Throne Room

The day is as radiant as Cersei's golden locks, yet as always dark clouds threaten to dampen her mood. A single thought preoccupies her: should she be worried about everything that has happened? None had gone down as planned, sure, yet did they not all work out? Eddard Stark dead, that wretched Robert in his death bed, a person to hold all of the sins… Are the Gods smiling down on her beauty for once?

I've always been meaning to rid the Kingsguard of that Selmy, Cersei takes a sip of her spiced red wine. The man is too old to protect my son. She considers it somewhat rash to have Ser Balon Swann did what he had done, but no one's the wiser. A smirk slowly crawls over her face; what an accomplishment this week has been.

With her only threat rotting in the Sept of Baelor, she can relax regarding her little… Infidelity with Jaime. With Robert out of the picture, soon she'll have total control of the court; who will she put as Joffrey's hand? The soft and oafish Mace Tyrell? His cripple of a son? Or perhaps Uncle Kevan? Or father? He has experience being a King's Hand. The Mad King's. By then, the Lannisters will reign supreme over the Iron Throne. Deer were never meant to lay with lions…

Jaime will become Lord Commander, of course. Oh, how I wish I could send a raven to you. You'll love me even more. She takes a long drink, but a sour taste climbs up her throat.

She still has to deal with Robert. If not for that bitch from the filths of Flea Bottom, everything would be in place! But that's a small matter, Cersei, she assures herself. That bumbling maester is in your purse and Littlefinger dances on the palm of your hands. It's only a matter of time.

She sinks back into the cushions of her gilded ebony chair. The preparations for the trial took some time to get together, but with Littlefinger's help, all have gone down smoothly. Even a petty Lord has its use. The head of the Gold Cloaks, Janos Slynt, is one such person who has been bribed and prepared. All the words coming out of his mouth are the mockingbird's, not the toad's.

Speaking of which, where is that little bird? Actually, I haven't seen the eunuch as well. Ah, they must be conversing with each other in the garden. A bird and a spider, she wants to laugh. None worthy enough to take on a lion.

Instead of looking for them, she watches the glee and joy of her little boy Joffrey atop the Iron Throne. It may be too big now, but he'll soon grow into it. And for that Petyr Baelish to suggest my son, the CROWN PRINCE, to stay out of the trial… The audacity! He may be on my side right now, but the next treasonous thing out of his mouth will earn him the black cells.

Then again, how is he any different from other Lords and Ladies? In her mind, the court is filled with nothing but greed, fools, and greedy fools. There's some satisfaction in knowing that none of them understands Joffrey's true parentage. That the next King shall be a pure Lannister, not a Baratheon. And with that deviant Renly out of the Red Keep, I will have no Baratheons against me.

But her plans are still long from over. After the trial, she plans to eliminate all of Robert's bastards throughout King's Landing. I'll give my thanks to that senile Jon Arryn for dying and leaving his notes; the Gold Cloaks will take care of that soon enough.

"What do you think, your grace?"

"Hm? It's fine, Janos Slynt. Just wait until the trial starts," she shoos him, yet the man is persistent.

"Your grace, may I suggest some changes to the words? Maybe a few sentences?" He smiles, stretching his lips like that of a frog's.

Ugh. Might as well have an actual frog in that gold cloak. "You want to change the words?"

"Only some, like-"

"Take it up with Baelish. If he approves, change it. But no more than that," she hisses. "I am still Queen, Janos Slynt. Mind your tongue when asking for favours. Get back to your position."

"Y-Yes, your grace," he stammers before scuttling back to the Gold Cloaks. Did she even let him climb the stairs, or did the man presumed his own standing in court? The Lord Commander of the City Watch is still far beneath me, she huffs.

But he's not the only one, is he? All these chattering nobles on wooden pulpits see her nothing more than Robert's wife, not the respect a Queen deserves. Though seething, the flame is quenched by more wine. I should have watered this down, she covers her mouth before burping. Ah, those fools will understand soon enough.

No one here is worth more than a glance. Besides, it pisses her off that not all are present for her son's first trial. For example, House Celtigar and Velaryon are not here. A tinge of paranoia suspects that they've betrayed her… Or maybe it's the wine talking. And then there's the Starks. She glares at the crying girls surrounded by Stark men-at-arms. If Eddard Stark was against her, why not their children? He's the one who raised them to be distrustful of Lannisters.

