It is the earliest hours of the morning, when the night sky still casts its blanket of darkness over the dim torches and looming black stone masses of King's Landing. But the city is not asleep. The city never sleeps. Watchmen, whores, drunks, thieves and more still roam the streets and rooftops, passing each other by without a second glance, bound only by the simple shared trait that they are awake while the world slumbers.
And within the walls of the Red Keep, two men such men, themselves a world apart from the ragged folk sweating, pissing and bleeding their lives out onto the dirt and cobblestone, have come again tonight to share that nocturnal vigil as they pace a darkened courtyard, swords in hand, locked in a duel with no end – Ser Barristan Selmy and Ser Arys Oakheart.
The Lord Commander's strength has returned more every day since he began these sessions with the youngest knight in his command – the only knight he can trust. Better, the old man thinks to himself as he pushes Arys back with a mighty swing, but not good enough. Still too slow, still too weak. Not yet what he was before he fought the Kingslayer. Despite his advancements, Barristan has grown more and more fearful that he will never reach his full strength again. And he certainly will never get there if his sparring partner is distracted.
"Stop," he commands, stepping back out of the path of Arys' next lunge. "What is it? Something is troubling you." Arys straightens up and reluctantly sheaths his sword, but sheepishly looks away without a reply. "That's a command, ser," Barristan reiterates calmly. "Anything at all, you can tell to me."
"My brothers, ser," the young knight finally responds. "They came with Lord Tyrell's men. When we were growing up, they… I…"
"Why should they trouble you? You are a knight of the Kingsguard! You have achieved far more than they ever will."
"They don't see it that way," Arys sighs. "It's nothing but a fancy suit of armor to them. I've never fought a battle. Never had to raise my sword to defend the king. They call us the greatest knights in all the land, but out there? To them we're just seven lucky bastards who sit safely in shining armor. Untested. Unproven. And I can't even properly train my squire. That Syrio Forel humiliated me in front of the others, then took over Edward's training. I can see he's already getting better. The Bravossi has done more for him in a matter of days than I have since the day I took him on."
"We are not perfect, ser," Barristan reaches out a reassuring hand to place on Arys' shoulder. "He is your first squire. You will learn, and he will learn, and the next boy to serve you will be better for it. My first squire was never knighted. He was a craven, and no amount of training could carve that out of him. I don't know what became of him. Once I heard he had been caught thieving and was sent to the wall. Another told me he was still a squire to this day, serving after knights half his age. It doesn't matter. Because years after he quit my service, I trained you."
"I'm sorry."
"For what? It does not matter what your brothers think of you or your cloak, nor anyone else. Because you know the truth. You know honor. You know valor. You know yourself," Barristan pulls Arys closer. "Peace does not breed heroes, and unworthy men sully the visage of our order. But you? You are the white. That is why you are here, with me, while your brothers, of blood and of oath, are out there, getting drunk off ale and poxes off whores. This war that is brewing? It will try every one of us, and reveal the truth beneath our armor. And one day, you will stand where I stand and prove to the realm the worth of a Kingsguard."
"Ser!" Arys steps back, unsure if he has truly understood what the Lord Commander means.
"Who else?" Barristan resumes position, sword back in hand. "Now draw."
Once again, steel meets steel and their blades are but a brutalist lullaby echoing off of stone walls as the castle around them sleeps. Though not all are sleeping soundly….
The Kingswood of Prince Joffrey's dreams is a warped and twisted place. The trees turn in on themselves, branches and vines reaching up like grasping hands as the prince walks, naked in his own mind, down a sharp, rocky path. Every muscle in his body wants to run, dash on to freedom and safety, but he cannot, some perverse sorcery trapping him in an eternally slow gait, limping along a path of bloody footsteps. He looks up for guidance, but even through what cracks of sky the forest allows, there are no stars, no moon to shine. The only light in this woods is from the spirits.
The pale, somber blue balls of light which first haunted him that night he was lost alone in the woods, the night he killed the stag, follow him still in his dreams. And damned old Pycelle wouldn't explain them. Somewhere in the darkness, he can hear the Grand Maester laughing at him. He wants them to catch me, Joffrey thinks. He wants me to die! He wants everyone to think that I'm crazy! But I know what I saw. They're real. And they're still here.
