Chapter XVII
King's Landing
"By order of the Queen Regent, Aratan Isildurion, Captain of the King's Host, is summoned to attend court at the Red Keep by no later than noon tomorrow," Ohtar read aloud from a long parchment scroll in his hands. He snorted a sound of disgust then crumpled the letter in his hands.
"That is a trap if ever I saw one," said Ohtar.
Aratan crossed his arms over his chest, brow furrowed in thought. The two of them stood in his pavilion, surrounded by walls of coloured canvas. A half-eaten lunch was spread on the table. Aratan was clad only in tunic and trousers, but Ohtar was already in mail and surcoat, sword and dagger at his side.
"You're not seriously thinking of going there, are you?" the scarred old squire asked.
"We still don't know what happened to Ned… Or to his daughters," Aratan replied darkly.
It had been days, nearly a week, since they had last had word of the Lord of Winterfell. The only news that came to the camp of the King's Host was brought in the form of the rumours that swirled wildly up the roads from King's Landing.
Some whispered that Lord Stark had murdered the King and tried to take his throne. Others said that Lord Stark had assaulted and killed the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard after Ser Barristan had caught Eddard poisoning the King to death. Others claimed that Lord Stark had abducted the royal children only to be caught by the Queen's men. Some whispered that Lord Stark was dead, others that that he was captive, and still others said he had escaped and would return to the south with thirty thousand bloodthirsty northmen riding wolves. The only thing in common between the fanciful tales was that something had happened in the Red Keep and Ned had been involved, beyond that Aratan and the whole Host knew nothing. It was not a situation he was pleased with, and for days he had stewed in frustrating inactivity, his heart full of turmoil.
"If you go to that keep, you can't be certain whether or not you'll come back out again," Ohtar warned him.
"Ohtar, if Ned or his daughters are in peril, how can I stand by and do nothing?" replied Aratan.
"I'm not saying do nothing lad, I'm saying don't be foolish about this. She summons you to court, then go to court. Go with the Host at your back," Ohtar said.
"Do you think the Host would march for me? They swore to defend the King, not to overthrow him," Aratan shook his head.
"That child may sit the throne but he is no king yet. The Host loves you, and Lord Stark too. If you asked it of them, they would march for you," Ohtar insisted.
"Even if they did Ohtar, we haven't the supplies or the numbers to hold a siege if the goldcloaks barred our way, and a sudden assault on the capital itself would be all the proof the Lannisters need to tar us as traitors to the Realm in the eyes of the other houses. And who could say what the Queen would do to Ned or the girls if we brought an armed host to her door?" replied Aratan, frowning. There was something unpredictable about Cersei Lannister, something volatile. Who could say what a desperate lioness was capable of when cornered?
"This requires more… Subtle means. How many of our kin remain here?" the son of Isildur asked.
"Counting us, there's five. Ingold, Finrod and Baranor stayed behind as well. Your father took the better part of the housecarls, and Mablung took some of us on his errand as well," Ohtar answered.
"Five," Aratan said with a thoughtful frown. "Five men may yet be able to accomplish what a host could not,"
"What do you plan to do?"
I wish Elendur were here. He would know better than I, Aratan thought. He yearned for his brothers dearly in that moment. His missed Elendur's counsel, he missed Ciryon's laughter, he missed his treks with Valandil and the sound of his brothers singing beneath the leaves of Ithilien.
The son of Isildur was silent in thought for a long time, then he spoke.
"Send Ser Klargus to me, and gather up our folk after that. I would speak to them,"
"As you will, lad," Ohtar nodded.
Ser Klargus Monfort was a tall, broad man who, despite being a few inches shorter than Aratan, seemed to fill up the tent with his great bulk when he shouldered his way past the flap. Dark brown eyes were set deep beneath a rocky forehead decorated with bushy grey eyebrows. The eyebrows were the only hair left upon his features, for Ser Klargus had left his face and head alike shaved smooth to the skin. Scars criss-crossed his cheeks and part of his left ear was missing from some old wound taken in battle. He was a battered old hedge-knight, but he brought a deep well of experience in war-making to the Host and the men found a confidence in his size and silence, making him one of the leading captains of the Host. His sigil, a badger brandishing a spear, was worked in black and silver thread upon the breast of his tunic.
"My lord, what is your command?" the old knight asked, clasping his hand upon his chest and bowing his head in the Numenorean fashion. Aratan smiled. Ser Klargus had visited Pelargir in his youth, or so he said, and knew something of the ways of the Dunedain.
"Always straight to the business of the day, eh Ser Klargus?" Aratan said teasingly.
"Nothing is gained by beating around the bush, my lord," Klargus replied.
"I am summoned to attend court in the city by the Queen," he paused for a second, a strange uneasy feeling coming to him as he spoke "Regent. I need you to see to matters here whilst I am away,"
"Of course, my lord. Are we still to move up to the God's Eye?" Ser Klargus asked.
"Make your preparations, but don't march until I've returned. I hope that this errand shan't keep me long," Aratan said.
When Ser Klargus had left, Ohtar poked his head through the tent flap.
"I've got the lads out here, Aratan, waiting for you,"
Stepping out of his tent into the grey light of an overcast day, Aratan saw them standing in a silent line, all in black mail and surcoats just as Ohtar was. They stood still and solemn as statues in stone, hands behind their backs. Isildur's shieldbearer stood to the side with crossed arms. The three Numenoreans had the look of Andunie about them: Pale, somber faces beneath dark locks of hair, and keen grey eyes regarding him quietly.
