A more befuddled look than usual falls over Mace Tyrell's face. He sits at a small table in Renly Baratheon's private solar, his son Loras sitting across from him, intently waiting a response. Renly himself stands tall behind Loras, arms crossed, staring down with all the gravity of the news he has broached. And Mace's bastard cousin, Garrett Flowers, leans beside a draped window, a smirk wriggling his thin mustache.
"So you say that the prince is not, in fact, the prince?" Mace asks slowly, processing the idea through his brain. "That all of Cersei's children are bastards? If that is, in fact, the truth, then King Robert has no true heir."
"Exactly," Loras gleams.
"Then, I..." Mace face scrunches up into a perplexed grimace as he tugs at his goatee. "I don't understand."
"Loras, must I explain to your lord father how bastards are made?" Renly smirks.
"No, no, I understand that, I can assure you!" Mace harrumphs, any joke soaring over his head. "What I don't understand is what you plan to do about it? There is no proof! And suppose that you did have proof, then what? Lord Tywin has already raised his armies in rebellion against the throne! If his grace were to set the queen aside and disinherit her children, there would surely be no hope for peace!"
"Who said anything about peace, father?" Loras shakes his head. "Tywin Lannister is not a man to be placated. He has wrapped his scheming claws around our kingdoms long enough. Now he goes too far. We must destroy him, and let a rose grow from the lion's ashes!"
"I, you... this is a dangerous game that you play. The queen has eyes and ears everywhere. If she even thought of what you say now..."
"Cersei has no power, I have seen to that," Renly insists. "Robert already suspects her of trying to have him killed in the woods. Most like she had that poor fool Lancel murdered too, to cover her tracks. If Tyrek is alive, he'd best stay hidden, or he'll end up on the spikes just like his cousin."
"You believe her a kinslayer?" Mace's eyes widen.
"What is kinslaying to a Lannister?" Garrett shrugs. "A family that drowns women and children in their homes? A family that would send mad brigands to rape and pillage innocent villages? Men who would kill the king they swore to defend with their life? They're all monsters. It will take a strong man to end their terror."
"Yes, yes, a strong man," Mace muses. Renly rolls his eyes. He means me, buffoon. We need naught but your name and your men. "Justice must be served, yes, that is very true. It is past time someone do something about this! Purge the court of the deceivers and the bastards. The king is still young, he may yet marry again, sire new sons. Perhaps Margaery..."
"My brother is very ill," Renly cuts him off. "He can barely walk."
"And all our prayers are with his recovery. But... but if he does not recover, he will need to name a new heir. Now, that Edric Storm, he was born to two highborn parents and raised under your care in Storm's End. Perhaps, if he were to be legitimized..."
"What? No!" Renly is taken aback, having only now considered that possibility. "Edric is still a bastard, just as much as Joffrey."
Loras interjects. "Unless Robert remarries and has a true heir, he must name one of his brothers. Renly."
"But Stannis is older..." Mace wrings his hands.
"Stannis is a cold, unyielding man. The people will never accept him," Garrett says. "And besides, the rumors wash across the waters from Dragonstone ever louder. Stannis' wife has brought some red witch of Asshai into their household. They say that every day she turns more men against the Seven and to her dark red god. It is only a matter of time before Stannis falls under her spell. Surely you agree no heathen may ever sit the Iron Throne?"
"Of course not!"
"Not to mention that Stannis has repeatedly refused dear Robert's commands to return to the city," Renly leans back, confidence restored. "If he is not bound to the king's demands, how can he be trusted as heir? No, it should be me. And, if I may have your blessing, I would take Margaery's hand in marriage myself."
Mace hesitates, glancing from Renly to Loras to Garrett and back again to Renly, who now towers over him, built like a tree in green in black. "I must speak to mother. And dear Alerie, of course. You must understand, Margaery is my only daughter, I must not part with her hand lightly."
"Of course not," Renly lets his intensity fade, lightly taking Mace's hand reassuringly. "But when I stand before the counsel to present the truth, will you stand with me? Do I have your trust in this? To bring justice to all those the Lannisters have wronged?"