And so he presses on, through the pain, through the fear, slower and slower he walks on. It is all he can do as the lights behind him burn brighter and brighter until...
Joffrey snaps awake, jumping back in a jolt to find himself upright in the grand hall of the Red Keep. Pale moonlight through the window illuminates the chamber with a pale glow. Confused, he stares up at the wall before him. There hangs the freshly mounted pelt of the great white stag. He steps back nervously, slowly turning away... and sees a huge dark shadow looming behind him.
With a shrill scream, the prince leaps backwards, slamming his head against the stone wall. He crumples to the floor in pain and terror as the shadow steps into the light, revealing the scarred face of The Hound. Immediately, his fear turns to indignation.
"What are you doing?"
"I did not wish to disturb your grace. I also did not wish to let you walk over the side of a wall. Will you be going back to sleep?"
"No," he rises in a huff. "Wake Ser Aron and ready my things. I want to go hunting."
Kill the witch!
Sansa Stark jolts upright in her bed with a start, looking frantically around her dark room. But the mob of her dreams is gone. The only intruder in her bedchambers is the dawning sun, creeping its fingers around the corners of her curtains. Flinging her feet over the side of the bed, Sansa rushes to the window, flinging it open to fill the room with light. She looks mournfully to the spot by the door where Lady used to sleep, before the septa had insisted she be sent back to the Dragonpit with the rest of the wolves.
Even if Lady was here, she can't protect me from dreams, Sansa thinks, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. And that's all they are – dreams. But she knows there are other, far more real things to fear within the castle walls.
Maris. She has been looking over her shoulder for the dark-haired Hightower girl ever since her meeting with Cersei. It wasn't her, she tells herself. The raven watching in the window was just another bird not a skin-changed spy. It has to be. Because if Maris knows I'm spying on her family for the queen, she'll tell everyone I'm a warg. Then they'll never let me marry Joffrey. And the Hightowers will never speak to me again. And Edward…
No. Sansa takes a deep breath and steadies herself. She can hear the servant girls stirring outside. Cersei's right. This is all a game. I can play it, just like her. And I'm going to win.
The morning sun continues to rise in the eastern sky, where it finds Renly Baratheon in his bed, freshly awake. He is not alone. Loras Tyrell yawns, emerging from beneath the covers beside him.
"By the gods, it's early," Loras grimaces at the light, his head aching from a night of trying to match pace with his lover's drinking.
"Today is the day," Renly declares. "We have much to prepare."
"Let my father tend to the preparations."
"Do you trust the preparations to your father?"
"No, I suppose not," Loras sighs. "You're just so tense." He kneads his thumbs deep into the taut muscles of Renly's back, massaging as he kisses his neck. Renly shudders a sigh of relaxation. "What if it does happen? What if you do become king?"
"You've seen Robert. He grows weaker every day. It's not an if, but a when."
"A tragedy," Loras presses harder, loosening the twisted knots of Renly's shoulders. "What is the first thing you'll do? Name me to the Kingsguard, so that I may always be by your side?" He reaches one hand around slowly, moving down.
"I will set things right," Renly stares out the window. "The old fools have had their way with this kingdom long enough. It is our day now. Things are about to change."
Sparks fly as hammer strikes anvil in the forges of the Red Keep. Already, young Gendry is toiling beside a fire, a thick leather apron over his ragged wool shirt, while his half-sister, Mya Stone, examines his bull helm, clad in rough-hewn men's clothes she found in the servant's quarters.
"You made this yourself?"
"Aye. Be careful with it. Many men have tried to buy it, but I'm keeping it for myself."
"Think you could make me one?"
"What, are you some kind of warrior?" Gendry laughs as hammer strikes steel again.
"No, I just think it would look good on me," Mya smirks, setting the helmet down. "My lover is a knight. When I return to the Vale, he's going to marry me."
"Ha!" Gendry laughs, letting his hammer drop into the dirt. He slips the gauntlet he's been crafting into a cooling tub of water with a hiss of steam. "No, he isn't."
"What do you mean by that?" Mya scowls.
"You're a bastard. If he's a knight, he's never going to marry you."
"He loves me. And you're a bastard too, last I remember, so don't act so cocky."
"I haven't forgotten. Which is why I don't go about telling people I'm going to marry some bloody highborn lady."