Every lord of the Eight Kingdoms had his own household guard, their own group of men-at-arms and retainers who, for pay or loyalty or both, defended the lives and honour of his lord and his lord's house. Livery men, some called them, for they wore their lordships' sigils. But Aratan's father was not an Andal, he was Isildur of Numenor, and his ways were older ways. His men were no mere household guard, they were housecarls.
Their lives were sworn to Isildur's, and his life was sworn to theirs. His hall was their home, his food and drink were theirs, and his family was their family. By ancient custom and by oaths and bonds of friendship, he would never leave a field of battle before them nor would they before him. Aratan had been raised amongst these men. He remembered Mablung showing him how to fish in the Sirhun, he recalled how Huor had laughed the first time Aratan had drawn a bow and sent his arrow flying yards from the mark, he remembered Ohtar berating Ciryon when his brother failed to take their exercises at arms seriously. A hundred housecarls were sworn in life and death to Isildur, and there was hardly a man amongst them who Aratan had not shared a cup of wine, not shared laughter, not shared a bond.
"Kinsmen," Aratan said, his gaze scanning their faces. He knew them all well. Ingold was the oldest, a greyhair who had been on the same ship as Aratan's father when their prows had scraped up onto the shores of Westeros. Baranor had the look of a ranger about him, lean and almost as weathered as Mablung. Many a hunt had he accompanied Aratan upon and many times had they carried boar and deer back to Minas Ithil together. Finrod was the youngest, a stocky, well-built man with a merry glint in his eye who, despite being a wrestler of prodigious skill, was marked out by his gentleness and love of things that grew in the earth.
How can I ask them to go with me on this errand? To go into danger of death not on the battlefield, but of daggers in the dark? He thought miserably, wishing he had Elendur's eloquence with words. He slipped easily into the Sindarin tongue, for he knew that none in the camp but his people would overhear what he had to say.
"There is something I must ask of you, my brothers, but I am not my father. No oaths do you owe to me. If you decline to follow me now, no dishonour shall stain you, and neither I nor anyone shall think any worse of you. It is a dangerous task that may lie before me," he told them, voice calm and level, with no exaggeration nor dramatics.
Somewhere in the distance, a crow was cawing out its hungry song. There was the sound of a master-at-arms bellowing commands and the tramping feet of a column of soldiers doing drill. Above the tents and halls, rows of pikes swayed to and fro as the men drilled.
"There has been no word of Lord Stark, nothing. Now I am summoned to court by the Queen and I fear what I may find there. If Ned or his family are in danger, I cannot simply stand aside. I must act. Were I in peril, I know he would do the same for myself and my kin. I must go into the Red Keep and find out what has befallen the Starks. I do not ask you to accompany me, for the risks may be great, I leave that choice to you," Aratan said, looking each of them in the eyes in turn.
The housecarls glanced amongst themselves briefly. Ingold stepped forward. Though there were streaks of silver and grey in his hair, he was still broad-shouldered and corded with muscle. He clapped a weathered hand onto Aratan's shoulder.
"You're the son of our lord, Aratan. No housecarl am I if I do not watch out for you just as I watch out for your father," Ingold said. He turned to the others.
"I go with him,"
Finrod grinned and stepped forward next.
"Good master Ingold, you speak better than I could have!" the younger housecarl said. "I go with you as well, Lord Aratan. No man shall call me coward,"
"My brothers have said all that needs be said. Whatever task you face, Aratan, I will see it done," Baranor said quietly, a hard glint in his eyes but a small smile on his face.
"Good people!" Aratan cried out suddenly, feeling overwhelmed. "You are kinsmen in truth as well as in oath! At hall or upon the field, no better companions could a man ask for!"
Despite himself and despite all the uncertainty that still remained, a wild hope sprung up within him. Aratan reached out and grasped Ingold and Finrod by the shoulders, grinning broadly.
"I shall ready the baggage," Ohtar said, wearing the pleased expression of one who sees something happen exactly as expected.
In the early morning they rose to depart. A chill lay upon the encampment, brought by cold breezes blowing from the north. Fog lay upon the fields all about them. The sentries upon the palisade stood, cloaks wrapped tight about them, unclear forms looming in the haze. The sun, a red ball of fire, flamed out of the thickening dark mists in the east and sent rays of light piercing the gloom.
The horses nickered to each other softly as Aratan and the others walked out of their tents, rubbing sleep from their eyes groggily. Ohtar was already up and about, securing bags upon the six horses that swished their tails and shivered in the cool morning air. Saddle leather creaked and somewhere a bird was singing tentatively.
The housecarls were dark shapes in the morning half-light, for each wore their coat of mail, and each was girt with sword at their sides, and each was wrapped in his grey cloak. Bucklers hung from Baranor and Ingold's belts where the others wore daggers. In the same fashion was Aratan dressed as he stepped forward to join them, snugging a belt around his waist and feeling the familiar weight of mail on his shoulders relieve and spread to his hips. The white tree of Gondor flowered on the chest of each man's surcoat, surmounted by silver stars and the white crescent moon that was for Ithilien. The same sigil was blazoned on the banner Ohtar bore, at the moment wrapped up about the stout spear shaft it was carried upon.
