Robb at the Crossing, Part V
Blood for Blood
Nymeria, the name seemed to float on the night air, the merest wisp of a stray thought. Through Rhaegar's eyes Walda searched the ground below. There were many camp fires along the kingsroad. Thousands were fleeing the fighting in the north. Did the dreamer mean a long dead queen or much less likely a young girl's wolf? She urged the raven to fly lower and circle back a distance. Straining, she listened for the name to repeat or perhaps a different word that might confirm an identity. There were many dreamers below and their imaginings were a constant chatter of the mundane, fantastic and horrific. A warg's dreams she now realized were stronger and easier to distinguish. Hers had nearly killed them. Robb was not dreaming, she knew. If Arya were dreaming somewhere along the kingsroad she might be found.
Rhaegar glanced up. He did so frequently since the skies had cleared, confirming his heading from the patterns of stars. Man-paths like those of other animals would meander; turn to avoid obstacles, switchback, vanish under the forest canopy, and often dead-end. The stars he could rely on; they're steady unvarying pace, wide range of magnitudes and colors, their immutable relationships were satisfying in a way he did not understand but welcomed. There were of course the moon and the several smaller wanderers. But they had their own predictable patterns he could study and learn. Thus, the apparition of the great red hairy star with the single diaphanous tail was disturbing. It had come from nowhere and now dominated the sky from dusk to dawn. It moved in its own manner, crossing the star patterns without any regard. It was now even visible for a time after sunrise. Had it anything to do with the eagle's attack? That had never happened before either. The raven weaved back and forth along the road, but the dreamers below betrayed no thoughts of Winterfell or its people. There was mail to deliver. Red Keep, Red Keep.
Walder woke slowly, half in dream. There was the drip. His cell was never completely quiet for it. A younger man may have found it maddening, but Walder endured so many annoyances from his numerous infirmities it hardly registered. Still it continued to drip, there in the cell, to remind him he had not somehow during the night returned to his warm, dry chambers in the Twins. He couldn't see his cell; the gaoler had not lit the torches. It must have been overcast for usually some glow came from the grating above. The Tullys sought to break him before his trial. Half-dead Hoster, that righteous prig Brynden, sniveling Edmure, and that lying whore Catelyn; they wanted him to crawl and beg. Not Walder Frey, Lord of the Crossing!
There had been good news; even in a dungeon word gets through. The Kingslayer had escaped. Too bad he hadn't killed Stevron first. But the Lannisters would be back and they would appreciate a friend at the Crossing. And now better still, Ned Stark dead. His head doubtless rotting on a pike. The image cheered him. Swallow that, Lady Catelyn. Heh!
Yes, little Cat. He remembered her years ago. Had Hoster agreed he would have tasted that sweet baby cunt. Or that sister of hers, Lyanna, or Lysa or something. But a Frey wasn't good enough for a Tully match. Someday he'd teach them.
He liked them young, very young. When a wife grew too old he'd look around the Twins. Never a daughter, a half-blood; that was too much like those mad, inbred Targaryans, or if rumor be true some Lannisters he knew. But a granddaughter or better still a great-granddaughter was no different than bedding a cousin. Some needed persuasion until they learned the lesson of his belt. As he grew older he did require assistance, and the young Walders were eager to help. When he was finished they were welcome to the leftovers. Never a sister, though. He believed the girls had kept him alive all these years. When they made his cock grow hard he believed. Sometimes the thought alone was enough. But he felt nothing now.
He shifted on the foul straw pallet they'd given him. A dull ache ran up his belly. He reached down to rub it. There was pressure but no feeling in his fingers or body. He must have been sleeping wrong and gone numb. This sometimes happened. He'd stretch, and rub some more until his blood began to flow. He'd just finished training his new wife this necessary duty, when Catelyn tricked him.
He heard voices in the other cells. Surely it was morning now. Where was the gaoler with his lamp? He tried to sit up, but he felt faint and fell back. Damn! And now his head began to hurt. He rubbed his forehead. There was some sense returning to his fingers; his face felt wet and sticky. There was a fog in his mind. He realized what it was, milk of the poppy. They must have put it in his wine or his food, or both last night. They were going to kill him today; that must be it. And that King in the Clouds, the Stark get wanted him to go quietly. No, not Walder Frey; he would teach them. "Gaoler, bring me a lamp! A lamp! Now!"
"What? Is that you shouting, Late Lord Frey? You old fool, you have a lamp! Open your eyes!"
His feeling was returning quickly now. There was pain everywhere. He had to piss. He sat up moaning. He reached for his cock. He felt raw meat and began to scream.
The gaoler and a guard entered the cell. He held his lamp up close to Walder's twisted, bloody face. "Here's your problem, no eyes."
"Could be our problem, too," said the guard. "His lordship won't appreciate having his guests butchered, even the likes of this one."
