The solemn chants of septons echo in the hall of the Red Keep's sept, ancient words to guide the dead. Lancel Lannister, first born son and heir to Ser Kevan Lannister, lies here – born too low to rest in the Great Sept of Baelor, but Queen Cersei would accept nothing less for her cousin, even when the High Septon had protested that those who take their own lives do not deserve such honors.
The moat spikes had gracefully spared the lad's head, and his pale face and golden hair look serene, even as his fierce green eyes are closed forever, covered by painted stones. Here, lying upon his bier, it is as if he'd never been crippled and instead died a knight, as he'd always wanted to be.
The king is nowhere to be seen, but Queen Cersei stands, stern and unyielding of any outward signs of grief, her children clustered around her as the line of nobles file by to pay their respects and offer their prayers. The Stark children join them, under Septa Mordane's watchful eye. The news had come to them over dinner the day before. Lancel's body had been found that morning. Sansa had never cared for Lancel, but she had cried then, nonetheless. But today, Joffrey and Myrcella remained as dry-eyed as their mother. I must as well, Sansa thinks. I must be strong.
Her grim black mourning dress scratches at her skin. It was new; Septa Mordane had made it herself, starting the day they had left Winterfell. When Sansa realized what it was, she was angry, knowing that the septa must certainly have made it thinking that Bran would die. But Bran had woken up, and the old woman had sworn it was only because Sansa had outgrown her old mourning clothes. But then the dress had been finished the day before word broke of war between the Riverlands and the West. Then, Sansa had seen it as a foul omen and locked the thing away like a mad dog, terrified that when first she would be called to wear it, it would be Father on the beir. But the call had come for Lancel instead.
"So tragic when a life is lost so young," Varys sighs as he slips be. Sansa's nose crinkles at his perfume. She nods her head, carefully and courteously, and he is gone, replaced by another in the long line of nobles, each offering their own slight variation of the same condolences. Sansa keeps a close eye on the royal family, especially Myrcella and Cersei. I must learn to look like them. When people see me, they should see the next queen. And so she copies every small, sad smile, every dip of the head, every response to each guest in the never-ending line.
"How are you feeling?" Lord Baelish asks the Starks when his turn comes.
Fearing some crass response from Arya, Sansa gives the twins no time to respond. "We are all very sad. Lancel was very brave and very strong. He would have made a good knight." Baelish faintly smirks at her. He knows I don't believe it, she realizes, and says no more.
"If there is anything any of you need, always know you can come to me," he assures and slips into place behind them, hands resting gently on Sansa and Edward's shoulders as the line goes on. Next to come is Renly, alongside Mace and Loras Tyrell; Edric Storm is close behind, with Ser Balerion Horpe as-ever towering over him. Even when kneeling before the lit candles, the massive knight in his tattered white visage is taller than the boy he is sworn to protect.
"Why does he wear that?" Arya asks.
"Ser Balerion?" Baelish answers. "He is a Horpe. Their house breeds the most hardened warriors in all the land, or so they say. They forsake the armor of knights for the humble rags of the Stranger, for they believe that hiding behind steel makes a man weak."
That's stupid, Sansa thinks. A knight ought to wear armor. And what kind of lord would name their son after a dragon? Though as Balerion lumbers by, towering ominously as Renly, Edric and the Tyrells pay their respects, she must admit it is fitting.
It seems the whole court and then some have come to the sept today. All save one. The king will not be coming, that much had been made clear. It was said that his injury prohibited it, but it had not prohibited him from coming to the feast. Sansa suspects that he wishes to spite Cersei. It is clear that he and the queen are fighting. She had even noticed the Baratheon children's guards had changed, the old Westermen replaced by newly come men of the Reach. All couples fight sometimes, Sansa supposes. But it was cruel to do it so publicly. Joffrey would never treat me like that.
As the funeral drags on, the septas sing, the septons preach, the guests repeat the same phrases again and again and Sansa prays her legs will not give out. But as she grows weary, and Arya grows bored, Sansa notices that Edward seems to be glowing, barely maintaining his obligatory somber façade, as if he has won some great prize. Seeing her brother happy makes her happy, and she finds the strength to stand a little longer. She can only hope that his excitement comes from finally accepting a betrothal to Heleana and not some mystic chase that will come back to hurt them all…
The funeral at last ended, as the final guests file out, a shrouded man steps forth from the shadows. His feet are light, barely making a sound as he approaches the bier, past where Lyman Darry and Alyn Ambrose stand vigil over their fellow squire. But he catches the attention of one remaining septon, who looks with questioning disdain at the hunched over figure in poor robes.
