The shrieking swarm of crows and ravens surrounds Sansa Stark as she drops to the ground, arms wrapped around her head for protection. She can feel the wind from their wings pounding down over her, swooping nearer and nearer. Face pressed down into the dirt, she cranes her neck up to try and see Maris.

"Make it stop!" she shouts, muted by the cacophony. Instead, the first bird hits her, hard on the back. She flails one arm in the air, trying to wave them away but more come, diving closer and closer, tearing at her dress and hair with their talons. As she struggles to disperse the flock, one latches on to her arm and catches her thumb in its beak. She screams in pain, rolling over and forcing her eyes open as she begins to crawl through the dirt.

Instead, she sees what in that moment is the most wonderful thing her eyes have ever fallen upon – Lady crashing through the bushes, fangs bared mid-snarl, leaping into the air without hesitation. The direwolf crashes into the flock and Maris, out of sight, lets out a scream as the birds begin to fly back up into the branches and the sky beyond, their calls reaching a panic-stricken fever pitch.

Slowly, as their calls fade, Sansa pushes herself up to her knees. The clearing is empty, save for Lady, who triumphantly drops a writhing crow at her feet, one wing torn nearly completely off. Sansa looks back to the trees, as the rush of approaching feet trampling down the underbrush draws near. Fat Tom, for all his girth, is the first man in the clearing, huffing and puffing but fully focused on recovering her. He practically collapses at her side.

"My lady, are you alright?" he gasps.

"I'm fine Tom," she sighs, trying to assure herself as much as the guard. Lady nuzzles up close to her side, the grey hair on the wolf's back still standing up on end. Sansa looks down at the twitching crow. "It was only birds."

"What kind'a bloody crows do they have here in the south?" Tom scowls. "Ain't never known one to attack like that." He clumsily attempts to dust her off with his huge, stubby hands, but Sansa pulls away, straightening her dress as more men enter the clearing – Ser Aron Santagar and his hunters, their guards and finally Peremore Hightower and Prince Joffrey.

Peremore, realizing what has happened, rushes to the far side of the clearing, where he finds his sister sprawled in a bed of ferns. He helps her back to her feet. Maris is clearly shaken, eyes bloodshot. She was in the bird when Lady attacked, Sansa realizes. With a secret grin, she pats her wolf's head even more proudly.

"My lady, are you hurt?" Ser Aron drops to one knee. He'll never take me hunting again, she thinks. First my fall, now this.

"I'm fine," she waves the master-at-arms away, turning to face Joffrey.

"You look awful," the prince assesses bluntly. "What happened?"

Sansa suddenly becomes aware of her hair, the braid tugged apart by sharp talons, stray stands curled and scattered about. Frustrated, she pulls the braid loose, letting her auburn locks tumble free down onto her shoulders. "It was a flock of birds. They attacked me… and Maris. But Lady chased them away."

"Not all of them," Joffrey looks down at the crippled crow, trying hopelessly to drag its broken body along the ground. Without a second glance, he raises one foot and stomps down on the birds head with a sickening crack as his boot crushes its skull. "There. Put it out of its misery." He looks back to Sansa. "At least they didn't tear your collar." He reaches out stiffly to straighten the feathers around Sansa's neck, the matching gift to the collar he now wears himself.

"My lady Stark, please, have a seat," Ser Aron inserts himself once again. "My boys are fetching your horse. Let us get you home, we have had a good hunt today, but…"

"No, I said I'm fine!" Sansa turns away. She glares across the field at Maris, surrounded to and tended by her brother and their own guards. But in between all the men, the other girl's dark eyes catch her glare and return it even stronger. "Where's my bow? I'll feel better once I've killed something else. Crows are boring sport. And no good to eat."

Edward Stark lingers in the back of Maester Gaheris' chambers, examining the artifacts displayed in the study. Rock shards, crystals, bones, dried plants, carved runes – all sit nestled away amongst books and scrolls upon the towering shelves, treasures from all across Westeros and some, like the spar of goldenwood, from even further beyond. Each item he knows holds its own fascinating story. But the only stories he wants to hear now are those of wargs.

More and more of Gaheris' time was consumed by caring for the king, leaving less and less for Edward's skin-changing training. As the boy runs his fingers along the impeccably clean shelves, he squints at the books, searching for any more texts on the mystic ways of the First Men. He has read the first book the maester had given him cover to cover four times over now, and his mind craves fresh fuel for his burgeoning imagination.