"The night guard will answer for it. Go find Maester Vyman. He will have something to shut him up." Turning to leave he noticed something on the small table beside the sleeping pallet. He stepped closer and felt his gorge rise. The organs were arranged in an obscene caricature. They dripped blood on the floor.
Maester Vyman sat in the solar between Ser Robin Ryger, captain of the guard and Ser Desmond Grell, master-at-arms. He spoke to Ser Edmure seated opposite. "His wounds are not in themselves fatal. I have cleaned and bound them. He rests now, sotted with dreamwine."
"But?"
"For Walder Frey virility is vitality. He has lived as long as he has only because he can still sire children, or so he believes. Blindness he could accept. But bereft of his manhood, he has no will to live."
Edmure clutched his crotch. "A view many men would share. How do you manage it, Vyman?"
"With discretion, at first. And now boredom. Although I must admit I felt something stir after a recent kiss."
"Probably your bowels. But you pique my curiosity. Who was she?"
"I may have my little confidences, my lord?"
"Maege Mormont, for a certainty. Ser Robin, was there nothing from the night guard?"
He shifted in his seat. "I had them all called in, and questioned separately. They all tell the same story. They heard and saw nothing."
"We're speaking of the dungeons, are we not? Moans, clanking chains, scurrying rats; I would expect that to keep them awake. And the prisoners, what did they have to say? The ones who still have their tongues."
"They are understandably preoccupied with their own prospects, but none mention anything unusual before Walder began crying for a lamp."
"What use is a dungeon if I can't keep my prisoners in one piece until their executions? Ser Desmond, pray, tell me something useful."
"My lord, whoever did this could have killed Walder much easier and quicker. This was vengeance. Before the battle another Walder was torn apart by dogs. Or so Ser Stevron said."
"A Frey affair, then? But all the men from the Twins who may have had some reason to hate Walders left yesterday with Robb Stark's host. And how in the name of the Seven was it done?"
Maester Vyman spoke, "He must have fed Walder enough milk of the poppy to nearly kill him. Nearly. And his cuts were skillful, lest Walder bleed to death. He knew his craft."
"You describe a maester," said Ser Desmond.
"I did tend to Walder yesterday. He complained of his gout. When I left him he was arrogant, profane, and insulting. That is to say, normal."
"Vyman, might my lord father be aware long enough to judge and sentence Walder? I would have done with this matter."
"It may be so. But it is customary for the accuser to be present during the trial and Ser Brynden is far ranging in pursuit of the Kingslayer."
"My sister will do as well. And I have heard all the evidence, it will be sufficient."
Grand Maester Pycelle sat at his table in the raven loft. Occasionally he'd reach into a large bowl of nuts, remove one, inspect it for imperfections, and if suitable for consumption crack it open with a silver hammer. He was reading and re-reading the evening's messages. Raven's from Lord Tywin and Ser Jaime in the field, Storm's End, Highgarden, and the Crossing perched in their cages. This was the challenging part. How much did the writers know and when did they know it? No one yet had acknowledged Lord Stark's death. Renly had made his claim for the Iron Throne. The Tyrells supported him. Riverrun remained besieged and the Northern army was thrown back on the Green Fork. Lord Walder's message was the interesting one. The Freys had joined with Robb Stark who had crossed the river and was on the march to … where? So whom had Tywin defeated? Varys would puzzle that one. He was thirsty. He stood up and took two steps toward the door when the bell attached to the raven perch rang. Turning he immediately recognized the bird. "Rhaegar, back so soon? I feared you might have had problems passing over Ser Jaime's lines. Come here; let's see what news you carry." The raven hopped over and landed on the table. "Cr-r-uck, Cruck, Red Keep!" The feathers on his head and shoulders rose up.
"What's this, my friend? White feathers? Were you injured?" He gently lifted the bird and examined him. "No pain?" There was a pattern to the discolorations, arcs of large radii. He took a tape from his cabinet and measured the dimensions. "You were very lucky, my friend. Summer appears to be ending." He looked again, under the feathers. There were scratches on the bird's skin were talons had penetrated. The pin feathers were growing in white. He held the bird up in his hands. "Ah, Rhaegar will you leave me for the Citadel? Or would you rather remain here?" "Cr-r-uck, Cruck, Citadel, Citadel." The man smiled, "My Rhaegar is ambitious. So what have the Tullys sent?" He removed the tin capsule banded to the raven's leg, and took the roll of parchment from inside. He set Rhaegar on the table and read the message aloud,
This day at Riverrun, in Great Council, the lords of the Riverlands and the North proclaimed Lord Robb Stark of Winterfell, the true and rightful King in the North. Blood for blood.
"This one will not wait till morning." There was a flapping of wings. He looked up in time to see the raven fly away. "Rheagar! Red Keep, Red Keep!"
