"Harwyn! The horses!" Ned Stark calls out over the sound of chaotic battle rising up from the gulley below, obscured by a thick row of pines. The long-haired horseman dashes back to the clearing where they'd tied their mounts, the rest of Stark's men following close behind. But the Mountain's men are already there. Ned watches as the first man into the clearing takes an arrow to the chest and drops dead. Two more arrows bury in Harwyn's shield as he raises his axe in fury, charging as the brigands scatter their horses.
"Winterfell!" he bellows, and the other men follow suit. Harwyn crashes down upon the nearest archer, his axe cleaving down and back up with a violent splatter of blood. Rushing into the clearing, Ned sees Edric Dayne scrambling to wrangle the reigns of the fleeing horses. Leaping into the path of Ned's own destrier, he struggles to control the panicked mount. But, thinking quick, as the huge horse pulls away, he grabs hold of Ice in its sheath, tearing it free from the saddle as he is thrown to the ground.
"Your blade, m'lord," Edric looks up as Ned reaches him. He sees the boy's eyes wide in the midst of his first battle. Ashara's eyes.
"Stay back!" he orders, before turning to the fight. With an echoing ring, he draws Ice from its sheath, the Valyrian steel glistening in the sunlight as if thirsty for the blood of battle. Ned has not raised his ancient family blade in combat since the Greyjoy rebellion years ago. But it proves no less deadly, piercing the rusted mail of the first outlaw unlucky enough to be within reach. It takes all the strength of both hands to swing Ice, but the fight proves as natural as ever. The huge blade leads Ned into the fray, cutting his way through two more foes before watching Harwyn slay the last raider in the clearing.
"Get the horses and get to the gulley. We must help the others."
"My lord, wait!" Harwyn calls after him, but Ned is already running helmless back to the sound of battle. I've led them into a trap, he curses. They can determine how later, but for now he must help them fight.
A scattered field of huge boulders stands between him and the main battle. Quickly spying a narrow downhill path, Ned squeezes in, holding Ice before him like a candle in a darkened maze, dripping with blood rather than wax. He nearly slips on loose stone, sliding further down the hillside, his shoulders slamming into another boulder. He can hear the sound of death still, just out of sight, battle cries and steel intermingled. He presses on, wishing for a free hand to steady himself. But Ice must not fall.
"Lord Stark!" He hears the voice from above before he hears the scuffling of footsteps on stone. He knows the voice. Who? And then, looking up, he sees a yellow shield with a green maelstrom falling forcefully towards his head. In an instant, he raises Ice.
With a sharp crack, the Valyrian greatsword pierces the thick shield, ripping it free from its wielder, who drops heavily to the ground behind Ned – Ser Gladden Wylde.
"What are you doing?" Ned shouts, pulling at the skewered shield until it splinters in half as he struggles to turn in the narrow space between boulders. But the knight only answers by drawing his own, shorter blade. Pivoting, Ned tries to block the attack, but his own greatsword is nearly impossible to move in the stone path. Gladden's blade slams against his side. Ned steps backwards, and the knight stabs again, sending sparks flying as his sword hits rock.
His feet slipping in the uneven gravel, Ned is fast to fling one hand out to steady himself. As he does, Ice dips and Gladden lunges, this time finding a gap in Ned's armor beneath his left shoulder. He recoils in pain and his head slams hard against a boulder, sending him stumbling further backwards. He moves to regain his grip on the sword, wedged between the rocks. Feeling the blood seeping in his shoulder, it seems like the walls are closing in.
"Lay down your arms, Lord Stark. Come with me and this will all end," Gladden's voice demands from behind his visor. "No one else has to die."
"Who are you working for?" Ned demands an answer in turn, slowly raising Ice back up as pain roars deafeningly in his skull. "Why?"
Gladden only laughs, and raises his sword again. But this time he cries out as steel strikes his plate from behind. Lurching forward, he turns, revealing a furious squire in a lilac cloak, sword drawn – Edric.
"Lord Stark, move!" the boy shouts. But even in armor, Ser Gladden moves fast. Through blurring vision, the knight charges. Ned tries to attack, but Ice catches again on the boulder. Gladden's sword strikes his gauntlets and he loses his grip. Before Ice can hit the ground, a mailed fist shatters Ned's nose, sending him reeling blindly. And then there is no more earth beneath his feet. As he falls backwards, he sees Ashara standing atop the rocks. Now it is he, not her tumbling from the tower. And then… blackness and pain and nothing more.