She has plans for them, grand plans. As hostages if the North ever makes a move against her brother and father, or perhaps as pawns to be married off to certain Houses. Take them up as my ward, that cold Catelyn surely wouldn't mind, she smirks. Perhaps what the septas said about the Seven descending from the heavens to aid the crown is true; Eddard's death is a blessing in disguise. Barristan Selmy did it. A wench from Flea Bottom did it.

Not her. And isn't that beautiful?

That Sansa girl wants me to marry her to my son. As if a wolf deserves to lay with lions. No, perhaps marrying her to a Tyrell? And the other… Cersei clicks her tongue remembering how the little rat dared to hurt her son! That runt doesn't deserve a Hill… Then a vicious thought enters her mind. Who better to pair with a rat than an imp? The thought of those two bedding disgusts her to no end; perhaps their whelps would look more fitting in a mummer's troupe than noble clothes.

A forgone trial, a wine cup in hand, and her son atop the Iron Throne; today is truly the best of-

"Do pardon my intrusion, your grace."

Gods, why do the Kingsguard let people speak to me left and right!? Do they have no discipline? Slowly coming back into the Red Keep, she sees no other than the Fat One at the foot of the throne room steps. Though dresses in his holy attire, his crystal crown is cracked. Here comes the Faith, she groans, no doubt peddling me with more talk of worship and piety. Might as well entertain them for a bit. "Your Holiness, you are always a welcome sight at the Red Keep," the sweet lie rolls off her tongue. "But do please climb the steps so that I may hear your words."

The holy man waddles up the stairs, earning some laughter from her son and the Kingsguard. Even that unsightly Hound is grinning at the display. "Your grace," he bows his head, nearly out of breath.

"So," she taps her wine glass, "have the Faith decided to preside over this trial?"

"O yes, your grace. Why, the days grow shorter and the nights more terrible! Murder in the streets, unrest in the Realm, all of it are connected. That red streak in the sky, an omen coming from the Seven who-"

Gods, the Fat One does like to drone on. "Save the sermon until after the trial is decided, High Septon. Explain the current decision."

"Very well, your grace. The Most Devout and I saw it fit to uphold the Faith in this upcoming trial. To those who commit foul sorceries, to those who planned to betray the king they've sworn to protect, all must pass under the judgement of the Seven!"

Here we go again …

"The sinful walk the earth with no repercussion for far too long! But this trial will remind the Realm that all are still under the will and watchful eyes of the Seven Who Is One. And thus," he finally says, "I implore your wisdom and judgement to let two of our representatives hold court along your grace and Prince Joffrey. Let those with the Seven on their side judge those blasphemers and criminals!"

Reeling in from that extended declaration, Cersei begins weighing the merits. On one hand, for someone to have a say in the ruling other than her and her son is disconcerting. It's a miracle that the more disagreeing of the Small Council are not present and she dares not ruin that.

"T-They may be of use, y-your grace," the wrinkly Pycelle approaches her side, his breath smelling of sour fruits and spraying spittle with each word he speaks. "The-The faith is well known for their d-disdain for the dark-"

"While I appreciate your counsel, cover your mouth when you speak." Cersei wipes her hand on his robe before ushering him away. "Where was I… Ah yes, High Septon. Well of course, the Iron Throne have always been beholden to the Faith. The Seven's judgement is always at home in court so I see no problem for representatives to oversee the trial."

"Your kindness and wisdom are truly as radiant as your beauty." His flattery does pinch her smile upwards. "Ah, but no need to provide seats, your grace. We have prepared our own."

How lovely. Must be the Most Devout then. Why can't we have someone younger? "I'll inform the servants."

"Thank you, your grace. I pray for your husband's health and safety." The Fat One bows before waddling back down to the laughter of Joffrey. Why need fools when the court attendants are like these? They have feathered beggars if it adds to the charm.

You did a fine thing, Cersei. Now you have a foothold in the Faith. After all, she once heard that the Crown is in debt to the Sept; she'll put Littlefinger in charge of that matter. As the Master of Coins, he seems good with money.