They did not need a command to mount. Each of them sprang up into the saddle at the sight of Aratan coming towards them, then reined their horses around and awaited the son of Isildur. Ohtar rested the banner's staff upon his stirrup. Waverunner, Aratan's courser, looked at his master with patient eyes. He vaulted up into the saddle smoothly, unencumbered despite the mail he wore, and gave the chestnut horse an affectionate slap on the neck.
There was no word to ride away. They did not need it. With the smiles of old friends, they gently nudged their mounts into a trot towards the south gate of the camp. In a column, two by two, they rode through the morning mists, down long lanes of tents and wooden halls. With fair voices, the housecarls began to sing. The camp was awakening, and the soldiers of the King's Host were stepping shivering into the chill air. Yet wherever the housecarls rode, men stopped what they were doing and watched them with wondering faces.
"Truly the Men of Gondor are marvelous folk, as the tales say," some whispered.
For though nobles and knights had been seen by nearly all, none with the lordliness and the presence and the gleaming eyes of Aratan son of Isildur and the housecarls of his father. Wherever they rode, men were heartened at the sight of them and smiled at the sound of their songs, and a few even began to sing songs of their own after the Numenoreans had passed. And some whispered that the housecarls were no mere bodyguards or hired blades but rather lords and princes of Gondor in their own right.
"Good morning Captain! Off to the city?" asked the gate sentry, grinning and leaning on his halberd, when the company rode past him in file, shod hooves thumping on the wooden bridge above the ditch.
"Aye Tomard, a fine morning for a ride it is. I'll be back in a few days! No mischief whilst I am gone!" Aratan called back, turning around in the saddle and grinning back at the sentry.
In the open fields beyond the palisade, they pressed their horses onto a swift canter. Ohtar unfurled the banner and let the white tree fly in the breeze. Soon the sprawling, stinking encampment had disappeared amongst the trees and hills behind them and they rode in high spirits but great haste south and west, following the now familiar road to King's Landing.
Sometimes cantering and sometimes trotting, but always making the greatest speed possible, they passed through sleepy villages and amongst small farmsteads, a wind amongst the wheat. Smallfolk, men and women and babes in arms, watched the passage of the Numenoreans with wide, awed eyes.
The sun was climbing into the sky, burning off the morning fog with its heat, when finally the city appeared before them. It was not King's Landing, vast and filthy as always, that held Aratan's blue-grey eyes. It was the sea. Dark and windswept, Blackwater Bay glinted and gleamed and a faint enticing salt-tang was in the air. Aratan wished for nothing more in that moment than to go to the sea, to hear the songs of the seabirds, to feel the tiller in his hands, and the thrill in his heart steering a ship under full sail soaring upon the waves.
But their road did not lead to the Sea this day. Tearing his eyes away from it, Aratan looked at the Red Keep, which sat on Aegon's High Hill like a hunched beast upon a rock. He frowned at the sight of it.
What awaits us behind those walls and towers? Where are you Ned? He wondered with an unquiet heart.
As the Numenoreans trotted down towards the Old Gate, the massive walls growing nearer with every pace, the company rode amidst the steady trickle of people traveling to King's Landing. Along the dusty road they tramped, hard-faced men and somber women with babes in arms, even whole families traveling by cart or foot. Many tales did they hear before they had even crossed the gate.
"Eight villages in the west 'ave been burned already, and it's only beginnin'…"
"Lord Isildur is ridin' to arrest Lord Lannister hisself!"
"'Ee got cut down I hear. My cousin's kin saw him with an arrow in 'is back,"
"Fool's words that is. Ain't no man alive can lay a hand on Lord Isildur,"
"No man alive maybe, but arrows ain't give a care how highborn yer are,"
"'Ee's 'ard and wicked, and don't hold with our gods. Good riddance before he ruined us all,"
Beneath the shadow of the gaping Old Gate, Aratan rode and brooded upon the tidings he had heard. River-folk they were, by their speech. It did not hearten him. A bored-looked goldcloak snapped up in a rustle of mail rings as he spotted the banner of Isildur's son.
"Make way!" the guard cried out to the crowds within the walls "Make way for Captain Aratan!"
The streets were full of people, refugees and city-dwellers alike, and though the Dunedain rode without speaking they were surrounded by talk. They were a calm island in a sea of rumours and hearsay. Some cried out for Lord Stark's head, saying he had murdered King Robert. Others whispered that Ned and Isildur were in communion with wild old gods and had come with nefarious designs upon the Sept of Baelor. Some said Lord Stark was dead, some said he had escaped, others than he was imprisoned, still others that he was somewhere in the castle plotting his next move. Others still spoke of Isildur in the Riverlands, arresting Tywin Lannister or slaying Gregor Clegane in single combat or being slain in turn, there was no one story to tell.
Then at last they fetched up upon the slopes of Aegon's High Hill, where the Red Keep awaited them with infinite patience upon its summit. Atop the battlements of its colossal walls, there was a glint of helmets and halberds. The black stag of Baratheon pranced still on its golden field above the gatehouse.
"Many tales are being told of what has happened within," Ohtar remarked quietly. The cobbled road snaked back and forth along the shoulders and slopes of the hill, cutting one way then back again, and the towers peered down upon them the whole way. Aratan could easily imagine the thick fall of arrow and dart upon any assailant up this road.
"Many tales, aye, but how much truth?" he replied.
