Barristan's boots clanks violently down upon the stone floor as he limps, torch in hand, through the bowels of the Red Keep – The Black Cells. He had not wanted to do this, but the queen had left him no choice. The last chance to stop this war, he fears, lies in trusting the least honorable man in the city.
"Ser Jaime!" He bellows, at last standing before the thick oaken cell door.
"Have you finally come to gloat, old man?" the Kingslayer's voice echoes back out from the darkness. Barristan peers in through the small, barred window, but can see nothing in the inky blackness. He holds the torch closer. "Will you not even open the door? I could not kill you when I was a free man, do you fear me now that I'm in chains?"
He hears an pained, almost sobbing laugh and nearly reaches down to open the door, before deciding against it. "Show yourself!"
Slowly, a shadowy form rises into view. Chains rattle and shake, dragging across the floor as it lurches into sight of the dim torchlight reaching through the thin slats of the window. For weeks, Ser Jaime Lannister has lived here among the shadows, and now he appears a shadow of his former self. His clothes rags, his golden hair dirty and dark. His face smudged, bruised and deeply lined from sleepless nights. He lurches forward as if a corpse raised from the dead.
"What do you want?"
"Your brother remains a prisoner of Lady Catelyn Stark. In retaliation, the Mountain has waged brutal war against the innocent men and women of the Riverlands, burning their fields and raping their women. Now your lord father amasses his army in the West. I mean to stop this war before any more lives are lost."
For a moment, Jaime laughs, but it is no longer the mocking, gay laugh of the cocky knight, but rather the creaking of a rusty hinge. It irritates Barristan more now than it ever did before. "You should have just let me kill Ned Stark! Now what can I do?"
"You can go to your father and tell him to put an end to this madness."
"I don't think I can go very far west in these chains."
"The chains…" It pains Barristan to say it, but say it he must. "They may be lifted. If! Only if you agree to broker this peace between House Stark and House Lannister!"
"Oh, Barristan," Jaime's laugh begins to find more life. "Why are you here and not his most honorable Hand of the King?"
"Lord Eddard has left to bring the Mountain to justice."
"Ha! Then I hope his lady wife is ready to be a widow!"
"Enough!" Barristan's fists clinch in frustration. "Tell me, will you help end this?"
"You know, better than any man living, that Aerys named me to the Kingsguard out of spite for my father. Not a day has gone by since that white cloak was first draped over my back that he hasn't dreamed of finding a way to tear it off. Tell me, Barristan, how badly do you want your peace? How far will you bend your precious oaths and vows to preserve it?"
For a moment, the Lord Commander pauses. Above all, I serve the good of the realm. "I will listen to Lord Tywin's demands and advise the king to make what concessions I deem wise."
"And I will deny them," Jaime laughs, coarse and rasping, his once perfect smile widening in the flickering torch light to reveal stained, ugly teeth. He places his hands heavily against the door, leaning close against the bars. "You may think my word worthless, but I take my vows very seriously, old man. I will never give up my cloak, not while my head remains upon these shoulders."
"Damn you!" Barristan pulls himself away, his careful reserve and patience giving away in a moment of fury. "What do you want?"
"Oh, I will stop this war for you Barristan. But I will do it on my own, I will not crawl begging to Castlery Rock. You once saved the life of the Mad King, and for that, the people named you the greatest knight in the land – Barristan the Bold. You saved one life… what more for one who could save the whole realm? Let me go, and I will free my brother and this war will never be."
Edward Stark huddles over a collection of maps in Maester Gaheris' study. He tries to keep his mind from wondering. Once, back in Winterfell, Maester Luwin could keep him captivated for hours on end with his histories, but even in the advanced lessons Father had arranged for him, his focus slips. A door to a whole new realm of possibility has been opened, and the past no longer seems so interesting.
"Where did Lord Corlys Velaryon sail on his 3rd voyage?" Gaheris asks.
"To the Thousand Islands," Edward finds the tiny, scattered archipelago on the map. "He was the first man of Westeros to see them, and descended into the secret city of Nefer, beneath the salt cliffs. He returned with little of note, for the people there are strange and it is dangerous for outsiders to spend too long under their domain."
"And how many islands are there in truth?"
"No more than three hundred."
"Very good. Now, tell me more about the people who live there."
"Why can't we go back to warging?" Edward groans. They have not returned to the caverns beneath the Keep since the day of Sansa's accident. The wolfblood in him yearns to bond with Tessarrion again, and it keeps him awake at night.