Catelyn sat beside the couch looking down upon the dreaming girl. She had not seen Walda eat or drink in two days. But Maester Vyman had left water, wine and fruit each night at her bedside. In the morning some of each was gone. But she needed washing. Gently she removed Walda's blouse and began wiping her neck and breasts with a soft damp cloth. There was a mixture of sweet smelling oil and flesh-colored powder covering much of her body. She began to wipe it off and stopped. There were long ragged scabby scratches, black and yellow bruising, bite marks around her nipples; some were enflamed and oozing. She looked closely at her throat. Faint but unmistakable were the imprints of large fingers. She removed the girl's small clothes and found blood. After drawing a blanket around her, she left for a few minutes. When Catelyn returned she carried a large pot of hot water, soap and towels. Maester Vyman came shortly after with soothing unguents and lotions. There came a knock on the door. Catelyn opened it a crack and found neatly folded on a chair clean clothing. For an hour they did their best to repair the damage. Through it all Walda never wakened. She would murmur, smile, grimace, and sigh.
Catelyn marveled at the tender care with which the old Maester ministered. She remembered the many times he had nursed her growing up in Riverrun. Had he once a child of his own? Had he ever loved? "Do you find her beautiful?" She gestured to the naked girl now clean and bandaged.
"Exceedingly so. She will make Robb very happy. I believe she already has."
"Her breasts are full, hips well formed; she will have easy births. Would it be out of place to make your examination?" She placed a hand softly on her belly.
"Without her consent I could not. Clearly she is no virgin; and I can see no cause for concern in her injuries. But what do you make of them? By whom?"
"Not Robb! I know the ways of love. I know my son."
"Those wounds were not from their night. There are old scars, healed. She has been beaten many times." Gently he rolled her onto her side. " Here and here," he said indicating places on her back. "My guess these were made with a belt or whip. And she has been burned on belly and buttocks."
"Then he is no more; torn apart by dogs. If she warged the beasts she had good cause."
"There was another monster in the Twins. They all feared him. When you were but a girl there was a proposal that you be married to the Crossing. You knew this?"
"No one mentioned it to me. Lysa and I would joke at the matches the Freys made. But one of us? We would have thought father mad. Which one was to be mine?"
"Walder. He was between brides at the time. Lord Hoster was not mad."
"Thank the Gods, for Robb's choice! I felt hurt and insulted when he broke my word. But it was nothing to that creature. Walder is no man worthy of it. Let him bleed and rot in the dungeons."
Walda suddenly went rigid and shivered.
Catelyn pulled the blanket back over her and kissed her forehead. "Where is she, Maester Vyman?"
"Rhaegar is strong of wing; I would wager they have arrived."
"If I could only see through Rhaegar's eyes! Sansa, Arya!"
"My lady, she has entered a lion's den, and I make no jape. Walda will use Rhaegar to watch and listen; but ..."
"Yes?"
"She will warg into others, to better accomplish her purpose. She is in great peril."
"Does not a skinchanger survive the deaths of those she possesses? True death comes only with the end of her own body. We keep her safe."
"All of warg lore comes from a few ancient tomes and legends. I had doubted that any of it was true. Yet in the last few days I have witnessed more than I could imagine. Walda is self-taught. She learns as she dares. She possesses human bodies because she can. Her skill is growing and I can see no limit. Still I fear that even a greenseer may not escape death if the person she inhabits should die."
"I saw her kill six men. She may have the better of it."
"She was not fighting Kingsguard. She means to kill Lannisters."
Rhaegar circled the Red Keep on the night air, catching snatches of conversation from guards, servants, lords and ladies. And dreams. Walda could sense a jumble of fear and longing. She knew to look in Maegor's Holdfast; that's where the girls would be. And the King.
The raven landed on a sill and hopped into a dark chamber though the half opened shutters. The bed curtains were drawn. He moved a corner aside with his beak. A figure lay wrapped in blankets, sobbing. It shifted and rolled, and finally lay still. She dreamed. Again and again a great sword swung, each time bone shattered, flesh rent; impossibly the face of the man she loved fell from his shoulders in a gush of blood, his legs jerked. It all made no sense. Her sweet prince promised! They all promised! He smiled; his mouth opened wide revealing a dragon's tongue and yellow fangs. He laughed and laughed! Sansa, my dear, dear Sansa.
That night the raven roosted in the massive heart tree of the Godswood.
Joffrey enjoyed his walk down the Great Hall to the Iron Throne. He had everyone's attention. They knew on the slightest whim he could either enrich or end their lives. He had already proved that and would do so again today. He hadn't decided just how yet. It would come to him presently.
The Hound preceded the King by ten paces, glancing grimly from side to side, occasionally staring at some courtier, litigant or petioner who'd quickly look away. He gripped and ungripped his sword hilt repeatedly as he marched along. It calmed him and made others nervous. He took his place below and to the throne's left and knelt along with the entire hall when Joffrey sat. When the audience began he concentrated on faces, expressions, looks. With no predictable pattern his eyes would dart around the hall, seeking unguarded moments. He listened, too, not to words so much as any emotion they might betray; and for the familiar sound of metal sliding on metal, the clink of armor, the strain of bow and string. But what he noticed was the flutter of wings amid the heavy timbers which supported the ceiling. The hall was open on warm days and the stray bird would occasionally enter. These were supposed to be chased out before court. Joffrey would not be pleased. He detested any competition.
