"He wanted to be a knight," Ned Stark recalls, looking down at Alyn's body. A light drizzle of rain falls from a gloomy sky over the Riverlands as his party buries their dead. The small drops fall like tears onto Alyn's blood-stained face. He looks like he's crying.
"You could knight him now, m'lord," Ser Marq Piper notes. "He died nobly."
"It is not my place," Ned shakes his head. "I do not pray to the Seven. I could scarce prescribe their vows." Lord Mallery could have, the man was devout enough, but that had not saved him from joining the dead. He looks about at his men. Lord Darry still shakes from the shock of battle, he would never do. "Lord Beric?"
A sheepish look falls over the young lord's face. "I fear I do not recall the words."
"I do." Edric Dayne steps forward, a fresh bandage still wrapped tight around his head. Ned had almost forgot – Lord Beric's squire is a lord himself, e'er since his parents were killed in a rockslide five years ago. The boy walks slowly towards the body as the rain darkens his lilac cloak. The other men kneel in respect to the ceremony as he approaches. He silently draws his sword and lowers it to Alyn's right shoulder.
"Alyn of Winterfell, I, Edric Dayne, in my authority under the Seven and King Robert Baratheon, First of his Name, as Lord of Starfall, Defender of the Torentine and Watcher of the Dawn, pledge you to the sacred order of knighthood." The boy begins, his words shaky at first, and pale blue eyes watery. This was his first battle, Ned thinks. He's like to have never seen a dead man before. But as he continues in the vows, his voice grows stronger and more sure.
"In the name of the Warrior I charge you to be brave. In the name of the Father I charge you to be just. In the name of the Mother I charge you to defend the young and innocent. In the name of the Maid I charge you to protect all women. In the name of the Smith, I charge you to stand strong against evil. In the name of the Crone, I charge you to be wise in all your dealings. In the name of the Stranger, I charge you to keep these vows until your death.
"Alyn of Winterfell, do you swear before the eyes of gods and men to defend those who cannot defend themselves, to protect all women and children, to obey your captains, your liege lord, and your king, to fight bravely when needed and do such other tasks as are laid upon you, however hard or humble or dangerous they may be?" Edric stops, and silence falls, the only answer being the sound of the rain and wind rustling the leaves above. He takes a deep breath.
"Then rise as Ser Alyn of Winterfell, and may your spirit follow the Stranger into the next life, where you will feast in the Father's golden hall."
He got his wish, Ned thinks as the drops of rain grow heavier. Will that comfort his mother? Ser Alyn of Winterfell died here, in service to his lord and the realm. How many more will join him?
In the wee hours of the morning, Lyman Darry prepares for the king to awake. The night before he had dreamed Cassanda Wendwater had come to him again in his bed. But when he awoke, the worries of the day returned and he hurried to work, hair unbrushed and clothes rumpled. He is in the washing rooms to fetch new linens for the bed when he sees Eliza.
The pretty young seamstress looks up from her washing basin. She looks different, Lyman thinks, but he can't tell why.
"What you're looking for is over there," she points to a shelf piled high with soft bedding. "Unless you're looking for me, of course." With a smile, she rises, letting her own linens fall limp in the basin. Her hands drip wet upon the cobblestones.
"The king needs his bedding," Lyman nods curtly and turns to the shelf, but Eliza moves quickly, wrapping her arms around him from behind.
"Didn't you notice?" she whispers in his ear. "I cut my hair. Do you like it?"
So that's what it was. "I… It looks very… nice." Lyman nervously shuffles through the stacked sheets to find the right ones. Before the hunt, he had been glad to throw off his worries with Eliza. But now, the weight of responsibility and fear bears heavy on his shoulders. And after an affair with a noble lady, the servant's flirtations no longer feel as appealing. But her enthusiasm, it is clear, is unwavering.
"That's not all that's changed," Eliza pulls herself tighter, resting her chin on his shoulder. "When you left, I think you may have left a small something behind. I haven't had my moonblood."
That is enough to catch his attention. Suddenly clutching the linens very tightly, Lyman pulls away from Eliza's grip. "You… you don't mean…."