"You cannot neglect your other studies," Gaheris chides him. "We are all more than just one thing, Edward. The world is a tapestry, with every art and science wove into one. Great men study all things, so that they will never be caught off guard."
"Yes, but all this, I don't think Myrcella…"
"Myrcella?" Gaheris pulls a stool to the table across from Edward, leaning forward, his head resting on his hands. "What concern is this of the princess, Edward?"
A panicked red flush rushes to Edward's face. Perhaps the wolfblood has made him too bold. Never speak without thinking, he scolds himself. "It's nothing…"
"I'm not blind. Your affections are plain as day. But you must remember, your Father has promised you to another. Young love is blissful, but too often it is like chasing the wind. These things are beyond our control. This I know all too well."
"Father hasn't sworn me to anyone yet!" Edward is irritated now. "Anyway, I just think that Myrcella would be very interested in wargs and all of that."
Suddenly, the maester's face turns grimly serious and he draws near. "You mustn't tell anyone, Edward! I've told you this before," Gaheris' blue eyes darken, the flecks of purple in them turning cold as his brow wrinkles and ages into a fearful, angry old man. "This is a secret, as all the old ways must now be! They did not fade away, boy, they were smote out, and those that sought their destruction still hold sway, and are more powerful than any king!"
"Yes, maester…" Edward shrinks away. He has never seen his mentor like this before, and it frightens him. He pulls his maps closer and does not look back up. But when the maester's voice comes again, it is once more the kind, wise, chipper tone he is accustomed to.
"These things matter. To many lords have minds closed to the lands beyond our borders. But times will come when we cannot afford to stand alone. Now, tell me of Lord Corlys' 2nd voyage. Where did that journey take the Sea Snake?
"To Asshai by the Shadow. There he lost half his crew. And his love."
In the godswood, the children sit on small, white garden stools as fat Maester Ballabar lectures on the uses of plants for cooking and for healing. Myrcella, Rosamund, Sansa, Arya and Edward all sit and listen in turn. Tommen has tumbled off his stool and waits idly in the grass, the maester haven given up on holding to young prince's attention after he had once again attempted to eat the samples Ballabar had dutifully cut from the garden.
He shifts uncomfortably in his seat. Most of these plants Maester Luwin had grown in Winterfell. He tries to remember the oft-repeated mantra from Luwin, Father and now Gaheris – any piece of knowledge could one day save your life. But today, his mind is a mile away.
As for the others, Sansa is looking much better, her pale skin glowing in the sun, only dampened by the plain, dull tone of the fresh bandage. Arya is half asleep and unconcerned with hiding it. Rosamund is perched on her stool with a desperate energy to make it clear to anyone watching that she is the most studious of ladies. And Myrcella… the princess is as radiant as ever to Edward, in a gorgeous red and gold summer gown, her hair in a long, intricate braid, her emerald eyes sparkling… but dull. Edward can tell she is bored as well.
"Have you heard this before?" he whispers to her. She smirks.
"Plants are very tiring, don't you think? They never go anywhere."
"The seeds of the ironwood tree can blow for leagues on the wind before touching the ground again!" Edward blurts out and immediately recoils.
Myrcella laughs. "Maybe you should be a maester. What sort of link do you think they give for flying trees?"
"What's that, princess?" Ballabar's head shoots up from where he hovers over the bushes with his sheers, his fat neck puffing up with indignation. "Does your grace have a question?"
"I'm sorry, maester, I had a question!" Edward shoots his hand up before Myrcella can reply.
"And?" Ballabar stares down at him impatiently and he realizes that, once again, he has bitten off more than he can choose. His mind going blank, he can only ask –
"What's your favorite plant?"
Far too long later, the children meander their way out of the godswood, with Edward having never gotten a clear answer from the bloviating maester and having not nearly gotten over his embarrassment at having made a fool of himself. He cannot bare to face Myrcella now, yet she follows close beside him on the winding path back into the Keep.
"Thank you," she says. "I'd much rather he be cross at you than me. He gets even more dull when he's cross." Edward has no response. "So what is yours, though?"
"What?"
"What is your favorite plant?" she asks.
"There is one that floats on the water in the Thousand Islands and glows in the dark."
"In the Thousand Islands? Did Maester Gaheris teach you that?" He nods. "I like him. He's the only maester here who cares about the world beyond the realm. But Mother doesn't like him. What other sorts of things has he taught you?"
It takes all of Edward's self-control not to tell her about his warging. But, remembering Gaheris' warning, he thinks of a better answer. "All sorts of things. The voyages of the Sea Snake. The nations across the Narrow Sea. Their history, their people. It's all very interesting."