Dropping down to his knees, Edward begins to rummage about in the space beneath the shelves until he finds something that catches his eye – a cube box of finely carved honey oak, embellished with jade, bearing a formidable looking lock.

"What's this?" he calls out, pulling the box into the light. He can see it more clearly now, the lid bears the carved seal of House Targaryen.

"Leave that be!" Gaheris suddenly turns his attention to the boy. He rushes over to shoo Edward away from the shelves and carefully return the box to its hiding place. "You must be careful. Many of these pieces are terribly fragile, and they are not all mine. The Grand Maester would have a fit if he knew I'd let you much as breathe on some of these texts."

"Then we don't we go and train?" Edward sulks. "It's almost been a whole week."

"I'm sorry, lad," Gaheris shakes his head, his maester's chain rattling with the motion. "I told you, I do not have the time today. The king needs me. And you have other matters to attend to. We cannot spend all our time in the dungeons. You are always so busy, always training. There are many good, smart children in the keep. It would be good to get to know them. You're still a boy. Enjoy your time here before you taken on the burdens of men."

"But I need to practice! I need to be better!"

"The wargs of old were able to skin-change in the midst of battle. You must learn to control your powers even when you may be distracted. Perhaps practicing outside of our sessions is exactly what you need to do next."

Edward juts out his lip in a pout, but knows he's right. Gaheris watches him carefully until he finally turns for the door. "Good day, maester," he calls back behind him.

"And a good day to you as well."

As Edward strolls out into the hall, hands shoved deep in his pockets, he wonders where Arya is. Or Lyman. But he does not know. Supposing that he can always polish Ser Arys' armor again, he strolls back to the White Sword Tower. Watching the pattern beneath his feet, he remembers what Syrio Forel has taught him. He hops back and forth, one foot at a time between the stones, until he trips on an uneven crevice and nearly topples face first down a short flight of stairs. Stopping, he hears laughter. And looks up to see two serving boys chasing each other about and laughing above him on the walls. Maybe the maester is right, he thinks. I need to make more friends.

"You."

Only one word and Lyman Darry knows the voice. And wishes he were dead.

Slowly turning, he sees Eliza, the seamstress, staring angrily towards him, wicker basket clenched tight around her waist, her dark hair pulled back tightly but unbraided. She drops the basket on the ground with a thud, revealing stacks of the king's undergarments and bed clothes. "Is this what you're looking for?"

Without answering, Lyman kneels to grab the basket, but Eliza pushes him back. "Hey!"

"You didn't think that I wouldn't hear about it? Those two girls couldn't keep their mouths shut if their lives depended it. Oh, you made them quite happy, I can assure you. I suppose you think you can do whatever you want now that you're the heir to Harrenhal. What's your plan, exactly, Lyman? Plant a bastard in every girl in the castle to join mine? Or just enough, say, one for every tower in your new home?"

"I told you, I'm going to figure this out!" Lyman rises angrily.

"Have you? You seem to keep getting distracted." She stomps closer.

"It's complicated."

"How do you expect to be a lord if you can't figure this out?"

"Servant girls shouldn't speak like that to the Heir of Harrenhal!" Lyman grabs her wrist, feeling a fury rise up in him, but stops. This is wrong. He stands still for a moment, staring down into her eyes, her chest pressed close to his. In all of his fretting, he'd almost forgotten her beauty.

"What are you going to do, flay me?" She smirks.

"I'm sorry…" he barely whispers, but cannot get any closer as she begins to kiss him, pulling him down to her height and tugging him back, tripping over the basket, they fall behind a rack of drying clothes. Without hesitation, it is as if nothing has happened - for this blissful moment no worries wrack Lyman's brain. Her tongue is in his mouth and his hands are in her laces, pulling them free to get at the warmth beneath.

I'll fix it, he thinks between gasping breaths, the waves of pleasure scattering his thoughts. I'll find a way, I'll figure it out. And then, only gasps remain.

Just a short time later, sweat – not all his own – still clinging to his brow, Lyman hurries back to the royal chambers, slightly wrinkled basket of garments in tow. Almost to the king's door, he realizes the laces on his trousers are still undone. Awkwardly balancing the basket on his hip, he struggles to fix himself until..

