As the sun begins to set beyond the western wall of King's Landing, the people of the city carry about their lives as on any given day – the shopkeepers begin to shutter their wares, the parents call their children in from the streets while the brothels and taverns begin to burble with the sounds of music and raucous laughter. Naught a soul sits aware that within the castle, everything has changed.
Edward Stark is walking Heleana Hightower back to her chambers after a long afternoon of games in the garden when Jory Cassel appears in the hall with five other Stark guards. A grim pall has fallen over the captain's face, his march stiff and swift.
"Master Edward, you need to return to the tower at once," he insists, curtly pulling Edward away and passing him off to another guard. Edward resists, looking back confused at Heleana.
"Jory, I'm only walking back to her room! What's wrong?"
"I can explain later, Ed, but you need to listen now," Jory steps in between the children. "Where's your sister? Do you know where Arya is?"
"With Syrio, probably," Edward shrugs, slipping free of the guard again.
"But where? I need to find her."
"How should I know?" He is growing impatient. "Heleana…"
"Not now," Jory firmly cuts him off, placing one strong hand on each shoulder to stop his squirming. He looks down, trying to soften his face, but Edward can see the marks of fear all the same. "So long as your father is away, you're our Little Lord Stark here in the city, Ed. We need you to listen, not to fight."
Begrudgingly, Edward nods. "I'll see you tomorrow!" he calls back to Heleana as the guards begin to hurry him away. But Jory stays behind, headed in the opposite direction.
"Good ser, what is the matter?" Ser Runcel Cupps stops him. Jory stutters, unsure of what to tell the captain of the Hightower guard. Heleana stares up at him, her soft brown eyes waiting expectantly for an answer. But none comes, at least not from Jory.
"Heleana!" Ser Gunthor Hightower's voice rings out down the hall as the knight comes clattering down the stairs. Jory takes the distraction as a chance to make a hasty exit, nearly knocking Gunthor over as he rushes to find Arya. "Go to your chambers, now." He turns to Ser Runcel. "Do not open the door for anyone but me or Urrigon."
"Uncle, what is happening?" Heleana puts her foot down.
"Treason, my dear," Gunthor nervously straightens his blonde hair before dropping his helm atop his head. "Treason and murder."
Minutes later, the door to the Hightower's quarters swings open as Gunthor hurries Heleana inside and the guards take their positions by the door.
"Go to your room, I'll explain everything later," he instructs his niece, who reluctantly scurries away. Wrenching his helmet back off, he drops it to the floor and goes in search of wine, but stops seeing Ser Runcel waiting in the door.
"Gunthor, what's wrong?" the old knight asks. "I need to know what I'm guarding against."
"The Grand Maester is dead. Robert killed him in front of the whole Small Counsel. Renly and the Tyrells accused him and the queen of treason and have declared the royal children bastards. Robert has ordered them all arrested."
Runcel blinks slowly, taking the fast-paced report in. "Do we have reason to believe we are in danger?"
"That I don't know." Gunthor grunts in frustration, knocking over a vase as the wine's location continues to hide from him. "But until the dust settles, it's best to not trust anyone not from Oldtown. Whatever my sisters have dragged us into, I don't think Pycelle will be the last to die."
"How long did you know?" The thundering boom of Urrigon Hightower's voice rumbles from the next room. Gunthor grimaces. He's already here. Bracing himself, he swings open the door to find the huge knight pounding his fist on the table in their solar. Across from him sit his cousins Leyla and Alysanne – the elusive wine sitting between them – while Maester Gaheris lurks in the far corner of the room.
"I think our cousin asks an excellent question," the maester glowers. "When did you know? And when were you planning to tell us?"
"We were certain of nothing," Alysanne insists, her small hands raised defensively.
"Yet you suspected."
"Did you know?" Urrigon glares at Gunthor as he takes a seat, eagerly snatching the flagon to himself, ignoring his angry cousin.
"None of this matters anymore," Alysanne insists. "It's all out in the open now, and we have to deal with it. The king is coming for any Lannister allies in the court. The time has never been better to step into power. But we have to trust each other. And we have to work together."