The audience proceeded uneventfully, with little of Joffrey's wonted cruelty. A few of his decisions were actually fair and reasonable, drawing murmured assents from the hall and nods from the members of the small council. His mother had told him to be more judicious and he was waiting for the appropriate moment. It came when a frightened Tyroshi merchant was brought before the King. He was accused of short-weighing flour for the royal bakery. The King barely heard the steward's testimony and the merchant's protestations of innocence. It was the old man's beard that commanded his attention. It was snow white, forked, and extended to his waist.
"This case sorely tries my judgment. It rests on the words of these two men. One lies, but who? An appeal to the gods is necessary. Dog, bring me my crossbow."
The steward and the merchant suddenly turned pale. "You there, Tyrosh!"
"Yes, your grace?"
"Does your beard touch the floor when you squat?"
"Squat, your grace?"
"On the pot, fool; when you shit!"
"I … I hold it up, your grace."
Joffrey selected a large apple from the bowl beside the throne. "Ser Meryn, tie this to the end of the old fool's beard."
Meryn took the apple, deftly cored it with his dirk, threaded the two ends of the merchant's beard through the hole, and knotted them.
"Right then; now squat!"
The old man awkwardly bent down; the apple bumping the floor, his robes covering his feet.
"You soil your robe when you shit? Raise it up!"
"Yes, your grace." He struggled to comply, revealing his spindly legs and drawers.
"Now," Joffrey took the drawn crossbow from the Hound and placed a bolt in the slot, "the Seven will guide my shot into the apple if you speak true; otherwise it will strike somewhere else. Hold steady there, the gods can't account for your twitching. Keep the apple on the floor!"
The flour merchant was shaking. The hall emptied behind him, everyone pressing back against the walls. Joffrey aimed. The merchant broke wind. Ser Meryn laughed first then the other guards and the hall erupted. Joffrey shot, the bolt struck just in front of the apple and then skittered across the floor.
"I'll give you that one." Grinning, Joffrey handed the crossbow to the Hound. He quickly drew it and handed it back.
"Now, fool, this one counts." He loaded the bolt, aimed and loosed. It hit the apple square on, continued on between the merchant's legs and nearly to the doors. There was more laughter; the merchant had soiled himself. He could hold his position no longer and collapsed onto the floor.
Joffrey glanced around the hall and was satisfied with the reaction. "Stand him up."
Two guards grabbed the man by his arms and hauled him upright. "What have you to say for yourself?!"
"Your grace, have not the Seven shown me true?"
Joffrey pointed to the man's feet. "But you soiled the floor. Clean it." The stewards of the Great Hall were already waiting with mops and buckets. This wasn't the first court with a mess to clean. The merchant began to move toward the stewards when he was brought up short by the guards. "With your beard."
"Your grace," he said in a weak voice. He knelt and scrubbed.
Joffrey laughed longer than most of those present. Finally, sensing the hall losing interest he ordered both men taken to the dungeons. He returned to the throne and gestured for the next case.
The Hound glanced upward to the ceiling. There was movement. He saw it falling. Many others did, too. It landed on Joffrey's head with a load squish. There was a collective gasp. The dropping was unusually large and wet. It covered his face. Joffrey sat their stunned for a moment. Then he stood up and shouted, "Mother!"
A raven dived into the hall, made a quick turn and was out an open window before the guards could react. The walls echoed with its call, WINTERFELL! WINTERFELL!
Cersei swayed when she stood, and steadied herself with a hand on a side table. On it was the half empty bottle of dream wine she had been sipping. She picked it up and a smaller bottle beside it. She looked down at Lancel asleep on her bed. He had been eager, but she made him take the time to pleasure her first. Now his breathing was barely visible. She kissed him and tousled his hair. Tommen's room was only a few steps from her chamber's door. She nodded to the nurse seated outside working on her knitting. Her son was dozing when she entered; his cat curled up on his chest. She shooed the animal away, sat on the bed and took Tommen in her arms.
"Mummy," he looked up at her with sleepy eyes, "can we play?"
"No, no, my darling. Tomorrow will be a big day. You must sleep now. Now take this; it will help you rest."
Tommen drank from the cup his mother held for him. She tipped it towards him so he swallowed every drop. "That tastes good!"
"Now in you go. Sleepy, sleepy. Nighty night, until tomorrow." She pulled the blanket up to his chin and kissed him on both cheeks. "My little prince I always …" But he was already asleep. She looked down on him and stroked his white blonde curls. She wiped away a tear.
