Edmure Tully had taken special care in dressing today; Sow's Horn was the border between the Riverlands and the Crownlands and, today at least, also the border between law and chaos. No word had come out of King's Landing since Renly's insane manifesto, and the other castles of the Crownlands had been as silent as the City. Today, then, would mark the true start of the campaign to put down Renly's treason and return the Crownlands to the King's Peace and the light of the Seven. One of the things that Edmure had learned from Stannis was that a man of high station, charged with a great task, had to look the part. Not only because others expected it, but because being richly dressed and well turned-out gave a man confidence like few other things could.

Which was why his squire and page had been up half the night with buffing rags and clothes-brushes until the plates of his armor gleamed even in the watery sunlight of this cloudy day and the cape draped over his shoulders almost glowed. His chaperon hat had also been carefully brushed and the eagle feathers jutting up from the band had been carefully trimmed to make them stand proudly. The lords riding a length behind him were also dressed in their martial finest this day, but Edmure was sure that he outshone them all. He certainly outshone the man waiting for him on the bridge across the small stream that marked the border, who was wearing plain armor embellished only by a black surcoat with the Royal Order of the Crown's arms and the insignia of a commander; without the surcoat, he would have been indistinguishable from a well-to-do household knight.

There was nothing wrong with the way he sat his horse, though, or the way that the thin line of spearmen and archers behind him stamped to attention as he saluted, for all that they were only a thousand strong, if that much. Edmure nodded. "I am Edmure Tully, Lord of Riverrun," he said; a touch obviously, perhaps, but some things simply had to be said. "Your name and style, ser?"

"Ser Stephan Banner, my lord," the Order knight replied, "Commander in the Order of the Crown and Castellan of Sow's Horn. What business does my lord have in the Crownlands?"

Edmure raised his chin. "My business, Commander, is the safety of the Realm," he said formally. "In pursuit of which, I and my fellow lords are bound for King's Landing to restore the King's Peace."

"King's Landing is under quarantine due to the plague, my lord," Ser Stephan said without missing a beat. "And the last report I had indicated that the King's Peace has not been breached. I regret that you have come so far from Riverrun in vain, my lord, but I fear I cannot allow you to pass."

For a long moment, Edmure thought he had not heard correctly, then he rallied. "My reports, Commander, indicate that King's Landing is in the grasp of a traitor," he said, raising his voice; he was speaking to his lords as much as to this upstart. "The Queen, the Master of Coin, and the Grand Maester have been placed under arrest, the High Septon and the Most Devout are besieged in the Great Sept, and the traitor has declared that heretics are to enjoy the same rights as the true Faithful. If these are not a breach of the King's Peace, Commander, then in the names of the Seven, what is?"

"I have received word that the Queen Dowager has entered seclusion at the Great Sept at the invitation of the High Septon, my lord, in order to pray for the souls of King Stannis and Princess Joanna," Ser Stephan replied, also raising his voice. Edmure gritted his teeth; clearly Ser Stephan knew how to play this game. "I am also informed that Lord Renly has done what he has done to secure King's Landing in order to hold it for King Lyonel, and to maintain the peace until he arrives and is crowned. I am further informed that under no circumstances am I to permit the approach of armed bodies of men to King's Landing, unless they are under the command of King Lyonel in person."

Edmure raised an eyebrow. "Informed by Lord Renly, I assume?" he drawled, injecting contempt into his voice.

"Informed by Lord Renly and by King Lyonel alike," Ser Stephan answered, making the lords behind Edmure stir in surprise as he gestured to the squire next to him, who produced a small scroll of the kind that messenger ravens carried. "King Lyonel further orders me to say," he went on as the squire rode forward and handed the scroll to Edmure, "that, regardless of Lord Renly's actions in King's Landing, I am to maintain the King's Peace within the area of my command by whatever means I deem necessary. Any who seek to break the Peace are to be considered traitors, and dealt with accordingly, whether they be heretic or Faithful."

Edmure had to remind himself not to gape as he unrolled the scroll and read it to find Ser Stephan's words backed up by Lyonel's seal; this was not how he had expected this to go. "We are going to King's Landing to preserve the Peace and defend the Faith," he said, anger coloring his voice. "Who are you, ser, to defy us? Whom do you serve?"

Ser Stephan lifted his chin. "We are all King's men, my lord," he said forcefully, "and I command you, my lord, in the name of the King, to come no further. If you do, then I shall be forced to consider you an enemy of the Iron Throne, and act accordingly."

Edmure felt himself inflate; by all the gods, to be spoken to in this fashion by this garrison commander . . . A sharp cough behind him made his head whip round to find Tytos Blackwood staring at him intently, and no sooner did he lay eyes on the old lord than he was reminded of the conversation they had had when Tytos had led his menie to Stone Hedge. Tytos had told him flat out that he cared nothing for heresy; his sole interest, he had said, was to make King Lyonel as strong and as just a king as Stannis had been. So if Renly was indeed the traitor he looked like, then well and so. But if he turned out to be acting in King Lyonel's interests as he said he was, then not a single sword, spear, or arrow would Raventree Hall raise against him.

Edmure would have tried to argue Tytos down, but for two things. Firstly, Tytos had brought seven thousand men to Stone Hedge; the largest single contingent of all his lords, and almost a fifth of the full strength of the army that now stood a mile behind them. It was more men than Edmure himself had brought from the lands around Riverrun, in fact. Secondly, Jason Mallister had said much the same thing. He had no fear of heretics, Jason had said, but he had every fear of what might be unleashed if the Edict of Harrenhal were to be repealed. As it stood, he had explained, everyone was assured that the Iron Throne would be on their side if they were attacked, and given Stannis' reforms over the past years, that was no small thing. If it were repealed, however, and the heretics suddenly made to believe that they had no protection beyond their own arms, would they not resort to any means necessary to defend themselves, whether fair or foul? Would they not even, perhaps, call upon Robert the Strong to protect them, as he did their co-religionists over the Sea? He might refuse, he might not even answer at all, but what if he did? He would do much to defend the Faith, Jason had said, but he would not risk bringing the Iron Legion to Westeros with fire and sword. Nor would he countenance anyone else running that risk.

