In the night, for the first time in a week, Edward is Tessarion in his dreams once more. And for the first time, he is not afraid. A wolf has no need of politics, no question of who to trust. It is only he and his sisters in the ruins where dragons once slept, running and leaping and resting with the moon upon their backs. But it fades to darkness at last, and Edward's waking vision slowly, painfully returns as he finds himself asleep on the stairs, just where he had sat, tears dried to his face, late last night.
Father had taken him back to the Tower of the Hand, but he had come here in the middle of the night. He couldn't sleep, tossing and turning in the too soft bed under covers that didn't itch and scratch, his mind returning again and again to that moment when Ser Jaime, his knight, had sworn to the queen to kill his father. He barely remembered anything after that, his mad dash to warn the guard all a blur in his memory, as was the duel between Jaime and Ser Barristan that had left them both bleeding into the stone of the street. He realizes, as every muscle in his cramped body aches, that he does not even remember if either of the knights are still alive.
Rising hesitantly, he moves his stiff legs up the steps, not sure what it is he is looking for, only feeling an urge to keep moving. The tower is quiet, too quiet. Where is everyone? They must be busy, he thinks, with the chaos of the day before. Two of their number in no condition to guard the royal family. But there is nowhere left to go – the door to the Lord Commander's chambers stands closed before him. Turning, he slumps dejectedly down the stairs, winding all the way to the common room.
His feet echo in the empty room as he walks around the white table, running his hand slowly over the smooth wood until he stops before the stand that holds the White Book. The annals of the Kingsguard, recording for all time the deeds, good and bad, of every man to don the white cloak. What will they write of Ser Jaime now, he wonders?
The door slowly opens with a clack and the metallic rustling of armor stepping into the room. Turning, he does not at first recognize the man beneath the white plate and helm. But the leaf clasp on his cloak marks him as Ser Arys Oakheart.
"Come on, boy," the knight says gently. "His grace the king requires your presence."
Ser Barristan Selmy groans awake in the maester's bed. He pushes aside the four, no, five blankets draped heavily over him. What does Pycelle think? I've been stabbed, not come down with the shivers. He tries to lean upwards but a shot of pain in his side sends him crashing back down onto his pillow. At least that means I'm alive, he grits his teeth, or else the septons will have much to answer for.
Scratching at the itchy woven tunic he's been fit into, Barristan cranes his neck to examine the bandages tightly binding his wounds. It is only then that he remembers the Kingslayer. Looking up, he sees grey robes and hears a clanking chain. But it is not Pycelle What is his name? The maester with the auburn hair with the white streak? Gaheris, that is it.
"You there!" Barristan croaks, his dry throat catching and coughing life a rusty gate left closed for two long. "Gaheris!" The young maester looks back him. "I must see the king!"
"Then you are in luck, ser," Gaheris flashes a wry smile. "The king is on his way here already. Jesella!" He motions to a septa in the corner, a small, kind-looking girl, who rushes to the bed with more pillows. Gaheris leans down, gently grasping Barristan's shoulders and pulling up. The knight tries again to sit up on his own but, grimacing once more under the pain, allows the maester to hold him as the septa places the stack of pillows beneath his lower back. Gaheris hands him a glass of cold water, which his shaky, blistered sword hand raises gratefully to parched lips. And then, in the distance, he hears the clattering feet that signal the king's arrival.
The door to the maester's ward swings open. The royal squires, Lyman Darry and Tyrek Lannister swing open the doors. The first to enter is Ser Mandon Moore, as taught and on edge as ever, as if he were guiding the king into a den of robbers, not his own sick ward. Behind walk two men of the Stark guard and their lord behind them, Ned Stark's brows furrowed deep with concern. And then Pycelle, Littlefinger and Varys, with young Edward Stark between them. Lastly is the king and queen themselves, with Ser Arys Oakheart and Ser Meryn Trant guarding the rear of the procession. As the squires close the doors behind them, Barristan focuses on the furious look on Cersei's face, angrier than he has ever seen her before.
"My lord, your grace," Barristan grits his teeth, attempting to straighten his back. "My pardon, I cannot rise."
"Your pardon is accepted," Robert nods, solemnly. "I hope you have rested well, Ser Barristan, and that we have not disturbed you. But your witness is required."
"Disturb him?" Cersei lurches forward. "This man nearly butchered my brother in the streets!"
"Silence, woman!" Robert bellows, nearly tearing loose a button on his black doublet. "I stand in judgement here, not you! Bring in Ser Jaime!"
