From the highest window of the Maidenvault, Queen Cersei Lannister looks down at the castle that just one day before had belonged to her. The Red Keep seems more silent than usual now in the early morning, as if uneager to wake up into a new, uncertain day. The one thing she knows for certain she does not hear are the defiant shouts of Lannister men. Any resistance they had offered had been quickly silenced by the combined might of the king's men, the goldcloaks and their new Tyrell allies.
Pathetic, she thinks. Father's great men of The Rock. This is the best Father could send me? At least Vylarr had tried to defend her, foolish though it was, barring the door when Ser Barristan had come for her. Jaime may have left the old man slower than he was before, but he still had made short work of her captain. And who knows what's become of Kevan? He's failed. She had expected little less. Her one solace was in knowing that even now Robert would not dare execute Jaime. Not yet. He was too valuable a hostage.
She has not slept a moment the whole of the night, only waiting and listening, convincing herself that there would be another way, that surely it could not end like this. Not like this.
And when your tears have drowned you, the valonqar shall wrap his hands about your pale white throat and choke the life from you…. The witch's cruel prophecy still laughs in her head, and she had refused to shed a single tear out of spite for the distant memory. Tyrion isn't here, she assures herself. With any luck, the mad Stark woman will kill him. No, this is not the end for me. Not the end. Only waiting, and not nearly enough wine.
A creak at the door and she grimaces, expecting some irritated maid, head bowed to their feet, dreading the wrath of a captive queen. And she is inclined to give it to them. But when she turns, she is instead greeted in the threshold by the grim form of Kevan Lannister, looking very much a ghost in his grey servant's disguise.
"How did you get in?"
"A fine greeting for your kin," he frowns. "We yet have some friends in this castle, Cersei."
"If you can get in, you can get me out. Take me! Me and the children!" She points a commanding finger towards Kevan, but he does not move from the doorway. "That is an order, uncle."
"Is it true?" he asks plainly.
"What?"
"These accusations brought by Renly and the Tyrells. Are they true?"
"You would dare?" Cersei's jaw drops in horrified offense. But Kevan again remains unmoved. "Of course they are not! This slander… it is obscene! Renly has always wanted the throne, and now he's bought the Tyrells, offering to make Mace's daughter queen, no doubt. He will do anything to get it, even kill me and the children, right here in the Keep! You must take us out at once! I am still your queen, or have you forgotten?"
Kevan slowly closes his eyes, his brow wrinkling as if mulling over whether to believe her. But when they open again, she cannot read an answer behind them. "The time is not right," he turns to leave. "But soon I will return, once the proper arrangements are made. Until then, there are loyal servants watching over you and the little ones. No harm will befall them here."
"Then bring me wine!" she marches angrily toward him. "At the very least give me that!"
"I need you to have a clear head," he sighs. "You are upset, you need to sleep."
"They won't let me see the children," Cersei's voice finally falters. No tears, she vows again. But she is growing weak. Kevan places his hands reassuringly on her shoulders and draws her into a clumsy embrace. They are strong hands, but not Father's. Not Jaime's. She wonders if he is remembering Lancel's cries, and longing to hear his dead son again.
"Perhaps that's for the best. Joffrey is… upset."
"I can hear Tommen's crying through the walls."
He sighs. "I will see what I can do. Until then, you must stay here. Trust me, Cersei, please. I will see to it that they all get what they deserve. When the time is right, they will hear us roar."
Across the Keep, in the Tower of the Hand, Edward Stark sits on the edge of a balcony, feet dangling over the edge, painting a landscape of the castle before him. Unable to leave the tower, this is how he chooses to focus.
The past night, he had pried open another window, the one to his bedroom, to pray to the old gods of home. Septa Mordane had set him down before their small altar to the Seven, but the southern gods had never felt so small as they did then. Ever since he had learned he was a warg, their power had shrunk in his eyes. What miracles could they hold against the magic of the old ways that now flowed in his veins?
And so he had crawled halfway out the window, letting the cold night air wash over his face as he looked to the sky, where the ice dragon's starry tail pointed the way North. And he had prayed for peace – for Father, for Robb, for Myrcella and little Tommen. But not for Joffrey. For him, he only prayed that Sansa see the truth. For whatever prayers Sansa had to offer, they were uttered silently in her room, behind the door she had not opened since she had chased Edward out of it.