Edmure did not think there was anything that would bring the Iron Legion to Westeros, but Jason Mallister commanded four thousand men; he had to take the old man's concerns seriously, and be seen to do so. Which meant in turn, he realized with slowly dawning revulsion, that his options now were sharply limited. If he chose to press on to King's Landing regardless of Ser Stephan's warnings, then Tytos Blackwood and Jason Mallister would both desert him; they had joined his army to ensure the safety of King Lyonel's reign, they would say, not to stamp out heresy. If Edmure disobeyed an order given by King Lyonel and relayed by one of his appointed officers, then it was Edmure who was now the danger to King Lyonel's reign, and the least they could do in their king's service was take their men home. They might even see their way clear to join their forces to Ser Stephan's. And even if they just went home, that meant that he would lose, at a stroke, a full third of his army. Twenty-two thousand men would be easier to supply than thirty-three thousand, at least, but it wouldn't be enough to besiege King's Landing, especially if Renly summoned an army up out of the Stormlands to rescue him.

And the lords that would remain with him would have their confidence shaken to the bedrock. Jonos Bracken would stay faithful through hellfire and brimstone for the Faith's sake, but Darry? Vance of Wayfarer's Rest? Smallwood? Cox? If they saw Blackwood and Mallister ride off, and do so with the law on their side, then they would start to wonder about the wisdom of following their example. After all, if Edmure was placing himself beyond the bounds of law, then that made him a traitor, didn't it? In that case, all who followed him would also be traitors, regardless of whatever reservations they might have had. Stannis had shown at Tickclose Field what reward traitors could expect from him; Lyonel would have every reason to follow his father's example, even without Tywin whispering in his ear. Even the Frey's might desert him, if they were faced with the choice of breaking the pact formed by his marriage with Roslin or being subject to that fate. Old Walder might think it a gamble worth taking, but Old Walder wasn't here; Stevron led the force that House Frey had put in the field, and Stevron was not the gambler that Old Walder was.

Edmure ran through scenarios in his head, discarding each in growing frustration, before settling on one that would at least let him keep his army in the field. It would even be in keeping with the rest of what was written on the scroll he had been given. "As the King commands," he ground out, "we shall do. But we shall remain here, until Renly proves his treason clearly enough for all to see."

Ser Stephan nodded. "That will be acceptable, my lord, so long as your men stay on the far side of the border," he said graciously. "If your army needs assistance with supplies, I can encourage the local villages to be forthcoming with offers to sell; the harvest this last year was exceptional."

Edmure restrained himself to a curt nod before reining his horse around sharply, then he reined around again as he remembered one of the other matters his lords had discussed with him on the road to King's Landing. "We had heard, ser, that the Point lords had risen again," he said. "If the King's Peace holds in the Crownlands, then I assume they are well in hand?"

Ser Stephan couldn't conceal the flush that rose above his gorget. "Commander Stone at Duskendale reports that he has the situation well in hand," he replied shortly, "and that he needs no further assistance at the present time."

Edmure nodded, concealing a smile. It was good to hear that at least one thing was going wrong for Renly. Seven Hells, Duskendale is the front line of the rebellion? He knew enough of the geography of the Crownlands to know that if Duskendale was the front line, then the Order had lost control of Crackclaw Point. Losing the Point to any rebels would be humiliating enough. Losing it to the Point lords, who had lost so many of their men to the dragon's service and more to Stannis' policies, would be mortifying beyond measure. King Lyonel would not be pleased with the man who had allowed such a challenge to the Throne's authority to run rampant.

Not that it solved his most pressing problem, he reminded himself as he turned his horse again. Doubtless the fucking villagers would gouge him for every stag they could; the commander hadn't said he would encourage them to sell cheaply, after all, and the sooner he ran out of money to feed his army the sooner he would have to send them home. At least Tytos Blackwood and Jason Mallister were keeping their faces acceptably blank as he forced his horse through the line of his bannermen; if they hadn't, the temptation to call them out would have been overpowering.

Stevron sidled his horse alongside Edmure's. "My lord," he said softly, "if you let me send outriders to infiltrate past Sow's Horn . . ."

Edmure shook his head. "The King has commanded me to wait at the border," he said, passing the scroll to Stevron, who read it with widening eyes. "He himself is coming, with Lord Lannister and the army of the Westerlands, and the Tyrell's are marching up the Roseroad with their army. Once they get here . . ." he trailed off; he didn't want to voice all his thoughts within earshot of Blackwood and Mallister. He would still have to keep them here until King Lyonel arrived, if only to see the look on their faces when he told them that he would no longer require their services.

XXX

Brienne of Tarth nodded politely as the septon approached, then stopped him cold with a hand to the chest when he tried to brush past her. "You know the rules," she said as firmly as she could while keeping her voice to the murmur that the situation demanded. "Anything you have to say or give to the Queen Dowager, you say or give to me, then I say or give them to her."

The septon glowered, but Brienne's even stare and the hand she casually placed on the hilt of her dagger made him subside. "Lord Tully has reached Sow's Horn with his army," he said as softly as she had, if more curtly. Curtly enough to be rude, but Brienne had dealt with rudeness every day of her life. "He is encamped there, and says that he awaits only proof that Renly has committed treason before marching on King's Landing."

Brienne nodded. "And the King?" she asked.

"Still marching down the Goldroad, at last report," the septon replied. "If he has not crossed the God's Tear by now, he will probably do so within the next day or two." At Brienne's raised eyebrow he shrugged and said, "I walked the circuit in that district for six years before I was called to the Great Sept. I know the road there, and the lay of the land. I doubt either has changed much."