Tessarion moves swiftly through the ruined stone of the Dragonpit. The wind ripples through the direwolf's fur as huge, clawed paws kick up loose gravel into the air. It feels the eyes of its sisters as it runs, watching, wondering.
Do they know something is different? Do they know I'm here? Edward Stark thinks, his mind in the body of the wolf. But he dismisses the thought, focusing instead on the looming piece of shattered wall in front of him. He scrambles up, trying to let go of his fear, to feel one with his wolf, where walking on four legs is as natural as walking on two.
Tessarion scrabbles up the rock, paws finding the narrow holds they know well, for they've made this climb many times before. When the wolf reaches the top, Edward sees the expanse beneath him. It is only a short jump to the next ledge, but all too far. And below is the hard ground he knows all too well. He focuses, clearing his mind of the fear and the doubts and the wants of Edward the boy. There is only the wolf.
He jumps. And falls.
In the cavernous hall in the bowels of the Red Keep, Edward's eyes flash open. Maester Gaheris tuts disappointingly, shaking his head as the flickering torchlight rolls over his auburn hair, one side than the next, back and forth.
"I leaped again," Edward gasps. "And I just….
"There's something wrong. Every time you try to jump, the bond breaks. What is stopping you?"
"I'm worried for Father."
"No. This is something else. You faced this block before word came of the war. Something in your mind is holding you back from committing. Edward, remember what I told you. You must never tell the princess about your powers. Have you accepted this?"
Edward nods reluctantly. "Yes, but…"
"But." Gaheris sighs. "I did not ask for a but. You cannot do this to impress a girl, no matter how beautiful or powerful she may be. And it will do you no good to pine after impossible love. I know that all too well." The boy looks up, surprised. "We maesters are not born with chains around our necks, Edward, nor are we blind. I had a life before. I had desires. And I learned that to chase the approval of others is never enough. You must do this for yourself, and for the good of your pack."
"When Sansa and Joffrey are married, then Myrcella will be part of our pack, too."
"Packs are bound by blood, Edward, not by the laws of man," Gaheris shakes his head and rises, beginning to slowly pace in a circle along the walls of the round room, passing in and out of the shadows cast by the flickering torches. "You have continued your reading, have you not?"
"Yes, maester." Truth be told, the ancient study on wargs had proved a ponderous tome of dry languages and descriptions of watery beat root soup. Ever a voracious student, even Edward had found himself bored.
"Then you know of the bloodbond between those who inherit the powers of the old ways. Tell me, have any of your siblings ever shown signs of warging? Or any manner of skin-changing?"
"No," Edward insists. Sansa made me swear not to tell anyone, not even Gaheris.
"A pity," the maester sighs, but in the dim light Edward thinks he catches a brief look of suspicion in his pale blue eyes. "But the bond will remain. And if it is broken… well, it is like a river that has been clogged with sticks and dirt. The flow stops, and you cannot cross over. I recall you told me once you quarreled with your twin."
Edward had not expected him to mention Arya. "I don't want to talk about it."
"I don't suppose you would. But you must. Twins are the closest bond of all. If you ever wish to master these powers, or to move as a pack again, you must make your peace with Arya."
"It's called the Giver's Gambit," Heleana Hightower says. Sansa watches carefully as the small girl lays out a collection of carved pieces onto a cloth beside a carved wooden board. They sit on a balcony in the Red Keep, shielded from the day's sun by a black-and-gold Baratheon awning. "It comes from Braavos. My uncle Ser Jon, Lady Leyla's husband, brought it for my 10th Name Day. It's a very good game."
There were twelve pieces – half tall and half short, half solid and half hollow, half square and half round, half made of teak wood and half of dark, polished stone. On the board are six and ten circles within one large circle. Heleana gently lifts one piece – short, hollow, round stone. She hands it to Sansa, it is cold in her hands.
"One player starts with all the wood pieces, the other with the stone," Heleana explains. "You see there are four types? The goal is to place four of a kind in a row. Four short or four tall, four square or four round, do you see?" The other girls nod. "But here is what makes it special. You do not pick your own pieces. Your opponent gives you what piece you must play."
"But the wouldn't other player never give you a piece to help you win?" Jeyne is confused.
"Of course not," Hela smiles. "That's why you have to be smarter than them."
"I think I understand," Myrcella reaches out an open hand.