Now, what to do for my son's coronation? Ah, a glorious tourney perhaps, one so extravagant it'll put the Targaryen past to shame. She can see it now: a shower of flowers as she and Joffrey walk in a glorious display, a knight naming her the Queen of Love and Beauty. Oh, so many will fight in her honour, such gallant and handsome knights in their glittering armour. Some may become the Kingsguard while others… It would be something that a Queen like her deserves.

"Your grace." Now it's the Hound's turn to interrupt her fantasy. "The Prince wants your presence."

"…Of course he does." Putting down the cup, she climbs up the Iron Throne whilst displaying her fine velvet red-and-gold dress, embroidered with lion heralds. The nobles present understands the message.

Reaching the top she sees her sweet son Joffrey. He looks so much like his father, she thinks, admiring his golden locks and forest-green eyes. However, he's fidgeting more than usual. "What is it, dear?"

The boy bites his nail. "It's about father."

For a moment she thinks of Jaime, but Robert's face ruins all of that. "What about him?"

"I-Is he going to be alright? That damn Pycelle s-said-"

"Oh, don't worry my little prince." She brushes his hair from his face, taking a look at his sad face. "The King is going to be just fine, I promise. Grand Maester Pycelle is simply careful, that is all. Soon, everything that wench did to him will be undone." Complimenting the old fool brings bile to her mouth, but she swallows it down. The man is talented when not wagging his tongue, though his compliments on the prisoner's stitches bring suspicion on how much skill he boasts.

"B-But- Mother! They're TRAITORS!" He slams his fist onto the Throne, nearly cutting himself. "They hurt the King! Assassination! Why trials when we can have their heads!?"

"Trials are a King's procedure, sweetie," she speaks softly, easing the boy's temper. Did he pick that up from Robert? "It'll show to the others that you're just and wise."

"They're all guilty," he seethes.

"But not in the eyes of certain fools. This trial is meant to show the traitors' crimes, to lay out all their sins into the world. None of them will be missed, and the Realm will thank you for your justice."

"I was born just, mother," Joffrey huffs. "I'm the Crown Prince; my word is law!"

"And how right you are." With his temper taken care of, she pecks his forehead before returning to her seat. However, she soon realises that the hem of her dress has been cut up by the Throne. Gods, now I need to have a new one made. And to think I brought it all the way from Casterly Rock…

Another person interrupts her. And before she could throw wine onto his face, she sees that it's actually the Kingsguard Ser Boros Blount. In her eyes, the man is only marginally better than Barristan, owing to his younger age. "Your grace," he speaks with a rasp, "the High Septon has returned with his retinue. Where would their chairs be set?"

Traditionally, those involved in making the judgements should be seated abreast. But Cersei has a point to make. "Set them on the lower steps, Ser Boros."

"As you wish." With a wave of a hand, the Lannister guards open the throne room doors. The court soon falls silent and turn to see the procession.

Leading the Faith is the Fat One, though he's soon passed by helpers carrying a pair of chairs. The seats have been made out of white birch and embedded with crystals, playing with the sunlight as they are placed on the lower steps. Cersei doesn't like the way they glare.

Ten septon and ten septas enter the the room, lining the way for the Fat One and his representatives. Such a bloody spectacle, she scowls, and all for a chance at the court. Did it not occur to your fat-addled mind that almost all present follow the Seven!?

Last to come are the representatives, but their appearance prompt whispers and murmurs in the pulpits. Even Cersei is bewildered. "They're… Children!?" she sneers.

"Praise be the Seven and their holy judgement present with us today," the Fat One declares, gesturing towards the older child. "The Holy Messenger of the Maiden, Tenshi Hinanawi, shall be overlooking this trial."

Many in the pulpits rise but Cersei stays seated; a lion answers to no one, her father once said. And 'Messengers of the Maiden'… Where have I heard that before? Truthfully, she's not one to pray nor pay attention to matters of the Faith. She's been to the occasional wakes and scattered prayers in her time as Queen, but never too in-depth. This matter is quite new to her. Did I hear it from a servant's gossip?

