A small stone wet with early morning dew trips the foot of a young boy with golden hair running through the Kingswood. Tyrek Lannister falls with a crash into a bed of ferns. He had run long into the night, the chorus of dark birds and shadowy creatures all seeming to cast down accusations upon him. He had hidden in a gully for what might have been a few hours, but no sleep had found him. Only fear. And guilt.
He had only done what Lancel had told him. And what the queen had told him. They were Lannisters. And Lannisters always stuck together. But the king had almost died. Surely that wasn't supposed to happen? But they would blame him. That damn Darry boy, first he crippled Lancel, now he would tell everyone that I gave the king the wrong wine and almost killed him. So he couldn't go back. That much was clear. But where could he go? His mother is far away in the Westerlands, he could never make it there. He doesn't even know his way out of the Kingswood. Books and maps had always been a bore, he had never paid heed to the maesters in their long, dull lessons.
And so he runs on and on, until eventually he can run no longer, tumbling out of the seemingly endless trees to find a wide, deep river blocking his path. And on the other side, only more trees. Collapsing exhausted onto the loose stone lining the bank, he leans down to lap up fresh water before falling onto his back. At least here there is open sky, free from the suffocating judgemental trees that had towered over him in the woods. But surely the king's men would be following the river to look for him. And so, with great reluctance, Tyrek rises again, kicking with frustration at the gravel, slouching slowly towards the sea. The river leads there, eventually. Of that much, at least, he is certain.
Wendwater Castle is far from the largest castle Lyman Darry has ever seen, smaller even than his own family's seat, but it is one of the most beautiful. Nestled in the Kingswood beside a thundering waterfall where the Wendwater River drops over a sharp ledge and into a series of tumbling rapids, it sits as an elegant block of grey stone against a sea of green trees. A wall braced by three tall towers faces out over the river below, one topped with green tile, the second red, the third black. From within this wall a second, smaller waterfall flows, fed by water diverted into the moat that guards the front of the keep.
Within its walls, Lyman now sleeps the sleep of poppy in a guest chamber well-furnished with aged niceties. He lies on a soft bed in a fresh, unbuttoned white shirt, in only small-clothes beneath a quilted blanket portraying three trees, one showing green leaves of summer, one with red leaves of autumn, the third bare. The pain in his leg has numbed to a dull stinging, fresh bandages tightly plastered to the wound where the boar had gored his thigh.
"Oh, good, you're awake." For the first time, Lyman notices Alyn Ambrose, Ser Urrigon Hightower's squire, watching awkwardly from a corner. The gangly lad, with his dusky skin and tight orange curls, wears a yellow doublet stitched from neck to waist with the tiny red ants of his House sigil. On his right breast he wears a Hightower pin and upon his shoulder is tied a green sash with a golden rose, the favor of his betrothed, Elinor Tyrell. A ridiculous sight, Lyman thinks. The lad takes himself far too seriously. But at least he is no Lannister.
Tyrek. Lyman suddenly remembers. "Where's Tyrek?" he blurts out.
"Oh!" Alyn is surprised. "That's the last thing I thought you'd care about. He's, er, missing, they say. No one's seen him since the boar attacked. We're all, um, very worried."
Of course you are, Lyman smirks. He knows none of the other squires were any fonder of the Lannister boys than he. A few days earlier, and he'd have wished to never see Tyrek and his stupid golden curls again. But now, if he wants answers, he needs him. "Let me know if any word comes in. I'm sure the king will want to hear of his squire."
"Of course," Alyn bows and then suddenly remembers why he came. "You've a visitor." He slowly opens the door to reveal a demurely dressed girl, about their same age, with long, freely flowing brown hair held back by a black band. Lyman is struck at once by her beauty. She is thin, tan, with a long nose and small lips, standing tall and slender in a simple red dress. At first, he impulsively moves to cover his bare chest, but decides against it.
"Good afternoon, good ser," she curtsies. "I'm Cassana Wendwater."
"He's only a squire, m'lady," Alyn interjects, and Lyman shoots him a glare.