Mya sits in silence for a moment, brooding, as Renly leaves to fetch a new piece of metal to work upon. Finally, she asks: "Did you ever know your father?"
"Never met him. Not that I remember, at least. Closest thing I ever had to a father was Master Mott. He taught me everything I know about smithing. I thought one day he might make me a master myself, with my own shop. You know he can work Valyrian Steel? The only man in Westeros 'at knows how. I'd hoped he might show me one day. Then I wound up here."
"I remember my father," Mya doesn't seem to have heard anything Gendry has said. "He used to visit me and my mother; threw me up in the air as high as he could and caught me as I came down. But one day he just stopped coming. I'll never forget his face though. Curly black hair and deep blue eyes. Just like mine. Like yours, too."
"Do you think it's true?" Gendry asks, finally turning away from his work. "What Lord Renly says? Do you think the king's really our father?"
Mya shrugs. "I ain't ever seen the king. Have you?" Gendry shakes his head. "Not that it matters for us. The lord'll use us for whatever he wants, then forget about us as soon as it's done. I'll be back to the Vale. To marry Mykel. And you'll be back hammering steel, dreaming of a shop you'll never be able to afford."
"That's why I don't plan to stop. Save the disappointment." Gendry raises his hammer, but stops when he sees the doors fling open as Renly marches into the forge in a dark black doublet, golden cloak flowing behind him, clasped with an onyx broach.
"Lord Renly!" Mya rises to greet him. "Good morn."
"A good morn indeed. Put down that hammer at once. My servants will be here shortly. You will be washed and dressed with proper clothes. Today we go before the counsel. Today you will meet your father."
Not far away, in a sparse, long-empty servant's quarters, coated thick with dust and cobwebs, Kevan Lannister peers down from a narrow slit window into the yard, where the prince's hunting party is assembling under the stern eyes of Ser Aron Santagar and the Hound. Behind him, a stout, pox-scarred man with receding straw-brown hair is struggling to fit into a purloined suit of royal guards' armor.
"Are you quite finished?" Kevan asks without looking. "This is a royal hunt, they do not take kindly to tardiness." With a few more grunts, the man is finally ready, wrenching his helm down over his head – Ser Patrek Swyft, one of a half dozen assorted Swyfts that Kevan had brought with him into the city. By and large, the men of his wife's family were dim-witted and slow at arms, but they never hesitated with ingratiating service towards Kevan. "Remember – Do not let the prince out of your sight. Do not leave him alone with anyone. Not the Stark girl, not anyone. We cannot trust anyone."
"As you wish, ser."
"And you are sure that the Hound will not know you?"
"The Hound? Know me?" Patrek laughs. "I wish I were as good a knight for him to know me."
Kevan watches his good-cousin leave. That much is true, he supposes. The man is certainly no knight of great repute, barely a knight at all. But he had not chosen his companions for skill. For this task, he required naught more than loyalty. Loyalty and the faces of men who would go unnoticed and unremembered.
He turns back to the window, waiting for Patrek to appear in the yard below. But then he hears a creaking of the door, the slightest whisper of an unnatural breeze. In a flash, he spins about, drawing a dagger from his belt without hesitation. A dark-robed figure stands in the room. Kevan lunges across the small space, slamming the door shut and turning, knife out-stretched, to face the intruder. Unfazed, the man lowers his hood, revealing a soft bald head beneath. Varys.
"Eunuch," Kevan sneers in disdain, masking a deep and sudden feeling of dread. "Show to me your loyalty to House Lannister or I swear you will not leave this room alive."
"Ser Kevan," Varys chuckles disarmingly, but the aged knight is not amused. "You know I have always been true to your family."
"I know you have been true to whatever side you thought would win."
"You wound me," the Master of Whisperers raises his hands in supplication. "Though you are right to say that my allegiances have changed over the years, each to meet the same goal. There is only one thing I wish ser, I may truly say."
"What is that?" Kevan scowls.
"The good of the realm. The defense of the innocent. Like the little princes and princess. They are so dear, don't you think?" he inches nearer. "It is good that you've come, ser. For I fear they are in a grave danger indeed." He reaches out to touch the prick of the dagger, still held defiantly in his face. "If you would be so kind to put that horrid thing away…" Reluctantly, Kevan lowers his arm, but does not yet return the blade to its sheath. "You only know half the story. Listen to me, and I will help you save her niece, and the darling little children."