Brienne nodded. Doubtless the septon didn't know how quickly, or how slowly, an army could march, but it would do little good to point that out. "I shall inform the Queen Dowager," she said, "once the day's prayers are completed." She waited until the septon nodded and turned away before going on. "And if you try to break the rules again, Septon Bedver, I will not be gentle in stopping you." She smiled at the septon's surprised look, and smiled wider as unease appeared in his face; it was not a smile intended to be reassuring. Or friendly. "I heard you answer to that name when the Queen Dowager was installed here," she told him. "And I do not forget a face. Ever."

Septon Bedver nodded jerkily and turned away again, walking as fast as he could without actually running. Brienne let her smile change into a smirk as she went back to her post; Ser Cortnay would have tutted over the indiscipline of threatening a septon, no matter how veiled it had been, but Ser Cortnay was still much weakened from the plague, by the last report she had of him, and making the septons jump and scurry was the only perk of this duty. It certainly made a change from enduring their sidelong glances and muttered conversations.

When she reached her place at the entry of the chapel to the Stranger that radiated off the apse that held the sanctuary of the Great Sept, she fell back into the rest position that Ser Cortnay had drilled her and Theon in, feet shoulder-width apart, knees slightly bent, left hand on the throat of the sword-scabbard, right hand on the buckle of the belt, back straight, and shoulders back. Someone could stand like this for hours, while still being able to spring into action at a moment's notice. Especially someone who had been trained by Ser Cortnay; one of his favorite exercises had been to have her and Theon stand like this in a busy corridor of the Red Keep with orders to apprehend someone answering to a particular description, and then not send the person in question down that corridor until a few hours had passed. It had been an exercise that rewarded patience and encouraged the ability to watch a crowd without appearing to do so.

Not that there was much of a crowd here to watch. There had been almost a hundred Silent Sisters at the Great Sept before the plague; now there were only fifty-two. There were more throughout the city, of course, but they resided at the city's smaller septs, serving the neighborhoods that had neither the rank nor the wealth to have their funerals at the Great Sept. And while the plague had lifted, that didn't mean that people were not still dying. People died by the scores every day in a city as big as King's Landing, from accidents if nothing else. And many of the Silent Sisters at those smaller septs had died from the plague; the Sisters in Flea Bottom had been all but wiped out. So there were only twenty Silent Sisters kneeling in their silent rows before the small altar of the Stranger that was a miniature complement to the one in the sanctuary. But Brienne had little interest in them. Her interest was bound up in the figure in the middle of the third row, who was wearing a plain wimple instead of the elaborate veils of the Silent Sisters and was kneeling with her back straight and her head raised proudly as opposed to the bowed heads of the Sisters. Queen Cersei had always worn arrogance like a garment, even as age, stress, and motherhood had started wearing away at her proverbial beauty, and she had seen no reason to moderate her pride simply because she was now sequestered in the Great Sept instead of Maegor's Holdfast.

Especially since her sequestration here was an artifact of politics. King Lyonel's command that she be transferred to the care of the High Septon had sparked a round of flurried negotiations between Lord Renly and the High Septon, both of whom had seen both danger and opportunity in Lyonel's dictum. Eventually, they had agreed to present the change in custody as the Queen Dowager's idea; the High Septon had made an excellent sermon about her decision to enter seclusion in order to pray for the souls of her royal husband and her daughter the princess and contemplate her new role as Queen Dowager, and how it should serve as a model for the city and for all the Seven Kingdoms to pray for the souls of the newly departed and contemplate the new world they found themselves in, where King Stannis the Grim was no more and his son Lyonel was now King. That Queen Cersei had wanted to do no such thing and done so only after Brienne had threatened to knock her down, bind her hand and foot, and deliver her to the Great Sept in a sack had not signified. Neither Lord Renly nor the High Septon had forgotten that it was the Queen's hastiness in ordering a man arrested that had sparked the Funeral Riots, and even the High Septon had admitted that for Lord Renly to rescind the rights he had granted the Reformists all at once would only spark further riots, which nobody wanted. So Queen Cersei had been placed in the care of the Silent Sisters, and Brienne had been named her keeper.

Queen Cersei had protested that idea, too, but her protests had not availed her there, either. The simple fact was that Brienne was the only person Renly trusted to keep the Queen safe and safely incommunicado, who could also have free run of the Silent Sisters' quarter of the Great Sept unescorted; she might wear hose under her armor, but she was still undeniably female, after all. And Brienne had quickly gotten over the indignity of becoming a glorified gaoler. At least it kept her mind off . . . She locked the thought away before it could overwhelm her. When the King returned, Theon would be with him, and they could get properly drunk together over their losses. It wasn't like she could get drunk with the Queen Dowager; for one thing, there was no alcohol allowed in the Great Sept, thanks to the constitutions set down by Baelor the Blessed. For another, Queen Cersei had made no secret of her disdain for Brienne. It was not seemly, she had said, loudly and often, that her daughter should be attended by such a creature as Brienne, that could not make up its mind whether it was man or maid. That Brienne, following Stannis' advice, had not only acted as if such insults were beneath her notice but had soundly thrashed the two candidates Cersei had nominated to replace her as Joanna's sworn shield, had only inflamed Cersei's enmity.

A lesser person might have been tempted to repay some that scorn given the change in their fortunes, but not Brienne. She had learned enough chivalry from Ser Cortnay to know that the worth of a knight was shown not only by how he treated his friends, but by how he treated his enemies. Resolve in war and defiance in defeat, but mercy in victory and good will in peace, that was how a knight showed their worth. And in any case, King Lyonel was unlikely to look kindly on someone who had abused his mother.