"Very well," Gaheris shares a begrudging glance with Urrigon, who frowns, sulking in his chair, but offers no further argument. "But there best not be any more secrets. I know your fathers have never got along, but you are all Hightowers. If we play this right, we may yet best the Lannisters and the Tyrells at last. Now – I must see to the king. He will need a new maester on his counsel." He stops, halfway to the door. "Oh, and be more careful with these schemes. All this time you've been wasting Maris spying on the Stark girl, when you should have been following these bastards of Robert's."
The chamber within the Keep afforded to Edric Storm is small, but in this moment, the boy seems small as a mouse as he sits stiffly on the edge of his bed, his usual bravado vanished, still in shock from seeing his royal father murder the Grand Maester. His guardian, Ser Balerion Horpe, stands grimly barring the door while his half-siblings, Gendry and Mya, linger awkwardly in the room with nowhere to go.
"Come on, snap out of it," Gendry kicks irritably at the younger boy.
"Leave him be," Mya chides him. "He's never seen a man killed before."
"I haven't either," Gendry laughs. "And I can't imagine you have."
"I have, actually. More than once. The cliffs of the Eyrie are very treacherous. I saw a man step right out into nothing. They call it cloudwalking. Most times they never find the body." Gendry has nothing more to say. She turns to Edric. "I've seen people get like that on the mountain, too. Too afraid to move. They die just the same, only slower." The boy doesn't seem to hear her.
"So what do we do now?" Gendry slumps to the ground.
"We wait. We stick together. And if you pray, pray that Lord Renly knows what the hell he's doing."
Mace Tyrell flings open the door to his chambers with a thundering crash, so hard that it swings back, nearly slamming into Loras as he hurries after his father.
"You told me Stannis would never leave Dragonstone!" The Lord of Highgarden jabs a stubby finger in his son's face. "And now the Grand Maester is dead. What do you think Stannis is going to do when he finds out about that?"
"Nothing," Renly Baratheon smirks calmly as he steps into the room, gently closing the door behind him. "Robert is still the king. This was simply an… expedited execution."
"You think Stannis will accept that? The man is rigid, unyielding! He will demand answers! Answers from the king, from you, from me…" Mace collapses into an overstuffed chair, frantically running his hands through his thinning hair. "Do you expect him to simply stand by and let Robert name you heir?"
"Robert will never tolerate him for long. Stannis as Hand may have seemed like a good idea at the time, but distance makes it easy to forget just how unbearable the man is. And Robert is surely in no mood now to let anyone stand in his way. He was ready to send Ned Stark packing back to Winterfell, and he has more love for him than he ever had for Stannis."
Loras nods in agreement. "The court will not have him. The people will not have him. Robert will not have him. He will be back to brood on his salty rock in no time at all."
"And if the king dies without naming a new heir?" Mace fidgets warily.
"My brother just choked the life out of the Grand Maester, he has enough life left in him to outlast Stannis' miserable presence."
"But if he doesn't?" Mace's trembling has finally stopped as he sits up straight to look Renly in the eyes. "If Stannis presses his claim to the throne? What then?"
"I have more friends, more men, more gold," Renly throws up his hands in jest. "I will have the Faith. And I will have you. What does Stannis have against that?"
"You were too young to remember the siege. But Stannis… I sat outside Storm's End for over a year and he never wavered. We thought it would be an easy victory. He was only 18. He would surrender in a few weeks, everyone said so. But no, he held. And held. And held." Mace's thick hands grip the arms of his chair as he rises. "When I finally saw him face to face, it was no boy that faced me. It was a harder man than any that sat in my camp. And the years have only made him harder."
Renly takes a step back, caught off guard by a sudden intensity he has never encountered before from the Lord of Highgarden. He takes a moment to regain his composure. "I know my brother far better than you, Mace. If he stands in our way, I will deal with him myself."
Mace only sighs, shaking his head. He waves Renly and Loras out of the room and turns away to pour himself a brimming cup of wine, muttering after them as they go. "If you aim for Stannis, you had best not miss."
Outside the city walls, the royal hunting party winds down the road at last, its riders blissfully unaware of the chaos transpiring within their home. Sansa Stark rides high in her saddle, pride brimming in her chest, still feeling the warmth of her prince's kiss. Joffrey rides beside her, having insisted on strapping the fox he'd killed to the side of his own saddle, where it is persistently dripping blood onto his trousers. Sansa does not notice. Her head is in the clouds, for her dreams are closer than ever to coming true.