"And who are you?" he asks with a pious air.
"Only a humble servant, your holiness. But I knew the boy well."
"Very well. Then be quick of it." The septon turns to leave, but not before leaning over to Lyman on his way out. "Keep a close eye on that one. Be sure he is no thief."
But as the man nears the body and the face comes into view, he slowly drops to his knees. Ser Kevan Lannister cannot bear to look upon his son's body, his eyes clenched shut to hold back tears. A lion does not cry. But a lion ought not bury his son, ought not be forced to mourn in secrecy. Kevan's hands clench the edge of the bier, tighter and tighter as the veins turn dark, as if trying to tear open the stone and let free the soul that must be trapped within. From within his chest rises a muted, strangled but defiantly strong roar of grief.
The noise catches Alyn and Lancel's attention, but they take no steps towards the mysterious old man as he rises slowly back to his feet. At last, Kevan looks down upon Lancel's face. A golden lion. What could have brought you to this? He almost reaches out to touch the pale, cold skin, but stops. No mere servant would presume so much. He tries to remember the last time he had touched his son. He cannot, and he bites his tongue, determined to shed not another tear. Tywin would not cry, that much he knew, even if Jaime were taken away. And he must harden his resolve, must be more like Tywin, or else more Lannister blood will be spilled. I will hold you again, my son, he silently vows. When this war is won, I will lower you to your tomb beneath the Rock with mine own hands.
Finally turning away, he sees one of the squires standing vigil, a dire look upon his face. He knows him by the sigil on his chest – Lyman Darry, the one who Lancel had ridden against when he fell. Now Lancel is dead, and Lyman the heir to Harrenhal. He stops for a moment, looking at the boy. Cersei would cast the blame on him. But Kevan can find no hate in his heart. Those who play at knighthood know the risks. Sometimes they fall.
Without a word, he lowers his head and disappears back into the shadows of the Keep.
The next day, King Robert awakes in his bed, shook from his slumber by the pangs of pain that return to his leg as the last night's milk of the poppy wears off. We should have just hacked the whole thing off, he grimaces. Better to live with a stump than with a leg that gives nothing but hurt. He hears the rattle of maester's chains in the room. Rubbing the drowsiness from his eyes, his vision clears – Gaheris. The one thing Renly's meddling had been good for. Robert has never trusted old men, nor weak ones; he would much rather be tended to by the younger, auburn-haired maester than doddering old Pycelle.
"The king is awake," Gaheris calls to the servants outside the room before moving closer to examine the leg. Robert clinches his teeth as he loosens the straps of the splint, revealing the mottled, bruised skin beneath. Gently, the maester lifts a cool rag from a bol of water to softly clean the wound. "Your grace, did you sleep well?"
"I never do," Robert grumbles, ending with a yawn.
"In the night, you called out. A name. Rhaegar."
Robert's eyes turn cold. "I killed him again. I have more times than I can count. Some nights the fight is different, some nights we meet in a new place. But it always ends the same. I crush the bastard's chest, I send the rubies flying, his blood flows like the river. And then…" He stops.
"And then?"
"Nothing," Robert quickly pulls back any vulnerability. "Rhaegar is a ghost, no, not even a ghost. He's a nothing, a half a memory. The only real things about him were eaten by worms years ago. And now they tell me Viserys has joined him. Only one little girl left before the dragons' curse is finally gone from this world."
"The girl." Finished washing, Gaheris begins to tighten the splint again. "Princess Daenerys?"
"Princess of nothing!" Robert shouts, lurching upright before collapsing back onto his pillows in pain. "She's naught but a Dothraki whore, now, and a dead one too, soon! Varys' men will see to that. It could have been done already! It takes ages for word to cross the Narrow Sea."
"Perhaps." Gaheris stands, tugging fiercely on the final strap. Robert winces. "Perhaps then your dreams will end, your grace. And the dragons will trouble you no longer." The maester lingers for a moment longer, staring down at the king. Robert looks up from his bed. The man's eyes are different now, clearer, almost accusing. And in the piercing blue, he almost swears he sees specks of a haunting purple.
"Bring me milk of the poppy and send Lyman in. I must dress and eat, the council will be here soon."