Another door opens, and Barristan shifts his sore neck to see his sworn brother led in in the same grey robe as his own. But he scarce recognizes the man. Jaime's famously beautiful face his dark, swollen and miscolored, eyes tired and drooping, his hands and feet in chains. Cersei lets out a strangled gasp at the sight and for a moment seems about to faint. Jaime only offers a half-crooked smile in reply, a smile now missing two teeth.
"By the gods, what have you done with my brother!" Cersei shrieks, her stunned shock quickly turned back to wrath as she storms forward. But Robert himself lurches forward to stand between them, seizing his wife's arms. Nearer now, Barristan can see the king's face is already flushed red with wine.
"I said not another word!" Robert glowers. "Or I swear Ser Mandon will drag you back to your chambers!" Cersei tears herself free of his grip and turns away, unable to look upon Jaime.
"I beg your pardon, your grace," Pycelle shuffles forward, head bowed. "I gave no command to put Ser Jaime in chains. I assure you he has only received the best treatment we can offer."
"I commanded the chains, your grace," Gaheris steps forward and receives an angry look from Pycelle with more energy than Barristan has seen the old man muster in years. "Ser Jaime's prowess in combat is well known. I feared he would try to flee."
"So he is a prisoner then?" Robert looks warningly towards Cersei. "By whose authority?"
"By mine as his Lord Commander," Barristan coughs as the septa nervously pours more water into his cup. "He took up arms against the Hand of the King, meaning to break your grace's peace and spill blood on your great city's streets!"
"Ah, but you forget in your age, Ser Barristan," Jaime speaks, his voice cracked and rusty. "Lord Eddard is no longer Hand. Just another rogue lord."
"Bold of you to mock a man who left you near dead just a day before," Robert glares.
"As I recall I returned the favor," Jaime forces another broken smile. "Unless the Lord Commander would like to stand in your attendance?" Barristan does not let his irritation show on his face. That's what the fool wants, a rise out of me. "All I did was to defend the honor of my brother. House Stark has turned outlaw, it seems, making prisoners of their betters like common bandits in the night."
"I am well aware of my wife's actions," Ned finally speaks. "She had good reason and took them upon my own command. Tyrion Lannister will face trial, more than you were willing to give to me when you came with steel drawn."
"Yes, yes, we know all that," Robert waves Ned to silence. "We have heard from you and we have heard from your son and from your men and Jaime's men as well. I tire of hearing. But, Ser Barristan, I have yet to hear from you." The king's eyes falling upon him, Barristan finishes the last of his water and takes a deep breath.
"I was holding meeting when young Edward summoned Ser Jaime away. I told him to be swift. When neither he nor Edward returned, I went to the yard to see what had belaid them. It was then that I discovered my horse was missing. When I left to investigate I found the whole of Lord Stark's guard mustering to ride. They told me that Edward swore Jaime was on his way to murder their lord. I rode along with them to a brothel called Chataya's. Certainly enough, there we found Ser Jaime with a score of Lannister men, surrounding the brothel where Lord Stark and Lord Baelish waited within. I made myself known and commanded Ser Jaime to stand down. He refused and attacked me instead. What happened next, well, you can see for yourself here."
"Do you deny any of this?" Robert turns back to Jaime. The sullen knight looks slowly from Barristan to Ned to Edward and lastly to Cersei, who refuses to return his gaze. He shakes his head. "Then it is settled. Ser Barristan, this rogue knight is sworn to you, and so I leave his fate in your hands. Until then, he shall remain a prisoner. We will discuss what to do about the Imp later!"
"You dare!" Cersei breaks the solemn silence following the proclamation. "What manner of king are you? I am your wife, and House Stark has conspired against my family from the moment they arrived! One brother taken hostage, the other brutalized and arrested, my cousin crippled! And you leave Jaime and chains and let Eddard Stark do whatever he pleases? What a jape of the gods, we are! You should be in skirts, and I in mail!"
Without a word, Robert spins on his heel, faster than Barristan has seen him move since the Rebellion! He watches in horror as the king savagely slaps Cersei across the face. She gasps, falling back against an empty bunk as Pycelle and the septas hurry to her side. Without a word, Robert shoves his way through the crowd of counsellors and guards blocking the door and disappears down the hall beyond, his thundering, stomping footsteps and the crimson welt on Cersei's face the only signs he was ever there at all.
The bright afternoon sun glistens down, glaringly reflecting off of the golden disks dangling from Ser Aron Santagar's ears as he parades around his small yard behind the armory. Sansa Stark watches him nervously as she steps out into the yard, feeling drab in an old grey dress she'd grown out of. But she knew better to wear real clothes on a day like today.