"It's too soon to know for sure," she steps back, swaying flirtatiously, though the smile on her face now seems more of a mask than an invitation. "But I thought you should know."
"There are ways to make it not be," Lyman offers hesitantly, the words stumbling out. "I know, I've heard men speak of such things. The maesters, they have herbs, and if you put the right ones together, then you can..."
"For a noble lady, perhaps," Eliza scowls as Lyman begins to back out of the door. "Not for me."
"No, no, I'm the king's squire," Lyman insists. "I can fix this." He doesn't wait to hear her answer.
Outside the royal bedchambers, Lyman pauses to catch his breath, nervously straightening his hair. I cannot have a bastard, he thinks. Not now. After all that's happened, now this? I must have offended the gods in some way. Ser Mandon, on guard, silently tilts his white-helmed head. Lyman sees that the sheets, held tight to his chest, are wrinkled. Hoping it will go unnoticed, he softly opens the door. Surprisingly, Robert is already awake when Lyman finds him. He sits half on the bed, his splinted leg propped atop pillows, eyes bloodshot, hair and beard disheveled. But his face lights up to see the squire.
"Ha! Did you wet yourself, boy?" the king jeers. Caught off guard, Lyman looks down to see the crotch of his tan trousers still dark and moist from Eliza's wet-handed embrace.
"No!" he blurts. "Erm, no, your grace, the washing…"
Robert only laughs more. "You look like you ran a race to get here! What is worrying you so, boy? It's me they're trying to kill, not you!"
Lyman gulps at that thought. I'm the only witness of any suspicions, he thinks. They'd sooner kill me first. And then where would that leave Eliza? "There's a lot happening, your grace."
"Oh, gods, it's about time you call me Robert, boy!" the king bellows. "You're my squire, I'm to show you how to be a knight, or so they tell me. Anything you need, let me know. Now go fetch my clothes. I've summoned the council here, and I don't suppose I can display myself like this."
Setting the sheets down for the moment, Lyman hurries off to the king's massive oaken wardrobes, embellished with wooden stags, their gilded antlers the handles. Anything I need? Anything at all? Perhaps Robert can help. He can have the maesters make moon tea… He quickly selects an outfit – black trousers and doublet with yellow ermines – and rushes it back to the king. But as soon as he returns to the bed, he realizes his mistake. With the splint, the king will never fit into the trousers.
"The maesters brought me tunics," Robert grumbles. "They mean to dress me like Varys." Lyman hurries to find the loose garments, nearly tripping over a discarded wine bottle as he brings them back. "You'll age yourself years rushing about like that," Robert shakes his head, tugging the pale gold tunic over his head and shoulders. "You're the lad who saved the king from a mad boar. You deserve to take things easy."
"It was only my duty," Lyman answers, tugging the tunic down over the splint.
"Duty? Bah! You sound like Ned! No, you're a smart lad. And you'll be rewarded, don't you worry. That Wendwater girl was just the beginning."
For the second time that morning, Lyman freezes. "The what?"
Robert doesn't seem to hear his reaction. "And to think she came to me first! Can you believe that? I suppose her father sent her to win my favor, earn gold for repairing that crumbling castle of his. She was pretty enough, I suppose. But what does a highborn girl like that know of giving a man pleasure? She's just a child. The singers may praise the joy of maidens, but the charms of their cluelessness fade. A man needs a woman with experience!"
Unsure how to respond, Lyman nervously steps aside. "Lord Wendwater dishonored himself," he answers, quietly. "And his daughter."
"Aye, I suppose he did," Robert heaves his bulk up, with Lyman's shoulder for support, and begins to hobble across the room to the freshly replenished wine. "But his honor wouldn't have squeezed any more gold from me than his daughter did. Though I hope you enjoyed her."
"She was pleasant company, your grace." Lyman no longer feels the urge to ask the king's counsel on his predicament.
"Your grace, your grace," the king grumbles, splashing water up from his hand basin to clear his face, then taking a long drink of wine. "I have scores of men to heap my titles upon me every day, I won't take it from you. That's an order!"
"Of course… Robert. Should I fetch your meal?"