Myrcella sat at her table reading a colorfully illustrated book about lords and ladies. The door opened and her beautiful mother entered. "My dove, it is very late. Come along, into bed."
"Mother, when can I see Sansa again? The other girls are no fun. She knows all the stories. And she's so pretty."
"She has been ill; nothing serious. I'll have your brother visit her tomorrow. If she feels better she can come play with you."
"Mother, if Joffrey gets to marry Sansa why can't I marry her brother? He's so handsome, just like this picture." She held up the book so Cersei could see. It did somewhat resemble the boy with his dark good looks.
"What a horrid thought! Never let Joffrey hear you speak so. Robb Stark is a traitor just like his father. And he would have sent us all into exile. Besides it is said Robb can change himself into a savage wolf. I fine husband that would make. When your time comes you shall have the sweetest, bravest, most handsome knight in Westeros! And he'll never growl or howl."
Myrcella giggled. "Aaahoo!"
"Enough of that, my princess, you'll wake the whole keep. Now, hop, hop, hop into bed like a little bunny."
"Aaahoo," the little girl whispered, smiling.
"Oh, I heard that. I can tell you'll never get to sleep." She stirred together some dreamwine with a measure from the smaller bottle. "Now drink this. You'll be dreaming happily in no time at all."
"An excellent vintage that. Some more my lady!"
"All grown up, now? Grand Maester Pycelle was very precise; no more for you."
But she was already asleep. Cersei sat on the bed and ran her fingers through the girl's silky hair.
"There was so much more I needed to say." She took her daughter in her arms and rocked her. The tears fell unhindered.
Joffrey paced around his solar swinging his sword back and forth, lopping off countless imaginary heads. A bell rang, a moment later Ser Boros appeared at the curtain. "Your Grace, the Queen would speak with you."
"Yes, yes; send her in."
Cersei entered the room. "I thought I'd find you awake. But tomorrow you will hold court again and all must see you calm and in complete control. You must put all this behind you and get a good night's sleep."
"I placed a bounty on that hell-sent bird. My dog will bring me word when it is captured. It will have a public trial and execution after torture, of course. Plucked and roasted. I'll have its head nailed onto stupid Ned's. They can stare at each other."
"Do you realize how ridiculous that will make you look! It was just a bird; they shit! Wear your helmet tomorrow and everyone will understand the joke. They will laugh with you, not at you. Your father and I differed on many things but he knew how to turn such events to his credit. Think like a king not a schoolboy."
"Yes, he had Sansa's wolf killed. That was your idea. Very funny! Put Stark in his place. That's the lesson I learned."
"And who will know or care about some talking raven? You heard what Pycelle said, it was all Maester Luwin's doing. Put a bounty on his head if you must."
"Oh, I will. But I want that bird skewered."
"You will think differently in the morning. I would like you to visit Sansa. She is hiding in her room and refuses to eat or dress. She needs to be seen at court. We must appear to be conducting ourselves normally in all things."
"I will slap some sense into her."
"No! It is not seemly for the king to raise his hand to a woman, especially his betrothed. Remember when the Stark brothers are dead she will give you Winterfell, and all its ravens."
"Grandfather will take it with his army."
"The Targaryens took Westeros with their dragons; they held it through alliances of marriage. The houses of the North are naturally rebellious. Give them a reason to follow you, as the rightful Lord of Winterfell."
"I hate that cold miserable place. If a Lannister must go there I'll send Tyrion. He can freeze his ass."
"The king must be seen throughout the realm. It is possible to travel comfortably and enjoy the hospitality of your vassals. But in war you'll lead where you must and suffer when necessary with your men."
"I'll stay in the south. Uncle Jaime and Grandfather can lead the armies."
"Joffrey you must make your own glory. A king who relies o'ermuch on others will be counted weak and court disloyalty."
"I never saw father go to war. All he did was drink and whore."
"And would still be king if he hadn't."
"Mother, a boar killed him. What's that you've brought?"
"A special draft which will help you sleep. It tastes quite good, they say."
"You haven't tried it?"
"I'm not ready to sleep yet. I have to see everyone else to bed first. Tommen and Myrcella are sleeping soundly."
He yawned. "My dog is taking too long." He walked into his bedchamber. Cersei followed.
Grand Maester Pycelle prepared the cage carefully. Ravens were clever birds and no simple trap would serve. The bait must be irresistible and the mechanism fool-proof. A bird landing on the perch inside the cage would trigger a heavy spring slamming the door shut and engaging a bolt. A strong man with a pry bar might force it open but certainly no raven. When he locked the door behind him he was confident that next the bell rang he'd have his rogue bird back.
He meant Rhaegar no harm; rather, he was saving him from the death King Joffrey had decreed. Not since the days of dragons had beasts been subject to such royal opprobrium. The reward offered had brought the predictable result. Already dozens of birds of every species had been presented, killed with arrows, stones, sticks and bare hands. Some fool had even brought in a chicken painted black. Pycelle protested that valuable ravens bearing messages from throughout the realm would be lost. That the bird which had attacked the king had long since departed for Winterfell, obviously its home. It was all Maester Luwin's evil work. But Joffrey would have none of it. No man or beast could mock the King and live.