"Yes. I will be by your side. For justice."
"For justice." Renly seems even taller as he takes that in. "I will see you later," he points to Loras before marching out from the room. Much more is still to be done, and ever less time. But as he exits Lord Tyrell's chambers, he finds Petyr Baelish waiting for him. "What do you want?"
"My lord, I know what you are planning and I must advise caution," Baelish whispers.
"I've had enough of caution," Renly shoves him aside. "You have done these kingdoms a great service by bringing these secrets to light, Lord Baelish. I will not forget that. But your services are no longer required in this matter. Go back to counting coins. Or whores, whichever you prefer."
"It's not the right time," Baelish hisses, hurrying along to match pace with the taller man's strides. "There are enemies everywhere, and the realm is unstable. Wait until the war has ended and his grace has recovered. Then all may be revealed in due time. If you move too quickly, without a proper plan, the consequences could be disastrous. And I must defend my own interests. If this goes wrong, I do not believe I could protect you, nor Ser Loras."
"Ha!" Renly snaps to a sudden halt. "Now that is a funny thought. I needing the protection of Littlefinger?" Baelish, agitated, begins to turn away but, the mirth disappearing from his face, Renly seizes his wrist and pulls him back in close until his breath is rolling hot over the Master of Coin's face as the thin man seems to whither within the crushing grip. "Do not forget your place, Lord of the Fingers. I have the power here, not you. It is you that need my protection. Do not forget that. Never forget that."
Ned Stark finds Lord Raymun Darry alone in his tent, half-dressed, staring out at nothing. The man has not been the same since the battle, and each day since Ned has grown more and more worried. Raymun is the only River Lord in his company, but in this state he will be at best no help and at worst a hindrance on the march.
Raymun had been the youngest son of Lord Aemon Darry. By the time Aemon went to the grave, he was his only son. An acolyte at the Citadel when his three older brothers had died at the Trident, Raymun had been hustled back home to marry a grieving widow. Until just a week prior, he had never seen bloodshed. He was no warrior. And now he was little else.
"I'm sending you back to Darry to raise more men," Ned commands, his voice startling Raymun, who turns back to look at him with wary, bloodshot eyes.
"My lord… I am sworn to your service!" He protests, though Ned can see he is relieved.
"And you will serve me best gathering more men. You may take a dozen on the ride." More than their party can spare, but he fears the rattled lord will never make the journey with less.
"I will not fail you, I swear, by the old gods and the new," Raymun kneels.
"I do not doubt you will succeed," Ned responds, though doubts he truly has in great supply. Once safe within the walls of Darry, will the man cowering at his feet be so eager to return to the frontlines? And if he does, what will he find? Should the king's men cross paths with The Mountain before reinforcements arrive, could they hope to stand a chance? As Ned leaves the tent, he finds Harwyn waiting for him, face dour. "What's wrong?"
"Lord Dondarrion and his men. There's talk of desertion. That drunken priest of Beric's saw some foul omen in the flames last night."
By the gods, not Beric too. The marcher lord was the only one of Ned's commanders remaining. "I will see to him. Go and gather all the surviving highborn men and all those nobly trained. When I am done, we must plan our march."
Beric's tent, dark black with silver and purple sashes, was usually overflowing with song and revelry. Even after the battle, the survivors had found drunken solace in the company of the brazen young lord and the unruly priest. But something has changed. Ned can feel it as he approaches – The life itself has been sucked out of the place, leaving a haunting emptiness behind. Finding no one on guard, he parts the entrance and slips inside.
There are no torches, no lanterns, no light of any kind. The openings have all been sealed, plunging the tent into darkness. Young Edric Dayne sits emotionless atop a stool, honing his master's sword, the steel the only sound in the space. Ned kicks aside an empty flagon as he sees Beric passed out, face down at his table, slick black cloak wrapped around his head like a suffocating blanket. And at the far end of the tent, lurking in the shadows, sits Thoros, cross-legged in the dirt, his crimson robes filthier than usual, stained by mud and soot.