They did not need to challenge the sentries. With a creaking groan, the portcullis raised up for them in a manner to make one feel expected. His face composed in an expressionless mask, Aratan spurred Waverunner into a trot once more.
The whole bailey clattered with the sounds of their arrival, of shod hooves on cobblestones. They reined their horses to a halt in the centre of the courtyard. All was silence. On the battlements all around them, they saw scattered bands of goldcloaks with spears in hand and armed men in the red cloaks of the Lannisters. Stark grey was nowhere to be seen. Unfriendly eyes looked down at them.
A troop of stablehands took their horses by the reins as soon as they dismounted. The housecarls stood close behind Aratan. Hands rested on the pommels of swords. There was something in the air to raise the hair on a man's neck. Suddenly Waverunner wildly whinnied as he was led away, craning his neck back to peer at his master.
"Go on my friend, I shan't be long!" Aratan called over, but his smile did not reassure the horse and again it whinnied and shied away from the groom leading it. The courser filled the courtyard with commotion ere he was brought to the stables.
Then from the direction of Maegor's Holdfast, came scurrying a herald dressed in the black of mourning. The voluminous empty sleeves of his gardecorps swung like pendulums with his every step. He smiled anxiously at the sight of the Dunedain and wrung his hands together. He looked pallid as a plucked bird.
"My lord," the herald said in a thin voice, bowing with a flourish. "It is very good that you have come, my lord, yes very good, very good indeed, to have arrived so promptly"
"Speak herald, what has happened?"
"Much… Much has happened, my lord, and much there is still to do, yes it is very good you are here," the herald said with a nervous chuckle. He gestured towards the Holdfast. "The Queen has been expecting you, my lord, she awaits, and I'm sure you and your men would very much like a rest and food,"
"Yes, that would be welcome," Aratan paused. He listened intently. At the edge of his hearing he heard something from the great hall. Chanting, sonorous and continuous, voices blending together as one.
"What is that?" he asked. The herald winced as if to apologize.
"The last songs of Ser Barristan Selmy,"
In a great hall filled with incense and hymns, smoke and prayer intertwining in the air together, the great knight Ser Barristan Selmy the Bold lay upon a stone table. His skin was as pale and cold as marble. His face composed peacefully, almost as if he were merely at rest. All in white had he been clad, the white of the Kingsguard, and white was the shield that rested at his feet, and white was the scabbard of the sword clasped upon his breast. Even in death he seemed not to wear the years of his life upon him, for he still had a look of grace and strength in his limbs. Around him circled seven sisters of the silent order, grey-cloaked and grey-veiled, and to the high roofs of the great hall they raised seven hymns to the seven gods, each flowing into the next without ending.
In silence amongst the smoke, Aratan stood and watched without a word. So serene did Ser Barristan look that if Aratan did not know he would have thought him a son of Numenor who had accepted the Gift of Men in peace. Only the stitched-shut wound on his throat marred the tranquil image.
"Great are the tragedies born in treachery," said a fair voice behind him. Aratan turned and there saw Cersei Lannister, and the beautiful golden queen seemed an incongruous sight amidst the hymns of mourning.
Her dress was black perhaps, yet of the finest silks it was fashioned, and upon it motifs of golden lions. A black wimple was about her head and shoulders, giving her an uncharacteristic modesty. From a golden chain on her chest shone an emerald to match her brilliantly green eyes, yet her gaze was fixed sadly upon Ser Barristan.
"Long were his labours in life, Your Grace, just as your husband's were," said Aratan. "The Gift of Men brings to them much-earned and honoured rest,"
"It is no gift to be cut down by a man you thought you could trust," replied Cersei with a sorrowful shake of her head. "He did not deserve this death, nor did my beloved husband. Gods grant them rest,"
Aratan frowned and said nothing yet. His father often said that silence could draw out what words would not. So it was with Cersei Lannister.
"Robert wished to be sent to Storm's End to sleep in the crypts of his family. He would have found eternal rest amongst the Targaryens beneath his dignity," the Queen said, turning to him with a weak smile.
"Your Grace, what happened here? What treachery took place within these walls?" Aratan said, voice stern and urgent. Within the green depths of Cersei's eyes he saw a flicker of triumph and knew that he had her.
"Yes, yes there is much we must discuss," she said. "But I am sure you are weary from the road, will you not join me for a meal?"
"As you wish, my Queen," Aratan said, bowing his head. She turned in a whirl of skirts and left him.
Aratan looked back to Ser Barristan's cold form, laying calm beyond all care or worry. The flowing songs of the silent sisters went on. No close friend had he been to Selmy, yet he knew the knight to be a faithful and loyal man, respected and love by all who knew him, and he felt plunged into a deep well of sorrow by the passing of the great Kingsguard.
Then the son of Isildur remembered a poem, or perhaps a song he had heard long ago and had not been spoken amongst the men of Gondor for many a long year, poetry out of the dark days ere the Edain came to the west. Words that seemed fitted for the sorrow of the passing of good men. And before he knew what he was doing, he found himself chanting softly aloud amidst the hymns. In the Common Tongue, it ran thus:
"Truly I know not
Why my spirit
Fails to darken
Seeing the whole
Earthly life of men
All the world over,
How swiftly they
Flee the stage,
The proud princes.