She would, she decided, tell the Queen Dowager that the King was closing on the city. She would not, however, tell her that Lord Tully had encamped at Sow's Horn. The Queen's gloating over what fate would befall Lord Renly and herself, she could ignore. Her self-pity on how the fates had conspired to surround her with dullards, fools, and cowards, on the other hand, was simply insufferable. Clearly, Her Grace had never found herself in a situation where she was truly the butt of Fortune's jokes. Brienne could have given her chapter and verse on that, if she thought she would listen. But she wouldn't, so Brienne held her peace and continued her vigil, adding her own prayers to the Stranger as she did. Joanna's willfulness and occasional bouts of hotheadedness had been exasperating at times, especially when Brienne had been forced to play the immovable obstacle. But she had always taken Brienne's part, even against her mother, and had not permitted her other ladies to make jests about Brienne where she could hear them. For that alone, she deserved well of the gods.

XXX

Tywin Lannister couldn't help the feeling of amusement that stole over him as Edmure Tully read the letter he had given him after their bannermen, squires, and other lackeys had left them alone in Lord Tully's pavilion. He did, however, keep it concealed behind his best mask of impassivity; betraying amusement at a fellow lord's discomfiture to his face would be unspeakably rude, and he had hopes for young Tully. He seemed much more amenable than his father had been. "The Vale?!" Tully finally burst out, in equal parts shock and indignation. "Why, for all love, is he sending me to the Vale?!"

"Do you want the official answer, my lord, or the unofficial one?" Tywin replied urbanely. "Because if you want the official one, all you need do is finish reading the letter."

Edmure waved a hand angrily. "The unofficial one, then," he snapped.

Tywin concealed a reflexive start of indignation behind the same mask he had concealed his amusement; a gentleman made allowances, after all, and young Edmure was not only young and hotheaded, but suddenly having a very trying day. "The unofficial answer, my lord, is that the King does not believe he can trust you to be as discriminate as he would need you to be if he brought you to King's Landing." At Edmure's goggle-eyed look of outrage he raised a hand firmly. "Peace, my lord, I mean no insult. Nor does the King, for that matter. Bethink you, my lord, if you brought your army into King's Landing, what would be the first thing you would set out to do? Aside from faithfully execute the commands of our lord the King, that is."

"Arrest Renly for the traitor and heretic that he is," Edmure snapped immediately. "And arrest or put down every other heretic traitor that stands with him."

Tywin nodded. "Measures that would be thoroughly appropriate, if King's Landing were in rebellion," he allowed. "But King's Landing is not in rebellion, my lord, however much it looks like it. Lord Renly has so far complied with the King's lawful commands, and caused the King's Peace to be kept within the city walls, even if he has failed to keep it in Crackclaw Point. The Reformists may have reared their ugly heads, but by the reports we have, they appear to have adopted a stance of watchful neutrality. Quite wisely of them, in my view; they must know that Renly's largesse towards them will not outlast Renly's tenure as Regent, which is now to be measured in mere days. So they had better make themselves out to be model subjects of His Grace, if they want him to continue his father's policy of toleration. If Renly yields the city and the Iron Throne to His Grace, as he has promised to do, and the King is crowned with a minimum of upheaval, then the dynasty will find itself on a very strong footing. If, on the other hand, you and I enter the city, with our armies, and it becomes known that at least one of us is bent on avenging insults to the Faith and the Queen Dowager with fire and sword . . ."

Tywin spread his hands. "The Reformists would certainly revolt," he went on. "Heretics they might be, but they are still men, and being men, they will doubtless prefer to die in battle rather than submit to slaughter. And how, in the midst of such fighting, would our soldiers discern a heretic in arms against the Throne and the Faith from a true member of the Faithful seeking only to protect his life and property? You know as well as I, my lord, how a soldier will react when faced with an armed man in a city he is attacking; he will kill him out of hand, steal his goods, and not bother with asking questions. So we should find ourselves fighting not just heretics, but our fellow Faithful, to the peril of our souls and, more immediately, of our credit with the Faithful in the rest of the Seven Kingdoms. Not to mention the communities of foreigners within the city, who will see only that the city is being torn apart around them and that the only way to preserve themselves is by fighting as brutally as everyone else around them. Doubtless we would prevail, but to what benefit, if we make a Tyrosh of King's Landing? You have lived in the city, my lord, you know as well as I how important it is to the Iron Throne that it remain peaceful, wealthy, and strong."

Edmure nodded grudgingly; it had been one of King Stannis' favorite sayings that the strength of King's Landing was the strength of the Iron Throne. Its trade paid for the Royal Orders, the Fleet, and for the subsidies that the Iron Throne paid out to the Lords Paramount when armies were raised at the Throne's command. Its guilds provided recruits for the companies that the Throne raised out of its own resources, and also provided the armor and weapons to equip them. The existence of the Great Sept brought tithes from every corner of Faithful Westeros to King's Landing, ensuring that the Faith always had a store of liquid wealth to draw upon if the Iron Throne suddenly found itself in need of a loan, and also provided the Iron Throne with a way of collecting information and disseminating its words to every corner of Westeros that did not rely on the semaphore or messenger ravens. "All the more important, then, that we take measures to ensure that King's Landing is truly loyal to the dynasty, my lord," Edmure said, staring intently at Tywin. "My lord, you have the King's ear. If you can convince him that his interests would be better served by rooting the heretics out of King's Landing before their poison can spread throughout the rest of the Crownlands . . ."

Tywin's raised eyebrow stopped him dead, although Tywin couldn't help a grudging degree of admiration at Tully's boldness. You're trying to suborn me? For the Gods' sakes, boy, don't you know who I am? "The King," he replied mildly, "is of the opinion that his interests will be better served by coming to an accommodation with the Reformists than by extirpating them." A mistaken opinion, in Tywin's view, not that he would ever let on. House Lannister's interests would be far better served by presenting a united front behind his grandson's rule than they would be by his being a turbulent bannerman, however much the Faith might bleat at him about the necessity of stamping out heresy. "He is also of the opinion that his interests would be best served by making his entry into King's Landing as smooth as possible. Why do you think that I and my men have been diverted this far out of our way, my lord?"