"I'd hoped to play Sansa first," Heleana looks over, but Sansa is lost in thought. Her thoughts are a hundred different places – Father is fighting a war a world away against the Lannisters, Lannisters just like the ones who surround me here. Lannisters like Cersei, who had warned me about the Hightowers, told me to be a spy. But Cersei was a Baratheon, now, wasn't she? She was the king's wife and Joffrey's mother. Surely she could be trusted? But Heleana did not seem a threat, and her aunts seem kind. Even Maris, as grim as she was, seemed sincere. But I'm no good judge of character, that much was clear. Ser Jaime had seemed to me the truest knight in the realm, but he betrayed Father all the same.
"Sansa?" Jeyne's voice startles her and she drops the piece in her hand. "Sansa, are you alright?"
"Oh, oh, I'm sorry," Sansa hurriedly apologizes, ducking down to find the fallen piece. Rosamund sniggers. She sees it has rolled across the stone to rest at Heleana's feet.
"It's no problem," Hela smiles politely, bending down to pick the piece up herself.
"You're just nervous," Myrcella assures her, glaring at Rosamund. "We all are, but our fathers are safe. The Lord Hand is leading the fight against the brigands. He is very brave, Sansa, we're all very proud of him."
"If you ever need anyone to talk to, we're here for you," Hela vows, handing her the piece back. "Whatever happens, you can always trust us." Sansa nods silently and accepts the piece once again. This time, without hesitating, she places it flat on the board.
It is that afternoon that the call goes out. The king has returned.
When the royal hunting party had first departed, it had been a jubilant affair. But as the trumpets atop the walls sound out, the riders pass through the gates into a city on the edge. There are some cheers here and there, and many curious, worrisome eyes peering out from alleys and windows to see the long parade of Tyrell banners as they wind their way to the Red Keep. But a grim silence hangs over the day, the unspoken question lies over the heads of the crowds like a thick fog – What will the king do?
Robert himself rides at the head of the party, Prince Joffrey by his side, with Ser Mandon and Ser Preston in their white cloaks clearing the way. To his left is Lord Mace Tyrell, to his right Alester Florent. An ensemble of lords and knights follow tightly behind, each aiming to be seen close to his highness, all pushing Lyman Darry further and further back in the line, along with the Hound and the Hightowers. A famed knight Ser Urrigon may be, and fresh friend to the king, but he was still the heir to a third son, and so the huge man found himself pushed out from his place in the lead.
"Whingers and graspers all," the Hound grumbles. "This is Renly's doing. No good will come of it, I tell you."
"Watch how you speak of my liege, dog," Urrigon's eyes stare straight ahead.
"It seems your dear liege has taken your place at the banquet table, knight," the Hound replies coldly, the noble title sounding a viler insult than 'dog' when ringing within his snarling helm. He turns back to look at Lyman. "You'll have your hands full now, boy. We're at war. And this city can be a deadly place for a king in war time. You may come need to save his grace again before the moon is out."
Within the Red Keep, the royal household is assembled in the yard. Edward, Arya and Sansa stand tightly in a row, under the watchful eye of Septa Mordane, Jory Cassel, Vayon Poole and Syrio Forel. Yorren had refused to come, for the Watchman avoids noble formalities like a pox. As the chains crank open the portcullis, the horses flood in, led by golden banners with crowned stags and green banners with golden roses.
"Who are they?" Arya asks as the new knights enter.
"Don't you listen to anything?" Sansa scoffs. "Those are the Tyrells. They're here to protect us from the Lannisters. Lord Renly sent for them."
And many had answered. Shifting uncomfortably in the hot sun, Edward tries to remember all of the sigils he sees upon the banners, surcoats and cloaks on display as the yard rapidly fills with knights. Maester Luwin had listed them time and again back in Winterfell. The Tyrell rose was easy enough, and the Florent fox. And a knight marked by oak leaves who must be some kin of Ser Arys. But there were others whose Houses Edward could not recall – a horn-of-plenty, a trussed deer and more. Giving up, he leans forward out of line to see Myrcella. He smiles to see her face lit up, crying out happily to her father as he rides past. And to Lyman Darry.
In the rush, Joffrey finds himself separated from the king. From atop his horse, he peers down into the crowd as more and more knights and men-at-arms flood in. He cannot see Sansa. Servants rush to take his horse and he quickly dismounts, near kicking one of them in the face. He pulls loose a small leather tote from his saddle and peaks inside, relieved to see his gift is still intact. The collar of grouse feathers seems small and drab. Stupid, he thinks, but girls like such things. He'd seen his sister squeal for such a gift before.