Her braid is unraveling, leaving long strands of auburn hair to blow loose in the wind, but she does not care. She shakes her head, letting more hair fall free, and lets the cool dusky wind wash over his face. This morning, she had left the castle afraid – afraid of Cersei, afraid of Maris, afraid of Father sending her home – but that was all gone now. This must be what Arya feels, Sansa thinks. Freedom. But I'm better than her. She doesn't know how to be a lady. I can be a lady and a wolf. She looks over to Joffrey, and imagines them kissing again.
It had not been so great. Joffrey had been clumsy, his lips opening too wide and his cold tongue slapping against her teeth. But first kisses weren't magic, no matter what the singers said. Mother had told her as much. But Mother had not kissed Father until their wedding day. Sansa knew she would surely have plenty of practice before then. She lets her mind wonder, staring at Joffrey as she pictures him on that day in his finest clothes, draping a black and gold cloak over her shoulders and placing his crown upon her head…
"Hold!" The Hound calls back from the head of the line. Sansa snaps back to the present, caught off guard to see the huge city walls towering high above her as they come to a halt just outside the gate. The grinding sound of the rising portcullis begins and she looks back to where Peremore and Maris wait behind them and smirks. I won't have to deal with those two again. All thanks to Lady. She makes a note to have Fat Tom give her direwolf an extra portion of meat tonight.
At last, the gate grinds to a halt, revealing a wall of mounted goldcloaks waiting, with Janos Slynt himself in line behind Ser Barristan, Ser Mandon and Ser Arys in their white armor.
"Selmy!" The Hound barks. "What do you want?"
"Stand aside, Clegane," the Lord Commander orders. "The prince is coming with us. He will be remanded with his mother to the Maidenvault under orders of the king."
Sansa freezes, convinced she must have misheard, as Arys and Mandon ride forward, the guards nervously shifting their horses out of the way as they weave through the crowd. But they stop as the Hound's hand drops heavily to his sword hilt. "I'd like to see those orders."
"You may speak to the king yourself if you wish," Barristan replies ominously, his own hand drifting slightly to his sword. "But first, I will do my duty."
"Dog, don't let them take me!" Joffrey shouts shrilly as Mandon and Arys resume their approach. A look of befuddlement has overcome him, quickly escalating to panic. "They can't do this, I'm the prince! I want to speak with my father at once!"
"In due time, I'm sure." Barristan gives a nod and Mandon yanks the prince from the back of his horse onto his own, the boy too much in shock to resist.
"Do something!" he shouts at the Hound as he is carried back to the city, but his huge guardian offers no reply, only falling in line behind the white-clad knights. Now Joffrey begins to squirm, writhing about, but Ser Mandon holds him tight. He cranes his neck over his captor's shoulder, desperately looking back to his betrothed. "Sansa!"
"Tom, don't let them take him!" she finally finds the words to shout.
"There's nothing we can do," the fat guard insists.
"Yes you can, he's the prince, you have to stop them!" she shouts. Looking back to the gate, she sees Barristan turning away. The goldcloaks circle in around him, and Joffrey disappears behind a wall of grey mail and yellow cloaks. In a sudden burst of courage, Sansa flicks her reigns, kicking sharply at her horse's side. She bursts forward, nearly startling Fat Tom from his horse.
"Sansa, stop!"
"Lady!" she calls, and the direwolf leaps into action, sprinting to the gate with a snarl as Sansa rushes past the mounted men, too confused to take action. With a snarl, Lady's fangs close on the leg of the last goldcloak's horse and mayhem breaks out. For a fleeting moment, Sansa can see Joffrey again, terror on his face, a score of armed men between them. They can't stop me and Lady, she insists. Not when we have love on our…
With a sudden jolt she goes flying back, a hand seizing her shoulder. The sudden force sends her swinging sideways off her own horse into open air. Flailing, she grabs the neck of the man who stopped her, dragging him down to the ground with her in a heavy crash.
"My lady, stop!" It is Ser Aron Santagar.
