The king has almost fallen from his horse for the third time today and once again the hunting party has ground to a halt as he stumbles off into the bushes to relieve himself. Lyman Darry nervously awaits his return. Something's wrong, he knows. His royal master is a drunkard, of that there is no question, but these past few days he has barely been upright.
"More wine!" Robert bellows from the head of the hunting party.
"I'll have the same!" Ser Urrigon Hightower joins in the call.
Without hesitation, Tyrek kicks the flanks of his small brown horse, galloping up to match the king's pace and hand off more wine. His work done, he rides back to replenish his supplies for when the royal supply inevitably runs dry once more. But as he passes, Lyman swerves into his path to cut him off.
"Seven hells!" the younger squire's blonde eyebrows arch indignantly. "Get out of the way, plowboy!" But Lyman does not move.
"Listen here, Tyrek, I don't know what you're doing, but…"
"I'm serving the king," Tyrek flicks his reigns. "It's not my fault you had such poor servants in Darry to learn from." His horse presses past, headed back to the wine cart. Glowering, Lyman presses onward, only to find the party ground to a halt beneath a huge oak tree.
"The king needs to piss!" Robert announces, hurling himself down from his horse with a frightening intensity. He lands with a thud and staggers off into the pushes. Lyman and the kingsguard dismount to stand guard. Silent Ser Mandon does not move, but Ser Preston helps himself to some wine.
"Gods, no wonder his highness has to piss," the knight recoils, a drop of crimson falling from the wine horn to stain his white surcoat. "This is strong!" He hands it off to Lyman, who suspiciously smells the horn. His nostrils flare at the harsh, acrid smell. A single stinging sip confirms his suspicions. The bitter strength, the strange lemony taste – This was the wine gifted from the Hellholt, the strongest wine in the king's collection. Certainly not what he should be drinking on his morning hunt. Damn Tyrek! The Lannister fool had one job…
As Lyman angrily looks for the return of his fellow squire, a scout gallops up to where they wait. His face shows more excitement than has shown on any of the scouts in their weeks of chasing the white stag in circles in the sprawling forest.
"A boar, ser!" He reports. "Biggest I've ever seen! Only a short ways ahead, in a dry creek!"
"Your grace! Boar!" Urrigon bellows, startling a small flock of starlings out of the tree above them. Robert comes crashing back out of the bushes, still lacing his trousers back up.
"Boar?" he slurs. "Where?"
"Very close, your grace!" the scout nods eagerly, no doubt hoping for some manner of reward. Without another word, Robert tears the wine horn out of Lyman's hands and sloppily guzzles the rest of its contents before the squire can protest. Tossing the empty vessel aside, he lurches back to his horse, drunkenly struggling to remount it.
"Bugger that damn stag! I want to feast on boar!" He finally hoists himself atop the startled horse, gasping for breath from the exertion. "Lyman! Tyrek! Fetch me my spears!"
They find the boar just where the scout has said, rutting about in an dried creek bed. Lyman has hunted boar with his father back in the Riverlands, but never before has he seen a beast like this. The creature is massive, near the size of a horse, covered in wiry brown hair with angry black streaks with fierce, deadly tusks protruding from its huge grunting mouth. Lyman feels as if they have encroached upon a monster from another time, his breath stopping in his lungs and his palms sweating on the spear gripped tightly in his hands.
"Your grace, we should wait for the hounds," Ser Preston urges. Lyman can hear fear in the voice of the kingsguard.
"Nonsense!" Robert scoffs. "Go around. Don't let it run. Now give me my spear." He grabs the weapon from Lyman's hands as Urrigon and the Kingsguard fan out. With a drunken snarl, he hurls himself down the dirt slope. The beast's head snaps up. "Look upon your king, ye' monster! And pay tribute!"
For a moment, neither moves. Then, the impatient king lowers his spear and charges. With a demonic grunt, the boar moves. Lyman snaps back to attention and pulls another spear free from his pack. This isn't going to end well.