Wrapping the tote over his shoulder, he begins to push his way through the crowd.
"Make way for his grace the prince!" Peremore Hightower shouts, falling in beside him. But amid the noise, little can be heard. One tall knight slams into Joffrey, nearly knocking him back off his feet. The prince's face turns beat red and he lurches forwards to chase down the man when a heavy mailed hand pulls him back.
"You heard the lad!" The Hound roars. "Clear a damn path."
At that thunderous command, at once the crowd parts before them like the tides. People should listen to me like that, Joff thinks, fuming. Don't they know I'll be their king one day? Lowering his head, he stomps across the cobblestones, but finds three who are still in his way – Lord Renly, Edric Storm, and Ser Balerion Horpe, the huge knight looming in tattered white robes near as tall as the Hound himself.
"Congratulations on your hunt, your grace," Renly smiles. "We heard you killed the stag yourself."
"I did," Joff boasts proudly. "Its skin shall hang in the Great Hall."
"I should love to hear tell how you did it," Edric adds. "And of the boar, too. How fairs Father?"
"As strong as ever, bastard," Joffrey looks disdainfully at his half-brother, irritated that he must now look up at him. They have both grown much since his last visit to Storms' End, but Edric has grown a half a head more in the same time.
"Joffrey!" The boys turn to see Tommen run clumsily toward them, Myrcella close behind and Queen Cersei following them both gracefully. The prince barely pays Tommen any mind, but Renly drops down to embrace his nephew.
"Do you remember Edric, Tom?" he asks. The little prince squints.
"The storm boy?" he asks with a squeak.
"That's right," Edric laughs. But by that point, Cersei has reached them, and her face darkens coldly when she sees the bastard.
"Lord Renly, just what do you think you're doing, bringing that bastard here?" the queen pulls Renly aside with a violent tug. He indignantly tears himself away from her grip. "You know I've forbidden him to set foot within these walls."
"Leave me be, Cersei," Renly hisses. Ser Balerion looms forward, towering over the both of them, and Cersei takes a nervous step back. He continues in a hushed tone. "You'd best mind your tongue. You're running low on friends."
In a huff, Cersei turns away, straining to maintain composure. "Ser Meryn!" she commands the nearest Kingsguard. "Take me to the king!"
Ser Meryn guides her through the crowd, passing through servants and Reach knights alike in his glistening white plate. Mind full of angry thoughts, she wipes sweat from her brow, adding the sun to the list of those she will curse today. At last, she spies the king. Robert looks half a fool, she thinks, propped up on a crutch, leg in a splint. And surrounded by the Reach. She adds Renly to that list twice over to see that. Filling the court with bastards and Tyrells. Nothing good will come of it.
"Your grace!" she shouts. "We must speak!"
"Not now, woman!" Robert waves her away and begins to hobble off in the opposite direction, his new train of lords toeing the line like eager ducklings. With a curse, Cersei watches him vanish into the Keep. Turning back, she looks to where she left Joffrey. Renly is gone, replaced by the Stark girl.
Sansa, nervous, holds a velvet pouch behind her back as she approaches her betrothed. When Joffrey turns to see her, though, she is caught off guard to see the dark purple bruise on the side of his face.
"Your grace, you're hurt!" she gasps.
"It's nothing," he assures her, puffing out his chest. "I was only training with Ser Urrigon and Peremore last night in the camp. He got a lucky blow. Lord Randyll Tarly said that I will make a fine knight, and he is the greatest commander in the Reach. He's the only man to ever beat Father in the field."
"How brilliant!" Sansa's face flushes. High praise indeed, she knows, for she had heard her own father speak of Lord Tarly's prowess. "And a very great hunter, too! You must tell me how you killed the white stag! I would very much love to see it!"
"Of course," Joffrey beams. "But first, the stag is not the only thing I met in the hunt." He reaches into his bag and removes the collar of ink black feathers. "The grouse was easy to kill, but I knew it would look grand around your neck."
"Your grace is too kind," Sansa blushes as the prince leans forward to fasten the collar around her neck. "I have a gift for you, as well."
"Oh, you do?" Joffrey pulls back as she presents the pouch and produces a near-identical grouse collar, only larger, with brown feathers. Nervous, she stretches her arms out to place her gift around his neck as he had his. At first, he flinches away, but calms, allowing her to gently reach around to tighten the clasp. "How does it look?"