So this Middle-Earth
Day by day
Darkens and falls:
So no man can call
Himself wise, ere he's aged"
Then quietly he raised a closed hand to his forehead, and then brought it to his lips.
"Be at peace, Barristan Selmy," he whispered.
By crimson-cloaked Lannister guards, Aratan and the housecarls were lead to Maegor's Holdfast. All along the walls above them they saw patrols of goldcloaks and more Lannister men. On every tower and every battlement they were seen. Across the courtyard, the iron-shod doors of the Tower of the Hand were flung open and within them Aratan could see nothing stirring. A single guard stood on the steps and glared at them in passing. A deep silence reigned over the Red Keep, broken only by the clatter of boots on stones.
His pale cloak swallowed up in darkness, Ser Mandon Moore stood on the far end of the drawbridge, a lone wraith. The great iron portcullis of Maegor's Holdfast was raised up into the thick walls of the gatehouse. Beneath them, rows of iron spikes stood like shark's teeth. The Kingsguard regarded them with flat, cold eyes.
"Hail, Aratan Isildurion," the knight said a soft voice. "The Queen awaits you in the royal apartments. Your men may dine in the hall,"
Aratan glanced back at the Dunedain following him. Ohtar grimaced, but Baranor nodded.
"Very well," the Captain replied.
Down narrow corridors and up long, winding stone stairs, Aratan was led by a pair of Lannister guards, deep into the heart of the holdfast. Maegor had built this castle within a castle as a last bastion, a final fastness against a foe that had overthrown the rest of the city, and in its narrow arrow slits and immensely thick walls Aratan could see that it would take a determined foe indeed to come against this place in arms.
He was taken to a washing room first, where basins of warm water and many towels awaited him. After he had hauled off the weight of mail and gambeson and washed himself, a fresh tunic and leggings were provided by a serving girl whose eyes lingered for a moment upon Aratan's chest before she flushed red and hurried away.
With surcoat belted around his waist and sword at his side, he finally came to stand before the Queen's door. In plate and mail, crimson cloaks marked with lion sigils, two men-at-arms flanked the doorway. Beside them stood a knight of the Heirguard, his milky-white plate harness marked by stripes and flowing figures of golden yellow. Fingers drummed upon the pommels of swords, eyes watched him keenly. Their rough faces were unshaven and they had the look of tired men about them.
"Your Grace, Captain Aratan has come," one of the Lannister men-at-arms called through the doorway.
"Enter," the voice of Cersei Lannister answered.
The door opened on the royal family's own private dining chamber. It was a small room, lined with tapestries, and windows opening on the east through which the sea-air drifted. In its centre was a long table, covered in plates and silverware. There was laid out fruits and cheeses, loaves of white bread and a roasted chicken which steamed in the air freshly cooked. Flagons of wine were set out as well. And at the end of the table, resting her chin upon a perfect hand with melancholy green eyes staring out at the sea, was the Queen-Regent of the Eight Kingdoms.
Her wimple had disappeared, and the long soft curls of her hair were brushed over one shoulder, golden against the black silk. The black shawl that accompanied her wimple too had disappeared, exposing the soft skin of her neck and collar bone. The lioness' eyes watched his every step towards the table, cautiously, warily.
"My Queen," Aratan said, clasping his fist upon his chest and bowing his head.
"Sit, good Captain. I know there are many things you wish to ask," Cersai replied.
He sat at her side. A servant wordlessly poured him a goblet of wine, whilst another carved off a leg of chicken onto his plate. When they were done and his plate was laden, the Queen had only to glance at them and the servants disappeared behind another door. As the door closed, Aratan glanced around and realized they are alone.
"What happened here, my Queen? All the servants seem struck by fright," Aratan said.
"It was all so sudden… So unexpected," she said, rubbing her forehead and sighing. She met his gaze, eyes deep pools of sadness.
"My husband, my own beloved Robert, he sickened and passed not long after your father departed. It happened so swiftly it seemed, some evil in his blood. And before Robert's body had even been moved from his deathbed, Lord Stark was accusing our own children of… Of," her voice cracked and she broke off, hiding her face in her hands. She trembled as she sobbed. Gently, Aratan placed a reassuring hand upon her shoulder.
"I'm sorry," she managed, brushing away tears with the back of her wrist "A Queen ought not to cry,"
"It is alright, Your Grace, even a queen may feel sorrow," he replied in a soft voice.
"Oh yes, yes Lord Stark has given me many reasons for sorrow. He swore loyalty to him in life, but as soon as Robert was gone he was accusing me of adultery and… And incest," she spat the last word unwillingly. "He called my son, my own Joffrey, a bastard. And when loyal Ser Barristan tried to defend his new King, Stark murdered him,"
"What!? Ned Stark would do such a thing?" Aratan gasped.
"Oh Ned Stark may be known for his honour, but behind those cold eyes there is only ice, like the ice in his frozen heart," Cersei said, voice bitter with contempt. "But it was not he behind all this. The betrayal is deeper even than that. This was the doing of Stannis,"
"Stannis? But why?" said Aratan.
"He always has been jealous of Robert, covetous of the Throne. It was he and Ned Stark, plotting together against my Joffrey, against Robert's flesh and blood! But Renly and Stannis, the cowards, they slipped away in the confusion of the fighting, leaving their own ally here to do their dirty work. Now they're riding to the Stormlands no doubt, to raise war against their own nephew. Ah Stannis Baratheon, what man is more wretched than a kinslayer?"