"It certainly sounds like it. I would love to sail across the sea one day and see it for myself. Until then, I suppose books will have to do."
Edward's spirits begin to rise at that. And as they return to the yard, he sees Jalabar Xo waiting for him with his bow and arrows, and a plan begins to form.
In the Kingswood, the late summer sun has never been hotter, and the hunters stuck beneath the heavy canopy bake in a sticky, humid heat. Prince Joffrey Baratheon, sitting upon a half-rotted log, frantically swats mosquitos away from his head with an agitated yell. The heat has dragged the royal hunting party to a crawl, and there has yet to be any sign of the white stag save for tracks and the lone tuft of fur.
"This is ridiculous!" the prince snaps. "They call this the Kingswood? This is no place for royalty! This is what bloody servants are for, let their blood get sucked out. Where is the gods-forsaken dear, you bastard?"
Peremore Hightower sighs wearily, cutting away a slice of cool cucumber on the tip of his hunting knife. He offers it to Joffrey, who recoils at the vegetable. "Your grace must have patience. It is now simple task to catch a beast like this. For a white stag to grow so large, it must be very clever. It will take all our wits to snare it."
"Well, here's some wits for you!" Joff swats away the cucumber from Peremore's hands. "This deer only moves at knight! So why are we chasing after its droppings and sweating through our underclothes in the day? It doesn't make any sense?"
"The woods is a dangerous place at night."
"Do you think I shy from fear?" He rises angrily. "I'm done playing this game. You think that beast's clever? It doesn't take much to know it's safe to prance about taunting us while we're all asleep! Well, tonight, it won't be so lucky! If the bloody deer comes, than I will be waiting for it, with or without you!"
Sansa yawns as she returns to her room after the evening meal. Today has been the most she has been out of bed since the accident. Septa Mordane is murmuring something in the background, but she pays little heed, letting the door close behind her and quickly beginning to undo the laces of her gown. Eager full the relief of sleep, she tugs harder, but finds them too tight and too out of reach. She grimaces at the thought of calling the septa or one of the servant girls and instead pulls tighter at the strings.
"Let me help you."
Sansa tries to scream as she turns around, but finds the sound gets caught in her bruised chest, leaving only a whisper to release, the pain nearly doubly over. Maris Hightower steps forward, unperturbed, and reaching for the laces. Sansa swats her hand away.
"I've told you, you have to stop that! How did you get in here?"
"Your septa was trying to tell you I was waiting…"
"Lady!" She looks about to see her direwolf lying unmoved by the door.
"I think your wolf likes me now. It knows I'd never hurt you. We're friends now."
"I don't know about that," Sansa glares. Regardless, she turns back around and lets Maris loosen the gown, sighing with relief as the dark-spotted wounds along her ribs feel release.
"We must be friends. It is meant to be," Maris is pressed close against her ear now, and her breath feels cold. "It's in our blood."
"What do you mean?" Sansa pulls away, holding the undone gown to her as she moves to the other side of the bed. Lady's ears perk up but still she does not move.
"I saw what happened in the river, Sansa," Maris steps closer. At the window, a huge, ragged looking raven comes to a perch. Sansa jumps back, and beckons to Lady. The direwolf slowly rises to her side. "I saw your eyes when Lady pulled you from the water. I know what you are, because you're the same as me. A skin-changer."
With a caws, the raven hops through the window and onto the bed. Lady's eyes lock onto it, but as the two creatures watch each other curiously, they seem to come to an understanding. Sansa, feeling her heart begin to rush, looks nervously back at the door. The septa was always listening. And she remembers what the Faith did to wargs in the olden days.
"I don't know what you think you saw," she insists, "but we are nothing alike! I'm just a normal girl, and Lady saved me because she is a very good wolf and I take care of her and she would never let anything hurt me!"
"Then what are you afraid of?" The raven hops across the bed, closer to the wolf. Maris kneels down to watch, as if she has lost interest in the human conversation. "She trusts me. She recognizes one of her own."
"I told you, I don't understand anything you're saying!"
"Why won't you trust me? I'm the only one who really understands, you know. I can help. The others? They don't even want you to be queen."
"How do you know that?" Sansa gasps.
Maris does not answer. She only smiles a small, eerie smile and tilts her head to one side. The raven mimics her, before turning and taking flight back out the window from whence it came, leaving only a lone black feather on the bed. Maris silently picks it up, slips it into the heart of the bouquet by Sansa's bed, and leaves the room as swiftly from her bird.