Edmure frowned. "Did you not say that the King had commanded you to put down the Point lords?" he asked.

"He did," Tywin replied, leaving the words you dolt unsaid. "But he also made mention to me that given the delicate nature of the situation within King's Landing, it would be unwise to spark any painful memories. It's only been half a generation since I sacked the city, after all, and by all reports it was my daughter's actions that sparked the Funeral Riots." Not to mention what Lannister, and other Westerlander, soldiers had done on Pyke and Orkmont. That had been against Ironborn, to be sure, but if there was anyone worse than a heathen, it was a heretic. Most Devout Hugar had said as much to anyone who would listen, loudly and often, even before he was elected to the crystal crown. "Whereas, if he sends me to put down the greatest military threat facing the city, then not only am I kept in the background, but it goes at least some way to repairing House Lannister's credit with at least the wealthy burghers of the city, if not the rest of the smallfolk." Which was as good as to say that it would help repair the dynasty's credit with the burghers, given the extent to which House Lannister was bound up with the dynasty and the fact that no one was likely to forget it any time soon. His grandson had his father's black hair, blue eyes, and leanly muscular build, but his self-possession and sense of dignity were all Lannister. At least he appeared not to have inherited whatever quality had made his mother start a riot.

Edmure nodded slowly. "I see," he said unwillingly, as if the words were being dragged out of him with meat hooks. "So His Grace means to send us away and put all his trust in Tyrell for his safety?"

"Not all," Tywin replied. "My army will still be within a few days' hard march of the city, and I doubt the Point lords will give us much trouble for long. Aside from the usual scut work, of course." That made Edmure wince, at which Tywin's estimation of him dropped a point. A lord couldn't last in the game of thrones if he was overly solicitous of the smallfolk; he had learned that by watching his father. All the cheap gestures he had lavished on the smallfolk to win their love hadn't done a whit to protect him from the depredations of his bannermen, who had taken his largesse as a sign of weakness. And if the smallfolk of the Point were foolish enough to follow their lords to war against the Iron Throne twice in one generation, they deserved to be burned out and scattered to the four winds. Those who did not choose to die along with their lords, anyway. "And meaning no offense, my lord, but if Mace Tyrell and I cannot ensure the King's safety, then neither can you. In the meantime, you can help focus the minds of the Reformists in King's Landing on the importance of being good subjects by using their co-religionists in Gulltown to demonstrate what happens to bad ones. And if the heretics do not provide sufficient blood to slake the thirsts of your bannermen's swords, then there are others to whet them on . . ."

XXX

Willet Longsword was not immune to the feeling of exultation that had seized the other members of his warband. They had, after all, just struck the Andals the greatest blow they had suffered since the fall of the High King. He glanced at the row of heads mounted on spear-points next to his tent and smiled the smile of a sated predator as he beheld the face of Yohn Royce. Of all the Andal nobles in the Vale, only the Royce's had been as hated as the Arryn's; the High King had been a Royce, after all, and his descendants had turned on their kindred to save their own skins. Well, Bronze Yohn had been reminded how traitors were served in the mountains, and that the old magic would not protect traitors, however much they cherished the royal bronze.

He really should have known better than to leave his army's camp unguarded against attacks from behind, however much the Andals within Gulltown had drawn his attention with raids launched from behind their city's walls. The Royce's were one of the mightiest Andal Houses of the Vale, and Bronze Yohn had brought two thousand men with him to besiege Gulltown. But when surprised by men for whom ambush and sudden onset were the highest form of war, men who hated them with every grain of their souls, they had been chickens cooped for the fox. Many had escaped, of course; the small and stocky ponies that were the only horses that could survive in the mountains on grazing alone made fine pack animals, but they couldn't be cavalry mounts to save their lives. But with their lord dead and their camp taken, those who had escaped would run back to Runestone as fast as their feet could take them. Nor was there another Andal force anywhere nearby that could reach them before they had melted back into the mountains, even laden as they were with loot.

Willet had heard that the Andals of Gulltown had not only risen up against the Arryn's, slaying Ser Gerold of accursed memory among the clans, but against all the Andal lords of the Vale. Nor were they the only ones; Hokkan had learned from questioning prisoners that Lord Corbray's worthless brother was reportedly dead. It seemed that he had gotten into an argument with a peasant woman on a question of the Andal Faith, who had cracked his skull with a flung stool. Now Heart's Home castle was all but besieged, although whether it was Baelorites besieging Reformists or Reformists besieging Baelorites appeared to be open to debate, while a dozen lesser revolts had erupted in a blaze of rioting. A blaze, reportedly, sparked by embers from Gulltown. If that was so, he wished them success, but he would be damned if he lifted a finger to help them. An Andal was still an Andal, whether Baelorite or Reformist, and the Vale would not be free until the last Andal had been driven from her shores.

That said, the Andals of Gulltown might prove useful, if they distracted the other Andals from hunting him and his warband until the fame of killing Yohn Royce, scattering his army, and reclaiming the royal bronze had fully united the clans behind his banner. So far, only his own Painted Dogs, the Burned Men, the Black Ears, and the Moon Brothers had sworn themselves to him. The Howlers, the Milk Snakes, the Sons of the Tree and of the Mist, the Redsmiths, and the minor clans that had yet to establish their Names had been unwilling to pledge themselves until he had a victory to boast of. Well, he had that now, didn't he just? The head of Yohn Royce, pickled in cedar oil, would be a powerful totem for Hokkan to carry around the unpledged clans to show that he had been telling the truth when he had told them that the clans could liberate the Vale if only they stood together behind a single leader. And what Royce's head didn't say, the royal bronze that Willet now wore, having cut it off Yohn Royce's body, would say clearly enough for any fool to hear. As would the steel weapons in the hands of the warriors who had already bound themselves to him. Caldor son of Uthyr would lay his spear at Willet's feet and swear that the Howlers would follow him, or Willet would slay him as he had slain Shagga son of Dolf and take the chieftainship of the Howlers as he had that of the Stone Crows. And if any of the other clan chiefs were still foolish enough to deny him, after Caldor's death or submission, then they too would fall, and their warriors come under his banner.