"Shouldn't you see to Ser Urrigon, Alyn?" he asks pointedly. "I am sure he has something very important for you to do."
"He's…. busy," Alyn hesitates.
"Then he most certainly needs your help!" Lyman's glare intensifies, but his fellow squire's reluctance to leave only grows. "What is the good knight doing?"
Alyn's face flushes, turning his blotchy freckles dark red. "He is abed." With some serving woman of the household, no doubt, Lyman thinks. Urrigon's fondness for every woman but his wife was a great embarrassment to Alyn's honorable ideals of knighthood.
"Alyn, dear, you've been so very kind to bring me here," Cassanna places one slender hand on the squire's shoulder. He winces, as if he's been stabbed. "But please, I came here to speak to Lyman in private." She does not waver from her touch nor her gaze until Alyn finally breaks away and exits with a short bow. Finally alone, she slowly shuts the door behind him and turns to approach the bed.
"Are you enjoying your stay in Castle Wendwater?"
"I've been asleep for most of it," Lyman pushes himself further up on the mound of pillows behind him, allowing the blanket to slip further down, exposing his hard abdomen.
Cassanna laughs like playful wind. "Of course, how silly of me." She sits daintily beside him on the bed and he sees her eyes run down the length of him like the water running over the cliff beneath these walls. "That was very brave of you, to fight a boar like that. I saw it when they brought it in. Such horrid monsters in these woods. It was good of you to kill it, but it could have killed you."
"It's my duty to defend the king," Lyman vows, throwing his voice to a deeper pitch.
"Of course. You will make a very fine knight. But I am glad you've enjoyed your stay here. It has been generations since a king graced our walls and, as you can see, Castle Wendwater has seen better days, I'm afraid."
"It's a very fine castle, I think," Lyman insists.
"Oh, but you have to look very close," Cassanna leans closer and points to the far wall of the room. As she leans forward, she props herself up with one soft hand on his chest, her long hair brushing against Lyman's face. "Do you see that?" She gently turns his face away from her and to the wall. Lyman squints, and slowly he notices a slight crack running through the stones.
"The truth is in the details. This is a very old castle, full of cracks just like that one. Most men never see them, they never stop to look close enough. And most are hidden behind tapestries. But I know them all." She looks back at him and slides further onto her bed until one thigh, hidden beneath the thick red wool, is resting against his leg. Lyman realizes he is beginning to sweat, and hopes she does not notice.
"May I tell you a secret?" Cassanna leans down to whisper in his ear, her hair draping around his face like an umbrella. "You are much better looking than the king." One hand gently strokes his face, then continues down, thin fingers following the crevice down the center of his chest, over rocky muscles until finally reaching beneath the blanket. She straddles him, but as she does, places one knee atop his wound. Lyman gasps in pain and she pulls back.
"I'm sorry, I forgot!"
"No, no, it's fine!" Lyman curls up to kiss her. Her mouth tastes of mint as he pulls the band from her hair. "There are other ways, if you want…"
"Oh, I want..."
Back in King's Landing, in the early hours of the next morning, Edward tends to Ser Arys' things. He notices the knight's training sword is freshly used, and a small smudge of dried blood rests near the hilt, out of sight to all but the most prying eye. And Edward takes meticulous care of every piece in his mentor's arsenal, just as he had done for Ser Jaime before. What could he have been doing, he wonders, rubbing the sword clean and returning it to its sheath on the rack.
Supposing it is none of his business, he returns to the knight's sleeping quarters to retrieve Arys' bedding. Whatever secrets his new knight may keep, nothing could be as awful as Ser Jaime's betrayal. It is only a short trip from the White Sword Tower to the washing basins, where Edward scrubs away, cleaning the sheets and blankets amongst the washerwomen and other serving girls. He had come to know many of them by name – stout Dorcas, giddy Synelle, grumpy old Cat. She was his favorite, for though her flat, wrinkled features looked nothing like Lady Catelyn Stark, she reminded him of his mother nonetheless.