"No, I can eat later. The council will be here soon," Robert waves the thought away, thunking back to an overstuffed chair, flagon of wine in hand. He relaxes heavily, propping his injured leg upon an ebony footstool. "Tell me, what do you know of Harrenhal?"
"It's a castle," Lyman is confused by this new turn of conversation, still trying to rationalize the last revelation. "Half-ruined, but the largest in Westeros. It sits on the God's Eye. Some say it's cursed. The Whents rule there now, but I've never met one."
"Aye. Lady Whent is the last of her line. When she finally dies, there will be need for a new Lord of Harrenhal." Robert looks at him expectedly, but Lyman is lost. "That lord will be you. I'm naming you Whent's heir. I would have restored all the Darry lands your grandfather lost, but Pycelle tells me that would anger the lords I gave them to. So instead, Harrenhal."
This, after everything else… Lyman begins to feel faint. "I don't know what to say…"
"Then say nothing, and pour yourself a drink." Robert waves him off and Lyman, trying to hide his shaking hands, pours himself a goblet of Arbor Red, filled to the brim. He is cautiously sipping on it when Ser Mandon opens the door and Ser Barristan leads in the council – all, that is, save Grand Maester Pycelle.
"What troubles you so early in the morn, brother?" Renly yawns, strolling past Lyman to pour his own glass of wine. "And where is the Grand Maester?"
"This is a sensitive matter," Robert's voice turns grim. He looks up to Lyman, who, realizing what is happening, nervously gulps his drink, for what little it helps him to relax. "Lyman, tell my counsellors here exactly what you told me."
And so he does. He tells of everything, from Tyrek's determination to take his place as cupbearer, to his sneaking about the wine cellar, to the fly in the goblet, to the too-strong wine on the hunt and finally to Tyrek's disappearance after the accident. As he speaks, he watches the faces of his audience, though the men assembled are masters of concealing their own feelings. Once he has finished, there is a long silence.
"Surely there must be a rational explanation for all of this," Lord Baelish is the first to speak.
"Perhaps," Renly smirks. "But only from Tyrek Lannister, who seems particularly reluctant to give one. They say they found his clothes with a merchant in Wendwater. He could be dead. Or he could be halfway across the Narrow Seas."
"I must urge caution against making any rash decisions," Varys offers slightly.
"Ha! Me, rash?" Robert laughs disdainfully. "My Warden of the West is making war against my Hand, sending his mad dog to rape and pillage the people under my protection and now his nephew, my squire, nearly gets me killed by a boar. If there ever was a time for rash action, then it is now!"
"What do you wish us to do, then, your grace?" Varys asks.
"Quietly, Varys, examine those closest to Tyrek, starting with Lancel. Watch every move the Lannisters make and begin to bring Tyrell men above them in the guards. Especially around my children. I do not want them ensnared by the lions. And we shall see what we will find."
"Do you have anything else you'd like to add, Lord Renly?" Baelish prods at the Master of Law with expectant eyes.
"Not at the moment, no, I don't think so. What of the feast? Should we cancel?"
"No," Robert decides. "We must not arouse suspicions. The feast must go on."
In the yard of the Keep, for the first time since their family arrived in the city, the Stark twins are together once more. Arya Stark and Syrio Forel recline against the wall of the armory, watching as Edward Stark trains at swordplay with Ser Arys. Today, the yard is more crowded than ever, over-flowing with newly arrived knights, squires and men-at-arms from the Reach. Arya gnaws away at an apple as her twin continues to struggle against the knight. Despite all his training from the best of the Kingsguard, Edward's dueling is still clumsy and slow.
"The boy will never get better like this," Syrio finally speaks up.
"Do you doubt my swordsmanship, Braavosi?" Arys stops mid-fight, sending an unprepared Edward stumbling forward.
"No, of course not. Syrio Forel knows a good knight when he sees one. And you are a great knight, all men do say. But men are built each in their own way. And your boy here is not built like a knight." Syrio nods to Arya, who tosses her apple core into the air. With a flourish, the Braavosi neatly draws his thin sword and slices the core in half, catching both halves with his free hand. "The boy is built like a water dancer."
