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Silver Tears of the Moon

Catching One Another

In the shadow of the white walls, Astrea put forth a considerable effort to stay awake. To her, the hot dry weather was no problem, although all around her – well, beneath her, mostly, since she occupied the lofty and lonely seat of honour – she could see faces that the heat had turned from crimson to pasty white. A serving girl approached with a tray of cold drinks and Astrea took a glass. "After everyone takes one, you should go to splash your face and drink some water," she said and the girl looked at her gratefully. Lord and Lady Butterwell both glanced at her but did not dare show their indignation of her meddling openly. Astrea's opinion of them sank even lower. Couldn't they see that their servants would soon collapse with heat? What use would there be when this happened? She wondered how the jousting knights managed to raise and point their swords. She had rarely encountered such dry heat, except when she had been in the Dornish desert. Boredom lulled her to sleep and she remembered how Dyanna had demanded that she, Astrea, woke her up at tournaments when the babes she carried demanded their fill of sleep, not caring about proper time and place at all. She was ready to give such an order to her own ladies when the announcement of the herald startled her awake. Ser Duncan would meet Ser Uthor Underleaf.

"Don't shout too loudly," Ultor murmured and she smiled. No, she would not shout too loudly for Ser Duncan but even if she did, it was hardly anything that would attract notice to him. Spectators used to do such things during the tilts. It was not as if she had given him her favour. Not because she didn't want to.

Ultor also looked bored and she clasped his hand. "Do you want to go down and ride?" she asked in a low voice. The Seven knew that it would bring some excitement to the tilts. And the Blackfyre boy would hardly jump on the dais to attack her, after all.

He shook his head. He had long lost his hunger for tourneys and casual jousting, another change that Astrea had not been there to see taking place. "There are only two men I'd like to ride against," he said and when Astrea asked which ones he meant, he pointed at two who could have been called mediocre, at best. Surprised, she kept silent.

At least Ser Duncan would now have a chance to live better – and offer Aegon some better conditions. She told her brother this much and he disagreed. "He will fall in this tilt," he said and to Astrea's great surprise and disappointment, that was exactly what happened. With a cry frozen in her throat, she saw the huge knight fall.

"It won't be too bad," Ulthor said, although there was some concern in his eyes. Astrea ground her teeth as she heard some woman on the lower row of seats laugh.

The higher the sun rose, the hotter it became. The Queen looked for more and more distractions to keep her awake. The sight of two sturdy men carting huge baskets from a side gate down a lawn drew her eye. For washing? She knew that there was a stream down there. Two women scurried behind them and Astrea wondered if Lord Butterwell did not have adequate number of servants. With these baskets, the women would have to spend a week in the stream!

She felt enormous relief as she saw Ser Duncan limping out around the edges of the arena. He would live and would not suffer too much damage. But she scowled when she saw the ease with which John the Fiddler won his tilts. Ultor shook his head again, his disdain visible to her, if not others. But then, it was easy for someone as martially gifted as he to be disdainful. He and Maekar both might claim it dishonourable to win this way but he wasn't charging to the arena to challenge and defeat the Blackfyre boy all ably and honourably, was he?

"His father could fight, at least," Ultor said angrily when they were finally alone in her chambers. "This one is so lacking that he doesn't even realize how they grant him the win."

"Grant him? Or buy him?" Ser Donnel asked cynically.

Astrea had had enough. "Does it matter?" she asked angrily. Her head was throbbing, she could fall asleep right there where she stood, her fear was growing and they sat here and discussed warrior merits? "Why didn't you all join his traitor of a father if he fought so well?"

"Because your husband fought better, of course," Ultor replied immediately while the Kingsguard simply looked ashamed. "So, is it now time for another of these stupid letters?" he asked and she grinned.

"Before this tourney is over, they will be pitying poor Baelor," she said. "For being saddled with a clinging Dornishwoman who won't let a day go by without the most boring letter possible."

"Think of all the work they must be putting into processing them for invisible ink," Ultor advised her and she couldn't stay angry with him for long. The situation was difficult enough without anger in their own ranks.

At King's Landing, the Queen Mother shook her head and silently pushed the letter towards Shiera Seastar. The corners of the young woman's mouth quirked but she took and skimmed it. "Doesn't that remind you of her sister?" she asked. "The letter she addressed to Maekar but then finished with a question how the King could be so presuming as to read other people's letters?"

Mariah stared blankly. "When the rebellion found her in Dorne," Shiera elucidated and Mariah laughed, remembering – her first laughter in over than a year.

"There is something to this," she agreed. "But Astrea is still writing to Baelor, wanting to make sure that he understands. There is all this talk about the tourney and the food – and then she mentions how much she misses King's Landing and her talks with Maekar about Dyanna." She huffed. "I wish!"

If it was left to Maekar, no one would even know that a Dyanna had ever existed, that was how much he talked about her. Mariah had hoped that this would change over time but it had only grown worse. And he and Astrea rarely talked about anything anyway.