She had gone to see Lady the day before, in the Dragonpit. And it was only then that she truly knew for certain that she would be here today. She had still been afraid until she had looked into the wolf's eyes. She had never believed in Father's old gods, the spirits in the trees that he would walk alone to talk to. But something in that moment, she had felt a certainty that days of praying to the Seven had not given her. And now here she was.
She knows the guards must have told Father she was coming here. But he has said nothing about it. He has, of course, much bigger problems. Problems she did not care to think about. Why would Mother have kidnapped Tyrion Lannister? The queen's brother! She was lucky that Joffrey did not care for Tyrion, or this could have ended their betrothal altogether! First Edward and Arya stealing his sword, now her mother steals his uncle! It is as if her family does not want her to be queen. But it made it all the more important to ensure she solidified her place in Joff's affections.
"My lady, it is an honor to teach you this art," Ser Aron bows dramatically. "There are many great legends of women of the North who wielded the bow. Perhaps you will one day join them in the songs."
"I only wish to hunt, Ser Aron," she answers politely. "I do not need to be a warrior."
"Of course. And I am only here to serve at you command," Aron looks back to the armory. "Diggery! Bring the bow!"
The Master-at-arms' apprentice rushes out from within. Sansa hardly recognizes the boy from the day before, knotted hair, sooty face and torn clothes wiped clean. He looked almost highborn. He holds in his hand a smooth, light bow and a quiver of thin, delicate looking arrows.
"An elegant weapon for an elegant lady," Aron takes the bow and quiver from Diggery and presents them to Sansa. "Carved from the finest pines of the Red Mountains, light and eager to bend, yet stern and hard to break. Like a strong woman."
Like me, Sansa tells herself, slipping her arm through the strap of the quiver, which fits uncomfortably snug over her chest and scratches at the back of her neck. I am hard to break. Aren't I? She raises the bow with one hand. It is light. Propped up against the small, lonely willow tree is a target painted with the dancing leopard of Ser Aron's family arms.
"Yes, yes, that's right," Ser Aron nods, watching her aim. "Here, m'lady, I shall need to touch you now. You must keep a proper stance." She nods silently and tries to let her body relax as the tall man steps up behind, gripping her hips to shift her legs into place. "Do you feel that? That is your center, your balance. Even in shifting sands will you prevail."
Sansa doesn't begin to imagine what all that means, but she tries to let her weight sink down into the positions Aron leaves her in as he steps back. Instead, she focuses on the painted leopard as it dances in frozen motion, taunting her, mocking her, like the sight of a crown always out of reach. She reaches behind her head and grabs an arrow.
A dark purple bruise blotches the side of Joffrey's face as he tightens his training armor, wincing as the straps pull the plate up against his sore ribs. It has been near a week since his training with Urrigon Hightower began, and he has been in pain for nearly every minute. But he has found that he likes it. From the blood spilled by that first blow, the prince has been thrown into a mad rush, unlike any that he has known before. He feels alive. His mother fretted, of course, demanded that he stop, but that only made him want to train again, fight harder and bleed more. And once, just once, when he arrived to dinner with a new bruise, his father had almost looked proud.
But today, Ser Urrigon enters without his armor. Instead, his son, tall, thin, morose Peremore with his hawk-nose and droopy black curls is holding his own practice sword and wearing armor much like Joffrey's but plainer.
"What's he doing here?"
"Today you will fight Perry," Urrigon commands. "I will watch and see what you have learned."
"I'm supposed to be fighting you!" Joffrey spins about to confront his mentor, a familiar anger boiling up. "You are training me, not some other boy! What can I learn from him?"
"My son is not a boy, your grace, he's four years older than you. It is not what you can learn from him but what you can learn by fighting him. I need to see how you fare against an even challenge if I am to teach you."
"An even match?" Joffrey points his blunted sword at Urrigon. "I thought you were different, but you're just like all the others! Do you think I'm afraid of you? Well, I'm not! I fought you every day and you beat me and I liked it!"
"You fought well my prince, valiantly," Urrigon raises his hands defensively with a deep chuckle. "But you were not learning. Only getting hurt."
"I'm not scared of getting hurt!" Joff stabs down, burying his sword in the dirt inches away from Urrigon's feet. The huge knight is unfazed. "That's how a warrior becomes great! With pain!"
Without a hint of warning, Urrigon lunges forward, shoving Joff back so hard he flies up into the air and comes crashing down to the ground. He looks up, a dazed look of shock on his face.