The raven waited patiently in a shadowed crenel high in the tower, listening. He heard the Red Keep man leave the room; still he waited. There was the scent, familiar and enticing. Silently he dropped from his hiding place and flew past the open window. He could see nothing unusual; only by entering might he see the source. The Other urged caution but he was drawn. He swooped around and passed through the window avoiding any contact with the frame and sill. Hovering in the center of the room he immediately noticed a large object covered with a black drape on the table. He flew around it and realized the scent came from inside. Flying close he grabbed a corner in his beak and quickly lifted the drape up towards the ceiling. It came loose and he dropped it on the floor. Revealed was a heavy barred caged, the door held open by some device under tension. The cage was occupied.
Rhaegar didn't need Wal-da to warn him of the danger; he could recognize a trap. The bait bird was bound to the perch with a leather truss. All its flapping could hardly lift it. He watched and noticed that the perch did shift slightly up when the bird tried to fly. The perch was mounted rigidly to the floor of the cage. Through the bars on the side he could see that the floor rested a short distance above a second surface, the base of the cage. Between the two levels was a small device; he did not attempt to understand its operation but its function was clear. Adding weight to the upper level would trip the mechanism below and cause the cage door to spring shut. He flew around the room searching for objects which might by their appearance create a plan. There was a narrow straight stick, what the Red Keep man used to wave around to no purpose and sometimes scratch his back. He picked it up in his beak and carried it back to the cage. And there was a bowl filled with nuts. He ferried the contents to the cage and pushed them into the space between the two levels. With the stick he wedged the nuts in tightly. Gripping the exposed edge of the upper level in his beak he tried to move it down. There was a slight movement. He stuffed in more nuts and tried again. This time he could not make the cage floor budge. Rhaegar flew inside the cage and landed gingerly on the perch. The door stayed open. For a short time he warbled softly and nuzzled the other bird with his beak. She did the same to him. He looked at her leg where a tether bound her to the perch. It was a noose knot which only grew tighter when pulled. The other end of the tether was looped securely to the perch's mount. At first he tried pecking the knot loose with his beak with little effect. Then he tried with the stick but it was too wide to slip between the coils. He left the cage and flew around the room again searching for ideas. He saw something softly reflecting the lamp light. It was on a shelf partly covered by scraps of parchment. The Red Keep man would use it to cut pieces from a large sheet for messages. It was sharp; once the man had sliced a finger on it drawing blood. Rhaegar lifted it with his talons; it was about half his body length. He returned with it to the cage. The hilt he rested on the cage floor and leaned the pointy end onto the perch. With coos and cruks he directed the female to hop over the blade so that the truss lay across it. With more urging he had her step off the perch and hang inverted from the tethered leg. This brought the truss hard up against the blade. Holding the dagger firmly in place with his talon he rocked the female back and forth with his head. She cawed sweetly. The edge of the blade slowly cut into the leather. The plan was working; if only they had enough time. There was a disturbance in the neighboring chamber where the ravens were caged. Their crucks and croaks told him a man was near. Faster he swung her and she used her wings to advantage. He heard voices next store; a metallic scratching at the key hole. The birds shoved hard in one fierce effort. The female came loose and thumped to the cage floor. Rhaegar pushed her quickly out of the cage; he followed still holding the dagger in his talons. Cr-r-uck, Cruk, they both called and vanished out the window. A man entered the room and drew his sword.
The Hound nodded to Ser Boros and Ser Meryn standing guard at the door to the King's chambers. "Any visitors tonight?"
"Only the Queen," replied Meryn. "She does not wish to be disturbed."
"And how long has her grace been with the King?"
"Curious, tonight, Hound? What say you, Boros?"
"No more than an hour. The King was somewhat out of sorts. Some whispered that the raven was the spirit of Ned Stark."
"Ghosts now, is it? Then he will be relieved to hear what news I bring."
"Or was it rather the wraith of that butcher's boy? I thought you killed him truly, so he'd never trouble the King again. But perhaps you pitied him." Meryn smiled.
"Enough," he made to open the door.
"The Queen …"
"They do not expect courtesies from their dog. I will be brief and vouch for your vigilance."
"Let him go, Boros; it will be enough to see him scurry back with his tail between his legs."