Sansa is finishing the last bite of the morning meal when the prince arrives, the Hound ducking his head to lurch in behind him. Joffrey is clad in a fine black studded riding jacket with yellowed leather gloves and boots. Around his neck is the grouse feather collar she had made for him with the prize of her first hunt. His hair neatly combed and face freshly washed, he looks as if he has stepped right out of Sansa's dreams. The good ones, ones she had before she was afraid.
Arya scowls at Joffrey as he enters, but neither he nor Sansa seem to notice. Lord Baelish, an increasingly common sight at the Stark family table, rises in respect, as does Jalabar Xho, who has joined them this morning as well.
"Will you be dining with us, your grace," Septa Mordane asks. "We have plenty of food."
"I already ate," Joffrey nods, curtly. "But you will have more food by the time I return. I'm going hunting. And," he extends one hand to Sansa. "I wish for my lady to accompany me."
"Oh of course!" Sansa gasps, nearly jumping out of her seat. Anything to get out of the castle and away from the Hightowers. "I only have to change into my riding clothes!"
"I believe we can allow that," Mordane sternly chides as Sansa hurries past. "I will see what guards we can spare." Sansa leaves without stopping or acknowledging the septa. Stupid. I don't have to ask her for permission anymore. She can't tell the prince no.
"And bring your bow, too!" Joffrey shouts after her. For a moment, he stares at the door through which she has disappeared, then awkwardly glances around at the other Starks and their guests. Impatient, he grabs a roll from the table and shoves it in his mouth. "It smells old in here. We'll be waiting in the yard." He exits swiftly, pushing past The Hound to get back out the door.
Septa Mordane nervously sniffs the air as he goes, before shuffling off to find more candles. By the time she returns, Arya is already gone and Lord Baelish leaving, but Edward and Jalabar linger.
"Please, let me help," the Summer Islander offers as she carefully lights candles. He reaches down to begin picking up the plates and bowls from the table. "Where shall I take them."
"Oh, you mustn't, your grace…" she hesitates. "Is that what I should call you? They tell me you are a prince in your own land."
"If you wish. But I insist," he offers a large, shining smile.
"Very well then," Mordane relents, gathering more of the remains of the meal herself. "Follow me." She leads him out a side door, through a winding hall and down a narrow set of stairs to the kitchen, where a cluster of servants wait. "What are you waiting on?" she scolds them. "The children are done eating, go, go!" They hurry out, jostling Jalabar one by one as they go.
As the door clacks shut on the last servant, Jalabar carefully sets the dishes down. When he looks back up, he sees the septa examining him intently.
"You've been spending a great deal of time with young master Edward, your grace," she notes.
"He is a good boy. I am glad to help with his training. One day, he will be great knight."
"Hm." It is clear Mordane doubts that. "Tell me, how long have you been in our land?"
"Five years."
"And in that time, have you come to see the truth of our ways, have you seen the light of The Seven? Edward looks up to you very much. And Lord Stark chose you to train him, and so I have conceded. But the boy must be raised by godly men, so that he does not stumble on his path. So tell me, your grace, what gods do you pray to?"
"All of them," Jalabar answers plainly. "So any may choose to restore to me my land and my people. But none have answered yet." He watches the septa carefully, looking for signs of her appraisel, but her stern face might as well be made of stone.
"Then I suppose I will say a prayer on your behalf, Jalabar Xo," she offers, walking past him back up the stair. "We mustn't linger. I hear the servants coming back down, and its time for Edward's lessons."
Sansa emerges from the Tower of the Hand to find Fat Tom and Varly waiting with her horse beside Joffrey and The Hound, already mounted. She's changed into her best riding gown, complete with the matching grouse-feather collar Joffrey gifted her. Graciously taking the reins from Tom, she accepts his help up, but hesitates, catching a glimpse of Edward walking away with Jalabar.
"Could Edward come?" she asks.
Joffrey recoils at the thought. "No! That little thief stole my sword! I lost Lion's Tooth because of him, and I still have the scars from his wolf!"
"He's very sorry for all of that!" Sansa is taken aback. "I know it hasn't been so long, but he's grown so much. He's learned his lesson. I just want the two of you to get along again. We're going to be family one day."