Though they rarely shared words while they work, (Edward suspects they think it best not to gossip near the Hand's son) he has learned some fine songs from them, keeping beat with the rhythm of the washboards. He liked them, and liked to think they liked him as well. It was important for a lord to know their servants well, Father had taught him. Lord Stark brought a different member of the household to dine with them almost every evening.
After hanging the sheets to dry, he changes into a finer Stark doublet and retrieves his bow and quiver from the armory. Ser Arys is guarding the queen this morning, so he first has a lesson with Jalabar Xo and then later, he remembers with excitement, a meeting with Maester Gaheris in the dungeons, to practice his warging.
The Summer Islander is waiting for him in his cloak of scarlet feathers. It is very windy in the city this morning, so much so that even within the Keep's walls it still blusters and blows. But this morning there are others in the yard besides the usual clusters of men-at-arms – Ser Gunthor Hightower stands in conversation with Jalabar and, a short way away, Edward's would-be betrothed, Heleana, sits in a small chair.
"You make a very strong case, your grace," Gunthor is saying as Edward approaches. "As I am sure you know, House Hightower has many friends across the Narrow Sea. If you ever tire of weathering King Robert's ear, come visit us in Oldtown. A venture to the Summer Isles may prove profitable for us all." Edward catches his eye as he finishes. "Ah, look, there's the little lord himself! Come here, we've been waiting for you!"
The blonde knight quickly retrieves a quiver full of arrows from beside their chairs. Heleana rises to join him in presenting them. Her hair today is unwoven and she wears a loose dress of orange, overlaid with black lace, surely worth a small fortune.
"Good morning, Edward," she curtsies politely.
"Good morning," he bows in return before looking back to the quiver as Gunthor places it in his hands. It is painted with a direwolf in a woods. He pulls one arrow out. Tufted with a red feather, it is a sturdy cut but surprisingly light in his hand, a pale white wood. Slowly, he realizes what he is holding and looks up, eyes widening with surprise.
"Yes, it's weirwood," Gunthor smiles, his teeth brightly shining even on such an overcast day. "And the point is obsidian. Or dragonglass, as some call it. A gift from my brother, Ser Baelor. You left so quickly after dinner that we were unable to give them to you."
"Thank you, ser," Edward hastily kneels. He cannot believe it… Wait until Father returns to see!
"Father also bid me give you this," Hela adds, her voice ever quiet. In her hands she holds a pendant – a small, cloudy ruby set in the heart of steel inlaid with a weirwood wolf and an ebony raven. "It is a gift from my grandfather, Lord Leyton. He sent it down from the tower just for you. The ruby is from Ass'hai. My aunt Leyla says it is enchanted for good luck."
"Thank you," Edward rises again to accept the gift, but Hela reaches out mid motion and he awkwardly collides with her arms as she attempts to place the pendant around his neck. He stumbles back and takes it clumsily for herself, worrying he's offended the girl. But she only laughs nervously as he clasps the chain and slips it beneath his shirt, feeling oddly warm and cold against his skin.
"Enough talk," Jalabar clicks his tongue sternly. "It is past time for your lesson to begin." He picks up the weirwood quiver to examine for himself. "A fine gift. But not meant for practice. One day they will serve in battle, I think. Today, they stay sheathed." He points to Edward's own quiver, which he hastily retrieves. But Hela calls him back once more.
"Edward! I'd thought, perhaps, that when you were done, until Ser Arys needs you again, you might be able to show me about the Keep? Perhaps we could even see your wolf?"
"No, I'm sorry," Edward declines. "I see the maesters after."
"Oh, I could come with you!" her face lights up. "I do love lessons. Father gives me all sorts of books from the Citadel. I could meet the Grand Maester!"
"It's, uh, a private lesson," Edward resists abruptly, turning to hurry after Jalabar to the targets. Disappointed, Hela shrinks back into herself and returns to her chair as her uncle sits beside her, head resting on her hands as she watches Edward take his stance.