Was it wrong to tell her? he wonders as he strokes in a new color of paint. No, I swore no more lies, no more secrets. She had to know, or else she would have married him. And she still might if I can't make her believe me. He sighs and tries to let his worries leave him be and get lost in the painting like he used to in Winterfell. Those days feel a lifetime away now. It's only been a few months, but he feels so much older. He idly rubs at the scar on his face.
"What are you doing?" Arya kicks open the door behind him, nearly making him drop his brush.
"Painting."
"Is that for Heleana?" she smirks. He shakes his head and goes back to work. I should paint her something, he thinks. If I ever see her again. Bored, Arya climbs over his head, using his shoulder as a step stool, to mount the balcony wall. Leaning precariously out into nothing, she cranes her neck to listen for the voices rising from the floors below. "You can hear them," she looks back, recognizing Jory and Littlefinger's raised voices. "What have they been saying?"
"Lord Petyr's hired a new ship to take us home to Winterfell."
"Really?" Her face lights up. "When do we leave?"
"Jory doesn't want to leave until Father returns from the Riverlands."
"That's stupid!" Arya's happiness turns back to a scowl and she slouches down, kicking her feet angrily out over the ledge. "We should go now. And Father can meet us in White Harbor."
"Father has to catch the Mountain first."
"Why?"
"Because he promised the king. It's his duty."
"Duty?" She sticks her tongue out in a grimace. "What did the king ever do for him, anyway? Just eat our deer and drink our wine. He's going to be dead soon anyway, everyone says it."
"He can't die!" Edward blurts out, a sudden wave of panic hitting him. "Then Joffrey would be king!"
"Not if Renly's right. I think he is. Joffrey doesn't look anything like the king."
"But then who would be king?"
Arya shrugs and jumps back down to the ground. "Who cares? We'll be home in Winterfell by then, and we can run with the wolves and train with Syrio all day. It will be just like it used to be. Lord Petyr will make Jory understand. He always gets what he wants. And there's nothing the king can do about it."
King Robert Baratheon squirms, agitated in his sleep. Lyman Darry sits nervously in the corner of the bedroom, perched on the edge of his chair, a Baratheon dagger on his hip, sipping on a shaky cup of wine to steady his nerves. He has not slept since Robert killed the Grand Maester, yesterday morning. Don't leave my side, the king had made him swear. And now here they sit, adrift on an island amid a sea of stone and untrustworthy eyes.
"Rhaegar!" Robert thunders awake, gasping for breath, sweat beading down his red face, once again screaming out at his long-dead foe. Lyman jumps to his feet, chair and cup clattering to the floor and rushes to the bed.
"Your grace! Are you alright?"
"Bah!" Coming to his senses, Robert swats him away. Yawning, he rubs the sleep from his dark, weary eyes. "Don't make me regret keeping you on, boy. I'm not some crying babe in the night. Fetch me my clothes, there is work to do."
Lyman nervously walks away to the king's wardrobe to retrieve a fresh outfit – a golden tunic to easily fit over the king's splinted leg and a black studded vest to make it seem more formal. But as he cranes his neck around the wardrobe door, trying not to let Robert out of his site, they make eye contact.
"I only said don't leave me! You can look away every now and then! There are no killers in this room, and I don't need you watching me piss." He lurches upwards, clunking across the floor to relieve himself into his chamber pot. "It would only embarrass your manhood, anyway."
When the king is finished, Lyman gently helps him change his clothes. As the last buttons on the vest are fastened, the doors swing open and Maester Gaheris enters, heralded as always by the rattling of his chains.
"Good morn, your grace," he bows.
"I'd have to disagree with that," Robert grumbles, painfully lowering himself back onto the side of the bed. His brief spurt of energy was used up in killing Pycelle, it seems, leaving him more drained than ever. "But you tell them all out there, if anyone asks, that I'm stronger than ever. You hear me?" He jabs a stubby finger at the maester. "I could kill a dozen more Pycelle's if I wanted. Wine!"
Lyman hurries to retrieve a drink as Gaheris steps nearer. "Lord Tarly awaits word from you. The armies are mustered and ready to march. But do you wish to proceed with your plan?"
"Of course I wish to proceed!" Robert grabs the goblet from Lyman the moment he returns, draining it with three deep gulps. "Ned is out there surrounded by traitors! I will not have my armies cower here while he does my kingly duty! They march on the morrow, just as I said before, and no later!"
"With due respect, your grace, are you sure that is wise? To part with so many loyal men?"
"Tywin Lannister's hands will never touch me here. Not while I hold his precious children. I am afraid of no man, and I will suffer none who say otherwise. More wine!" He tosses the goblet back to Lyman. "What of Cersei's guard?"