"I said I don't want him there," Joffrey's face darkens. "People don't change. That's what Father says. And he's right. Your brother is a thief and a coward. I can't be seen running about with such types. Once he's old enough, he should go back to the North, and take the damn wolf with him. Or anywhere he wants. But I won't have him here."
"As you wish," Sansa sinks a little lower in her saddle. Boys can be so stubborn, Mother always said. Princes too, it seems. At least Joffrey only had fang marks on his arm, not the ugly scar he had left on Edward's face. But there were still years to come. Years to grow. They would all see reason eventually. And they would all be one happy family. And so she straightens her back, smiles, and urges the horse onward. "What are we hunting today?"
"Quail. Ducks. Partridge. Maybe deer." Joffrey shrugs, the mirth returning to his mood. "Doesn't really matter. I just want to kill something. And see how good of a hunter you really are."
A beautiful sun shines bright in a clear blue sky as the royal hunting party winds down into the woods along the Blackwater Rush. Atop her slow grey mare, Lady trotting alongside her, Sansa remembers the last time she rode this path. She had almost died, and warged for the first – and only – time. And Maris knew. That was how it had all started. She looks to the sky for any sign of watchful ravens. A few lonely birds circle high in the sky, but the glare from the sun blocks them out when she squints to see.
Rubbing the sun from her eyes, she looks back down to breathe in the warm summer air. Getting outside the city on such a lovely day seems to have even lightened Joffrey's mood. The prince smiles as his dark steed trots along at the head of the group, just behind Ser Aron and the Hound. He's wrong, Sansa thinks. People do change. And he'll change, too. He and Edward will be friends one day, I know it.
"Gods, it's hot," Fat Tom's grumbling breaks her thoughts. "What I wouldn't give for a crisp northern wind right now. That's real hunting weather."
"You joke," Varly laughs at his fellow guardsman. "Trudging through a foot of snow? Freezing your toes off in your boots? I could never miss that. I don't think I'll ever leave."
"Lord Eddard's bound to go home eventually," Tom insists. "Once all this mess with the Lannisters is sorted out. And we'll all be better for it."
"Well, I'm not going anywhere," Sansa smiles as the wind catches in her hair, blowing it out behind her. "You can stay in my guard, Varly, don't worry. When I'm the queen."
"'twould be an honor, my lady," Varly beams, making Tom chuckle.
"Just don't go falling in the river again," the fat guard smirks beneath his bushy beard. Sansa glares indignantly, quickly wiping the smile away. He blusters in embarrassment. "Oh, my lady, I am so sorry, I did not mean to… I only…"
"It's fine, Tom. It's fine." With a sigh, Sansa nudges her horse onward, picking up speed to catch up with Joffrey. "It's a lovely day, isn't it?" she calls.
"A good day for a hunt, to be sure," the prince pauses, rustling about in his saddle bag. He pulls out a dry, twisted stick of salt pork. "Here, take this. It will keep your strength up. I know ladies tend to faint in the sun."
"I won't," Sansa insists as he presses the dried meat into her hand. It is clear he will not take no for an answer. She lifts it slowly to her mouth, trying not to grimace at the ugly looking thing. Joffrey picks one up himself, taking a tough bite, still watching Sansa expectedly. Gently, she bites down – the tough meat course and tangy between her teeth. Struggling to break through, she pulls hard, until finally it tears in half; the half in her mouth nearly making her vomit. But she smiles and nods at Joffrey all the same, desperately trying to chew the meat into a pulp.
"Here, this will wash it down," the prince hands her a large flask, and she eagerly takes a large drink – acrid, warm wine she nearly spits right back out. But again, a smile and a nod and they ride on, passing beneath the shade of the first trees of the woods.
"Did you bring any fruit?" she finally asks when she manages to swallow the last gristly piece.
"Why would I do that?" Joffrey scoffs "Fruit is for girls."
"Riders ahead!" The Hound barks from the head of the line.
Their approach slows and, as they round the bend, Sansa sees them. She first recognizes the orange woolen cloaks of the guards. The Hightowers. Peremore and Maris are watching their approach, as if they've been waiting just for this arrival. They probably have, Sansa thinks nervously. But they can't hurt me here. Joffrey will protect me.