"She must be terribly scared," she said softly. "With insufficient number of men, in the very midst of this traitor nest. And she surely realizes that a host on its way will turn her into a hostage."

Shiera nodded without saying anything and for the hundredth time in the last three days cursed her own decision not to have something slipped into Daemon's drink when she could have done it. For years, she had been thinking that Brynden was a man obsessed with shadows, his insistence that Daemon's line was still a threat and Aegor, Aegor most of all was a dangerous enemy sounding like the ramblings of a madman even to the two people he dared share it with – Daeron and her. Alas, it had not been.

"May the Seven keep her," she said, touching the silver necklace hanging heavy on her neck, and Mariah closed her eyes in a prayer, almost wishing that she had not read this letter addressed to Baelor in his absence.

The tent meant for war campaigns differed significantly from the one the King used for processions. There were just a few folding chairs inside, a rough folding bed with thin linen for sleep, and height that did not let a tall man raise a hand over his head without hitting the ceiling. Baelor preferred it vastly. But now, he could find things to annoy him even in its simplicity. The grass under the straw-mats creaked too noisily. The floor lamps gave too little light and too much shadows, to match the ones in his own mind. These thin walls let every sneeze from the outside carry. Really, how could he have ever thought this was an acceptable dwelling?

His anger lashed at his squire like a leather whip when the boy dared enter with a tray of roasted apples and some meat. "Return these to the fool who roasted them," he snapped. "If he likes eating ash, he's welcome to it. I am accustomed to eating food."

The stupid boy opened his mouth, no doubt to ask if His Grace wished for new supper to be roasted at the fire but reconsidered and bowed himself out of the situation. So, he wasn't this stupid, after all.

"Astrea will be fine," Maekar said in a calm voice, "and your fears are unfounded. She's a smart little liar. They will look at her and think her harmless and a certain quarry already. But they will be wrong."

Baelor spun around and cursed himself. He had not realized just how much of his alertness had been swollen by this terrible worry. He had not even heard Maekar's approach, although his brother had stepped on the same noisy straw-mats that annoyed him so much.

"How can you be so sure?" he asked angrily. "Who used to say that she was a hopeless fool? Why, it would be you!"

Maekar didn't flinch. "It's my business what I used to say," he replied. "She's no one's fool. Look at how adroitly she let you know that something was up."

"We knew it before her letter," Baelor reminded him.

"Well yes but even if we didn't, her letter would have raised our suspicions. Sewing with Mother," he snickered. "That's something I would pay to see. I would double it if Mother can do it without pricking her fingers all over."

Reluctantly, Baelor also smiled. "Do you want to have a walk with me?" he asked abruptly. Sometimes, Maekar was the perfect companion. One who was unbothered by prolonged silence. "And if you have any idea how to smuggle her out of the castle, tell me," he added.

"I will," Maekar promised. "But it won't come to it. She and Ultor will rescue themselves."

Baelor hoped so very much. You're a protector in your heart, his mother's words rang in his mind. Perhaps she was right. Because if love played any part in it, Astrea's face would not have pushed Jena's and Flora's from his mind's eye so very suddenly. Concern should not have been enough but somehow, it was. Somehow in those last few months, he, Astrea and the girls had become a family. Astrea, with her youthful bravery and heartache, his small, restless, nobly-minded queen, so sure that she would end up the year with a balance in hand. The very thought of her within Lord Gormon Peake's reach made him see red and black, anger and hopelessness. The man was capable of killing her out of spite when he got a word of their coming.

Astrea could see the effect her letters had – well, immediately. The conversations at the high table were turned to domestic matters, feasts, and gowns and while she did not mind talking about those, there were only so many shades of purple that she knew. If there were any looks of suspicion, those were aimed at her brother and the Kingsguard, leaving her and her ladies to work their angle almost unnoticed. Who could pay attention to a gaggle of women, the chief among whom had clearly been chosen for her fecundity? Perhaps it had already occurred to the King to see what her brain contained – all too late? These were the things that people talked about her most often – even the hedge knights! In one of their rare meetings at might, Aegon confirmed that a good deal of those originated from a Ser Meynard Plum's mouth. Astrea was delighted. She would have years to restore her reputation if… well, if what? She still had no idea what these men intended but it was clear that they were building the Blackfyre boy to look a prominent fighter which even she could see that he was not. And that scared her.

When Lord Butterwell announced that the reward for the ultimate winner would be a dragon egg, Astrea clearly let her mask slip because Ultor squeezed her hand urgently under the table. The disrespect was tremendous but something else was evident as well: the events were unfolding rapidly. Why did they need to give the boy a dragon egg if not to strengthen his claim in the eyes of Westeros? The servant that they had bribed had had a look in his belongings and there was nothing resembling the description of the sword Blackfyre but it was a scarce comfort that got scarcer yet with each victory the boy won against opponents that Ultor said were doing their best to lose.