"Why won't you die, you bastard!" Robert's voice suddenly thunders within the chambers. The garments tumble to the ground as Lyman dashes forward, towards the sound of crashing and shattering, past Ser Arys and Ser Preston on guard as they throw open the doors. He finds the king tangled in his blankets, writhing atop a broken bed table and shattered flagon.

"Your grace!" Lyman rushes to Robert's side, grabbing the man's huge shoulders to stop the shaking. "Your grace, wake up!"

"Get off of me!" Robert lashes out, his fist slamming square into Lyman's face, sending the squire toppling backwards. He tries to rise in a manic dash before his splinted leg gives way and he crashes hard face first onto the floor.

"Get the maester!" Ser Arys shouts. Ser Preston, standing uselessly agape, turns frantically to run from the room only to crash into Maester Gaheris, who is already rushing in.

"What happened?" the maester asks, surveying the scene. Lyman, blood seeping from a broken nose, heaves Robert over onto his back as his frantic breathing begins to slow, but recoils to see the royal face covered in the king's own blood – a jagged piece of the shattered flagon piercing his right cheek. "Stay back!" Gaheris kneels and gently removes the shard. "Get clean towels and a poultice! Your grace, your grace you must wake up," he continues to urge calmly. Robert begins to groan, eyes flickering. "Don't just stand there," the maester beckons to the guards. "Help him back to bed!"

As Arys and Preston hoist the slowly waking king back up, Lyman returns with the maesters' tools. But first, Gaheris pulls him aside. "These fits… they're getting worse."

"He was awake when I left him!"

"He gets no rest in the night, so more and more he sleeps in the day. But even now the ghosts of the past come to haunt him." Gaheris turns somberly to look back at Robert, evermore a massive husk of a man – deep, dark bags beneath foggy blue eyes, deep creases across his red, puffy face, traces of grey beginning to form in his unkempt beard and hair. He raises his huge hands to the wound on his cheek.

"By the gods, what's happened to me?"

"It was only a dream, your grace," Gaheris begins to clean away the blood. "An awful one, no doubt, but nothing more. In your tossing, you fell upon a flagon."

"Not that, damn it!" Robert pushes him away. "What's become of me? Once I could crush a man's skull with a single blow from a hammer. Now look! Brought low by a bloody flagon! Why aren't I healing?"

"Your grace, these wounds take time…"

"Horseshit! Begone!"

"But your grace, the wound…"

"Lyman can fix it! Get out!"

Gaheris looks to Lyman, who balks as he is given back the towels and poultice as the maester stiffly exits. He looks back nervously to the king, who glares impatiently. Gently, he takes a seat on the bed next to Robert and begins to dab at the blood, unsure of what to do. Ser Preston nervously approaches, having retrieved the crown from where it had fallen on the floor.

"I might as well melt it down," Robert groans, taking it into his hands, running his fingers along the smooth golden antlers. "What good is it to me now? My own brothers have no respect for me! Stannis refuses my summons, and Renly mocks me to my face before my own council! If they do not respect me, then who will?" He violently hurls the throne across the room. Turning, he grabs Lyman by the collar, pulling the boy close. "A crown and a throne are nothing without respect. Without fear! Without that, I am no king. What am I?"

Lyman has no answer.

The afternoon sun bares down hot upon the gardens of the Red Keep. Sitting at an elaborately carved small table, Edward sips on a glass of water. Across him, Heleana Hightower sits, her long brown hair tied into an elaborate braided ring around her head, dressed in a fine green dress. Between them sits the board and carved pieces of her favorite game – The Giver's Gambit.

"You've learned much faster than Sansa," she smiles, handing Edward a round, hollow stone piece. He examines the squares on the board, turning the new piece over in his hands.

"She'll figure it out," he assures her. "Only she's very particular. But once she decides that she likes something, then she's very good at it." He finally selects a square to set the piece in. Then, he carefully selects one of his own – short, solid wood – and passes it off to Heleana.

"And what does she think of me?"

"I think she likes you. I don't know why she wouldn't."

"Usually I'm very good at reading people," Heleana sighs, dropping the wooden piece into place. "But Sansa… she's like a puzzle to me, I suppose. Whenever we're together, there's something off. Something missing. It's like she's hiding something, but I can't imagine what."