He opened the door and stepped into the alcove. A silk curtain screened it from the solar. Inside lamps burned dimly. It was deserted. The door to the bedchamber was across the room. Half-way there he caught the metallic scent of fresh blood. He silently drew his sword and approached the door. It was slightly ajar. The smell was stronger. The bedchamber was cloaked in shadows, only one small lamp glowed. There was a figure seated beside the bed, unmoving, silent. His eyes darted about the room. All but one window was closed and barred; it was narrowly open. The door to the privy was shut. "King Joffrey, Queen Cersei," he spoke the names softly. He approached the chair. His eyes adjusted to the gloom. He recognized the Queen's profile, her hair falling to her shoulders. Her eyes were closed; mouth half open. There was a dribble of pale foam. She was holding something in her lap. He looked over to the bed and at the gaping wound. No clean cut this; it had been worked and worried by a small blade. The wet bedclothes glistened. He walked carefully around the room, checking the windows, the privy, chests and dressers, every conceivable hiding place. He knew this to be pointless. The Red Keep was riddled with secret passageways and hidden doors. And he knew no one else had been with the King this night. The wound was the work of no assassin but of one who had never done more than carve a roast. Cersei's arms were covered in blood up to the elbows. Her right hand still held a small bottle. The fingers of her left hand clutched Joffrey's hair.
He closed the door behind him and stepped into the light. "The King rests. The Queen had given him some dreamwine. She will stay with him tonight. And she did not appreciate being disturbed."
"So, what was the story of the bird?" asked Boros.
"His name is Rhaegar." He turned and walked calmly away. Once out of sight of the others he hurried towards the Stark girl's chamber.
Petyr Baelish master of coin, and the eunuch Varys, the master of whispers sat across from each other in the small council chamber. They were alone. A bottle of fine Arbor gold rested half empty on the table between them. The wine in their glasses would faintly ripple every few moments as all seven bells of the Great Sept rang out across King's Landing. They would continue to do so for a day and a night.
"Food poisoning."
"Just enough truth to convince the credulous."
"They all dined together. The baker was Tyroshi. The comet was never brighter. Everyone noted it."
"All true in isolation."
" There have already been disturbances in the quarter, riots and fires. Slynt has increased the patrols and made arrests."
"And all from just a single well placed hint."
"In truth, two. Still it is remarkable how quickly the rumor spread."
"Tinder embraces a spark. Now, the message to the realm was admirably vague. Nothing confirmed other than the deaths. Tywin will blame the Starks. Renly will suspect Stannis. Stannis will thank providence. Daenerys, if she still lives, will regret only five died."
"And the Starks?"
"'Blood for blood' wasn't it? A less skeptical mind might conclude that the assassin traveled by the selfsame raven so soon did the words themselves incarnadine."
"Ah, the raven. Boros and Meryn were questioned separately; both claim the Hound brought Joffrey word of its capture or rather some news which would please him. And on departing he called it 'Rhaegar'. The steward of the ravenry knew this bird well. Pycelle had sent it to Riverrun with word of Stark's execution. He has not seen it since."
"It is far by land from Riverrun, and the lands between are riven by turmoil."
" I have you there, Varys. The steward said that Rhaegar knew the way back."
"A remarkable bird. Curious that the Grand Maester would dare keep a Targaryen namesake in Robert's court."
"Can you guess the bird's mate?"
"Lyanna comes to mind, but he would not have been so rash. Elia?"
"This morning Elia was missing from her cage."
"Curiouser and curiouser. I should like to have questioned Clegane. But my little birds tell me he departed by the Dragon Gate before dawn accompanied by a young squire. I had hoped he may have left some word with a friend."
"He has neither squire nor friend."
"Just so. I wonder what he told her. She had only to await the arrival of the King for rescue."
"Sansa was still distraught over her father's death. She would have taken any chance to escape to Winterfell and not question an offer."
"Perhaps she agreed out of gratitude to the brave knight who had avenged her father."
"He may have taken credit, but so much points elsewhere. And there is more." Petyr placed a leather pouch upon the table and withdrew three objects wrapped in white silk.
Varys uncovered each and examined them with great interest. "The bottle is clearly from Pycelle's apothecary." He unstopped it and with his free hand wafted the vapors towards his nose. "Sweetsleep. Mixed with dreamwine it is delicious and deadly." He picked up a blood encrusted knife and turned it around. With a corner of the silk cloth moistened with wine he rubbed clean the hilt and held it up to catch the light. "The design is significant, white ivory with black iron inlay."
"And the meaning?"
"Black iron is for ravenry. The blade was crafted at the Citadel of Valyrian steel." From a stack of blank parchment he took a sheet in his left hand and let it drop onto the blade he held in his right. It fell to the table in two cleanly cut pieces. "Its use is evident."
"And this?" He handed Varys the last object.
It was a feather. "That was found at Cersei's feet."
He took it from Petyr, sniffed it and rubbed the stem between his fingers. "A raven's flight feather; oddly colored. Mostly black but with white streaks, not stained but natural growth. Was not the bird that excreted on Joffrey in the Great Hall mottled?"
"I saw it only an instant but that was my impression. The steward described Rhaegar as completely black."
"Yet it is, nonetheless, from a raven; close enough. Master of Coin, you have made a case. Opportunity, means; and a concealed dynastic motive. Not strong, mind you; but adequate under these extreme circumstances. Slynt is still your man?"