"Did that hurt? Get up!" Urrigon bellows. Joffrey scrambles back to his feet but before he can regain his footing, Urrigon shoves him back down again. The prince grits his teeth and rolls to one side, shoving himself up with his hands only to get pushed from behind. "Did that hurt, your grace?" Urrigon shouts. At the corner of the yard, the slightest smile twitches beneath The Hound's helm. Joff, meanwhile, crawls frantically, furiously through the dirt to where his sword fell.
"Die!" he screams, sword in hand, lashing out in the same motion as he jumps to his feet. But Urrigon draws his own sword in a flash, and one heavy swing sends the smaller practice sword flying out of the prince's hand before knocking Joff back into the dust with his free arm.
"Now tell me," Urrigon asks, clamping on heavy armored foot down on Joffrey's chest. "When I knocked you down, did that hurt?"
"Yes!" the prince answers in a mad rage, writhing beneath the boot and spittle flying from his mouth. "Have you gone mad?"
"I knock you on your arse again and again in the same way yet each time you were no more ready to stop the next attack. You might as well be throwing yourself against a brick wall." Finally, he lets up his foot and walks away. Joffrey curls up, gasping for breath. "Now do you understand, your grace? Pain is not enough to make a warrior. You need skill." He kicks the little sword back clattering across the stone. "Now. Are you ready to fight?"
Belligerently, Joffrey grasps the sword and stands defiantly. Cracking his neck, he turns to face Peremore, who has not moved nor said a word this whole time, only watched with his taunting dark eyes. A crow circles lazily overhead. Finally, he draws his sword, left-handed, and salutes.
"Your grace…" but Joffrey does not give another moment for courtesies, blindly charging forward. Peremore blithely raises his blade to block the first attack and steps out of the way. Joffrey spins around like a tiny tornado of steel, immediately going from attack to attack, pressing Peremore back again and again in a circle around the yard. Urrigon, satisfied for now, retreats to recline against the wall, near The Hound, and retrieves a horn of ale.
"You want a drink, Clegane?" he offers. The Hound seizes the horn without a word, draining half its contents at once with a series of long gulps drowned out by the boys' ringing steel.
"You are the best teacher he's had, I'll give you that," he tosses the horn back. "Lasted longer than anyone thought. I think he actually respects you. There's no men that have beaten that out of him. Not save his father."
"Well, I guess he just needed a true knight of the Reach!" Urrigon laughs heartily, taking a swig.
"Ha!" The Hound's helm rattles at the harsh laugh. "There are no true knights. Don't think you're so special, Hightower. I've taken no vows, and I'm still better than you."
"Well, perhaps one day we'll find out," Urrigon grins, ale dripping from his beard. As if on cue, Peremore's attempts to wear out his opponent finally run out of time as Joffrey lands a strong strike that knocks the grim boy's sword arm out of the way long enough to score a ringing blow to the front of his helm. Peremore staggers, and Joffrey kicks his legs out from under him.
"Victory!" Urrigon shouts, rushing back into the yard. But before he reaches the boy, Joffrey adds a final kick to his beaten opponents face. Peremore does not cry out, but Urrigon tears the two lads apart from another. "That was not honorable!"
"I did not think you were teaching me honor," Joffrey smirks. "I thought you were teaching me to be a warrior. A warrior does not let his enemy rise so easily to fight again." Any further reprimand for Urrigon is lost as he watches Peremore rise jerking to his feet and run a slender hand along his cheek, where a dark stain of blood is rising up.
The pain from falling again and again had raged up deep inside Joffrey, filling him with strength and life that he had unleashed through his sword. It was a marvelous thing, to feel like that. He watches a crimson line draw slowly down to the sharp edge of Peremore's jaw and hang there, tantalizing, waiting to fall. And Joffrey knows that it was him who put it there. And that, he decides, feeling his heart begin to race, is the best feeling of all.
"Well, this complicates things," Leyla Hightower lets the door to her chambers slam behind her as she heaves her ambling girth down onto a creaking, overtaxed old chair. Her sister Alysanne barely looks up from her stitching. "The lions and the wolves are at each other's' throats, blood in the streets. There will be war, if Robert continues to do nothing. He's more worried about a teenage girl across the sea than the storm brewing on his own doorstep."
"War is already here. They just don't know it yet," Alysanne smiles ominously, pricking her needle down and up again with deadly precision.
"What do you mean?" Leyla sits back upright at once.
"The Hightower sees all, dear sister. Word came from Oldtown today. The Mountain has crossed over into the Riverlands. The Tully lands may be burning already."
"Surely the Tullys will turn over the Imp, no matter what Lady Catelyn may claim."
"Ah, but Tyrion Lannister is not at Riverrun," Alyssane punctuates each syllable with another prick of the needle. "No, Lady Catelyn has played them all like a fiddle. She's taken the dwarf to the Eyrie."