"What's the matter here?" Ned asks, but gets no response. "Thoros!" He tugs at the priest's shoulder, turning his face to him. Thoros' eyes are bloodshot and weary. "Get up!" Moving slowly, he clutches his robes tightly around him as he rises, as if fighting off some personal winter. "What have you been telling the men? I understand that we serve different gods, Thoros, I have no ill will to you nor your Lord of Light. But the men are frightened. There is talk of desertion. I cannot afford such things, we are doing the king's work! What did you tell them?"
"I…. I…." Thoros stammers. "I told them nothing. The fire… the flames only spoke through me. So many years I japed and scorned my lord until now he comes in my stupor to make his demands. And it is too much!"
No wonder the men are unnerved, Ned thinks as the priest crumples back to the ground. He seems a completely different man than he was just a day ago. Whatever he thinks he saw, it was some foul omen indeed. "What did you see?"
With a flash, Thoros whips out his hand, seizing Ned by the wrist and violently pulling him down to stare madly into his eyes. "You, my lord! It was you in the flames, I saw you! You stood ablaze amidst the woods and the world caught fire with your every step! Doom! Doom!"
Ned tears himself free. "I will have no more of that talk, priest! See to it that you do not disturb the men further!" He marches swiftly back the way he came, eager to leave behind the dark tent. "Keep an eye on him," he commands Edric. "And see to it that Lord Beric is awake and ready when I call me council. We've stayed in this place long enough. We march today."
Doom, doom, echoes in Ned's head as he steps back into daylight. Just like Leyla Hightower had prophesied over him when he left the city. He scratches at his wrist where the priest had touched him, the spot inflamed with a queer warmth. But what can I do? I've sworn a vow. I can only move forwards. And hope that Marq Piper and Karyl Vance find more men.
Ser Marq Piper and Ser Karyl Vance cut a rough path on horseback through the vast forests of the Riverlands, two days south of the royal party's camp. Marq swats angrily at a swarm of gnats circling his blonde head, grumbling to himself while Karyl sits stoic and brooding, as he has for most of their journey.
"How about a song?" Marq tries to break the silence. "The Bear and the Maiden Fair?"
"The woods are full of ears," Karyl shakes his head.
"The brigands can't be bloody everywhere!"
"Perhaps not, but were any passerby to hear your singing, 'twould make them want to kill us all the same."
"Ach! Was that a joke?" Marq laughs. "You wound me! But it is a wound I shall bare proudly, if I may make the somber son of Wayfairer's Rest broach a smile!"
"Marq, stop." Karyl brings his horse to a halt.
"No, I think I've only begun! Now, just let me find my key…" Marq begins to sing. "A bear, there was, a bear a… no, that's not right."
"No, Marq, stop now!" Karyl hisses. Finally, the big knight turns back to look and, as he does, an arrow shrieks by the side of his head.
"Seven hells!" Marq shouts as his steed panics, reering up on its hind legs and sending him crashing to the ground. In a flash, Karyl draws his sword and raises his shield, quartered with the green dragon and black eyes of his house. But no more arrows come. Instead, the forest around them comes alive, trees and branches rustling furiously as a swarm of ruffians in haphazard rags and armor descends upon them.
"Such an audience come to hear my singing!" Marq draws his sword as he rises. "Though I swear, I make better music with this!" He jabs his blade in the direction of the closest foe.
"Lay down your sword," Karyl insists, letting his own fall, but keeping tight hold of the shield. "We're no good dead." Reluctantly, Marq paces in a circle, slowly taking in the surroundings – a dozen men at least, with bows, spears and swords. Finally, with a dejected look upon his face, he throws down his sword. At that symbol, the men part to let pass the one who must be their leader – a hooded man atop a huge, fearsome black destrier. A massive man with an unruly brown beard follows close behind on foot, retrieving the captured knights' swords from the dirt.
"What are you, more of the Mountain's men?" Marq spits at the feet of the bearded man as Karyl dismounts, two brigands taking the reins of his steed.