Robert's first lunge misses completely and he stumbles out of the path of the charging boar. But rather than keep charging on into the forest, the huge, enraged creature comes to a halt, the dark hairs on its back standing up on end. Slowly, it turns around, furious eyes narrowing at the sight of the king. And again it charges. Robert plants a stance. As the boar nears, he stabs, and this time connects, sinking his spear just above the beast's shoulder. It lets out a roar of pain and veers off. Robert, still clutching the spear, is tugged to the ground. He lands hard and rolls over, tearing the spear free with him. Blood splatters out across his face and doublet. Moving slower, this time the boar does not stop, it reaches the edge of the gully and whips back around.
"Your grace!" Preston calls from beyond the trees.
"Stay back!" Robert roars, stumbling back his feet. He tries to steady himself, but suddenly doubles over, vomiting up wine-stained bile onto the ground. And the boar is still coming. He flings himself out of the way, but his foot catches on a root as the boar thunders by. Again, he hits the ground, dropping his spear. As the boar turns for another attack, Preston and Mandon burst forth from the brush. But Lyman sees at once they are too far off.
Warrior give me strength. Summoning all his speed, he dashes out from behind the tree, spear clutched in his hands. Robert is dragging himself through the dust. On the other side of the fallen king, the charging boar's huge hooves pound again and again on the ground as it lowers its tusks for a fatal blow. Lyman hurls himself forward, foot by foot, and lowers the point. The boar is almost to the king now. He remembers where his father taught him to aim, grits his teeth and stabs. He feels a rush of pain as the huge creature violently swings its head into his side, throwing him into the air.
All breath vacates his lungs as he slams to the ground, writhing in pain. But there is only one thing that matters now. Where is it? He can only see dirt and stone and trees, his vision blurry. Rolling over, he sees the boar, his spear lodged in its throat, pumping out its lifeblood to pool across the dirt towards his face. And beneath the massive, hairy monster lies the king. Lyman tries to rise but cannot find the strength. He can only lie there and watch.
Urrigon is the first to reach Robert's side. Lyman waits to hear the words he needs desperately to hear before passing out. "We need to get him free! Move the beast off him, he's alive, damn it! Move!"
Steel rings in a small yard within the Red Keep, less a plaza than a hole between the great stone walls, an opening of sharp gravel where only a faint few strands of grass dare grow, accessed only by climbing down over a window's overhang. Here, free from prying eyes, Renly Baratheon trains for battle. He stands shirtless, a towering presence, his body thick and covered in dark hair, sweat glistening from his rippling muscles as he steadies his stance, blunted longsword in a two-handed grip, his curly black hair tied back behind with golden ribbon.
Opposite him, in a flowing green shirt and pants, Ser Loras Tyrell smiles behind his sword as he paces just out of reach. Renly cuts out with a heavy blow, which Loras nimbly parries and dodges, and Renly's sword hits the wall with a loud shriek of metal on stone.
"You're slow," the Knight of Flowers smirks. Renly turns back on his heel without missing a beat and attacks again, then again, Loras meeting each blow with his own sword but the powerful force behind the larger man's blows pushes him slowly towards a corner.
"Slower than you perhaps," Renly calls back when there is nowhere left to go. His brings his sword down, burying Loras' in the dirt and grabs his partner's wrist tight with his free hand. Loras has barely broken a sweat, but thick salty drops fall from Renly's panting chest to darken spots of his this shirt as he is pushed back against the stone. "But fast enough. And much, much stronger."
He leans in closer, lowering his face to meet Loras' waiting lips as the knight lets his sword fall away to wrap his hands around Renly's bare sides. But there are footsteps coming. Without hesitation, Renly lifts Loras with one hand and, spinning about, throws him to the ground. In a flash, the point of his sword is in his face.
"As I said. Speed can only get you so far. Go on, get up, try again."
"Bravo, bravo!" Garrett Flowers caws from the window. Renly glares up at the bastard, who offers a half-hearted wave before lowering himself over the wall and down into the plaza.
"Why did you bring him here?" Renly glares down at Loras. "This is our place."
"We're safe here, free from prying eyes. The spider's little birds are everywhere, I hear."