That we're both wargs, Edward knows at least one secret Sansa is keeping. But why would that make her nervous around Heleana? Surely she doesn't suspect us? His thoughts straying, he barely looks at the new piece he is given. "I'm sure it's nothing. We don't have any secrets, I would know if she had a problem. We've always stuck together."

"That's good," Heleana smiles. "Brothers and sisters shouldn't have any secrets. That's what my father taught me and my brother Arthur, and we've always listened."

Suddenly, Edward feels overwhelmed by guilt, not just for lying to Heleana, but because he had lied to Sansa as well. He had promised to be true, but there was still one truth he was keeping from her, the biggest one of all. In that moment, he decides: She needs to know. Joffrey tried to have Bran killed. She can't marry him!

"Ha!" Heleana's laugh catches him off guard. He looks down at the board to see his absent-minded move has left him with only two pieces of his own, both which will let her complete a set of four. Reluctantly, he hands one over and she triumphantly places it down. "Let's play again. You're going to have to pay closer attention than that if you want to win."

I do have to pay attention, Edward thinks as she clears the board. What if Sansa is still hiding things from me, too? What if she knows I have a secret? When she returns from the hunt, he vows, then I'll tell her. No more secrets.

Sansa ties a dead rabbit next to the growing chains of game collected over the course of the day. As the hours roll on, the feeling of the sun, the late summer breeze and the fresh forest air have washed the morning's attack off her like so much rain, the only reminders being the small tears in her riding gown. Maris has not spoken to her since. I have Lady to thank for that, she thinks. The direwolf has not left her side, now staring up hungrily at the bounty of the hunt.

"The next one I find, you can keep," Sansa smiles at the drooling wolf, scratching the back of its head. Today's hunt had been a profitable one – for everyone save Prince Joffrey, who sulks nearby, glaring at the slain game as if each trophy is a personal affront to his royal dignity. He himself had taken aim at this very rabbit and missed twice before Sansa's arrow caught it.

"You'll have better luck next time," she smiles, encouragingly, but he only scowls. Truth be told, his aim was horrible. She can scarce believe how he was ever able to kill the white stag.

"It's not fair," Joff whines. "You have that wolf to help you. No one helps me. Urrigon ought to be here. I said I wanted him. The Hound's useless." The Hound, reclining idly against a tree not far away, remains unbothered by the slight.

"Ser Urrigon is preparing the army to march against the rebels," Sansa reminds him.

"Your father should have put them down weeks ago. He's making a fool of the crown, chasing the Mountain around in circles like a blind mutt. My father would have crushed Gregor's skull in a single day!"

Sansa forces herself not to grimace. Joffrey is not so handsome when he gets like this, she thinks. Especially not when he's talking about Father. She turns away, staring off into the brush, and the prince begins to stalk off back into the woods. But then she sees a flash of red, hidden within the brambles of a distant bush. "Wait!" she whispers.

"What?" Joff turns back irritably as Sansa points. He follows her finger, squinting into the underbrush.

"A fox. Get your bow."

Suddenly urgent, Joffrey clumsily pulls his bow free from his back and notches as shaky arrow, lurching forwards towards his new prey.

"No," Sansa stops him with a quick hand to his shoulder. "You'll scare it. Stay here."

"It's too far," he hisses back.

"No, it's not. You can do it. You're much stronger than me, after all. You killed the white stag."

"That's right," Joffrey cocks his chin up and takes aim.

"Steady," she presses up close to his back, breathing in his perfumed scent, trying to remember what Ser Aron had taught her. "Keep your balance. Take slow breaths. Focus on the target."

With a blink, Joffrey releases the arrow. The string snaps taught and its missile flies true, through the brush, hitting its target with a shrill whimper. For a moment, neither of them move. Lady's ears perk up, looking in the direction of the shot.

"Go get it," the prince insists, and Sansa obeys without hesitation, hiking up her dress as she wades into the weeds, praying the gods have chosen to bless this one shot. And sure enough, she almost trips over the fox, lying dead, half-covered by leaves, an arrow through its neck. She leans down to pick it up, its auburn fur the same color of her hair. And she stops.