"Ha! Always the people ask us this!" The leader laughs down at them. He has a strange voice, elegant but strong, with a Bravossi accent that comes and goes from word to word. "I have heard of this man, The Mountain That Rides. I think I should like to meet him. I hope he will put up more of a fight than the two of you. Bind them!"
The men produce sturdy ropes and chains, drawing closer. Marq raises his gloved fists, growling at the enemy, but Karyl stares upwards, examining the mystery man.
"You won't hogtie me like some common thief!" Marq blusters. "Keep your dirty hands off me, brigands! I'll bind myself if need be!"
"That's no brigand," A look of realization dawns on Karyl as he pulls away from his captors to point at the band's shrouded leader. "He's no Bravossi, either. Just a poor excuse for a mummer. That's my goodbrother. Ser Addam Marbrand!" He turns back to the hairy man. "Which makes you Lyle Crakehall, the Strongboar!" The other ruffians cautiously draw back to try and shackle him once more, but the leader raises his hand to stop them. Slowly, he lowers his hood, revealing the square jaw, black hair and piercing blue eyes of Addam Marbrand, knight of Ashemark in the Westerlands.
"As clever as ever, Karyl," he smirks.
"I needn't be, with an accent as awful as that. Tell me, how many of you are knights?" Karyl scans the crowd for more familiar faces. "Was the Mountain getting a bit too mad for Lord Tywin's tastes? One too many dead babes on your doorstep? And you're here to clean up the mess?"
"Our mission is none of your business!" Strongboar barks.
"Treat them gently, Lyle," Addam chides his companion. "We'll take them back to the camp. Their fathers are on the frontlines, I am sure Lord Tywin will be pleased by their company. He is in need of bargaining chips."
Marq spits. "Traitors, the lot of you!"
That, the Strongboar cannot abide. He lands a heavy punch with a crack on Marq's jaw. "We are loyal knights and true! Loyal to Lord Tywin!"
"But not to King Robert?"
"King Robert betrayed our loyalty when he sided with his Hand after the Lady Stark kidnapped our liege's youngest son!"
"All this blood for the Imp?" Marq laughs, spitting again, this time stained with blood.
"Show more respect to the Lannister name, Piper, or I'll leave you without a jaw to spit with!" Strongboar bellows. "Take them away!" This time, the two knights do not wrestle away so easily, and are swallowed up by the trees, leaving naught behind but a stray glove.
Back in King's Landing, Heleana Hightower has joined the Stark and Baratheon children at their lessons. She had come to learn the language of the Summer Isles, but had stayed even after Jalabar Xo had finished his instruction, taking a seat beside Edward. A promising sign, Sansa thinks. They've gotten along much better, ever since the afternoon they spent in the Dragonpit with the direwolves. Though none of them had talked since of Hela's dire warnings of the dark magics her grandfather feared were awakening. Lord Leyton was mad, everyone said so. But Hela is only 11, of course she believes the stories. She doesn't know any better. Or at least Sansa hopes so. She certainly doesn't seem mad. But they say you can never really tell...
Edward, meanwhile, is trying to focus on Grand Maester Pycelle as the old man drones on and on about the types of trees found in the Kingswood. His thoughts stray time and again to direwolves and ancient battles. Though he had once taken pains to remember every tree of the North, those still wooden titans bore little interest to him now. Myrcella is as bored as I am, he notices, as much as he tries to pay the princess no heed. It was hard. Truth be told, he had only known her for a few months, but those months of pining had felt like years. Knowing she doesn't feel the same helped him move on. But it made it worse in some ways, too. Maybe one day, when I'm as old as Lyman, she'll look at me the way she does him. It didn't seem likely though. I'll never be that strong. Realizing he has stared at the back of Mycrella's golden head for too long, Edward glances sideways at Hela. She seems intent on the lesson, sketching out each leaf and seed on a parchment to remember. Finally, Pycelle stops to take questions.
"What manner of spirits live in the kingswood?" Joffrey blurts out, taking the maester by surprise.
"Spirits?" His sparse, white eyebrows arch. "What do you mean, your grace?"
The prince groans dramatically. "Spirits! Ghosts! Specters! Magic!"