"Very true," Garrett pulls a flask of ale from within his vest and takes a swig, tossing it to Loras, but Renly catches it midair. "You can't throw a stone in this damn place without hitting a listening ear. Most uncouth."
"And Highgarden is any different?" Renly scoffs, gulping down the rest of the flask.
"Ah, but at Highgarden the listeners report back to grandmother," Loras notes, picking himself up. "Varys has his little birds, but the Queen of Thorns has her bees, and they are very busy."
"And I am their king," Garrett leans back against the wall. "Littlefinger's last gift to us is on her way by ship down from the Eyrie. A fierce young woman, he says, the firstborn of your brother."
"With black hair and blue eyes, I should hope?" Renly throws the flask back, nearly hitting Garrett hard in the head.
"Of course. Just like all the others. Just like you. You know, I never met the king in his youth, so I cannot say what he looked like then. But these bastards could plainly be your own siblings." He looks Renly up and down, stopping at his sword. "Perhaps you should use a hammer? I am sure Ser Aron could make you one as fine as Robert's."
"I am not Robert!" Renly lunges forward, one angry finger pointing up into Garrett's face. "Robert was the hammer, a blunt, boorish block hellbent on smashing the world into order. He was never fit to be king. But I know what it takes to rule."
"Of course," Garrett throws up his hands in defense. "Certainly more than that horrid little prince. All Lannister, that one. I'm shocked no one noticed before."
"Every one of Robert's bastards have the same marks. But none of Cersei's children share them. If this means what Littlefinger says… I should be made heir."
"Stannis is older," Loras points out.
"We have all heard the rumors from Dragonstone. Stannis' horse of a wife is under the sway of a red witch and her false god. Who is to say he has not fallen astray as well? No heathen shall sit upon the Iron Throne. And all men know my own piety."
"Of course," Loras smirks.
"Let me know when this Vale girl arrives," Renly muses, sheathing his sword. "Once she and Edric are in our company and your father's men are in the city, we will make ourselves known."
A fine meal has been prepared in the small dining hall of the Tower of the Hand. The seat at the head of the table sits empty, opposite the gap where Lord Stark should be, Ser Gunthor Hightower sits, dressed in pristine white with orange trim, the mark of his family's famed tower stitched over his heart. At his right sits his niece, young Heleana, in an orange and green dining gown with broad, poofy sleeves. Her hair is elaborately curled, looking like a mound of straw-brown rosebuds atop her head.
Hela and Edward have shared scarce words since her arrival. She and her uncle have been busy moving into their guest quarters, swarmed by Sansa, Myrcella and the other girls of the court, eager to add a new member to their posses. And Edward has, quite willfully, kept busy at his squirely duties and, when not at work, in his training. Now, at dinner, he notices Hela trying to catch his attention. He prays for some manner of distraction. She is pretty, he supposes, and two years older, but she is not Myrcella.
Jory stands guard at the door, along with the Hightowers' captain - Ser Runcel Cupps. The Starks are joined at their dinner by Septa Mordane, Yorren, and Syrio Forel. The septa had objected, and Sansa as well, disapproving in particular of the Watchman's low-born manners, but Edward and Arya had insisted. In private, Edward hopes they might scare the famously noble Hightowers away.
"I did not know Lord Stark kept such a colorful court," Gunthor notes as they finish the first course. Mordane has instructed the cooks to prepare a far more lavish meal for their guests than Ned would ever permit. "I think you ought to have many fine stories."
"Svrio Forel," the Bravossi raises his wine in a toast with a welcoming smile. "Once First Sword to the Sealord of Braavos. Now First Sword to the lovely Lady Arya."
"A much easier job, I presume," Gunthor smiles glancing at Arya, who is intently focused on her meal. "I have met the current Sea Lord, in fact, and his own First Sword."
"As have I," Syrio smiles at a private jest. "I found them worthy neither to serve or be served by. So I sail west to find new service."
"And you are?" Gunthor looks to Yorren.
"Yorren," the stern man answers without looking up. "Of the Night's Watch."