"It must be tomorrow night," she told Ultor because they had both noticed that Lord Peake was studying her at the evening feast. Ser Ronald confirmed that the man had been looking at her when the announcement about the dragon egg had been made. She had made a mistake and he had seen it. He was smarter than the young Blackfyre and more determined than Lord Butterwell. Soon, he'd start wondering why the King would not reply to his wife's letters, even out of courtesy.

That night, the designs were gone over as if they were battle plans – and they were just as certain to happen as planned as those. Everyone knew their place. The sequence of their actions was determined and repeated aloud until they knew it by heart. Only Ser Donnel looked displeased. "I would like to stay with the Queen," he said, looking at Ultor with some – not distrust but well, distrust. The thought of leaving anyone else to guard Her Grace when he and his sworn brother were close displeased him.

"He'll do a fine job," Ser Ronnel assured him and gave Ultor a sideway glance. "I'd like to know that the Queen has someone brave and has quick reaction. My lord of Dayne proved that in his tender youth."

Colour rose to Ultor's cheeks and then he laughed. "That wasn't my best day, was it?"

Ser Ronnel turned serious. "I trust that this one will be."

Ultor nodded, all gaiety gone.

But the plans the traitors made seemed to be one step before their own. The next day, Lord Peake announced that the dragon egg had disappeared and Astrea knew that the end was close. But when she heard who stood accused in the theft, her rage rose at feverish pitch that even the discovery of this treacherous nest had not evoked.

"He was so proud of his father who died for the Black Dragon!" she hissed at Ultor. "All my attendants speak of it. Your men as well. And they dare use him? I have no idea why they did it but this boy is no thief."

She had grown up in a castle, after all, and she had seen enough practices and tourneys. She had also seen enough thefts to know the type who did not commit them. Someone who wished so greatly to win as Ser Glendon Flowers, who threw in the tilts with all he had was not a thief. It was as simple as this. And these men thought they could get off with such framing in her presence?

"I want Peake flogged," she raged as she paced around in her bedchamber. "I will have him flogged!"

"Your lord husband will have him beheaded for treachery," Ultor soothed and she whirled on him.

"When? Before or after he has the boy hung? By the Seven, this Daemon is as much of a fool as the first one was…"

She had not known the first Daemon, of course, but she had no problem repeating Dyanna and Maekar's words.

"I want it to be Peake," she suddenly said. "Not Daemon."

Ultor and Ser Donnel looked at her helplessly but they were powerless to dissuade her and well, there was no time. She dismissed them to dress for the feast and did her best to look as charming and foolish as possible. Even Lord Peake relaxed, not looking at her this often, as she smiled at the Black Tom Heddle.

Ser Duncan had already been sent a word that she'd wait for him in her chambers. In fact, he and Aegon were waiting for her there and she listened with growing impatience as the boy prattled on about new armour and a horse…

"Do you want a clout in the ear?" Ser Duncan interrupted. "He tried to bribe me to their side," he said. "Lord Peake, my lady. Your Grace."

So I was right about him. He's the brains behind this.

"I am not surprised," she said. "We're going to deal with him tonight."

He looked at her in horror. "My lady, if he dies, the suspicions will immediately fall to you! You have put on a convincing display but… not this convincing."

She waved a hand impatiently. "I am not going to kill him," she announced. "I am going to deliver him to the King's justice. And you as well," she added, looking at Aegon. "You're both leaving for Harrenhall. I would also have you leave, Ser Duncan," she added, "but I'm afraid that after what you told me, your absence will be noticed."

"We're leaving?" Aegon asked, stunned. "How?"

She smiled. "I mean exactly what I said. He will be delivered to the King, or at least Lady Lothston."

"Are you sure it's wise to let Ser Duncan do it, Your Grace?" Ser Donnel asked about an hour later. "You said you wanted him alive and Ser Duncan is quite strong." And recalling something that looked painful, he rubbed the side of his head.

She shot him an impatient look. Couldn't he see that he was not helping? Ser Duncan was now looking at his hands with doubt and they needed the blow executed perfectly and powerfully.

"Ah, here he is," she breathed. Lord Gormon Peake was striding down the dimly lit corridor. To her relief, he was alone, although she had brought all four men with her, just in case he wasn't. "My lord!" she cried and then giggled loudly and excitedly like a serving wench being carried upstairs to drown the sound of the blow and the strike...

"This way," she said. Ser Duncan waved Ultor away when he tried to help him with his burden. Instead, he threw the unconscious lord over his shoulder and followed Astrea in the back of the castle, down corridors and stairs that men never knew but women did.

Two baskets were waiting for them just inside the gate already and Astrea looked at them doubtfully and leaned over to make sure that they had holes as Ser Ronald tied and gagged Lord Peake on the moonlight coming from the open gate. A startled gasp made her look up and follow Aegon's eye straight to Lord Butterwell who was now standing in the doorframe, staring at them in horror equal to hers.

Before she could think of anything to say, Aegon stepped forward. "How does it feel like to be caught in treason, my lord?" he challenged before their host had the chance to think of who had caught whom.