However, even that won't betray her cool. "I welcome you to the Red Keep, Lady Tenshi. The Iron Throne welcomes your presence." But what an odd presence it is. Nothing about her looks like a proper lady: not her dyed-blue hair, not her black hat, not the short skirt, not the fact that she's wearing black breastplate and vambraces… Why? Why is a little girl wearing armour? What manner of madness did you bring here, Fat One?

"Of course my presence is welcomed," the little girl scoffs before turning to the Queen with a smug grin. "My glory is a magnificent gift for you, worm."

…

Worm?

Cersei's nails dig deep into the cushions. "Do you know who you're speaking to, brat?"

"No, who's this insect?"

Insect!? The whispers in the pulpit are louder now.

"Ooh, I know! I know!" the younger one raises her hand, hopping on her feet. "Are you the Queen?"

"I am," she spits. "I am Cersei Lannister, Queen of Westeros and daughter of Tywin Lannister of Casterly Rock. And who are you to call me such vile things?"

"Y-Your grace, I apologise immensely for their conduct," the Fat One's deep bow nearly takes off his crystal crown, not that any of it quenches her anger. "T-They're not used to the court, that is all."

"And never taught proper manners. Did you bring them before me as an insult? Are you demeaning the authority of the Iron Throne?" The Gold Cloaks bristle at her words.

"No no, that was never m-my intention," he stammers before quickly changing the topic. "Oh, yes! Please, let us greet the second Holy Messenger of the Maiden. Her Holine-"

"Hiya!" The blonde girl jumps forward with strange crystal ornamentation attached to her back. And again, her skirt is not even close to proper. Cersei's beginning to suspect that the Faith is taking whores and claiming them holy by adorning crystals on their heads. "My name's Flandre Scarlet but Tenshi calls me Flan. She says it's cute!"

"Of course it's cute!" She brings the blonde girl to a hug. "Flans are soft and sweet on a plate, just like you."

"Yep!" the girl giggles.

…

Cersei pinches her brow. If this is what she has to deal with at the trial she wishes for more flagons of wine. But taking a few deep breaths, she begins to assess the situation. The most important fact about the Faith's representatives is that they're children. The blue-haired brat may be stubborn, but the blonde one looks to be a simple girl with energy to spare. I could manipulate them… Yes, I could. I can do it. If I can bear with Robert and coo that Stark girl's heart, then these brats should be no problem. Blinking a few times, she returns to her regal posture. "Do you two understand the responsibilities you've been given?"

"We're to overlook a trial," Tenshi answers with a shrug, "You know, do the Yama's job and see if the person deserves to be free or die. I heard they tried to kill the King?"

"They're both traitors for hurting my father," Joffrey declares from the Iron Throne. "They are GUILTY. But I'm sure you two know that already."

"Who's that little tick?"

"Hmm… Oh, it's the King's daughter! Princess Jessica, is it?"

"I AM PRINCE JOFFREY BARATHEON!" he screeches, causing even Cersei to flinch. "I am the son of King Robert Baratheon who slew the Targaryens at the Trident! I am not some bloody GIRL!"

"Could have fooled me," the brat chuckles at the Prince. "Why do I need to remember the names of all ants I come across?"

"Ser Mandon!" the Prince shouts, now enraged by the insult. "They've insulted their Prince; teach those wenches their lessons."

"Sheathe your sword, Ser Mandon," Cersei interrupts the Kingsguard whose sword is half-out of the scabbard. With every word the brat speaks her head throbs even harder. The last thing I need is spilling blood before the trial begins. And so she must concede; there's always more time to choke the life out of that brat. "Dear, save your power and anger towards the true traitors. I'm sure you can have a word with the girls after the trial?"

She watches her son's red face sink back into the Iron Throne. "…Right, let us get on with enacting justice then."

"And High Septon, care to explain the extra twenty people you have brought to the throne room?" She doesn't like the way they look, far too calm and quiet.

"They're the appointed guards for their Holiness, your grace. These are dark times, and safety is of most paramount."

Guards, she snorts. Prude men and women whose eyes will burn upon seeing a tit or cock. But if it appeases them… "Janos Slynt, see that these 'guards' are positioned around the throne room."