"Their captain was slain by Ser Barristan when he resisted. The other Lannister men within the Keep have been disarmed, those in the city will not be permitted to return."
"Good. Then we have nothing to fear. You have done well, maester…"
"Gaheris." If the man is offended by the king's lapse of memory, he does not show it.
"Gaheris, yes. It will take an age and a half for the doddering ancients of the Citadel to choose a replacement for Pycelle. Until then, you will sit on my council in his place. It needs be smaller than ever, now. There are so few that I can trust."
"Indeed." Gaheris watches Lyman, his back turned, as he pours more wine. "What of the boy? Are you certain you can trust him? His uncles fought and died for Rhaegar, did they not?"
"I killed one of them myself," Robert frowns. "Boy!" Lyman turns with a start. "Maester Gaheris wants to know of your uncles. What do you think of how they died?"
The squire's face flushes red, but he steels his features as he returns with the wine. "My father's brothers were brave and true knights who loved Prince Rhaegar. They chose a losing side, and they paid the loser's price. Their cause died with them at the Trident. And so did House Darry's loyalty to House Targaryen."
"How many times did your father have you rehearse that?" Robert laughs heartily, and Lyman is silently grateful the king never saw the Targaryen tapestries that had been hastily hidden in the bowels of Castle Darry mere days before the royal party's arrival.
"Rhaegar died well before I was born, your grace," he insists further. "I have never known any king but you." He glares across the bed at Gaheris. "But what of the maester? Where did he come from? How do you know you can trust him?"
"Hmm…" The king strokes his beard with a smirk, turning his head to see Gaheris, seemingly unmoved my Lyman's attempt to deflect back on him. "The boy has a point. Who are you, really? And don't feed me any horseshit about forsaking your past."
Gaheris smirks with a tilt of his head, as if impressed by the squire's boldness. The purple flecks in his pale blue eyes sparkle as he answers. "I must keep no secrets from your grace. You need only ask, and I will tell all truthfully. Before I joined the Citadel, I was a Flowers by name, and a Hightower by blood. And, truth be told, I must regrettably confess I have not always been faithful to my vow to forsake my old ties. I suppose even in a brotherhood as solemn as ours, the bastards need to be worthy of their blood still runs strong."
Robert nods approvingly. "And what does your family think now. Who's side do they fall upon in this little scandal of ours? My brother or my queen."
"House Hightower has never known love for House Lannister. I can assure you, Cersei will get no support from Oldtown."
"Good," Robert finishes his second goblet. "Lyman, fetch me my crown. It is time to face the court." Lyman hesitates, taken aback. But the king glares impatiently and slowly, one huge hand gripped tight around the bed post, hoists himself to stand, no longer hunched over, rising like a sleeping giant until he towers over both squire and maester. "It has been too long since these fools have seen me. They must know I do not slumber. And that I am ready to bury the rest of my enemies right next to Pycelle. If Ned were here, he would counsel mercy. But by the time he returns, there will be none left to give."
It is raining again in the Riverlands as Ned Stark leads his dwindling band through the forest, following the devastated trail left by the Mountain's men. To his left rides Harwyn, commanding the northern guard in wake of Alyn's death, and young Edric Dayne, all but forsaken his squirely duties to Beric Dondarrion in favor of serving Ned.
Beric and his red priest dawdled somewhere in the rear, depressed and drunk for days. In their place at the head of the party ride the assortment of the most accomplished, level-headed knights left in their troupe, chosen by Ned to take command: Ser Godric Sand; a Dornish bastard and the Dayne boy's sworn shield; Ser Neville Buckwell; a stout but fierce barroom brawler; Ser Byron Byrch, a slender man, chivalrous to a fault, with somewhat of a reputation in the tourneys; Ser Archibald Pyle, a kind sort as skilled in healing as with the mace; and lastly Ser Niles, called Trout, a sturdy old household knight in service of the late Lord Mallery.
Ned shudders to think of those already lost – loyal Alyn, slain; Lord Mallery, slain; Lord Darry, mind broken and sent home; Ser Gladden Wydle, turned traitor and vanished – the others made him mourn, it was Gladden that filled him with dread. For if turncloaks could threaten him here, what danger did that leave his children in? But duty and honor drive him onwards, and he wipes the fear from his forehead with the rain.