For a long time, Sansa does not move from the floor, her arms wrapped tight around Lady for support, burying her face into her fur. What if she tells Cersei? she thinks. What if she tells the Faith? She silently whispers her prayers into Lady's neck, but the Seven have never seemed more distant. Eventually, Septa Mordane knocks on the door. Before she enters, Sansa has hidden back beneath the covers, so she may not see her frightened tears.
Night falls over the city. In the Hightower chambers, Maris sits cross-legged on the floor, her eyes level with the cyvasse game her father's cousins are intently focused on. Alysanne moves one jade dragon to counter Leyla's ivory elephant. Her sister frowns, and takes a swig of wine.
"Honestly I can't say I'm surprised," Leyla slides a catapult forward. "The blood of the First Men is strong in House Stark. And so, it seems, is their magics."
"Are you sure you want to make that move?" A voice calls from behind her. Leyla turns back over her shoulder as a man steps forward from where he has been watching, his chain removed, leaving behind a dark red welt around his neck – Maester Gaheris.
"Very sure," she plants the piece firmly, claiming the dragon as her own. "Why don't you play me yourself, uncle, instead of chirping away over my shoulder?"
A wry smile crosses the maester's face, but he does not respond. "Your father must be right indeed. Magic is growing stronger in our world again. The boy is more powerful than I ever expected. So we have two little wargs running loose in the castle, neither truly understanding their power."
"The girl is of no concern of ours," Alysanne moves a spearmen to take one of Leyla's exposed ivory horses. "Though she may be a useful ally, if Maris would stop frightening her."
"It's not my fault she's afraid of her own shadow," Maris grumbles under her breath.
"Perhaps if you made yourself less of a shadow, then, you'd be more amicable," Leyla chuckles and takes a long drink of wine, contemplating how to respond to her sister's strike.
"Sansa and Edward clearly trust each other," Alysanne muses. "That could play for us or against us. If we earn her trust, she could convince him to trust us as well. But if she fears us, or does not wish to part with him, he may refuse to leave."
"I think the princess will be the larger problem," Gaheris interjects. "He's very much in love with her, I'm afraid."
"Why don't you talk sense into the stupid little boy?" Leyla groans.
"I cannot risk anyone learning who I am, you know that," Gaheris reaches down to move one of her pieces and she slaps his hand away. "It's enough of a risk just being here now."
"She doesn't care for him like that, not anymore," Maris speaks up. "He's too young. She wants that Darry boy now, the king's new squire."
"Then find a way to make that clear," Alysanne instructs the girl. "And make things right with Sansa. Heleana will be here any day now. We cannot afford any obstacles to their match."
Near the mouth of Blackwater Bay, within sight of Dragonstone, a large ship crashes over waves, a strong wind blowing into its orange sails. Beneath the deck, in a lavishly furnished cabin, a young girl of 10 sits, struggling to read a book in the dim light of the lantern hanging from the ceiling, the light swinging back and forth as the waves crest and flow.
A tall, dashing knight ducks his head to enter the cabin. Unlike his olive-skinned half-sisters, Ser Gunthor Hightower is every bit the son of his Lyssene mother – with skin as white as snow, golden hair and bright blue eyes that sparkle with flecks of purple in the dancing lantern's light.
"The wind has returned. The captain says we should reach the capital in three days' time, or less," he collapses into a sturdy chair. "The gods are good to us at last. I could not bear another day on this damned boat!"
"Tell me more about the Stark boy," the girl asks. Heleana Hightower's curly straw-brown hair tumbles down to her shoulders, like a wreath around her small, round face and oval, brown eyes.
Gunthor sighs. "Hela, for the sake of the gods I don't know five spare things about the boy!"
"You don't like him, do you?"
"I don't like his father," Gunther attempts to wave off the question. "I've never met any of his sons. Fathers and sons can be very different."
"That's true," Helaena asks. "You are very different from grandfather."
"That, at least, is very true." Grimacing as the boat heaves over another wave, Gunthor reaches for the bottle of fine Arbor wine just out of reach in a cabinet against the wall. Giving up, he slumps back into his chair and begs the sea to let him sleep tonight.
It is the Hour of the Bat. Darkest night has fallen over the Kingswood, but there is stirring within Prince Joffrey's tent. At the entrance, The Hound stands guard in only the most technical sense, slouched half-asleep against a thin poplar tree struggling to stand straight against the huge man's weight. He snorts to attention as Joffrey stumbles out of the tent.
"Your grace, where are you going?"
"To piss. Leave me be, dog!"