"I'll do so, your grace. Please, follow me." From the way they move there's clear discipline. But even a child can form lines. Enough to protect us from imaginary devils.

"Please, take your seat. The trial begins soon."

While Tenshi walks over to it, the blonde one grabs her hand. "Um, my seat is in the light. Can I have it moved?"

"Certainly," Cersei holds in her sigh. "Ser Boros, mind moving the chair-"

"Nah, that side has sunlight as well," the brat interrupts much to her annoyance. "You know what? I got this." With a wide grin, she unclasps a golden-and-brass object from her belt. It looks like the hilt of a sword with some red tassels, but without a blade it looks very odd when she points it at the ceiling.

For some reason the Fat One scurries back, but nothing happens. A few snickers bounce around the pulpit at the silly children.

But they soon realise their mistake.

A horrifying red glow engulfs the room and the air pulsates like a beating heart, turning it fiery and icy cold. Screams erupt from the guards and nobles alike as Cersei shield her eyes from that painful glow. And once the castle trembles beneath her feet, she screams as well.

"Make it stop!" Joffrey shouts. "Make it stop make it stop MAKE IT-"

"Alright, calm down! Enough with the shouting…"

With the glow dimming and voices calming, Cersei dares to peek and sees something… Mesmerising. A red beam spurts forth from the girl's sword hilt, punching through the stone ceiling like a needle through cloth. As it disperses into a fine red mist, a piece of rubble falls with a crash. That's when the Kingsguards decide to move.

Ser Boros covers the trembling Cersei while Ser Mandon and Ser Meryn protect the steps up the Iron Throne. But even with swords drawn, they look so small beneath the girl's sorcery. "Throw down your weapon," shouts Ser Boros, but the shaking of his hand belies his fear. "You're fools to threaten her grace in her own home!"

"Threaten? I'm just making it less sunny for Flan! What, I can't treat my girlfriend now and then?"

"Tenshi's so cool!" The blonde one kisses her cheek, making the brat blush. "She can go whoosh and make it rain!"

"Heh, I am cool."

"The coolest!"

"Hold your tongue, girly," Ser Meryn growls. "We have the black cells for the likes of-"

*CRACK BOOM*

The sound of thunder silences the Kingsguard. Looking through the large painted windows, they see a wild storm gathering outside the Red Keep. The room slowly darkens and the only glow comes from the scant few candles and the blonde one's crystal ornaments. As lightning flashes, Cersei sees the septons and septas' smiling faces...

She grabs her cup and downs the wine. What in the Seven hells is happening!?

"Ahh, ain't that nice, Flan?"

"Yep. Dibs on the left seat!"

Black Cells

Hours and days mix into one beneath the Red Keep. The darkness is forever in the black cells, only broken by the occasional passing of torches by the guards. Some men scream as they're dragged to and fro the cells, but Barristan knows how to keep his wits. So do the healer, he sighs, remembering the woman he dragged into this mess.

The only thing keeping him sane is the occasional whispers of hymns and prayers to the Seven from his lips. The food comes infrequently, intended to keep the prisoner questioning and on the brink; he understands the schedule quite well. But even as the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, this numbing torture slowly chips away at his mind.

The darkness grows an ill fog in his head, and slowly he begins to question his place in this fleeting world and of memories from days long gone. How long has it been since Lady Eirin fell asleep? he wonders, turning his head to the woman chained to the wall.

A door slam rings through the black cells. Dull footsteps followed by the crossing of a torch; the King's Justice is not alone. For a moment he thinks their doors are being unlocked but soon relaxes upon realising it's their neighbour.

"…this one is…"

"…take the black with…"

"…how are…"

"…a man knows of…"

A wandering crow, Barristan thinks. Is it Yoren, the one Lord Stark wanted to give the prisoners to? The thought of the dead Hand brings a bitter taste to his mouth. The Stark was a diligent and honourable man in his eyes, and no doubt Jon Arryn had been of great influence to his conduct. And now he's gone… Would he have survived if not for the Kingslayer's actions?

But the old knight shakes his head. He could lay the blame on the boy as much as he likes for it does not change his failure to save Lord Stark. If only I was quicker at the bandages, quicker at cleaning the tables, I could have intervened… Right? And now I leave his two daughters in a viper's pit. Barristan clenches his fist, knowing his failure as a…

No, the King still lives.