"He has grown more expensive but serves the council." Petyr pushed the warrant across the table to Varys. He carefully read through it. Then he affixed his signature and seal beside Petyr's. "A quorum is sufficient when urgency is required. The King will not fault us. A toast?"
Petyr refilled both their glasses.
"Long live the King."
"Long live the King!"
Tyrion sat in Tywin's war council feigning great interest in a recitation of logistics reports. The council still met in a Lannister pavilion while Harrenhal was put to rights. Ser Kevan was discussing horse fodder consumption when he was interrupted by a squire bearing a parchment. He fell flat on the ground before Lord Tywin. "My Lord, I …"
"Get up lad."
"My Lord …"
"Give it to me; I have no need to bend."
Tyrion opened the parchment, read it and froze. … Joffrey, Cersei, Tommen, Myrcella and Lancel.
"Don't you try my patience," said Tywin, extending his hand.
"Father …" Tyrion passed him the parchment, and squeezed his arm.
Tywin looked at Tyrion and then took the message. He was silent while he read and remained silent for the time it would have taken to re-read several times. He sat down heavily. The conversations in the council stopped; all eyes on Lord Tywin. Tyrion watched him with more concern than the others. His father, it was said, had not shed a tear since Tyrion's mother had died giving him birth. He was crying now.
"This council is ended!" shouted Tyrion. "Leave now! Uncle, please assist your brother."
Ser Kevan went to Tywin's side. He read the message over his shoulder. "Oh, no; all of them!" He fought to stifle a sob. His face was ashen.
"Where was Sandor, the Kingsguard! They'll pay with their heads!" Tywin raged.
Tyrion took the parchment and read it again. "This was three days ago. The raven would have reached Dragonstone in one."
"The council would not have told Stannis before us!"
"Uncle, think what this means. There are no Lannisters left alive in King's Landing. Stannis is now king; of course they'd tell him! He may already sit on the Iron Throne."
"My son is right. Tyrion, you will go to King's Landing. Make sense of this. Bend the knee to Stannis and bring Lancel, my daughter and her children home. Take your clansmen with you; there will be fighting."
"Surely, Joffrey should be buried in King's Landing with Robert?"
"Father is right; Stannis will not permit it. But after I assure him that Lord Tywin makes common cause against usurper and rebel alike he may grant a simple family request. I can bend very low. This all does place Jaime in an awkward position. He must swear fealty or be declared outlaw. Robb Stark will be only too pleased to execute the warrant. But if he does return Stannis won't have him in his Kingsguard. He would banish him. Ser Barristan could get some unwelcome company."
"Stannis still needs allies. King's Landing and Dragonstone are not Westeros. He may pull some of the southern lords from Renly, but the Tyrells will stand by him. Martell will wait and see. If we promise Stannis something valuable enough he may give Jaime leave to remain and allow us to deal with Stark."
"What can we offer him, Tywin?"
"An alliance by marriage with my heir."
"So in return for Jaime's freedom he marries Shireen? She has the greyscale. My brother will not like that."
"Jaime gave up his inheritance and right to marry when he took the white cloak; he does not get them back by removing it."
"So you mean … me? Stannis would be insulted by that proposal. He'd probably prefer to get his hands on Edric Storm and keep the throne in the family."
"Stop shirking, Tyrion; you know it's our best gambit. He will have objections; what parent wouldn't? But he recognizes ability and you would make a better king than the lot of them. Make sure you dress your best, and no whoring! He will not find that amusing. Whatever he decides learn who murdered our children."
Tywin stood and gripped Tyrion firmly under the arms. He lifted him standing unto the table. Tyrion was shocked; in all his memory his father had never picked him up.
Tywin drew his dagger and passed the edge across his right palm; and then gave it to his son. Tyrion cut his palm and passed the blade to Kevan who did the same. The three grasped their bloody hands and held them high.
"We pay our debts!"
He waited for just a moment before climbing off the table, perhaps his father would … but no. Tyrion finished his drink. "I'll make an early start. Take care father; we'd be lost without you."
Catelyn watched over her every night, yet despite the most determined efforts somehow never was awake when Walda ate and drank. She brushed her hair and traced her face with the barest touch of a finger. What news would she bring of Sansa and Arya, of her dreadful mission? She would be there when Walda wakened. She felt herself drifting and sharply pinched a cheek. There was a faint rustling like dry leaves in a breeze. She heard a pecking on the shutters, and raced to open the window. Two ravens flew in and lighted on the table beside the bed. The larger one was pure white with black eyes. It made a two-footed hop onto the blanket and ruffling its throat feathers spoke, "Cr-r-uck, cruk, Wal-da!" She yawned. Her eyelids fluttered. Catelyn made to embrace her but then stopped as Walda opened her eyes wide. Catelyn in all her northern winters had never seen such an icy blue.
"Blood for blood," she said.