She looked at him with eyes full of fear and desperation.
"Some of my councillors even whisper that your father was part of this plot, but I know the men of Gondor to be men of honour, men who keep their oaths,"
"My father is no oathbreaker, Your Grace, nor I," Aratan said steadfastly. He hated lies, but he knew the sort of game he needed to play.
"Your king needs your help Aratan… I need your help," she replied, brushing her hand softly against his forearm.
"My help, Your Grace?" he replied. She leaned forward, locking eyes with him. He smelt a waft of her perfume.
"You are a scion of Numenor, a lord of Gondor, and a great warrior. Joffrey will have need of captains such as you," she said, voice soft. "We have need of a new Marshal,"
Aratan stared back at her and blinked.
"Surely my father, the Hand of the King, ought to make such decisions? Does he even know of this treachery?"
"He is far away, Aratan, who knows what ill chance may beset him upon the road? Captured perhaps? Gods forbid," she shook her head. "My son is Robert's heir but he is a boy still, he needs strength to defend him from his uncles. He needs the strength of Gondor. We… I need a strong captain like you to lean upon,"
She leaned forward even closer to him. He felt her breath hot upon his neck. Her emerald eyes were looking up at him. She was still touching his arm. He took her delicate hands in his rough ones, and then placed hers back upon the table in front of her, gently but firmly. The reproach in his eyes said all that needed to be said.
An enormous silence seemed to fill the room afterwards. The food sat untouched.
"Stannis and Renly abandoned Ned after he had sided with them?" Aratan asked at last.
"Yes, truly there is no honour amongst traitors. They must have fled as soon as they saw the fight turn against them," she replied, too quickly.
"What of the Stark girls?" he continued, fearing what answer he might hear.
"I have taken them under my protection. Their father may rot in the dungeon like the traitor he is, but they are innocents," she replied, her voice an imitation of piety.
When the better part of the food before them had been eaten, Aratan finally excused himself from the Queen's presence. He felt her eyes on his back as he walked away. Back, back down the narrow corridors and winding stairs, he retraced his steps towards the gate of the holdfast. In the entrance hall, Aratan found Ohtar and the others awaiting him. The heavy bundle of Aratan's rolled up mail and gambeson were carried beneath Ohtar's arm. With nods and without words, they fell in behind him. The bright sun fell upon their faces as they stepped out of the darkness of the gateway.
"What did you learn?" Ohtar asked, slipping again into Elvish-speech to avoid unfriendly ears. Aratan grimaced, looking around the battlements at the goldcloaks and guardsmen that stood all about. On an impulse, he set off towards the Hand's Tower.
"Someone has told the Queen of what we planned, or she guessed herself, I know not how. Something went ill and she was forced to act. Swords were drawn, blood spilled. Ned is a captive in the dungeons, but where his daughters may be I cannot say," Aratan replied, voice low despite knowing he could not be overheard.
"Are they captive as well?" said Finrod. "We cannot leave them imprisoned!"
"They eluded her grasp I suspect, by some cunning they have slipped through her fingers, for she spoke too quickly and too vaguely of their state," Aratan replied. Crossing over beneath another portcullis, they came to the middle bailey of the Red Keep. The Tower of the Hand stabbed towards the sky before them.
"Why the Tower of the Hand, my lord?" Baranor asked.
"If any sign or hint remains of what occurred, my heart tells me it will be there," said Aratan.
The steps leading up to the door of the tower were stained reddish-brown, the unmistakeable stain of blood. Though Aratan felt the unfriendly eyes of the guards on the walls around them, he saw no guard standing by the door, which still hung open. The only people to be seen around the Hand's tower were a few young servant-boys, armed with buckets and brushes, scrubbing away futilely at the bloodstained stones. Their faces were downcast and grim, too grim for their young age Aratan thought, as the Numenoreans walked by.
As they reached the top of the stairs, they heard a scuffle of boots upon stones from within the tower, and the grunts of men carrying a heavy burden. Panting with exertion, two goldcloaks shuffled out from the doorway. Between them they carried the body of a man, mailed and grey-cloaked with a wolf upon his bloody surcoat. Aratan clenched a fist around his sword hilt and forced a lump in his throat down. Despite the ruin that was his face, he recognized the features of Alyn, one of Ned's guardsmen.
"Still cleaning the wolves out of this pit, milord," said one of the goldcloaks, nodding deferentially to Aratan.
"Of course, carry on," Aratan forced himself to say, his voice sounding strange to his own ears.
The Tower of the Hand was in ruins. The halls were bare, deserted, and silent as a graveyard. Braziers had been overturned, their cold grey ashes mixed in with spattered bloodstains upon the stone. Doors on either side of them were pitted and marked, leaving long scars from where they had been struck by sword and axe. Some even were hacked open and hung ajar from their hinges. A tapestry, tattered and torn, lay in a heap upon the floor. The smell that hit their faces as they walked in was overwhelmingly the stench of death. There was no one, guard or servant, Lannister or Stark, to be seen. A creeping feeling stole up Aratan's neck, a feeling of walking where many men had perished.