He had dreamed of Ashara again the night before, and awoken to see her eyes watching him through Edric, the boy perched on his heels, guarding him like some pale, lavender-cloaked owl. Every time I see him, I see her, he knows. But he cannot bear to turn the boy away. Years and years of memories locked deep away within him are released, turned to sweet and bitter tastes in his mouth. I owe it to him, after everything. But still, he longs for Cat to come to him in his dreams instead of Ashara. There is more in this life beneath the stars than you could ever hope to know, Ned. Her final words to him. Would that they were true. But of late it was clear – there was little more to find in this world but pain and blood. And for those lucky enough – love. And it is so, so fragile. He had lost it before. He vows he will not lose it again.
"M'lord, the riders!" Harwyn calls to him. The horsemaster's son had clearly been hurt not to lead one of the three bands of outriders. But Ned needed him by his side.
"Which band?" he asks.
"Risley, m'lord," Edric's young eyes are the first to see.
Titus Risley, not a knight, barely a man grown, but his family produced the greatest riders in the Seven Kingdoms, or so they boasted. Titus, at least, lived up to his name's reputation, handling his horse better than perhaps even Harwyn. Ned had found him among Beric's men, and promoted him at once.
As the riders near, he begins to make out their faces. And on Titus, he sees the look of a young man who still yet chases glory into battle. By the time the lad is before him, Ned already knows the report.
"Lord Hand. We found him."
In a ramshackle tent three days to the West, Ser Karyl Vance and Ser Marq Piper sit miserably in a leaky, ramshackle tent. They wear no chains, but remain prisoners all the same, stripped of their knightly fineries and dressed up in rough-hewn sackcloth.
"I swear this rag is filled with fleas," Marq scratches irritably at his neck, his normally pristine blonde hair asunder. "That's how they'll kill us, with bloodsuckers."
"They're not going to kill us," Karyl sighs, staring away from his comrade to a hole in the far side of the tent. "They need us as hostages, to make our fathers yield. Tywin's invading."
"Hard to believe your own goodbrother's turned traitor."
"He's not a traitor," Karyl turns back, his birthmark flushing red in irritation.
"Last I checked, taking up arms against the king's men was treason."
"Knights swear many vows. Some to the king. Some to their liege lord. When our oaths conflict, it's not my place to judge the way another chooses."
"What if it was old Hoster rebelling?" Marq muses. "What would you do then?"
"Whatever my father told me to do. My first oath is to him."
"Heh. A good son. My father never much cared for me. Keeps telling me to get married, to stay in Maidenpool, and on and on and on," he groans. "But eventually I think he just gave up. He has heirs to spare. A lousy hostage that'll make me, I think. Perhaps I should tell Ser Addam."
"I don't plan on giving them the chance to find that out our worth as hostages."
"An escape?" A huge, dumb grin spreads over Marq's broad face. "Now that's my sort of talk!" He jumps to his feet as if ready to plow his way through the entire enemy band right then and there. But Karyl doesn't move.
"Not yet. Addam will speak to me, I know it. I need to learn their plan. Then, only then, can we forsake their company. And hope we can warn Lord Stark in time."
Brackenton is burning. The Hand's force is too late for the village surrounding Stone Hedge; it's hovels and fields put to the torch by the Mountain's men, it's people dead, fled or imprisoned. Even the long rains have yet to quench the flames, only turning to a thick, choking black smoke, carrying the stench of death and destruction up to the heavens.
The other two bands of outriders are waiting for Ned as he reaches the ridge where they have camped, looking down over the carnage – One led by Anguy, the champion archer from the King's Landing tourney; the other by Robert Cafferen, a skilled squire whose knight was slain in the ambush.
"Any sign of survivors?" Harwyn asks.
"A few villagers, hiding out in the brush," Anguy reports. "We gave them food and water."
"Good," Ned nods approvingly, dismounting. "I will need to speak with them."
"They say the Mountain's taken all his men inside the castle," the Cafferen boy adds. "No one's left in three days."
"They're waiting for us," Harwyn observes, ominously.
Waiting for me, Ned knows. But he must be strong, for the men, "Gregor Clegane has ran out of places to run. This will be the last village he defiles."
"If he wants out, he'll have to go through us!" Edric Dayne shouts, drawing his sword with a flourish. "For Robert!"
"For Robert!" The other men follow suit with a mighty roar. But Ned stays silent, leaving them behind as he trudges through the mud to the edge of the ridge and looks down. Before him – ashes and ruin – his duty. He has no choice, he knows. Gods give me strength, he prays, yearning for touch of his wife, for the laughter of his children. But these southern winds hold no whispers of guidance. Only smoke.