In a chamber deep beneath the Keep, in the bowels of the Black Cells, Maester Gaheris waits for Edward. As before, he sits upon his rickety stool, the flickering lamps making his shadow dance upon the dim wall behind him. It is silent here, so quiet that the most distant noise – more often than not screams or mad ravings from some prisoner held in some far off corner of this dark and winding maze. It was, to Gaheris, a symphony of insanity, and in the many hours he had spent learning the inner ways of the lower levels, he had come to know it very well.
The most haunting instrument in this band, he has found, is the prayer. Desperate men, long since forsaking all hope of release in this mortal world, now longing for release into the next. In all his years in Oldtown, the holiest of cities, Gaheris had never heard a prayer to The Stranger. That inhuman, veiled partial of the Seven that lead the dead on their final journey, it was the forgotten face of god, for most among the living wish to never look upon it. But here, it is the only one left to turn to.
In this moment, however, the only sound is Edward's approaching footsteps.
"I've seen your training with the Summer Islander," he calls out, even before the squire steps into view. "I know that you can move more quietly than that."
"There's no one here to hear," Edward squints as he steps into torchlight.
"Do you think we are alone here? Can you not hear them?" No human cries are summoned by the maester's question, but somewhere in a far off cell, the rattling of chains can be heard.
"I don't believe in ghosts," Edward juts his lower chin out. "They're just prisoners locked away in the cells. They can't hurt us."
"Ha!" Gaheris' laugh is short and abrupt. He rises from his chair. "Here you are, learning to move your mind into the body of a wolf and yet you are so sure there are no ghosts that can hurt you? It is no matter. If you can move without noise, you should. The next time we meet, I want to be surprised. We play a dangerous game here, Edward. Do not allow anyone to know you are here until you want them to."
"That's what Sansa keeps saying. She's so afraid that people will find out she… that I'm a warg. She doesn't want anyone to know."
"Then she is very wise. Why do you think there are no more skinchangers south of the Wall? That those who are still born with the gift, hide? For the same reason that your direwolf does not belong here in the city. For the same reason the Children of the Forest no longer walk our woods. Men destroy what they do not understand, Edward. Even within my own order." As Gaheris stops walking, the links of his chain clank slightly, indistinguishable from the distant prisoners' bonds. "They will never understand you, Edward. I fear you will have many enemies."
"I don't want to have enemies."
"Of course not. But your father is a good man, is he not?"
"The greatest," Edward insists, proudly.
"As all sons do believe. And yet he has enemies."
Edward stops to think. He remembers the stories of the outlaws Father had chased. Of the fear in his eyes the night he told him of the dagger. He sees Jorah Mormont. Balon Greyjoy. The Mountain. Joffrey. "Yes," he finally nods.
"Good men make enemies. Often because they are good men. It is nothing to be ashamed of," Gaheris kneels to look the boy in the eye. "It's how men respond when enemies arise that defines how truly good they are." He stops, noticing the new quiver. "What is that?"
"A gift from the Hightowers," Edward shrugs off the strap. "Weirwood arrows!"
"Intriguing," Gaheris takes the quiver into his hands. "Fascinating weapons of lore. A most fitting gift for someone of your lineage. Many legendary warriors of House Stark used such arrows. Brandon Snow, I think it was, even thought they could kill dragons. Of course, the King Who Knelt put an end to that before the world could ever know and the dragons all died off without them…" His thoughts trail off. "Tell me, what do you think of young Heleana?"
"I don't know," Edward kicks at the cobblestone, staring at his feet. "I don't want to marry her. I want to marry Myrcella. I think she's starting to like me again. When we were talking about the Summer Islands, she…"
"Edward," the maester cuts him off, looking down disapprovingly. "These sorts of things, they are distractions. You are nine years old. You don't know what you want, not truly. If you trust that your father is wise, you should trust his judgement in your betrothal. The Hightowers brought good gifts, gifts that show they understand you. In Oldtown, you would have even more opportunity to study the old ways…"
"I don't want to go to Oldtown!"
"Of course not. I am sorry, this is not my place. You do not come to me for such advice. I only want what is best for you." Gaheris turns away and, placing the quiver against the far wall, begins to blow out the torches. "Now sit. Clear your mind. And call to the wolf."