"By the gods…" Leyla murmurs, staring off into space. "Oughtn't we tell someone?"
"It would only invite questions we mustn't answer. We stay focused upon the goal."
"Yes, yes, the goal, of course," Leyla grumbles, jerking herself back up to her feet to pour herself an overflowing goblet of wine. "The Targaryen brat may have ruined that for us. If Robert wanted the girl gone, he should have come to us and let the council be none the wiser. Any fool could have seen Stark would never accept such a thing." She takes a long, sloppy drink from the goblet, letting crimson streams spill over onto her chin and trickle unheeded down to well in her deep cleavage.
"Lord Stark is Hand once more," a small eerie voice speaks up.
"Gods!" Leyla shrieks, throwing the half-full goblet to the floor. She looks frantically to the far corner of the room where Maris sits, stroking a huge, scarred raven that has come to rest in her lap, the open window from whence it descended letting in a chilling breeze. "May the Goat take you, girl! Milling about like a damned spirit! There's enough of those in this castle without you keeping them company! Now clean that up and close the window! Are you trying to summon the Long Night?"
Maris rises silently and lets the raven take flight before closing the window behind it, its wings eerily quiet. A stray feather comes to rest in her hair, disappearing against the pitch black strands as she bends down to sop up the spilled wine with her own dark dress.
"Your mother won't be happy you've soiled that," Leyla rolls her eyes, refilling her goblet.
"Mother will never notice," Maris answers coldly, without looking up. "But what I said about Lord Stark is true. He is not leaving. Not anytime soon."
"Good," Leyla nods approvingly. "Then I have more time."
"You can play your games with Lord Eddard all you want," Alysanne finally looks up from her stitching. "But from what we know now of the boy, I think it is time we try a different approach. I have made arrangements."
"No!" Leyla jabs a pudgy finger at Alysanne. "I will win him over!"
"Sister, I'm sorry, but you must consider that the man is simply not attracted to you. From what we know, the one woman he loved was Ashara Dayne. And you are at least two of her."
"Ha!" Leyla laughs scornfully. "I've had my way with better men than any of Ashara's suitors. No, I can see it in his eyes. He wants me. But he wants his honor more."
"As I said, do what you will with him. If you find your way into his bed, we will be the better off for it. But for now, I will be taking a more direct approach." Alysanne pauses and, as if on cue, a soft, gentle knock comes at the door. "The sister. Come in dear!"
Sansa slowly pushes the heavy door open and steps into the room. She sees Maris first, and nearly mistakes her for a servant, but the dark eyes that trace her body as the girl scurries past out the door are unmistakable. Turning back, she sees the ladies Hightower awaiting. Alysanne rises to great her, but Leyla remains lounging, finishing off her goblet with a loud swig and reaching for more.
If it weren't for the olive skin and straight black hair they shared from their Myrish mother, Sansa would never imagined the two women were sisters. Alysanne is pretty in a quiet way, she supposed, like Mother, or Jeyne. But Leyla, despite her bulging features and excess flesh, was uncannily beautiful, and carried herself in a way that declared to the world that she knew it. The tattoos, the painted nails, the streaks of dye in her hair bespoke exotic adventure. An enchanting aura seemed to float around her, mixed with the cloud of foreign perfume. Not at all what a lady ought to be, Sansa judges piously, but captivating in a way much like the queen.
"I hear you took up an interest in hunting after all," Alysanne breaks her thoughts.
How does she know that? Sansa turns to examine Alysanne's innocently smiling face. Peremore must have told her, he had been there when she first asked Ser Aron. He must have listened in. "Yes, yes I have, I suppose," she answers, silently lamenting her clumsy words.
"We would love to hear all about it!" Alysanne sits Sansa down atop an overstuffed chair. Taking a seat herself, she leans down to pick up a freshly embroidered pillow. "But first, take this." Sansa looks down at it – atop a deep blue backing, a grey direwolf stares back up at her with a raven perched atop its head. The stitching is impeccable, and for a moment Sansa is jealous. Septa Unella would be proud. She looks back up to Alysanne, the same smile on her face. "I made it just for you."
A/N: I'm back! Happy New Year! I've gotten settled into my new place and job, and it's going great so far! Now that things are calming down, I should be back to a normal, weekly release schedule now. So thanks for reading, I hope you enjoy! I'm glad to see some Barristan fans out there, I love writing him, and there will be much more to come from his character. And I hope you're enjoying the Hightowers. I love the mysteries surrounding that family, so I just had to insert them here. As always, all comments, critiques and recommendations are greatly appreciated in the reviews below.