"Regal," she declares, believing it with every fiber of her being. "I took the grouse myself, on my own hunt, and sewed the collar as well."
"You? Killed this?" Joffrey asks incredulously, pointing to the feathers at his neck. Sansa nods meekly, and a thin smile forms on his face. "How very fierce of you. It seems we must go hunting together some time. The grouse shall never recover." With a flourish, he bends down and lifts her hand to his lips for a kiss. Sansa's heart flutters at the touch, until she sees the queen marching angrily toward them.
"Joffrey, I need speak to you at once," she commands her son. "In private." At first, the prince moves to follow without hesitation, but as he turns, Peremore subtly catches his elbow.
"Your grace, we were only just beginning to tell Lady Sansa of how we tracked the white stag," he states plainly, and Joffrey's demeanor quickly shifts.
"Yes, mother. We can speak later," he declares, straightening his back as defiance flashes in his green eyes. "Come, my lady," he extends his arm to Sansa. "Let us get away from these crowds." Together, the three youths walk off, with the Hound in tow. Livid, Cersei storms out of the yard, barely noticing Lyman Darry as the squire attempts to slink away unnoticed from the army of well-wishers hoping to see the boy who had saved the king.
"Lyman, wait!" Edward calls out, finally having caught up to his friend.
"Not now, Ed," he keeps walking. "It's been a long ride, and the king's chambers need prepared."
"I can help!" Edward offers eagerly, but Lyman only shakes his head and ducks into a servant's entrance.
"I just need to be alone right now!" He shuts the door between them.
Confused, Edward stands alone for the moment. For a moment, he worries that Lyman is still angry about their fight. But that was near over a moon ago, and this seems different, like a great invisible burden bears down on the squire's back. As Edward ponders this, he spies Arya slinking away up a narrow, forgotten stair nearby. Remembering Maester Gaheris' words, he sighs and follows his twin into the shadow.
Edward finds Arya sitting on a parapet, legs dangling over the edge of the wall.
"Thinking you're going to fly back to Winterfell?" he asks, and gets a glare in response.
"If I could get Nymeria free, she'd carry me all the way back home."
"I'd come too, on Tessarion."
"No, you wouldn't. You won't leave the princess. You're one of them now. Just like Sansa. We should have left when Father wanted. We don't belong here."
"They're not so bad when you get to know them," Edward takes a seat beside her, remembering all the times they had perched together in Winterfell. She only scoffs. "I'm sorry. For everything. It wasn't your fault, what happened. I stole Joffrey's sword, but I blamed you."
"Well, that's the one thing he did get right," Arya smirks. "It was your fault."
Embarrassed, Edward's hand instinctively reaches to touch the jagged scar on his face. He remembers the prince looking over him with his sword. "He could have killed me. But you saved me. You always did. And I never thanked you."
"Well, you can start now."
"Thank you," he slides a bit closer. And it's true. He hadn't wanted to say it, whether it was pride or fear, but he was wrong. Gaheris had been right. This was his pack, and a pack should always trust each other. He realizes he is beginning to cry. "I'm afraid," he admits for the first time since the bells had first tolled the sound of war. "What if Father doesn't come back?"
"Father's going to be alright," Arya insists as Edward rests his head on her shoulder, their matching hair blending together. "He's going to bring the Mountain's head on a spike and then we can all go home and see Mother and Robb and Bran and Rickon and I will train with Syrio and we'll never have to see Joffrey or another Lannister or any of those stupid lords and ladies ever again."
"You're right," Edward agrees, and for the first time he does not think of Myrcella. "Everything is going to be fine, just like it should be."
When Ned comes to, Harwyn is kneeling over him. There had been no dreams as he lay unmoving on the battlefield, and for that he was grateful. There had been nothing at all. He had almost believed he was dead. The septons preached of eternal rewards for the righteous, but all Ned prayed to find when his days were done was peace. But his days were not done. There are still wars left to wage.
"Edric! Where is he? Is he alright?" He barely thinks before the first words reach his lips.
"Little Lord Ned will be fine," another voice answers, not Harwyn's. Ned squints into the sun and sees Ser Marq Piper towering over him. "That bastard Wylde knocked him about a bit but left him alive."
"And where is Ser Gladden now?" Ned rises to his feet, shakily. Harwyn leans down to support him, but he pulls away to stand on his own. I must stay strong, or we will falter. He wipes his aching brow, and the hand comes away sticky with sweat and blood.