The sounds of their heavy footfalls breaking the silence upon the floor seemed like the violation of a crypt. Wordlessly the Dunedain walked through the barren tower where, not so long ago, they and all their brother housecarls had dwelt in peace. Everywhere there was desolation. In the dining hall, tables were overturned and charred. The walls were blackened as if by fire. Here and there they saw bodies lying limp, hewn and bloody yet they were not soldiers or guardsmen. Even the servants lay butchered in pools of their own dried blood and were yet unburied. Aratan looked at the faces of his father's housecarls and saw grim sorrow.
They came to the end of a long corridor, sunlight streaming through arrow slits. Against the wall lay a woman, slumped, her grey face cold, and a bloody gash across her neck. Even the slitting of her throat was not as ghastly as the cut upon her shoulders which had left her cloven nearly in two. The remains of her starched skirts and wimple were stained red and brown. There was a sickly smell of decay about her.
"That is their Septa!" said Ohtar, sucking a breath in through clenched teeth. "Even the elders were not spared the sword… Aratan, this is not the doing of men. This is orc-work,"
"Nay, the murder of men is orc-work. This is orc-play," said Ingold darkly.
"If even the old were cut down, what hope is there for the young?" Finrod's eyes were downcast, glum. Baranor was staring at the old woman's corpse, his stony jaw set unmoving, and he said nothing.
"Perhaps we search in vain? Perhaps the Stark girls did not escape?" he said, giving voice to the fear Aratan felt.
Suddenly, faintly, at the edge of their hearing, there was a noise. A scraping sound, like something scratching against stone. It was quiet and distant, yet they could hear it clearly for a brief moment. Then all was silence. They stood, listening, waiting. Again there was the sound of scratching, this time it went on longer and then stopped again.
"This way," said Aratan, and he lead the others in the direction of the sound. To the end of the corridor, up a short flight of stairs and then down another corridor running towards the north face of the tower. Gradually the noise grew louder, clearer, more frequent. It reminded Aratan of nothing so much as nails or claws being scraped against rock.
They came to a door, which unlike many of the doors they had seen so far was not hacked off of its hinges. Again there came the scratching noise, more insistently and repeatedly. Aratan exchanged looks with Ohtar. The squire grimaced and opened the iron handle of the heavy door.
It swung open upon a study chamber. Sunlight poured in through a high window. Dust danced in the light, deceptively peaceful despite the slaughter in the tower outside. The walls were lined with bookshelves, and there were richly carved tables and desks. At at one end of the room was a tapestry, upon which a keen-eyed hunter bent a bow with arrow nocked towards some unseen mark. All was quiet.
"Have our ears deceived us?" wondered Ingold aloud. Aratan and the housecarls walked in slowly, staring at the musty shelves of books.
Then the scratch came again, as loudly and clearly as they had yet heard. And with it, barely heard, a faint sound like muffled voices. It was coming from the end of the room, behind the wall hanging.
"Whatever it is, it's coming from behind there," said Aratan, approaching the tapestry.
He grabbed the coloured cloth and, with a regretful pang for its beautiful worksmanship, pulled it down. A bare grey wall confronted him, yet behind it he could hear the sounds, nearly imperceptible behind the heavy masonry. Placing his hands flat against the cool stones, he ran his touch lightly along them, feeling for some joint or crack, anything. There was nothing.
Baranor approached. Grimacing, he leaned up against the wall and pressed an ear to it.
"Whatever that noise is, it is coming from behind here," the ranger said.
Then Aratan's finger caught on something. A gap. A small alcove, cunningly cut out and hidden amidst a rougher patch of the stone work. He reached into it. Aratan felt a rusty metal handle within. He looked over his shoulder and locked eyes with Ohtar, who nodded back at him. With a deep jarring jolt, the handle turned.
Only the lightest of tugs was required, and where once a stone wall stood, now a stone door swung open noiselessly.
Behind was a dank passage, man-high, as dark as a patch of midnight that had never seen the sun. Nothing could be seen within its black depths. The light of the window could only barely penetrate the gloom. What the passage was for or where it ran too could not be guessed. The noises had disappeared.
Then from within the shadows, there came a deep, rolling growl. The sound raised the hairs on the back of Aratan's neck. He set a hand upon his sword hilt and took a step forward into the passage.
In one swift second, a great grey shape lunged out of the blackness. Golden eyes flashed! Fangs white as snow gnashed! Jaws snapped! A snarl to freeze blood tore from the beast's throat. Grey hackles bristled upon the creature's back. The cacophonous sound of its barking filled the halls.
The housecarls stepped back before the wolf, but Aratan was undaunted. Swiftly he drew forth his sword and held it before him, spreading his feet apart.
If wolf it was, it was greater than any other wolf he had ever seen, as big as the largest hunting hound, with longer legs and a fiercer jaw. It bared teeth like daggers. Its eyes shone hungrily.
"Lady! Here!" called a voice from the depths of the passage.
Out of the dark stepped a young child. Her clothes were unwashed and her face dirty, and her hair unkempt and wild. Her eyes were weary, but in her hand was a slender blade and she stepped forward with head held defiantly. But as her gaze met Aratan's, Arya Stark gasped and nearly dropped her sword, fumbling to keep it in her tiny hand. Behind him, the Numenorean heard his kin whisper to each other.
"Sansa! Sansa!" Arya called back in the shadows loudly.
"Bar the door Ohtar, quickly" Aratan said in a low voice. The shield-bearer nodded and grabbed a chair from a nearby table.