"Ah, that explains it. Very cold up there, isn't it? I've always wished to see Braavos, I cannot say the same of The Wall."
"Perhaps you have some men in Oldtown who would like to come North to serve the realm. Or some you would like to send away whether they like it or not. The Watch always needs men."
"So I have heard," Gunthor only half-listens to those around him. "I am sure I will make it known to my brother when I return. Now, Edward, I see a bravo and a crow, but no knights. I was told you were a squire to the Kingsguard. Where is Ser Jaime?"
"He tried to kill Father!" Arya blurts out. That, it seems, finally catches Gunthor's attention, and Hela's as well. But before she can say further, she receives a stern hush from Sansa and the septa and goes back to her food.
"I serve Ser Arys Oakheart now," Edward answers meekly.
"Arys!" Gunthor's blue eyes light up, and Edward is relieved that further conversation of Ser Jaime can be avoided. "I fostered with him at Old Oak! A good man and a good knight. I should like to meet him soon! We have not spoken since he donned that white cloak. Now tell us, what else have you been learning? Your Father boasted very proudly of your studies when he first wrote to us. Dear Hela is well-learned herself, the smartest girl in Oldtown, we all say."
"You are too kind, uncle," Heleana blushes.
"I am learning archery from Prince Jalabar Xo, of the Summer Islands," Edward answers dutifully, choosing each word carefully. He sees Heleana listening intently, the attention paid clear in her eyes. "And we all learn from Grand Maester Pycelle. We study history and healing and numbers and much more. And Master Gaheris teaches us about the old ways of the First Men. All Northerners should know such things, Father says, it is in our blood."
"Edward, we don't need to speak about such things…" Septa Mordane cuts him off.
"What old ways?" Heleana asks anyway. Mordane is visibly offended by the interruption, but hesitates to chide another family's child. Edward, however, stutters to answer. He had hoped that such talk would turn away the holy Hightowers. They sponsor the Starry Sept, after all. Surely they cannot abide Father's religion?
"Father prays to the Old Gods of the First Men, not to the Seven," he continues before Mordane or Sansa can stop him. "The First Men prayed beneath the weirwoods and learned magic from the Children of the Forest. Some of them could see through the eyes of the weirwoods. Others could change their skin into wild beasts. The ones who could control wolves were called wargs, and they were legendary warriors. They say that the wolfblood is strong in House Stark."
How long Edward talks about the Old Gods and the Children of the Forest and wargs he is not sure, but by the time he has exhausted his knowledge on the subject, Gunthor is bored, Alysanne and Leyla intrigued and Sansa and Septa Mordane are mortified. Heleana's face is unreadable. An awkward silence falls over the table.
"I should attend to Ser Arys," he pushes his seat away, gently swiping the last morsel of his dinner and making a hasty exit. But Sansa rushes after him.
"Edward!" Sansa grabs him by the arm, jerking him back through the doorway before he can leave. "You must stop talking so much about warging!" she whispers in hushed tones. "People will be suspicious."
"Suspicious of what?" Edward tilts his head, confused and impatient. "You should come with me. I'm sure the maester can teach you too. Then you won't have to worry so much."
"No!" Sansa insists, her grip tightening on his arm, making him flinch. "You mustn't let him know about me! You were never supposed to tell anyone about your dreams."
"They're not dreams, you know that…"
"I know that, but no one can know! They won't understand. Don't you know what they do to sorcerers?"
"I'm not a sorcerer."
"What would you tell them to call you when they hear that you can turn into a wolf? This is a curse, Edward, a terrible curse and I've prayed every night for it to go away and I am so thankful that we share it but you have to keep it a secret."
"I think that Myrcella would like to know," Edward insists.
"Myrcella? Myrcella would tell her mother, and then what would they do to us? They'd lock us away in a sept! They'd never let me be queen!" Finally, she lets go of his arm. Looking back to the table, she sees Septa Mordane watching. And Maris. "We promised no more secrets. We promised we'd stick together. I can trust you, can't I?"
"Yes," Edward nods fiercely, as if it is plainly obvious. "And we can trust Gaheris."