At that, Gaheris leaves at once, flinging open the curtains and letting in the bright light of morning to wash away the ghosts of the night.
I sent her to you, Lyman remembers the king's words. Every night since, he has feared he would find some other daughter of another grasping, dishonored lord sent to his chambers. It has not happened. Yet.
But who am I to judge, he thinks. Am I really so different? He was already facing the prospect of one bastard. And what had he done then? Drunkenly fallen into bed with two more girls. For all he knows, they'll each have a bastard of their own soon enough. Silently cursing himself, Lyman nervously cracks his neck. He stands at attention at the entrance to the king's chambers, awaiting the council. To his left is Ser Boros, to his right, Ser Barristan himself. He finds himself wondering- if he cannot ask Robert for advice, then perhaps the first man he squired for? No one doubted the honor and chivalry of Barristan the Bold. But he could never bring himself to say the words. It would only confirm the judgement the Lord Commander had passed down upon him when he was cast off as his squire.
You must hate this, Lyman tries to peer at the old knight's face beneath his helm. You called me unworthy, and the king made me squire. Now I'm a hero, and the heir to Harrenhal. But you were right all along, weren't you?
The approach of footsteps and voices from down the hall is a welcome respite from his own thoughts. The councilors have arrived. First Littlefinger, prompt as ever with his long strides. Then Varys, with Pycelle shuffling along behind him. Renly was last, in the company of Lord Mace Tyrell, who had taken to following Renly to the meetings without having ever been formally given a seat. For Renly's part, he has taken to wearing a green cape over his black and gold Baratheon ensemble.
Lyman swings open the heavy oaken doors and nods at each in turn as they pass within. Robert is already seated at the head of the great wood table he had ordered hauled here to spare him the long walk to the Small Council Chamber. His crown is crooked and a goblet of wine in his hand.
"Good morn, brother!" Renly beams, swinging aside his cape with a flourish as he sits.
"It will be a good morn only when this war is over," Robert scowls. "And not a moment before."
Lyman pulls out Pycelle's chair for him, the Grand Maester coughing as he awkwardly lowers himself into it. "Your grace, to begin, I must broach some matters raised by her highness Queen Cersei. She has concerns about recent changes in the guard…"
"That is a matter for another day," Robert scowls. "This is a war council. We are here to end this rebellion in the cradle, not dawdle about after my wife. Varys, what word have you?"
"The young Stark boy and his army are making good time in their march," the eunuch reports. "They were last camped at Moat Cailin. We expect them to reach The Twins within the fortnight."
"Will the Freys object to their passage?" Littlefinger asks.
"They march under the edict of the king's peace. To deny them would be treason."
"But treason does seem to be growing like weeds these days."
"The late Lord Frey? Ha!" Robert laughs and beckons for more wine. "He sat on his arse the whole rebellion and only joined me once I'd won. He's only grown more craven in the years since. He would not dare defy me now."
"This Robb Stark," Mace awkwardly interjects with a raise of his hand, to the surprise of all. "He cannot even be a man grown. Who is truly commanding the northern army?"
"Lord Jon Umber I hear is close to young Robb's side at all times. Lords Glover, Bolton, Hornwood and Karstark all march with him. Ser Helman Tallheart and the Lady of Bear Island as well." A befuddled look crosses Mace's face, clearly having never heard of any of the named commanders.
"Fierce warriors all," Robert bellows, seemingly only just now realizing that the Lord of Highgarden has inserted himself into the council. "Tywin's men won't stand a chance. They'll reinforce the Tully blockade of the Golden Tooth and we'll lead our own army from the south. Tywin will have nowhere to go but scampering back beneath the Rock with his tail between his legs!"
"There is the matter of the second western army," Varys adds. "We believe Lord Rolland Crakehall has that command. They are marching down the Gold Road, planning to surround the Tully forces no doubt. We are not sure of their numbers, but the force is at least as large as Tywin's."
"Crakehall is a reasonable man," Robert tugs at his beard agitably. "Our army should intercept him when he turns north and parlay. Talk sense to him and spare any more bloodshed."
"Lord Crakehall will listen to me," Renly offers. "I will lead the army."
"You will do no such thing," Robert chuckles. Renly balks. "Lord Tarly will lead. A good talker, that you are, but you've never fought a battle in your life."
"You said that you wanted to end this before blood was shed!"
"And if we cannot?" The king's voice rises, beginning to strain with agitation. "An army is an army, no matter the outcome. And an army needs a strong commander, a tested commander. That is not you. I should lead the men myself."