Sansa Stark emerged next to her sister. Her dress was ragged and ripped in places, her face pale and dirty. Her eyes were wide and stared in terror at Aratan's drawn sword. Noticing this, he quickly sheathed the blade. Lady relaxed and sat down upon her haunches, but her ears were still pricked up and she watched the men alertly. The girls both looked as if they had not eaten for some days.
Into the gaping silence between them, Sansa curtsied as well as she could and said: "Hail, Ser Aratan,"
Immediately they both rushed upon him. He had never felt as close to the Stark children as his father had been, yet perhaps because he was the first friendly face they had seen after days and nights of terror, Aratan found both Stark girls throwing their arms around him tightly and weeping into his chest. Their thin shoulders shook and heaved and the tears came freely.
"Shh, shh, there there. Fear not, the night has passed," he said, feeling unsure of himself and his words.
For a long moment, he simply stood there and let them cry into his surcoat.
"They're-they're-they're all d-dead!" Arya said at last, choking on her words.
"Who?" asked Ingold.
"Jory… Alyn… Poor Vayon Poole… Septa Mordane… Porther… All of them. Even F-F-F" Sansa sobbed on the last word, unwilling to speak it. "Even Father," she said at last.
"No!" Arya snarled fiercely, dashing tears from her eyes with the back of a hand. "Father's not dead! He can't be! I know he's not!"
Aratan drew the two girls off of him and knelt down to look them both in the eyes in turn. He held them by their shoulders with each hand.
"Sansa, Arya, your father lives," he told them. Sansa's hands flew to her mouth, and their eyes shone with unshed tears of happiness.
"Truly?" Sansa exclaimed. "Can we see him?"
"Can we go to him? Is it over? What has happened" Arya asked in rapid succession.
"He has been taken captive," Aratan replied in a gentle, calm voice. "It is not safe for you in the Red Keep, or for your father. But I promise you, as a man of Gondor and as your father's friend, I will deliver you and him from this place. The Queen shall not have you, I swear it,"
"Noble words my lord, but how are we to do this thing?" asked Baranor with a grimace.
"Aye, I share our kinsman's confusion," said Ohtar, returning from the door. He had wedged a chair against the door handle firmly. "We are alone, and a host of guards shall descend on us the moment we step forth with these girls,"
"What are they saying?" Sansa whispered.
"I don't know, I never learned this much," Arya whispered back.
Aratan sent Finrod to scrounge what he could from the tower's kitchens and larders for a meal for the two girls. Whilst he was gone, the rest fell into debate on their next course of action.
"Perhaps we might find some rope and lower ourselves off the battlements to the beach below?" suggested Ingold.
"Too many unfriendly eyes are watching. We would be spotted, sure as death, and someone would cut the rope and send us plummeting," replied Baranor. Ohtar was scratching at one of his scars on his right cheek.
"A disguise then? We might dress the girls in the garb of servants and send them right out the front gate," the old shield-bearer thought aloud.
"If the whole castle was not so watchful, that might work, but I fear it may not now. We need to remember Eddard as well. We cannot leave him behind or this whole errand will be in vain," said Aratan in a grim voice.
"What are you saying? I can't understand!" protested Arya. She stood with arms crossed, her slender sword thrust through the belt of her dress.
"Arya, don't interrupt," Sansa said. Lady was sitting at Sansa's feet, rubbing her great head against her master's hand.
"Ned must be in the black cells, I can think of no other place where the Queen would send him for accused treason," said Ohtar.
"My father has been labouring long to stop the Lannisters from plunging the land into war, but with Ned held captive the Northmen might give them the war Tywin desires. He must get free of this place," replied Aratan, rubbing his brow. "Even if we could get to him, I cannot think of a way out,"
"Out?" repeated Arya. She had understood that much. She paused for a moment, then a bright look came into her face. "I know a way out!" she exclaimed.
They fell silent and, as one, turned towards the young Stark girl.
"Arya, you know a way out?" Aratan asked. She nodded frantically.
"A secret way?" said Baranor. She nodded again.
"Where?" said Aratan. Arya pointed back into the darkened passage behind them.
"It's down there, you go down this passage, and then down a spiral stair, and down some more, and then you come to a big room full of dragon skulls, that's where I saw them last time, I think one of them was a wizard, but they came from a door on the other side of the dragon skulls, covered by a sort of iron grate, and it goes down another staircase to this stinky water that I thought was a river but really is a sewer, and that comes out on the river outside!" she said in a rush, hardly pausing to breathe.
"Wizard?" repeated Baranor in confusion.
"Dragon skulls?" said Ingold.
"Arya, this is no time for stupid games! This is serious!" said Sansa in a scolding tone.
"This isn't a game! There really is a way out!" Arya said.
"Why didn't you take it before?" asked Ohtar. Arya stared at her feet and put her hands behind her back.
"I didn't want to leave without… Without knowing what happened to my father," she said quietly.
"Arya," said Aratan, looking at the child gravely. "How do you know of this?"
"I found it while chasing cats for Syrio," Arya replied, her voice embarrassed. Syrio Forel, Ned had told Aratan about his daughter's Braavosi swordmaster and his unique methods.
Aratan stared down in the dark depths of the passage. A plan was beginning to form in his head. The more he thought of it, the more foolish and mad it seemed, but it also seemed to be their only chance. He turned around. Ohtar and the other housecarls were looking at him expectantly.
"Baranor, Ned will need to borrow your cloak," Aratan said, and he grinned.