"Your grace, we are here to learn of the things of this world," Pycelle sighs. "Real things, physical things." He raps his old hand on the table. "Such magical creatures may make fine tales for nurses to tell children in the night to fill their heads with dreams or to frighten them asleep, but that is all. There are no spirits in the Kingswood, nor anywhere else. Only us and the beasts and the trees. Speaking of which, the Ironwood..."
"You're lying!" Joffrey slaps his hand on his desk. "I want to learn about magic."
"Oh, your grace, please, if you do not wish to study, you may go and leave the other children to learn in peace."
"What if they want to learn about it too?" Joffrey crosses his arms defiantly. "What are you hiding, old man? I know you all wear Valyrian Steel on those stupid chains. You know all about the spirits but you won't tell us. I am the prince! And I command you!"
For a moment, there is silence. Why does he want to learn about magic? Edward wonders. He'd never known the prince to want to learn about anything.
"Grand maester, if I may?" Maester Gaheris steps forward from the back of the room. Pycelle gives him a murderous glare. "I studied closely with Archmaester Marwyn when I was at the Citadel. I have read much on the old ways and the legends."
"Marwyn is mad, and the old ways are just that. Legends!" Pycelle waves his underling away before turning back to Joffrey. He runs his bony hand along the links of his chain, each metal rattling as he goes along. Finally, he reaches one - a smooth, black steel that seems to ripple with reflected light. He holds it out for the prince to see. "Here is your Valyrian steel. You are right. All maesters must study the old ways. But not so that we may fill your head with wild fantasies. No. Before every maester takes their vows, they stand vigil with a glass candle. In those legends you speak of, sorcerers once made them glow with an impossible fire. I, like every acolyte before me and every one after, tried all night to light it."
"And you failed," Joffrey scowls.
"No. I did not fail. Because the lesson is not to light the candle. The lesson is to accept that some mysteries are out of reach, even for the greatest minds. There may once have been magic in this world, but like the glass candles, it has long since burnt out. Those that cannot accept this lesson, well... Soon their own minds burn out as well." He shoots another glare in Gaheris' direction, but the other maester has left the room. "We are finished for today, children. Enjoy the rest of the day. I will see how well you remember your trees next time we meet."
Joffrey stalks irritably out of the room as the others slowly file out behind him. Hela pulls Edward aside.
"Would you like to come to the gardens with us?" she asks.
"I'm sorry," he demurs. "I must see to Ser Arys."
"Of course." She smiles politely and waves as he goes, then turns back to ask Sansa, only to have her path cut off by a Lannister page.
"Lady Sansa? Queen Cersei has requested your audience."
From the moment the queen called upon her, Sansa Stark knew what awaited her, and every step to Cersei's chambers was filled with dread. Her eyes nervously watch the sky when outside and the windows when within, ever fearful to see one of Maris' ravens, the ugly ones that the skin-changing girl used to spy on the castle from above. They all looked alike, though. Every one of the horrid dark birds frightened her now, she feels as if they are all watching her. And she knows they are not the only ones. Cersei will already know that she has been spending more time with Heleana. And she will expect information.
But when she enters the queen's solar, flooded with warm sunlight from open windows, the scene is anything but threatening. Cersei waits upon a lounge, a small, intricate carved table and chair beside her, the legs shaped into roaring lions. There are grapes waiting, cheese, too, a flagon of wine and lemon cakes - her favorite.
"Please, take a seat," Cersei beckons. Sansa nervously approaches the table and lowers herself into the chair. It is luxuriously soft, but she finds herself unable to relax into it. "Are you afraid?"
"No," Sansa insists. She mustn't know, or else she'll think she can't trust me! She looks down at the lemon cakes. "May I?"
"Of course," the queen smiles and Sansa quickly snatches one and, forgetting her graces, shoves the entire pastry into her mouth. "You know, you really must get better at lying." She blushes, mouth still crammed with crumbs and gooey lemon cream. "Oh, I know, your septa will have you believe that to lie is a terrible sin. Mine beat the very same into me. But we are ladies. To live this life means we must learn to lie, and lie so well that no one will ever know." Sansa coughs, covering her mouth, struggling to swallow. "Here, wash it down."