He would need them, if he wanted to continue what he had started. None were fiercer than the warriors of the mountains, but the Andals were many, and their steel gave them armor and weapons that could not be matched with bronze or stone. It would take careful planning, hard fighting, and the favor of the gods to drive them out of the Vale. But Willet was no stranger to hard fighting, and the death of Yohn Royce showed that he could plan as well as any man. As for the favor of the gods, the gods best helped those who helped themselves, especially if they took heed of the signs the gods gave them. Willet tore his gaze from Royce's head and looked at the mountains above him, reading the signs with the ease of a man born, weaned, and raised in their shadow. The clans had no white ravens to tell them winter was coming, but they did not need them; they knew their mountains well enough to read the changes in season. Autumn was not here yet, but it was coming, and winter would not be far behind. Willet bared his teeth in a predator's smile. Summer was passing, and with the help of the gods, he would make it the last summer the Andals who polluted the Vale would ever enjoy.

XXX

The evening's conference among the assembled lords of Lyonel's host was on the verge of winding down when it was interrupted by an Order sergeant leading two archers escorting a fourth man swathed in a vast cloak with a deep hood. The sergeant stamped to attention at the edge of the table, shucked off his helmet, and bowed. "Your Grace," he said in a voice hoarsened by shouting orders, "this man approached our picquets and presented a pass stamped with the seal of King Stannis. As per orders, they summoned me to interview him. He refused to give his name, but provided a password verifying his identity as a King's messenger, and claimed that his message was for Your Grace's ears alone. He said also that this," he raised a small leather pouch, "would suffice as his credentials, but only if they were presented to Your Grace in person."

At Lyonel's gesture, Theon rounded the table and took the pouch as murmurs rose from the lords; a cloaked messenger refusing to give his name and style, with a message only for the King? Really, it was like something out of a romaunt, one of the ones that had more to do with courtly skullduggery than feats of arms. Theon opened the pouch, carefully, only putting his eye over the mouth when a gentle shake failed to produce a poisonous serpent or a cloud of poison; Ser Cortnay had drilled him and Brienne thoroughly on what kind of unpleasantness could be in a pouch even as small as this one. What he saw, however, made him blink in surprise before carrying back to the head of the table to show it to Lyonel, who also blinked. "My lords, I pray you leave Us," he said. "Lord Tyrell, I pray you remain, if you please. This matter may touch you as closely as Ourself." After the lords had filed out, casting speculative looks at the messenger, and the Order sergeant and the archers had been dismissed and marched out, Lyonel reached into the pouch and withdrew its contents. "It's a rare man who has access to this," he mused aloud, rolling the Great Seal in his fingers. "I can think of only three who would also possess the means and the nerve to leave a city under the next thing to martial law and approach an army of unknown friendliness by night. Of those three, two are known to be dead." He raised his eyes from the Great Seal to the messenger, who had not shifted an iota from where he had been left at the other end of the table. "Do take that off, my lord uncle; you must be sweltering in there."

The messenger lowered his hood to reveal Renly Baratheon, who had more lines on his face than Theon remembered but still had his ready smile. "Indeed, Your Grace," he replied. "Fortunately, I did not need to wear it all the way here. Simply on my way out of the city, and then in the approach to your camp here."

Lyonel placed the Great Seal on the table and leaned back in his campaign chair, folding his hands. "You address me as 'Your Grace'," he said. "Which argues that you have been telling the truth all this time, when you have claimed to be acting in my name. Yet how can this be, uncle, when I gave you no orders to do, well, any of the things you have done since the king my father died?"

"There was no time to wait for orders, Your Grace," Renly said. "The Realm was in mortal peril from the instant your father's heart ceased to beat, and every hour counted. I had no choice but to act, and act quickly, to preserve the Peace long enough for you to return and assume the Iron Throne."

Lyonel steepled his fingers, a slight frown creasing his face. "Explain, if you please."

"Your Grace," Renly said, "you know as well as anyone that your father was not a man to be felled by a simple disease, much less a disease as childish as redspots. He could only have succumbed to it by foul means; some poison that did not need to kill him, simply weaken him enough for the pestilence to do its work."

"Did Grand Maester Pycelle find any evidence of such poison?" Lord Tyrell asked.

Renly shook his head. "He did not look for it," he answered. "The king had the plague, the plague evidently killed him, so no more needed to be done. Forbye, he feared to undertake a more thorough investigation, lest opening the king's body spread a new strain of the plague within the Red Keep."

"In other words," Lyonel said coolly, "you had only suspicion."

"Suspicion, Your Grace, reinforced by other events," Renly replied. "Your father had quarreled with Cersei before the plague struck the Red Keep; she had connived in an attempt to break the quarantine of the city your father ordered. After your father's death, Cersei wasted no time in exhorting the Most Devout to elect Hugar, a known hater of Reformists, to the crystal crown. Nor did she wait even a day to order me to dismiss the Commander of the City Watch and the Sherriff of King's Landing and replace them with men known to hate Reformists. This, before the king's will had even been brought forth, much less read and acted upon." He spread his hands. "These are not, I submit, the actions of someone with benevolent intent, Your Grace."

Lyonel tapped his fingertips against his chin, then flicked a glance at Lord Tyrell, who shrugged. "He makes a compelling argument, Your Grace," he admitted. "Even if your royal parents had fallen out, custom and law alike would have dictated that the Queen not take such actions until the King had been buried and his will produced and read. Although," he went on, looking back towards Renly, "I find it hard to believe that Cersei would have been so foolish as to poison the King. And you too, Lord Renly, have taken actions that would cast doubt on your motives. Or did King Stannis grant you authority to replace Princess Joanna as my son Willas' bride with one of the twins on his deathbed?"