"I hope you're right," Sansa turns away and Edward finally leaves. But you barely know the maester. And who knows who Maris has told about me?
"Is everything alright, dear?" the septa asks as she returns to the seat and helps herself to a lemon cake. She smiles, and watches Maris for a reaction. None comes.
"Yes, septa. Everything is perfectly splendid."
"Make way, make way for the king!" Ser Preston shouts, his steed careening into the camp, Ser Mandon close behind him.
The Hound, Peremore Hightower and Joffrey Baratheon stand in the center of the camp, having only just returned to hand off their prey to the game-master. Confused, they turn to the thunderous hooves of the rapidly returning hunting party.
"Has someone told them?" Joffrey's eyes widen. "Does Father know I killed the stag? He must be coming to see me!"
"Your grace, wait," the Hound moves to stop the prince, but Joffrey rushes forward.
"Something's wrong," Peremore whispers under his breath, watching the Kingsguard gallop on through the camp. "Where are they going?"
Joffrey has almost reached the trampled brush when the rest of the party begins to stampede back into camp. He dives out of the way just in time to avoid taking Urrigon's boot to his face as the huge knight leads the crowd of horses into camp. Sandor pushes his way through the growing crowd to reach the center, and Peremore follows close behind them. At the center, they see Urrigon helping the king down from his horse. Robert looks barely conscious, and as one leg lands heavily upon the ground, the other juts out at an unnatural, broken angle.
"A stretcher, a stretcher!" Urrigon shouts. "The king needs aid!" The Hound rushes to support Robert's other side, the two huge men working together to drag the wounded king across the dirt as the Kngsguard knights come rushing back with a stretcher and maester in tow. Peremore watches them as they carry Robert away and the crowd slowly disperses. Turning back, he sees Lyman standing alone, looking dazed.
"What happened?" he asks, and Lyman instinctively flinches away before coming back to his senses. Peremore notices a jagged tear in his trousers, with dark, wet blood staining the brown woolen pants. He's in shock, Peremore realizes.
"A boar. It fell on the king's leg. I killed it."
"You have blood on you." Peremore points and Lyman looks. Only then do his own legs buckle and he falls forward into the other lad's reluctant arms. Seeing no other option, Peremore begins to help the hobbled squire along the path, following the clamorous sounds towards the maester's tent. As they leave, a final figure stands in the far corner of the clearing. Tyrek Lannister watches Lyman limp away, a panicked look of terror growing in his eyes. Without a word, he turns and flees back into the forest.
As dusk falls over King's Landing and the moon rises in the darkening sky, Ser Arys Oakheart walks silently beneath the emerging stars. He has traded his white armor for a drab grey hooded cloak. He hears the rustle of feathers overhead and flinches. In battle in the day, there is little that the dashing Reach knight fears, but in the night?
Arys thinks of the stories his nurse had told of this place by his bedside, keeping him up at night with terror and awe. As he had grown to be a page, then a squire and finally a knight, the fear had passed. Nightmares were a child's affliction, and he was a man with a sword. He could not have been prouder the day Ser Barristan Selmy had hung the white cloak upon his shoulders. But that first night in the White Sword Tower, the terror returned. Maegor the Cruel alone had committed enough crimes to fill this castle with ghosts. And no man, no matter how great a knight, can kill a ghost with a sword.
Pulling the hood lower over his face, Arys presses on to his meeting place, wondering who it is the Lord Commander has summoned him to train. As he steps into the old training yard, long since abandoned, tall strands of grass breaking through the stone and an old, forgotten armory empty and half-collapsed, he sees only a long figure in a plain brown cloak. And for half a breath he almost turns and leaves without a second thought, fearing the man to be some specter of the past whose silent vigil he has disturbed.
But hearing his approach, the figure turns and drops his hood, revealing the all-too human face of Ser Barristan Selmy.
"Ser!" Arys gasps, instinctively dropping to his knee.
"Get up!" Barristan commands, shaking his head. Arys suddenly feels as if he is back upon that first day as a Kingsguard, a nervous knight taking orders from a legend for the first time. "It's me, you may have guessed. I need you to fight me."