"Get off of me!" she shrieks at the Dornishman, grimacing in pain from the fall. "He's your prince! Go and help him!" But the Master at Arms stays over her, refusing to let go of her shoulders as she shakes on the ground, desperate to break free. Her vision is beginning to go blurry; the sound of Lady's panting impossibly loud inside her head. I'm warging, she realizes. No! No, I can't, not now, not here, they'll all know!
One free hand scratches in the dirt, looking for a way to break free as her panic rises. Sansa can barely see Aron's face now as she bites her lip, trying to force the inner wolf back down. And then, her fingers wrap around a broken arrow fallen from her quiver. With a shout, she swings it up, burying it in Aron's shoulder. He howls in pain and releases her. Rolling away, her head begins to clear and she scrambles shakily to her feet. But Fat Tom is coming towards them now. She turns to run away, but Aron's squire blocks her path and in an instant she is hoisted into the air, clasped tight in Tom's huge arms, unable to move.
"Let me go!" she shouts. "Let me go, I command it!" But the guard does not listen, standing, unyielding, softly humming a gentle song under his breath in hopes that it may calm her. But Sansa refuses to be calmed, her breaths growing shorter and more frantic as she struggles, tears beginning to flow freely from her eyes, wetting Tom's beard with salty sadness and rage. Face down over his shoulder, she can see only dirt. Dirt and then Lady, the wolf's eyes staring up with concern, blood around her snout. It's the last thing she sees before she passes out.
The king stares intensely at a blank stone on the wall of his chambers. Lyman Darry watches from a distance, polishing a gilded chalice he has already nervously rubbed to a sheen, still glancing every so often at the spot on the floor where Pycelle's body had been, the Grand Maester's chair still lying where it fell.
Robert has said scarce words since his sudden spurt of violence, only snarling at the occasional sound of chaotic confusion drifting in through his window from the castle below. But his strength has not faded again, instead pulsing about within him without release, trapped by his crippled leg with nowhere to go, like a tightly wound spring about to explode. And so Lyman continues to polish, and says nothing.
"I am surrounded by traitors and spies," the king finally speaks. "Here in this bloody den of vipers. It's no wonder the Lannisters tried to kill me – They want their little bastard on the throne. I should have known he wasn't mine, pathetic little squib." He spits upon the stone at his feet and takes another drink of wine. "They haven't stopped trying, either. Renly was right to keep Pycelle away from my sickbed. But still…" He looks down at the seeping bandages wrapping his splinted leg. "Still I don't heal, damn it! Somehow that withered old man got the poison to me anyway!"
One huge hand lunges out, grabbing Lyman and tugging him close. The chalice clatters to the floor. Robert pulls his squire so close to him the tangled hairs of his beard scratch the lad's nose; his breath reeking of wine and stagnation. "Don't you leave my side, boy. My Lord of Harrenhal. I need you by me at all times. Swear to me! Swear to me you will defend me!"
"I…. I swear, your grace," Lyman stammers.
- A faint rap on the door - "Come in!" Robert barks.
It creaks open and a rattling of chains heralds the arrival of Maester Gaheris. Robert lets go his hold on Lyman, who stumbles back away from the bed and scrambles to retrieve the fallen chalice, nervously returning to polishing it at once.
"Your grace, your wound will need dressing," the maester bows and Robert nods curtly, beckoning him to approach. As Gaheris produces his bag of medical tools and kneels at the king's side, positioning the wounded leg for operation, Robert peers over his shoulder with steely eyes, silently demanding Lyman's focus. He shuffles nearer, trying to catch a glimpse of the maester's work and tries not to gag when he sees the puss-filled sores revealed on the king's leg when the bandage is removed. Steeling his stomach, he does not look away, wary even to blink, for no movement must go amiss.
Edward needs no one to tell him when the guards have returned with Sansa. He can hear them all the way from outside the Tower of the Hand. Never has he heard his sister sound such a fury. Leaping from his bed, he dashes down the stairs to the entry hall, skipping steps at a time as he rushes to the sound of the ruckus.
Reaching the entry hall, he is surprised to find Lord Petyr Baelish waiting with Jory. He must have found Arya, Edward thinks, because while his twin is not in the room, Syrio and Yorren stand in the corner waiting. At last, the door swings open and Fat Tom, hair askew and face distraught, tumbles in, tugging Sansa along behind him.