"It seemed necessary, my lord, to ensure that you would continue to support the dynasty," Renly answered with what Theon considered admirable coolness for someone admitting to usurping his king's prerogative in that king's presence. "I apologize for my lack of faith in your loyalty, but I was a desperate man in the hour I wrote that letter. A man in danger of drowning will cling to any spar he can find that may keep his head above water."

"Even if it's not his spar to cling to," Lyonel observed dryly. "My siblings and my lady mother are well, I trust?"

"They are, Your Grace," Renly replied. "The twins and Prince Gerold escaped the plague, and I have taken every precaution I can think of to ensure their safety. The Queen Dowager is also doing well, at the High Septon's last report, and I have set Squire Brienne to act as her personal guard until you decide to make other arrangements."

Lyonel nodded, concealing the relief Theon knew he had to be feeling; he loved his sisters as well as any brother could, and despite his mother's . . . difficulties, he was a dutiful son, even if he was more Stannis' son than Cersei's. Hard luck for Brienne, though, to be Queen Cersei's guard; the Queen had never made a secret of her dislike for Brienne. Theon would have been tempted to call her out on it if his oath-sister had not asked him to let it lie; they had enough troubles already, she had argued, without him challenging the Queen. Lyonel tapped his fingers against his chin meditatively for a few moments, then lowered his hands to the table. "Whether your suspicions are justified or not, they must now be considered irrelevant," he said. "Your stated object in taking power in King's Landing was to maintain the King's Peace until I returned and could be crowned. And behold, I have done so. That I have a capital to return to is, it appears, largely due to your efforts, my lord uncle. For this you have our thanks. But not our forgiveness. Regardless of your motives, or the justness of your suspicions, the fact is that you illegally seized power in Our capital city and usurped powers reserved to Us. This cannot simply be overlooked."

Renly nodded, deeply enough that it could be called a bow. "I understand fully, Your Grace," he replied. "I ask only that any punishment you see fit fall upon my head alone. Those who acted with me did so only at my command, and some only upon pain of my displeasure."

Lyonel shook his head. "Some of those who followed you will also have to share in your punishment," he said. "The principals, at the very least. Simple obedience to orders ought not to constitute a defense to a crime, when the person receiving the orders knows them to be unlawful. Arthur Dayne made that mistake, to the death of his repute and the peril of his soul, along with the others of Rhaegar's Kingsguard."

Renly hesitated, then nodded again, his face set. "What is your will, Your Grace?"

"That you, and such others of your bannermen as We shall name, abjure the Realm," Lyonel replied. "That you remain abroad until such time as We give you leave to return, and that during your exile you take no service with enemies of the Seven Kingdoms, upon pain of death."

Renly blinked. "You would not send us to the Wall, Your Grace?" he asked.

"The Wall is for life," Lyonel said. "We do not mean to exile you until your dying day, my lord uncle, merely until justice is satisfied." And, Theon thought to himself, until Tywin Lannister no longer feels the need to have you killed for imprisoning his daughter. Which would probably be when Tywin died, knowing his reputation.

Renly bowed. "I hear and obey, Your Grace," he said formally. "I will need some time to settle my affairs in the Realm before sailing."

"You will have until Our coronation," Lyonel replied. "Until then, you and your confederates are to consider yourselves under arrest and confine yourselves to your quarters. You have Our word that you shall not meet with any insult or injury to your persons or your property during your arrest, and during your time abroad your property shall be under Our especial protection. Our only condition," he went on, "is that you name Ser Cortnay Penrose as steward of Storm's End. We have heard that he is still recovering from the plague; we would give him a less strenuous duty than leading our Stormguard."

Renly nodded. "It will also spare him the Wall, Your Grace," he said. "He has been talking about taking the black, since learning that he outlived his king."

Lyonel snorted indelicately. "As if I would let a man of his worth be wasted on the Wall," he retorted. "And when he is finally too old to serve, he will have earned a better retirement than freezing at the end of the world."

"Quite so, Your Grace," Renly said with a smile before he bowed again. "If it please Your Grace, I beg leave to return to the city," he said. "It would look mighty fishy if I was not there to open the gates and bid you welcome."

Lyonel nodded. "Indeed," he said. "And making this whole affair . . . less fishy . . . is the purpose of this whole affair, is it not? Safe travels, my lord uncle."

Renly bowed a third time, drew his hood up over his head, and strode out of the tent. Mace Tyrell cocked an eyebrow at Lyonel. "You think Tywin will accept your sentence as justice, Your Grace?" he asked skeptically.

"I think he will accept that I cannot order my lord uncle's execution, when all his actions have been to preserve and uphold my rule of the Seven Kingdoms," Lyonel replied dryly. "It would be entirely the wrong note to strike at the beginning of my reign. And he knows that he will need my support to make sure the succession of the Rock passes smoothly, whether to Tyrion or to my brother Gerold. This way, justice will be seen to be done, harshly enough to fit the crime but leniently enough to demonstrate my mercy, and my lord uncle is gotten out of Westeros, so that my lord grandfather will not have to be reminded of his existence unless he chooses to be."

Mace nodded. "Gods grant that Tywin is in an understanding mood when he receives news of this, Your Grace," he said. After a moment's silence, he plowed on. "In light of Lord Renly's admissions, Your Grace . . ."

Lyonel raised a hand gently. "There will be time after I am crowned to discuss betrothing one of the twins to Willas," he said. "And in any case, an announcement will have to wait until the mourning period for Joanna has passed. But yes, we will have much to talk about, both on that matter and on others."