Later that day, Gunthor strides into his sister's chambers in the Keep. Leyla and Alysanne look up irritably from a game of cyvasse as he crashes down onto their chaise, kicking up his feet as he reclines.
"Is that damned game all you two ever do? No wonder Stark hasn't committed to the betrothal yet. Thank the Seven Father sent me to take care of things."
"There is more afoot here than we knew," Alysanne chastises him. She rises, moving to her desk, cluttered with books, scrolls and parchment detailing all of the research she has done since arriving in the city. "Jon Arryn did not die of natural causes. We believe he was killed for discovering some secret, and now that same secret has marked Ned Stark for death."
"I want none of that, Aly," Gunthor throws up his hands. "I came here to marry dear Heleana off to that ugly Stark boy. While I'm here, I intend to enjoy the base pleasures of this filthy city, not play at mysteries with the two of you. We're not children anymore."
"If what I suspect is true, the whole realm could be on the brink of war. The king's own council is conspiring against him. Pycelle is keeping secrets. These are dangerous times."
"Haven't you heard? We're already on the brink of war. The Imp has the lions and the wolves at each other's throats, and this city is about to be flooded with roses," Gunthor laughs, and leans over to help himself to some wine, but Leyla swats his hand away. "I hope to be long gone with the boy before any blood is spilled in these streets. I'd advise you do the same."
"The boy will never leave this city if we don't stop this," Alysanne puts her foot down, stabbing a scroll into her brother's face. "Read this. Help us get to the bottom of it. And then you can sail back to Oldtown. Not a moment sooner."
Against the maesters' protests, King Robert Baratheon is already lurching out of bed. His left leg in a splint, a heavy wooden crutch under his arm, the king makes a thunderous noise as he clunks his way through the halls of Castle Wendwater. Still irritated by the embarrassment of his accident, he has had quite enough of bedrest. He is hungry, thirsty and angry.
With only one hand free, Robert slams his shoulder into the doors of the Great Hall and strides clumsily in, Ser Preston and Ser Mandon following close behind. The hall, decorated with ancient, chipping murals and hung hunting trophies, is warmed by a single, huge hearth. It is before the hearth, lit with golden light from the stained glass above, that he sees his son sitting with Ser Urrigon Hightower, Peremore, the Hound and two men he does not know.
"His grace!" Urrigon rushes to stand at the sight of the king, knocking his chair to the ground. The others rush to follow. "You truly are stronger than that boar. We didn't think you'd be able to walk for several more days!"
"If you can call this walking," Robert grimaces as his broken leg bumps against a table. "You!" He points to the strangers. "Who are you?"
"Ser Lucifer Wendwater, your grace," the younger man kneels. "It is an honor to host you. I shall fetch my Lord Father. He will want to see you."
"Very well, run and fetch him, so long as you give me your seat!" Robert thuds down at the table as Lucifer walks swiftly from the hall. He looks up at the other man, a short knight with a wiry black beard in sparse armor, with a slick black leather cloak laced with green on the inside.
"Ser Simion Fell, your grace, The Knight of the Kingswood."
"Ah, yes, of course. You certainly seem proud of yourself for that," Robert waves the knight away, his attention falling to Prince Joffrey. "Now tell me boy. My men say you killed my stag."
"I did," Joff declares without hesitation. He's bolder now, Robert thinks. "I hunted it down and killed it myself in the dead of night. I went hunting yesterday, too, in the woods here. I killed two ducks, a black grouse, a rabbit and a goat!"
"The goat belonged to the Wendwaters, your grace," The Hound interjects. "The prince crossed over a fallen fence line into a wooded field."
"And what of it, Hound? Have Urri pay the stingy lord and say no more. My son is a hunter! Just like me!" Robert attempts to rise but, a sudden burst of pain reminding him of his broken leg, he thuds back down into his seat. "Ale! Bring ale! And then I must see this stag!"