"Sansa Stark, cease this display at once!" Septa Mordane demands shrilly, storming into the room. As she enters, Sansa finally manages to tear herself free from Tom's grip, so forcefully that she crashes to the floor at Edward's feet. He drops at once to help her up, but gasps when he sees her face – scratched, red and puffy, stained with tears and dirt. Before he can say a word, the septa has tugged her away, furiously wiping at her face with a towel as she goes limp.
"The little lady stabbed the Master at Arms himself before we got her away," Tom huffs, bent over gasping for air. "The wolf mauled a goldcloak's horse, too."
"I'll see no harm will come to it," Baelish smiles, the only calm face in the room. "Here, let me see." He kneels down between the septa and Sansa, tossing aside the old woman's rough rag and producing a lilac-scented handkerchief to dry her tears himself. "You truly are a daughter of the North, aren't you, little one?"
"They won't tell me what happened," Sansa sobs again. "They took Joffrey away!" This is news to Edward. He peers up to each of the adults in turn, waiting to gauge their own reaction. None comes, but Jory looks away.
"You need to wait in your room, my lady," the captain says.
"Now Jory, truthfully?" Baelish looks up, disapprovingly. "I believe we must always be honest with children. Youthful delusions can be costly in the end."
"Lord Baelish, it's not your place…"
"Well, if no one else will do it," he silences Jory with one raised hand. Letting Sansa hold onto the handkerchief, he stands, looking down at her and Edward. "The queen and her children have been arrested on order of King Robert. There has been an accusation leveled against them. Lord Renly claims that Cersei's children are, in fact, not King Robert's children at all."
"Bastards?" Tom blurts out in shock.
"That's not true!" Sansa shouts. "It can't be!" Shoving Edward out of the way, she runs up the stairs. As quickly as she goes, Edward follows.
"Now look what you've done," Jory glares at Baelish.
"It's for the best," he insists.
By the time Edward has reached Sansa's bedroom, she has half torn it asunder – clothes and blankets and pillows scattered furiously across the floor. She sits beside the open window, her braid long gone, auburn hair falling down to hide her face as she wraps her arms tight around her legs, shaking with dismayed fury.
"They're liars," she murmurs. "All liars. It isn't true, it can't be."
"Sansa?" Edward creeps quietly into the room. It's all going to be okay, he tells himself. Even if she doesn't believe about the dagger, they'll never be married now. "It's going to be okay."
"How do you know that?" Her sad blue eyes peer out from behind her hair.
"There's something I need to tell you," he whispers, shuffling slowly closer to sit beside her on the window seat. He breathes in the dusk wind, letting the cold air give him courage. "You can't marry Joffrey."
"What do you mean? You can't believe them!"
"It's not that! I don't know who his father is but… the knife. The Valyrian steel dagger that was sent to kill Bran. I... I s…s…saw it." He stutters to a halt as she looks up at him, confused, brushing her hair clear from her eyes. "I found Joffrey in the wagon. He took the dagger. It was him! It was Joffrey that sent the man to kill Bran!"
"What?" Sansa lunges at him with a fury. He jumps away, falling backwards onto the floor, his head slamming against the wall. He feels the hot rush of blood from a burst lip. He rolls over but Sansa drops on top of him, wildly beating at his face with her hands. "Why would you say that? Why? Don't you want me to be happy?"
"It's true!" he tries to shout, wrapping his head in his hands as he desperately tries to crawl away.
"Is this because of Myrcella?" she stops. "That's it! You're still mad because she doesn't love you, so you don't want anyone to be happy! Well, Joffrey loves me and I love him! I'm going to be queen and I'm never going to see you again!"
She finally stops her attack, standing up as Edward drags himself out from under her to the door. He rises, propped up against the wall, wiping the blood from his mouth. When he looks back to Sansa, she has not moved, standing tall and still, full of silent wrath. Sansa seems to have aged years in only the past minutes. He barely recognizes her now.
"I'm s….s…sorry," he stammers. "You know I love you…"
"If you did, you'd want me to be happy. If you did, you wouldn't have said that." She points to the hall behind him. "You're a liar, just like Lord Renly. And none of you are going to stand in my way!"