While the exact details of King Lyonel's meeting with the mysterious messenger are still unknown, the gist of what transpired may be inferred from what happened in the days afterward. Lyonel's first act after entering King's Landing and taking possession of the Red Keep was to accept his uncle's resignation as regent and his offer to go into exile, along with most of his senior knights. Queen Cersei was officially released from the custody of the Faith, but she quickly found that she had traded one gilded cage for another; Lyonel ordered that she remain under the close guard of Brienne of Tarth within the confines of the Red Keep. Those of the Queen's Men who had been imprisoned by Renly were also released, but any thoughts they might have had about retaking power were quickly stifled, both by Queen Cersei's continued confinement and the announcement that Grand Maester Pycelle would, at Lyonel's invitation, be retiring to the Citadel to work on a eulogistic history of King Stannis's reign. In addition, the King's Men not only had a new king to rally around, but hundreds of new members in the form of the Reachmen and Westermen who had followed Lyonel to King's Landing. We may thus conclude that Renly passed on his suspicions of Cersei's involvement in Stannis' death, and that whether Lyonel was convinced of his mother's guilt or not, he agreed that she should at least be kept out of the decision-making loop.

The mood outside of the Red Keep, ignorant of the politicking and jockeying for position in the new Court that was starting to emerge, was much more relaxed, but still wary. Stannis had not been loved, per se, by the citizens of his capital, but he had brought them peace, prosperity, and victory over the enemies of the Throne and the Faith, and for that he had been much admired. Lyonel's track record of governance was limited to his tenure in the Isles, but what little was known of his deeds there inspired confidence that he might be a worthy successor to his father. And after the nightmare of the plague and the confusion of the coup, having any king was preferable to having none. So the burghers of King's Landing, doubtless bearing in mind the adage that justice is only made possible by strength, pledged the city's allegiance to Lyonel, who promptly repaid them by reaffirming the rights and privileges of the city's charter.

Events outside the city, however, were beginning to accelerate, and it was clear that the full ritual of coronation would have to wait. For one thing, it would take time for the mourning period to Stannis and Joanna to pass, and for the lords of the Seven Kingdoms to travel to the capital to bear witness, as was their right. For another, the taking of the coronation oath and the pledging and receiving of homage, would have to wait until those lords were assembled in order to have what modern political scientists would call 'the critical mass of legitimacy'. There were three elements of the ceremony, however that could be done quickly, and it was decided to do these as swiftly as possible . . .

Lyonel the Magnificent: Westeros' First Modern Monarch by Maester Joubert

Five days after Lyonel Baratheon entered King's Landing, he entered the Great Sept in solemn procession to a psalm to the Father clad in one of his late father's robes of state, flanked by Damon Lannister in brilliant scarlet, Ser Cortnay Penrose in Stormguard black and leaning on his cane, Mace Tyrell in vibrant green trimmed with gold, and Theon Greyjoy in full armor. As the procession reached the altars, the escorting lords halted with a bow, and Lyonel strode forth alone to sit on the gilded chair that had been placed in the center of the altars. The High Septon stepped forward from the massed ranks of the Most Devout, flanked by the seven most senior deacons of the Great Sept, each bearing an ampulla.

Usually, the seven oils were blended, thanks to a decision by the last Great Council of the Faith acknowledging that this would make it easier for itinerant septons to carry them. But for anointing a king, each oil was applied separately. So each deacon stepped forth in turn to pour a measure of oil into the golden filigreed spoon that the High Septon bore and into which he dipped his fingers before making the sign of the seven-pointed star on Lyonel's forehead, mouth, ears, hands, and heart. As he did so he recited in a clear and carrying voice the prayers of consecration that the Faith had prescribed for kings from time out of mind, that Lyonel's mind be strengthened in truth and invested with wisdom, that his mouth give only true judgments, that his ears hear only truth and be closed to falsehoods, that his hands work only justice, tempered with mercy, and that his heart be opened to all the needs of his people.

When the last prayer was said, the High Septon and the deacons stepped back to be replaced by the lords who had escorted Lyonel into the Sept, each accompanied by a page bearing a particular item. First was Theon Greyjoy, who placed a sword across Lyonel's lap. No ordinary sword, this, but one with the point broken off and filed flat, to symbolize not only justice but the mercy without which justice was nothing more than naked force. Next came Ser Cortnay Penrose, who knelt carefully to buckle a pair of golden spurs around Lyonel's heels. Together with the belt of plates, the gilded spurs were the badge of knighthood, and the king was, when all was said and done, the first knight of the Realm, who all other knights acknowledged as their superior. Third came Damon Lannister, who presented Lyonel with a ring set with a gemstone for each of the Kingdoms to symbolize his marriage to the Realm; an emerald for the Reach, a ruby for the Westerlands, a sapphire for the Riverlands, a pearl for the Iron Islands, an amethyst for Dorne, an opal for the Stormlands, a diamond for the Vale, and a black onyx for the North, all surrounding a transparent crystal for the Faith. Fourth and last came Mace Tyrell, who placed in Lyonel's hand a scepter of ivory chased with gold and topped with a seven-pointed star carved from a single crystal, to symbolize both Lyonel's power of temporal rule and the protection of his rule by the Seven.

After Tyrell stepped back, the High Septon stepped forward again, holding the simple gold circlet crown that Stannis had always worn. This he raised high and declaimed "Oh Father, crown of the Faithful, bless we beseech thee and sanctify this thy servant our king, and as thou dost this day place a crown of pure gold upon his head, so enrich his royal heart with thine abundant grace and crown him with all princely virtues, through the grace of thee who art our King and Lord Eternal." As all present murmured "Amen," like the whisper of a giant, the High Septon lowered the crown onto Lyonel's head, saying "May the Seven crown you with a crown of glory and righteousness, that having a right faith and manifold fruit of good works, you may obtain the crown of an everlasting kingdom by the gift of Them whose kingdoms endureth forever." Then stepping back again, the High Septon raised his hands and proclaimed in a voice that thundered through the Sept, "Westeros, behold your king!"

All present fell to their knees in a rush of rustling cloth and a clatter of rattling armor. "Long live the King!" they cried, shaking the windows as the bells of the Great Sept pealed in a salute that rolled across the city as the other septs joined the cacophony. "Long live the King! Long live the King!"