She stares down at the beautiful dead thing in her hand. I'll feel better once I've killed something else – her own words play back in her mind. Is that who I am now? The girl who had come to King's Landing would have sobbed to see the fox slain, much less hold its bloody body in her hands like a sack of flour. What would Mother say?

She looks back to see Joffrey waiting, irritably swatting stray threads of his golden hair away from his eyes. Mother would want me to be the queen, she insists. This is who I have to be, to make him love me. I used to be weak and scared, and he hated me. Now? She begins to stomp back through the brush, and the prince can wait no longer.

"Let me see!" Joffrey shouts, his voice cracking as he rushes to her. She lifts up the fox, and the sparkle at once returns to his emerald eyes. He snatches the body away, dangling it in the air by its tail, face flushed with pride.

"I'll make you a scarf out of it! Even more beautiful than that sill grouse collar the crow tore!" He looks back at her, a crooked smile on his face. "Dog, take this!" He clumsily tosses the fox to the Hound. "I want to be alone with my lady!"

With a shrug, Clegane swings the fox over his shoulder and trudges off to add it to the others. As his heavy footsteps fade away, Joffrey turns back to Sansa and pulls her close.

"You have blood on your hand," he notices, but her hands are limp as he raises them to his face. She lets them fall against his smooth skin, leaving behind a red smear. But she can see it in his eyes, what she saw the day he first laid those green gems upon her. It worked, she thinks. He loves me again! He leans in, thin lips pursed out as he kisses her for the first time. Nothing else matters now, she vows. I did it. Nothing will ever come between us again!

As the heir to the Iron Throne shares his first kiss with his betrothed, somber clouds have rolled over the Red Keep. With great help from Lyman, King Robert once again looks presentable, if unavoidably worse for wear, as he sits at the head of the makeshift small council table in his solar, crown crooked on his head. The windows are shuttered tight against a foul wind as he stares irritably down at the counsellors assembled before him.

"To begin, your grace," Pycelle coughs, "I have received an urgent missive from…"

"That's enough of that Pycelle," Renly snipes from the far end of the table. "After today, we will no longer be in need of your deceptions."

"What do you mean?" Pycelle balks.

"Yes, what do you mean, Lord Renly?" Littlefinger leers down at the young lord.

"I mean that I have discovered a grand conspiracy that shakes the very foundation of the throne," Renly rises. "His grace always knew this place was a foul den of vipers but this… This goes beyond what I ever could have imagined."

"Out with it, brother," Robert scowls.

"With pleasure." Renly claps loudly thrice and the doors swing open. Behind them wait Ser Loras Tyrell and three of his household guard. Behind them looms all seven white-shrouded feet of Ser Balerion Horpe. And between the escort stand three young figures – Edric Storm, Mya Stone and Gendry. "Tell me, counselors, do these youths look familiar?"

"We all know of the lad Edric Storm," Varys offers, a forced befuddled look on his face. "But who are the others?"

"Surely you can tell," Renly gestures back to the trio as Loras leads them further into the room. Robert's brow furrows as he examines them. "They're his siblings. Well, half at least. Can't you see?" He walks from Mya to Edric to Gendry. "The black curled hair, the strong jaws, the blue eyes… All the same you see on me. All the same that you see on my brother."

"But what is your point?" Pycelle throws his hands up in irritation.

"Surely you can answer me, Pycelle," Renly brings Edric forward to face the Grand Maester, the usually confident lad stiff as a board, his face clammy, with cold sweat forming on his brow. "It is you who keep the records of the houses, you who record our ancestries. And it was you who delivered all the queen's children." He pushes Edric closer and closer until the tip of the old man's beard is scratching the boy's face. "So tell me – Out of all these features born by my brother's natural children, how often are they found in our family line? And how many are shared by the princes?"

"Lord Renly!" Pycelle pushes himself away with a gasp. "It is a grievous insult to bring bastards in here, common urchins from the dirt. Young Edric is one thing, but these… these street rats you drag into our hallowed halls and claim to be his grace's own issue? And I know, I know that surely you mustn't mean what you seem to imply about her highness the queen and her royal children, for such talk would be treason!"

"And just what is he implying, Grand Maester?" Robert asks in a low, cold voice. With a slight tremble, Pycelle turns to look to the king.