The Hound shrugs and leans back against the tree, yawning, as the prince stalks off into the night, stumbling about in the darkness until he reaches the edge of the camp, where Peremore is waiting with bow and quiver.
"By the gods, do you have a torch?" Joff hisses, his head narrowly missing a low-hanging branch. He can barely make out the features on his companion's face.
"A flame would frighten the deer away. Your eyes will adjust. Or, if you want, we can go back and wait for the morning."
"No, I'm done waiting!" Grabbing the bow and quiver in the dark, Joff spills several arrows onto the ground. He rushes to pick them up, but can only find one. Cursing, he looks up to see Peremore is already on the move, his shadowy form drifting further away into the woods. He jumps to his feet, rushing to catch up, crashing through the underbrush.
Peremore whips back around – "Hush! You'll frighten away everything in the wood!"
Indignant at being addressed so brusquely, Joffrey is about to protest, but hesitates, fearing any further argument may indeed chase away the white stag. Instead, he steels away his pride and follows his guide deep into the wood. As they go, his vision slowly starts to grow clearer, the sparse light from the moon and stars above filtering down through the thick canopy of branches. And the forest, it seems, is not so quiet after all – an orchestra of queer noises fills the night, sounds of birds, insects, frogs and all manner of creatures the prince has never heard before.
The clicking, whirring, hooting, galumphing cacophony is a strange and bizarre tune to Joffrey's ears, a dark intriguing chorus that draws his eyes away from the path and into the shadows where the invisible singers hide. The trees and the gnarly branches curl in on each other like black specters, empty nothings that form a cage here, and there a door. Joff steps further off the path, his feet sinking slightly into the cold grass, wet with night dew.
Shapes come alive in the darkness as a slow, somber wind descends down through the branches, shaking leaves and springing shadows into motion. They seem to dance, beckoning to him to join. And then a light.
At first, Joffrey does not believe his eyes. A small, pale ball of light the size of his head, hovering over the earth, weightless let emanating a pulsing beacon as faint blue wisps circle about it. He almost calls for Peremore, but decides against it. This is a sign only for him, he knows. A spirit come to honor his destiny as king. He steps closer, oh, so carefully, but as he draws near, he finds that unlike a fire, there is no heat to this light. It seems to suck all warmth out of the air around it, and draws him in with the heat.
Around the clearing, the woods has gone eerily silent, but Joff does not notice. Instead, like a faint tickle in the back of his ears, he begins to hear the whispers of an ancient tongue, chanting softly to him. Slowly, he reaches one bare hand out before him, closer and closer to the taunting light, but it seems forever out of reach. And then it is gone. The sounds of the forest return, but the cold remains.
Cursing under his breath, Joff squints into the darkness, hoping to see the phantom light appear again. Instead, he flinches at the sound of rustling feathers overhead and reaches to his quiver, only to find it nearly empty, a lone arrow remaining, the rest knocked loose in his blind, clumsy hiking. Notching the lonely arrow into the bow string, he slowly turns around. And it stands before him. Not the light. The stag.
Standing proud on the opposite side of the clearing, it is a more magnificent beast than he could ever have imagined. At least two heads taller than the prince, short white fur glistens in the moonlight over rippling muscles, a massive crown of antlers upon its brow – it looks like it has stepped off a tapestry to stare him down here in the woods. It snorts, hot breath turning to fog in the night air, unmoving as it watches the prince, daring him to move. Slowly, Joffrey pulls back the string of the bow.
For a moment, he hesitates. The stag remains unmoved. Its empty black eyes stare into his own, and he is overwhelmed by a feeling of power deeper and older than any imbued into the warped blades of the Iron Throne. A power that demands to be left alone.
"Don't you know you're in the presence of a king?" Joffrey finds himself asking. The stag blinks. Nothing. What are you doing? He breaks himself from the trance. It's just a stupid deer. Father would have killed it already. And with that, he lets the arrow fly.
His aim off, the arrow buries deep into the stag's right shoulder and at last it moves. With a maddening, unearthly howl of pain, it charges forward, huge dark hooves thumping down one over the other, straight towards its attacker. Suddenly overcome with terror, Joffrey throws his bow aside and turns to run, only to see to his horror the forest around him filled with an army of disembodied light, countless in number, staring down like empty glowing eyes in judgement.
He spins back around, nearly slipping on the wet grass, to see the stag only yards away. Suddenly, he remembers – the ever-sharp hunting knife in its holster on his belt. He blindly tears it free, slicing open his own fingers. The stag lowers its antlers, unyielding in its lopsided, wounded, thundering charge. Joffrey ducks, closes his eyes and stabs.