Edward looks up in awe, glancing back and forth between Syrio and Arya. But Arys is focused on the attention of his newly arrived older brothers, who have been watching his lesson from afar. "You would have him fight like a girl," the knight scoffs.
"No. I would have him fight like Syrio Forel."
"Yes!" Arya shouts. "Edward can train with us!"
Edward looks up expectantly to his knight, filled with the same rush of excitement he knew so well from back home in Winterfell, following along with his twin's latest plots. It feels good to be friends with Arya again. He can't believe he let one fight hold them apart for so long. But Syrio's flourishes have begun to draw a large crowd, and all eyes are on Ser Arys.
"Edward is my squire," he finally insists, wiping the sweat from his brow. "If, in his spare time, he wishes to train with you, he is more than welcome to. But for now, we must continue our work. Good day."
Arys pivots back and gestures Edward to resume. He takes his position, centering his stance, and tries to strike, but only receives a sharp smack on the back from Arys' blunted sword for his efforts. He stings, but more from the laughs he hears from the crowd than from the blow.
"That's enough of a show!" Arys yells at the others, chasing them away. Taking a deep breath, Edward steadies his feet once more and braces for the next hit.
"So what you're saying is the little golden heirs are bastards?" Leyla Hightower asks her sister, pouring a large glass of wine.
"Yes," Alysanne answers. "And the Lannisters killed Jon Arryn when he discovered the truth."
"Then who's the father?"
"The kingslayer, most like," Ser Gunthor interjects from where he lies sprawled on the corner lounge. His sisters glance at him, surprised. "What? You may be the smart ones, but I'm not blind. I met them once, you know, at a tourney. I know the look of a man in love with what he can't have. And two golden lions make three more of their kind."
"Sound logic," Alysanne nods. "And if we know, it is safe to say Lord Renly does as well. There is no other reason for his sudden interest in collecting Robert's bastards." She looks down at her cyvasse board, then back up to Gunthor. "Would you care for a game? Perhaps you would fare better than our sister."
"I never cared to learn," Gunthor declines, while Leyla scoffs.
"As I recall, you never cared to learn much of anything, besides swordplay," Leyla smirks in mock pity. "Too sharp a blade makes for a very dull boy, I say."
"So what do we do now?" Alysanne asks, looking to the window, her mind spinning scenarios within her head. "This is a scandal that could tear apart the kingdom, and we're already on the verge of total war. Should we tell Urrigon? Or Father?"
"I say it's none of our business," Gunthor insists. "Father sent us here for the boy, nothing more. Every time our family has deigned to play the game of thrones, the streets have been soaked with Hightower blood. Do what we came here to do, leave and Oldtown remains in peace. Don't trust this to ravens, nor to Urrigon. For what our cousin knows, his wife will soon know too."
"And then the whole court. Patrice is want to loosen her tongue when she is in her cups," Leyla takes a long drink. "And she is always in her cups."
"As if you have any room to speak on that," Alysanne smirks.
"No amount of wine can loosen these lips," Leyla boasts, guzzling down the rest of the goblet.
"No, they only loosen for cocks and pastries," Guntor laughs, rising. He tosses a pillow at his sister, who dodges it nimbly for a woman of her size.
"What else is there worth to pass?" Leyla shrugs. "The three great pleasures of life – food, drink and making love."
"So do you vote we remain quiet as well?" Alysanne asks, twisting a jade trebuchet in her palm disappointedly. "Maris already knows."
"She'll never tell her father," Leyla blithely empties the rest of the flagon of wine, following it up with a faint hiccup. "And the less we need deal with her the better. She gives me chills."
"It's settled then," Gunthor declares. "Now, we have a feast to attend to." He strides briskly out of the room, but Alysanne pulls Leyla back before she can follow.
"You truly agree with him?" she asks.
For a moment, Leyla's jolly face turns serious. She pries open her sister's palm to retrieve the trebuchet and gently places it back on the board. She sees that one of the elephants has toppled over, and shivers, thinking of her final parting with Ned Stark. "For now, what else can we do? You know the omens I've seen. A great darkness is coming to this city. We just have to make sure Edward Stark survives it."