"Y…y…your grace," he coughs. "I fear that Lord Renly dares to proclaim your children…"

"Bastards." Renly finishes the sentence for him. Mace Tyrell gasps. "But I shouldn't need to tell you. Look with your own eyes. What one of Cersei's children looks a bit like our king? While these three, born to women of noble and low birth, from three different kingdoms, all share the same appearance." He spins back on his heel, golden cloak flapping in Varys' face, to point an accusing finger at Pycelle. "You have seen the books. Tell me, Grand Maester, and do not deny me an answer again – What are the odds that my brother's marriage to Cersei Lannister would produce three blonde, green-eyed children?"

"The odds…" Pycelle stammers looking nervously back and forth between Robert and Renly. "The odds I must admit are not high. But I beg you, you must believe…."

"I must believe nothing!" Renly slaps his hand on the table, stalking closer and closer towards the Grand Maester, who begins to back away towards Robert. "Because I'm not the first to ask these questions, am I, Pycelle? No, no, Ned Stark took a sudden interest in the genealogy of House Baratheon, didn't he? And Jon Arryn before him."

"No!" the old man gasps, clutching the end of the table, seemingly on the verge of collapse. Renly seems to tower ever higher above him, as if drawing power straight from the maester's very quivering soul. "You have to understand!"

"What was it that Jon Arryn was crying on his death bed?" Renly stops his advance. Pycelle blinks. Eyes fixed on Renly, he does not realize that the king, in defiance of his crippled leg, has risen from his seat, looming tall behind him. The room is stretched into a strained silence, every breath hinging upon the next word. Renly smirks, then opens his mouth once more."The seed is strong.

"Murderer!" Robert thunders. In a flash, Pycelle drops his doddering façade and turns to make a mad dash for the door, but the king in his rage is too fast, catching hold of the rattling chain around the maester's neck and pulling him back.

Nearly collapsing as he steps out on his crippled leg, Robert slams Pycelle down upon the table, his huge hands clasping around his neck. The room erupts with a cacophony of shouting as the other counsellors cry out, all save Renly, who silently steps back to watch. The maester writhes and squirms atop the table, withered old hands clawing at the king's face as his grip grows tighter and tighter.

"Your grace, stop!" Ser Barristan shouts.

"Stand down!" Robert bellows, spittle flying down into Pycelle's eyes. "You killed Jon Arryn, didn't you, you sniveling coward! Admit it! Tell me. Tell me!" But all that can escape the maester's collapsing throat is a choked gasp.

"Your grace, please!" Varys lays a single hand on the king's shoulder, and the whole room freezes. "We will need him alive. For the trial."

For a moment, Robert looks up and turns to face his Master of Whisperers. The rage begins to fade from his eyes as his grip relaxes. His breathing begins to slow. Lyman cautiously approaches, fearing the king will collapse back into his chair. But then, Robert utters a single word.

"No."

With a sickening crunch, he snaps Pycelle's neck. Mace buckles over, vomiting onto the floor. All save Renly slowly step away from the king, none daring even to breathe. As the body slides from the table to hit the floor, Robert pushes aside Lyman to limp, thud by thud, back to his seat. But he does not sit. Instead, standing at the head of the table before his shocked counsellors, he grimaces from the pain and speaks.

"This is no secret what happened here. This is the king's justice. My justice. It is time the fools of this court fear my name once more. Ser Barristan, I want Cersei and her brood seized at once and placed under constant guard. Lord Baelish, see to it that my true children are given new clothes and housing befitting of their status. Lord Varys, see to it that every Lannister man is removed from their post. And Renly?" His brother stands tall at attention. "You are my Master of Law, and this is my law. Any man who dares resist, kill where they stand. Now go, and Lyman? Fetch me some wine."

Only then does Robert allow himself to sink back into his chair, as his squire rushes to bring a drink and the chamber quickly empties. Ser Preston and Ser Arys drag Pycelle's body away while Ser Loras leads his stunned father stumbling down the hall. Only Littlefinger lingers, kneeling beside Pycelle's toppled chair, where the Grand Maester's final missive has fallen. The broken seal is golden – impressed with a stag.

The thin man gingerly lifts the crumpled paper from the floor, unrolling it to read line by line. Robert, taking a long drink of wine, peers down over the edge of the table to where Baelish is crouched. When he looks up, his normally laughing grey eyes are grim.

"It is from Dragonstone, your grace. Stannis is coming."