But for how much longer? Lord Stark's warnings were not empty yet he only has an inkling on the conspiracies afoot in the Red Keep. Who can I trust?

Another door slams shut and the torch passes again, casting light on the healer's sleeping face and the wounds on her arms.

…

Barristan is a Kingsguard, the Bold many call him. He slew Maelys the Monstrous and ended the Blackfyres. He was knighted by Aegon the Fifth himself and served three Kings. All that honour and valour… None of it prevented the healer's tortures. He could still see it beneath closed eyes: the glow of a hot iron poker, the grinning face of the gaoler, and the healer's defiance to let out a sound…

What am I without my sword? What am I with my sword? Regrets haunt him in the darkness. The screams of the late Targaryen Queen… Back then he had his sword, yet he only stood by as the Mad King raped her. For a mad moment he wonders if the Lannister boy was right in breaking his oath and killing Aerys, to end the screaming that haunted the Red Keep's halls.

"What are you mumbling?"

"Sorry?"

"You're speaking to yourself," the healer whispers, a soft yawn escaping from her.

"Forgive me for disturbing your sleep," he sighs. "They were… Unkind memories. Nothing important."

"Nothing important, huh…" The healer moves but he can only hear the clinking of chains. "How kind of the Queen to give us this place for healing her husband. Such a fine treatment for a doctor," she sneers.

"I regret having it come to this, Lady Eirin, but healing him was of paramount. If Robert died then… I'm not sure what will happen to Westeros."

He hears a snort coming from the healer. "Is that so, Barristan Selmy? Is your country so weak and haemorrhaged that a drunken oaf is all that holds them together?" The amusement in her voice confuses him. "I heard he took the throne from an older dynasty, one that you once served. Why stay by his side, then?"

"B- He's the King! And the Kingsguard is sworn to protect one's King with their life!" he asserts, and yet where are his white cloaks? The Lannister guards didn't even need to strip him of it; he had put it away in a chest in the White Tower.

"I did not ask about your duties," she groans. "I'm asking why you stay by his side. What is the man's worth?"

"King Robert is generous to his subjects. He's a capable commander and a fine warrior with his hammer." For a moment, an image of the Dragon Prince being smashed to pieces by Robert flashes by; Barristan shakes his head from that foul thought. "He can turn foes into allies. Men bend their knees willingly for him." And he's not Aerys, he wants to add, but madness was never a desirable quality in any man.

"And all of it undone by his drinking," she chuckles. "What of the murders in that room then? Were they done by his enemy-turned-friends?"

Barristan eyes their little enclosure. Even down here… "The walls have ears," he whispers.

The healer breaks into raucous laughter, earning them angry shouts from the gaolers. He can see a mad smile plastered on her face from the passing torchlight. "The walls have ears~ That's what you humans always do. Conspiracies after conspiracies after conspiracies… What a fine life you lead, Barristan Selmy, trapped inside this filthy city with its filthy people and their filthy culture."

"Are you alright?" he asks, worried that the darkness has breached her mind.

"Some migraines, some hunger. Nothing a good execution won't fix."

"Please don't jest about death. If you name the Stranger…" But with their upcoming trial, that is a large possibility. If Queen Cersei and that boy see it fit… "I am sure the trial will be just, Lady Eirin. They'll see you as innocent."

"And I'm sure the systems of justice here will do us just fine," she says with sarcasm. "None of it matters to me. However, on the slim probability they don't execute you, what will you do after the trial?"

…

What will I do? If he's found innocent, would he tarnish the white cloak's prestige by wearing it? Can he even serve the King again? Or should he look for someone else to swear his vows towards? But who? "I have… Regrets in my life. I've failed people before, sent them on a mortal journey they've yet to see the end of. And as an old knight…"

"You could help them, you know."

Barristan taps the cold stone floor, his nail scratching at the grime. "I'll be abandoning all that I've worked towards, sixty years of my life down the gutters. For a Lord Commander to discard the white cloak…" he shakes his head.