Servants rush to bring heavy stone mugs full of ale to their table. Joffrey quickly rushes to grab his. He first recoils at the tangy taste, but forces it down all the same, to Urrigon and the Hound's poorly hidden amusement. As he lowers the mug, Joff coughs and glares at them. Looking up, he sees his father taking a long drink.
"I like it," Joff insists, though his voice cracks as he speaks. "I want more. Bring barrels of it back home with us."
"Your grace…" Ser Simian Fell speaks. Robert is startled to see the knight remains behind him. "About your squire... Tyrek Lannister, is it? There has still been no sign of him. But I swear to you, my men will not rest until he is found."
"Well, I pray you're better at finding lost, stupid boys than outlaws, Knight of the Kingswood," Robert scoffs. "Bring Tyrek home and my wife will pay you well. But where is Lyman? I must see him, too."
"When he left us, he said he was going to the godswood," Peremore answers.
"Very good, I'll see him there first, and then the stag." Finishing his ale, Robert struggles to push himself up from the table. Ser Preston and Ser Mandon come to his aid, but he shakes them off. "Tonight, we will feast. Tomorrow, we leave. I must make haste back to the city."
"Your grace," Ser Preston hesitantly protests. "The maesters advised you not to move for…"
"Damn them!" the king shoves his guard out of the way, limping determinedly to the door. "The maesters have also told me the kingdom has gone to shit while I'm away. And I cannot bear to spend another day in this drafty keep!" None move to follow as he goes, and the doors slam heavily to mark his exit as Joff chokes down the rest of his ale.
Lyman stands alone in the godswood, his bandaged right leg supported by a crutch, looking up at the largest weirwood he's ever seen. The face carved into it stares back at him, laughing. There is no sept in the castle and so, though he has never been devout to any faith, Lyman finds himself here to clear his head. Cassanna had visited him twice more since they had first met, even given him a tour of their castle, waiting patiently as he hobbled along behind her. But all he could think of was Tyrek and the wine.
Perhaps it had just been a mistake. The boy was certainly stupid enough. But what if it was more? Tyrek had been so determined to take control of serving wine. Lyman does not know whether to tell the king. What blood would be shed if he did, with no Tyrek there to give answer? But he was a squire. Squires must not keep secrets from their masters. But would this do more harm than good if revealed? Was this what it was like to be a great lord? To be a king? Constantly faced with impossible choices? He does not know. And the wooden face still laughs its silent laugh.
"You know, Ned Stark prays to those trees." King Robert makes his way down the dirt path, dragging his splinted leg along beside him. "I never cared for them, myself. Ugly little faces, always watching. But less stuffy than a sept, I suppose."
"Your grace!" Lyman moves to kneel, but Robert grabs him by the shoulder to stop him. As they cross, their crutches rattle against each other.
"Look at this. Only two good legs betwixt the both of us!" Robert chortles at his joke. "You saved my life boy. Know that you will be well rewarded." He pauses, looking up at the tree. A lone leaf breaks free from its stem in the wind, spiraling down to land before them. In that moment, the king falls silent, as if asking the blood-red palm at his feet for advice. For the first time, Lyman sees a different face upon him - the cocksure royal confidence slumped down off his shoulders. He almost looks sad. But as quick as leaf breaks from stem, it is gone, and Robert's bluster returned.
"I'll need you to prepare my things, we leave on the morrow. Grim business in the capital, they tell me." He turns away, but grimaces and nearly falls to the ground. Lyman rushes to support him. "Gods, what happened to me?" He groans. "I can hold my wine, damn it! Lad, you know that as well as anyone. But that boar… I don't understand." He is walking slower now, growing a heavier burden on Lyman with every step. Coming to a halt, Lyman helps him down to sit upon a large rock. And he knows he cannot hide the truth any longer.
"Your grace," Lyman looks to his feet, then back up to the king, the words burning like bile in the back of his throat. "There's something you need to know. About the wine."
A/N: I've felt that the chapters of late have been getting too long, so I've been trying to trim the outlines to make them more crisp and concise while still keeping good pacing on the divergent plotlines. If you have any thoughts on what the best balance is for you, the readers, let me know. My goal is to make this journey as enjoyable as can be!