Cersei pours a cup of wine and offers it, but Sansa, face now red as a beat, declines. "No, you need it, I can see," Cersei presses it into her hands. Gingerly, she takes a small drink, easing the lemon cake down her throat. She sighs, and slowly regains her composure. "Still nervous after the feast? I suppose you swore to never drink another drop of wine after that." Cersei laughs, and the blush rushes back to Sansa's pale face. "Don't be embarrassed. It's an acquired taste. In time you will learn to master it." She pours a cup for herself. "Go on, have some more." Sansa takes a small drink. "Now, where was I?"
"You were talking about lies," Sansa answers. She nervously plucks grapes from the bowl into her palm, slipping them into her mouth as the queen continues.
"Of course. Now, suppose that a very important lord has come to dine. And he is wearing the most garish coat you have ever seen. He will ask you how it looks. And you must not tell him that it is ugly. No, you must tell him that it fits him very well. Or suppose that a conniving member of the court asks you for sensitive information that your husband has shared to you in bed. You must assure him that you know nothing. This life is a game, Sansa. Truth is a token and power is the goal. Keep your truth close, or else it will be used against you. And learn to use others' truths to fight those who would do you harm. The rest is all lies."
"I know why you called me here," Sansa blurts before slipping another grape in her mouth.
"Do you?"
She hesitates. "I... I thought you wanted..."
"Don't stammer. Stammering is ugly. Go on, now, say it."
"You want to know what I've learned about the Hightowers." Sansa feels guilty even suggesting it, but Cersei nods approvingly. "But I don't understand. I promise, you don't need to worry about them. They would never hurt me, or Edward, or you or Joffrey." Well... most of them. "They're loyal and kind!"
"Everyone acts kind, dear girl," Cersei takes her hand. "It's all part of the game. Simple minds think kind faces are to be trusted. But I know you're not simple. You're very smart. You only need to learn to look for the right things. I've played at this far longer than you've been alive, Sansa. I know how to see the truth behind the face. The Hightowers are graspers and climbers. They will use you to get what they want. They don't care for you, not like me. I don't want to hurt you by asking this. I only want to protect you."
Who do I believe? She just told me that she lies all the time. Sansa stares into Cersei's eyes, looking for a glimmer of the truth. But she only finds them to be unyielding emeralds. She pictures Heleana and Edward, sitting in the garden; and Leyla and Alysanne, teaching her how to play cyvasse. But they are not queens. They are not Joffrey's mother. She clinches Cersei's warm hand tight and tries to find the words. She takes a drink of wine, trying not to gag. What do I know? "I know that Lord Leyton personally insisted Ser Baelor accept the match between Edward and Helaena. I know that he sent Lady Alysanne and Lady Leyla here to help ensure the betrothal. I know that they do not trust their cousin, Ser Urrigon." Is that enough?
"Anything else?"
"I..." she hesitates. The sense of being watched sends shivers down her spine and she bites off half of another lemon cake. Finding her cup empty, she reaches for the flagon, surprisingly heavy, and daintily refills it. "Lord Leyton is not the only member of their family with an interest in magic."
"Oh?" Cersei finally seems interested. "Who? What do they do?"
"Do? They don't do anything, not that I know of. Only talk."
"Talk can be as dangerous as action. Sometimes deadly. Tell me, what do they talk of?"
"Um... Sometimes Lady Leyla talks about the spirits of the dead. She thinks they can still speak to us. And sometimes they mention things that I don't understand. Divination. Enchantments. And, er, skin-changing."
Intrigued, the queen reclines deep in thought. I shouldn't have said it, Sansa thinks. Beginning to panic, she raises her cup to her lips. And that is when she sees it. Her eyes widen in terror as the bitter drink pours down her throat. She clenches the cup tighter, desperate not to drop it as her hand begins to shake, unable to tear her eyes away from the far wall, just over Cersei's shoulder.
In the window. The raven. Watching.