"And because of that you won't right the wrongs you've caused? Truly the finest knight of Westeros," the healer scoffs, her words stabbing deep into Barristan.

"And what would you have done?" the knight barks. "Apologies for my crassness, Lady Eirin, but a Lady knows not of a Kingsguard's vows. Do you know what it means to shirk one's duties and responsibilities? To abandon them in a mere whim or fancy?"

"Yes," she answers in a whisper, "I've done that."

"…You have?"

"I wasn't always a healer nor a doctor," Lady Eirin begins. "The Yagokoros are one of the most powerful Families in our Lunatic Kingdom and I was its head. I led technological and magical advances you people could never comprehend, but for all that I still made a mistake," her voice darkens. "A grim one that led someone dear to me to be banished in my stead. The years I spent without repercussions were haunted by regrets and self-loathing, I'm sure you can relate." He sees a hint of a smile on her face, but he has no reply to her tale.

"But then I was given a chance," her voice brightens. "To correct my mistake and be with the one I love, I abandoned my home and family to make a new one with her. I never looked back."

…

"I… I'm sorry for making assumptions, it was never my intention to-"

"Save your words for the trial, Barristan Selmy. You've said your piece," the healer sighs. "But for the sake of your mistakes, here's an advice from your elder: correct them. Unlike me, your years are getting shorter and now's the only chance to right your wrongs."

"Thank you for the counsel, Lady Eirin. This old knight needed that," he coughs, feeling the dryness of his throat. By the Seven does he need a drink. "The young do enlighten their elders sometimes…"

"I'm older than you, Barristan."

"…I'm sixty-three."

"And I've lost count of all my years," the healer laughs. "I've watched mountains rise and fall, witnessed the death of Siddhatta Gautama, and destined to see existence decay to mere strings and foam. When the stars die I will watch the spectacle with the Princess by my side, a drink in our hands to reflect our eternal love."

…

A chill crawls up his spine. Madness is all he could see. He saw it before in the Mad King, in Maelys Blackfyre, even in the young Joffrey Baratheon. But the magic she wields, her unearthly appearance… "What are you?"

"I am Eirin Yagokoro, Healer of Flea Bottom," the darkness answers. "For now. With my age, Barristan Selmy, you'll understand that not all things last. This lofty fantasy… With patience, it'll be wispy memories of a fitful slumber. Give it time, old knight."

Before he could say something, the black cells trembles deep. A flurry of rats and dust run past him, heightening his fear of being swallowed alive by the Red Keep. A few seconds later it stops, leaving only the screams of prisoners and the commanding shouts of the gaolers. His heart nearly beats out of his chest. "An earthquake," he whispers, "Sevens save us, did Dragonmont erupt?"

"Not quite," the healer observes, giving an inquisitive hum before elaborating. "That was a magical pulse, one fuelled by both pure magic and faith. Must be the 'Messengers of the Seven' your people are clamouring about," she chuckles. "Oh, to think those two are worshipped as prophets."

"You're acquainted with the Messengers?" Did they come with her, or is the healer spouting more madness?

"I've treated them before back home. If I remember correctly, one came to me to treat her wounds after a fight while the other needed weekly medication to treat her… Well, I shouldn't divulge patient records freely, especially to someone who doesn't understand it."

The revelation sinks his stomach. He had certain doubts before, but now? "Are… Are the Messengers-"

The sound of footsteps interrupts his speech. The key to their door turns and they're soon bathed by the light of torches, momentarily blinding them. "Get up," says one of the guards, a Lannister due to his red cloak. "Barristan Selmy. Healer of Flea Bottom. Your trial starts soon."

In the light, he can see the dirty garments he's in. Lady Eirin's clothes are in a better condition, but not by much. They're not in the right state for a trial. "May we have a change of-"

"The Lady can have a cloak. You?" The young man looks him up and down before smirking. "You can stay like that."

"A naked Kingsguard," one of them jeers, earning the snickers of the gaolers and guards. But the King's Justice's gruff croaking stops them. "Right, unlock their manacles and drag them to the throne room. If any of them tries to run, kill them."

The two doesn't resist as they're led up the winding stairwell of the black cells. Marching towards a finality, he can only pray that madness does not consume the Realm.