"And yet you can scarce even rise from that chair."
The room falls silent at the insult, all eyes nervously pivoting from one brother to the next, then back again. Robert's huge fists grip the end of the table as if he is trying to break it in two, his eyes shooting murderous glares down at Renly, who straightens his back and crosses his arms defiantly, unmoved.
Varys finally attempts to intercede. "Your grace, may I…"
"Silence, eunuch!" Renly snaps. "I am your blood, a Baratheon just like you. It is only you and I and Stannis and where is he? He's gone, no response to your summons, but I am here to serve you. And yet you deny me? I should have handled this from the beginning, but we've wasted time while Ned Stark chases himself in circles and you get crippled by a bloody boar!" With a shove, he stands, staring down at Robert, challenging him to do the same. "By the gods, someone has to put down the Mountain and put Tywin Lannister in his place. And not just anyone, a Baratheon, or else that crowned stag is nothing but a piece of fabric draped on a throne, sending underlings to do its bidding!"
"If it's glory you want, ride forth!" Robert heaves himself to his feet, sending his chair crashing to the floor, his face puffing red in barely concealed pain. "I will not stop you! Challenge the Mountain to single combat if you wish! But you will not have this command! Randyll Tarly is our greatest commander, he will lead the army with Urrigon Hightower at his side. Whether or not you will join them is your decision alone! That is my final word!"
As the king finishes, he looks down at his councillors. Littlefinger and Varys remain unflinched, but Pycelle is quivering in his seat while Mace Tyrell is agape. Renly does not wait a moment longer to storm from the chambers, slamming the door behind him. Robert pounds his fist on the table. "This counsel is ended! Be gone, all of you!"
The king remains standing until all the nobles have made their hasty exits. Only then does he allow Lyman to help him back to bed. "Find Lord Tarly and Ser Urrigon. Send them to me. I want them to be on the march within two days."
"At once, your grace. Is there anything else you need?"
"Rest," Robert shudders, the outburst having drained him of his strength. "I need rest…"
In Renly's chambers, it sits, right where Ser Balerion left it – the fabled war hammer of Robert Baratheon. The huge, grim Horpe knight had carried it easily enough, all the way here from Storm's End. Once, Renly had sworn to Loras that he did not need the hammer. Its blunt force was all Robert – brutish and unsparing. But Renly was different, a fine-tipped sword. For years he had told himself that the people would see him as his own man, better than the buffoon they had crowned. A cruel twist of fate that Robert had been born first, born to chase glory and reap the rewards of it while Renly, yet a small lad, was left to nearly starve under Mace Tyrell's siege of their home. Now he was forced to grovel at Mace's feet just to stand a chance at the power he knows he deserves. The power he knew he deserved ever since the siege.
Sometimes he would still dream of those dark days. He was atop the parapets, in the arms of the blacksmith, Donal Noye, back when Noye still had two arms. Stannis did not want him in sight of archers, but the smith, he had known it was good for a child to see the world beyond his walls. And there, a cold wind crushing down from over the bay, shivering in dirty, ragged clothes, his stomach screaming with hunger, Renly had watched the army below. The Tyrells had erected a lavish spectacle of feasting, drinking, games and singers, even a troupe of mummers, all within sight of the walls of Storm's End. It was a mockery. But to young Renly, it was paradise, for he was surely in a hell.
That was his earliest memory. He has no recollection of his parents – Mother and Father were naught but a cold, lifeless portrait hung on a lonely wall, staring at him as he slept in their bed. But he would never forget that day – The day he saw what power was. And realized, at only five years old, that he had none of it. There had been a hole in him ever since. A hole that not even Storm's End could fill. A hole that Robert dug a little deeper with every jape, every slight, every digressed courtesy.
With a grunt, Renly wraps his smooth hands around the handle of the warhammer. He tugs upwards with all of his strength, the muscles in his back stretching tight, his arms straining, bulging with the effort. Harder and harder he pulls as slowly the absurdly heavy weapon rises from the earth. But as soon as the rise begins, it crashes back down with a thud. Renly throws himself away, panting.
Patience, he had told himself. First end the war, defeat the Lannisters, and then make your move. But every day was a new insult, a new setback, more scalding coals heaped upon his head. If chaos is to be had, let there be chaos, so long as I win. Damn Littlefinger, damn Ned Stark, damn them all! Renly Baratheon is done waiting.