"Why?" Arys asks impulsively, rising hesitantly back to his feet.
'Ser Jaime's attack left me slow and scarred. I cannot afford to stay that way. We may well be at the brink of war. The king cannot afford a broken kingsguard. I need someone to train with, someone I can trust, to be ready when the time comes."
"But why me, ser" Arys does not understand. He is the youngest of all the knights beneath Barristan's command, the newest name in the White Book.
"Ser Boros is fat. Ser Preston is slow. Ser Mandon is irritable. Ser Jaime is locked away beneath our feet. And Ser Meryn has been scheming to take my place since the day he donned his cloak." For a moment, the old man's face turns sad in the moonlight, as if he himself has only just realized the truth of what he has said. In that instant, he looks every minute of his age. "You're the only knight in the Kingsguard still worth his weight in steel. Take your stance."
This time, without hesitation, Arys draws his sword to glisten in the light of the moon. He drops one foot back, raises the point and waits for the first blow.
Mid-morning birds trill away outside, carefree, but in his tent, Ned Stark cleans Ice. The huge Valyrian greatsword has not drawn blood since he executed the Night's Watch deserter back North, but he cleans it nonetheless. The scouts have spotted the Ser Gregor's men on the move, set on a new wave of pillaging no doubt. And tomorrow, he will put an end to it.
He had seen Ashara Dayne again in his dreams last night. He awoke afraid and overwhelmed with guilt. It had been too long since he had yearned in his sleep for his own wife by his side again. For so long, he had banished Ashara's memory from his mind. But now, what was it? That Hightower woman's words had awoken something in him. And now, seeing the young Dayne lord squiring for Beric Dondarrion, it was as if she was watching him through her nephew's eyes. They had named the boy after him. What could have possessed them to do such a thing? He, who had brought such pain to their family. It was as if he were to have named his own son Aerys.
What am I doing here? Hunting monsters in the Riverlands while Robert chases after white stags in the Kingswood? The crown's vaults sit empty. The realm is on the brink of war. And winter is coming. He remembers the words of the deserter whose lifeblood he had spilled with this very sword. The desperate cries of a doomed man, or so he had told himself then. The Others. Could it be? As the sword turns over in his hands, he almost swears he sees his grey eyes turn blue in the reflection.
No, it was nothing. A man will say anything to escape the horde. Winter will come and go as it always has, and The Others will stay frozen away with their spiders in the Land of Always Winter. Or else I shall be twice-cursed for leaving the North behind in such an hour of need.
"My lord!" Alyn pokes his head into the tent. He has his helm on, his unruly red hair and beard poking out from beneath the hard metal corners. He wants to be a knight, that one, Ned remembers. "The scouts have returned. They've found the Mountain."
At last. Ned rises and sheathes Ice. Alyn rushes to take the sword from him as he steps out of the tent. Looking up at the sky, he sees the rain has finally passed. Clear skies bring good tidings. He cuts a direct path to the scouts, still upon horseback at the center of the camp. He squints to recognize their commander, and sees the blue-green maelstrom on a chipped yellow shield strapped to the leaders back. Ser Gladden Wylde. A stranger to him before this mission.
"My lord, Ser Gregor's men are on march south," Wylde lifts his visor. His face is unremarkable, pale and clean-shaven with dull brown eyes, he could have been any one of a hundred knights. "I think they mean to take Stone Hedge."
"Stone Hedge?" Beric Dondarrion's voice calls from behind with a laugh as he rides up with his own returning party of scouts, flanked by the red priest Thoros of Myr and Edric Dayne. "Clegane is bold, but that is the seat of House Bracken, is it not? Would he dare aim so high."
"If he means to take Stone Hedge, there is no doubt that total war is on Lord Tywin's mind," Ser Marq Piper declares as his own men return. Ned shudders at the thought. His worst fears are becoming realized. Surrounded by men on horseback, he looks up at his commanders.
"Then we must stop them before it comes to that. Alyn, have Harwyn ready my horse. We ride at once. This madness ends today."