"Gone," Ser Karyl Vance reports, looking grimmer than ever. "Once he'd sent the Dayne boy tumbling, he came back to finish the job with you, my lord. But he found you surrounded, killed a rider and fled. Craven." The knight spits on the name.
"What are our losses?" Ned looks about at the bodies strewn about the gully. "What are their's?"
"We haven't finished the count," Karyl shakes his head. "Lord Mallery's dead, that much is for sure. They killed him first. The first of many. It was a route, until Lord Beric and the red priest fell on them from the rear. They're still chasing down the survivors. But I fear we've lost near half of our men."
"Damn!" Ned cannot help himself. How could I be so foolish? "And the Mountain?"
"Never here," Harwyn growls. "He split his men, it was a trap from the start."
"If that damn scout of Wylde's wasn't already dead, I'd kill him myself," Marq declares with thinly controlled fury. "A good man takes his secrets to the grave!"
"Given Ser Gladden's current situation, I think it likely it was not just his dead scout who divulged our movements," Karyl moves to calm his friend.
"Take me to the Dayne boy," Ned commands, stifling a weary sigh. "Ser Karyl, finish counting the dead and wounded. Harwyn, ride like the wind and bring back Lord Beric. I will not have his men fall into another trap. When he is returned, I will decide the next move."
As night falls on the capital, the wooden thudding of King Robert's crutch in splint echo down the hall to the Small Council Chamber, his knights and councilors nervously stepping in line behind him.
"Your grace," Grand Maester Pycelle gasps for breath, struggling to keep up even at Robert's hampered pace. "Surely this can wait until the morning? You must get to bed, I must see to your wounds. I do not know the maester at Wendwater and…"
"His grace will rest when he chooses, Pycelle," Renly interrupts as Ser Arys and Ser Boros rush to fling open the doors into the chamber. "And you have other matters to attend to. Maesters Gaheris and Belforth can tend to my brother's wounds."
"Lord Renly, I must protest! It is the duty of the Grand Maester to tend to the king!"
"Aye, just as it was your duty to tend to Jon Arryn!"
"Oh, will you all shut up!" Robert shouts. "What is this, my council or a flock of bloody hens, pecking each other's' eyes out? While I've been gone, you've let these damned kingdoms of mine fall into war!"
"Brother," Renly protests. "You know we had naught…"
"I bloody well know you had naught to do with it! You've naught to do with anything, save filling this city with roses. Ned was the only one who gave a damn! We are at war! Where are my warriors? Which one of you has e'er won a battle, aye? This is a war council now and… aaaaaaaahhhhhhh!"
With a scream of pain, the king lurches forward, his splinted leg sliding limply in one direction while the crutch falls in another. Barristan and Arys rush to his side but he violently pushes them back, falling down into his chair with a crash so heavy it seems liable to shatter the wood. But the chair does not break, and the chamber falls into a deep silence, all eyes on the king, wheezing for breath and face red as a beat in pain.
"Your grace," Pycelle is the first to cautiously speak. "About Lord Stark… Given that this conflict arose from a dispute between his family and the Lannisters, I think perhaps, er, it may be prudent for you to, say…"
"Spit it out, ye daft old man," Robert slams his fist on the table. Pycelle rushes to speak, but chokes on his words. "I know what you want. You want to tell me that Lord Stark cannot serve as Hand in this matter. What should I do of it? Strip him of his title in the field? That would be the death of him!"
"I fear the Grand Maester may be right," Varys shuffles forward. "If we wish to avoid further bloodshed, the crown must be seen as impartial to this dispute."
"There are many great lords in the city," Renly suggests. "Trusted men. Lord Tyrell, perhaps."
"Mace Tyrell?" Robert bursts into laughter. The council stands by awkwardly, unsure of how to respond. "If I ever have a wall I need sat upon, then send me Mace Tyrell. But no, you tell me I need an impartial judge? The one man of honor in this city is out there, bleeding for me, and you tell me he will not do? Then there is only one other, and he's across the bay, perched on that gods-forsaken rock I gave him."
Renly's face turns pale and Pycelle's eyes bulge out. "Your grace, do you mean…"
"Send a raven. Send twenty. I will have no more excuses, no more missed messages. Beg, bargain, whatever you will but tell my brother he is to return to my council or be charged with treason! It's time we set things to right. And by the gods, I need a hard hand to do it. I need Stannis."