"It's a lovely day, isn't it?" Maris asks, sending chills down her spine. "A good day for a hunt to be sure."
"That's exactly what I said!" Joffrey's jaw drops.
"They say great minds think alike," Peremore smiles. "Our father was busy preparing his men for the march. But we thought it would be a shame to waste a day like this."
"You should join us, then," Joffrey beckons them to come along. "The more the merrier, isn't that right Sansa?" He turns to her, and once again receives a smile and a nod, while Sansa suppresses a squirm, her stomach turning over – though whether from the salt pork and wine or from fear, she does not know.
Some hours later, and an arrow flies up into the branches of a tree and a partridge drops down with a burst of feathers and a final squawk. Sansa watches it fall with pride, lowering her bow as the bird hits the ground.
"Bravo!" Joffrey shouts, clapping as he rushes forward from the brush. "An excellent shot!" He bends down as Lady comes trotting back, the dead bird in her mouth. But the wolf refuses to give it up to him, dropping it at Sansa's feet instead. Looking down at the bloody thing, she gags, and kicks it gently towards Joffrey, who picks it up without hesitation, carrying it back to tie it to his own horse. The hunt has gone well, though he himself has yet to shoot anything. "You really are a good shot, I must say. I thought the other girls were joking, but you are."
"Our lady has the blood of Black Ally in her," Tom boasts. Joffrey blinks, confused. Never the most attentive of students, history is lost on him.
"Alysanne Blackwood," Peremore offers. "She fought in the Dance of the Dragons. She married Cregan Stark."
"Why should I care?" Joffrey stares blankly back. "The next game we see, I'm taking the shot. I hope it's something big." He turns to Sansa. "I'll have it cooked just for you."
"I'm sure it will be delicious," she curtsies and turns back to her horse when suddenly she doubles over in pain, her stomach burning.
"My lady, are you alright?" Varly drops down from his horse as she stumbles towards the undergrowth, waving him back.
"It's nothing. I just… I need a moment." Sansa plunges into the brush, low branches swatting at her face, bile rising up in her throat. With a gasp, her foot catches a stump and she crashes to the ground. Unable to control any longer, the vomit comes, hacking out onto the ground. Seeing it only makes her sick again. How long it lasts, she does not know. But it feels like an eternity of pain and disgust.
Finally, stomach empty, she sits up, groaning. And sees Maris watching her.
"Maybe you're not meant to be a hunter," she stares down with a cold, thin smile crossing her pale face. "You don't seem to have very good luck."
"Leave me alone," Sansa stands shakily, feeling dizzy. She shakes the dust off her dress, inspecting it carefully to make sure no vomit fell onto it, as she turns to return to the group.
"No, I think lying is your sport," Maris steps to block her path. "But you're not very good at that, either, are you?"
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Oh, I know you do." Accusatory caws echo down from above. A flock of ravens and crows has begun to grow, perched in the branches of the towering trees. Sansa looks around for a way out, for a sign of anyone else. Lady. Where is Lady? She should be here. But no one comes. Don't run, she tells herself. You're going to be brave, like Cersei. You're going to win the game.
"It was nothing!" she turns back to face Maris, hissing in an angry whisper. "I only did what the queen asked. I didn't tell her anything about you!"
"Secrets have to be protected," the older girl shakes her head. "You betrayed my family. And you'll do it again. Because you mustn't disobey the queen. Because I don't think you really understand what you're dealing with."
"You're just a girl, just like me!" Sansa tries to shove her out of the way.
"We are alike, that's true," Maris grabs her wrist, tugging her back. "Only I learned about my gifts years ago. And unlike you, I'm not afraid to use them." With a murderous shriek, a raven dives down out of the tree above them. Sansa tears free from Maris but the bird is upon her, talons tugging at her hair. And then another drops from the trees. And another. And another.
Sansa screams. But the sound of the ravens drowns out all else.
A/N: I am so sincerely sorry for all the delays lately. It's been a rough couple weeks at work and I just haven't had the energy to write. But the schedule is easing up, so I hope to get back to a regular schedule for the final chapters in this installment. As always, thank you for reading and all comments are welcome. That's really the fuel to keep a writer going, right there. Hope you're enjoying the ride as much as I'm loving building it.