"What do you mean, you're staying?" Gunthor Hightower glares at his siblings in their solar, Alysanne and Leyla once again intently engaged in a game of cyvasse.
"We mean exactly that," Leyla smirks, biting into a crumbly pastry. "Why should we leave when things are just getting interesting?"
"We weren't sent here to play games with the court! We were sent to retrieve the Stark boy, secure his betrothal to Heleana and return him to Father in Oldtown!"
"The Stark boy isn't going anywhere," Alysanne insists. "Not until his Father returns from the war."
"If he returns, that is," Leyla adds, her mood souring.
"Or we could all wind up dead before Stark ever catches up to the Mountain's trail!" Gunthor throws his hands up in exasperation. "The queen and her children have been imprisoned! The king has murdered the Grand Maester! The whole castle has gone mad! I think you have too, if you truly intend to stay here any longer."
"We're not mad, Gunthor," Alysanne sighs, making her move on the board. "Chaos is an opportunity for level heads to prevail. While the Tyrells and Lannisters try to burn each other to the ground, we shall rise to the top."
"And if they burn us down with them? What then? What of Father's plans?"
"Father's plans would be best served by his voice in the ear of the king, whoever that may be when this dance is done," Leyla takes a long drink of wine and takes one of her sister's elephants with a dragon.
"I will not endanger Heleana on a chance at the favor of whichever Baratheon is left standing when this feud ends! What would Baelor say?"
"What would he say indeed?" Leyla chuckles. "What would he say if we told him everything we know about you, hmm? If he knew who it was warming Father's marriage bed while he toils up in the tower? Is that why you're in such a hurry to get home? How would brother Baelor feel to know he entrusted his only daughter to a man sleeping with his father's wife?"
"You wouldn't dare!" Gunthor snatches the wine away from his sister, face turning as red as the crimson stains left behind.
"Then stay out of our way," Leyla shoves another pastry in her mouth. "Do what you will with the children. But we have work to do."
"Very well," Gunthor takes a long drink straight from the flagon. "Play your stupid game and get yourselves killed for all I care. But I'll be damned if I spend another day in this stinking city with our boorish cousin and a mad king!"
In the Grand Hall, King Robert Baratheon sits atop the Iron Throne for the first time since before his ill-fated hunting expedition. The full court is assembled before him. He sits, crown atop his brow, in a black and gold robe that covers his splinted leg. His beard and hair are properly combed for the first time in weeks. And his face carries all the stormy ferocity that had been gone from his rule for so long. Those long of the Red Keep could see it plain. The Robert who had broken the House of Dragons has returned.
"What word of the rebellion?" he bellows.
Maester Gaheris steps forward. "The ravens come in droves, your grace, often contradicting each other. But we believe that small skirmishes have broken out between Lannister and Tully forces along the border of the Westerlands and Riverlands. There are more reports of Gregor Clegane terrorizing smallfolks, claiming to have seen him all the way from the Neck in the North to Saltpans in the East, while others claim he has returned to Lord Tywin's host or is cutting a path to meet with Lord Crakehall's men. One thing that is certain is that Stone Hedge has fallen, though whom has captured it is unclear."
"And what of Lord Stark?" Robert leans forward.
"He is raising more men and continues his pursuit of Clegane, according to his last missive. Though in what direction he is chasing, I cannot say."
"This war hasn't even properly started and already the forests are full of ghosts!" Robert scowls, itching at his hobbled leg.
"And already it is costing us a small fortune." Petyr Baelish rises to report as the Master of Coin, with an ensemble of merchants and petty lords in tow to complain of how the conflict has interrupted the economy.
Renly yawns, already bored with the intricacies of the court, fingers rapping out a course marching tune on the table before him. He glances across the hall to where Robert's bastards sit. It is good for the court to see them and judge who Robert's true children are, he thinks. There can be no doubt now. Edric Storm, Mya Stone and Gendry are adorned in fine black-and-gold Baratheon colors, their black, curled hair freshly shorn to the same cut as Robert's. Even the two lowborn youths, rigorously scrubbed clean of common dirt, look half-royal. But their discomfort amongst the nobles of the court is obvious. Edric, however, blends in seamlessly, even if his consternated squint trying to follow the proceedings gives him the look of a lad with clogged bowels.
"Already they love him more than they ever loved Joffrey," Loras whispers in his ear.
"Very well, but do they love me?" Renly's eternal smile tilts slightly to a frown.
"It was you who exposed Cersei's treachery."
"Kings are not made with the truth, Loras," he grumbles, eyes scanning the faces of the crowd. When the time comes, who will they choose? "The Lannisters still have many friends."
"Fewer by the day, I promise you."
"Fewer by the day…" Renly returns to counting the faces, keeping a list of who he can trust and who he cannot. Hidden under the table, Loras places a comforting hand on his leg, but he pulls away. Fewer by the day…
Peremore Hightower finds his father in his chambers, where Alyn Ambrose is helping the huge knight pack his trunks for the campaign.
"Mother just told me I'm to remain in the city," he states coldly, without a greeting. "Was she drunk, or is that your true order."
Urrigon sighs, letting a pile of shirts drop from his hands to the bed. "I'm sure she was drunk but nonetheless, that is still my command." He points his squire out of the room. "Leave us in private, Alyn."
Peremore watches his cousin leave and swiftly closes the door behind him. "I'm tired of this city. And I'm tired of the prince. I should be on the campaign with you. Maris and I both, we're no use here, the Starks don't trust us anymore."
"No, your sister certainly saw to that, didn't she," Urrigon grumbles, sitting heavily on the side of the bed, massaging his scalp wearily. "What was she thinking, letting the Stark girl know she's a skinchanger? And attacking her in the woods? She's put us all in danger."
"She was spying on us for the queen."
"Well, if you behaved as you were raised, there would be no secret the girl could have to offer."
"Maris saw them talk. Sansa all but called you a drunk and Mother a whore."
"Ha! We are both those things, that is no secret. When all the world knows your vices, boy, they cannot use them against you. No, the only weapon Sansa Stark has against us is your sister's powers. No threat is worth that."
"And so what then? You're leaving use here as punishment?"
"No. The Stark girl may be lost to us, but you still have Joffrey."
"Joffrey is locked away in Maegor's. He may never even become king. If Renly's accusations are proven to be true…"
"And if they are not?" Urrigon cuts his son off sternly. "We will befriend Renly as well, and those bastards of Robert's. But Joffrey is your task. He trusts me and he trusts you. With me away, he will rely on you more than ever. Whoever wins this game, I want us seated at their right hand. You know me, boy. I am not a smart man. Nor am I clever. Your grandfather tried to teach me many lessons, and I learned very few of them. But I do know two things. That our cousins cannot be trusted and that the greatest power is to have friends in high places. Do you understand?"
"Yes, father," Peremore nods, the flush of emotion draining from his pale face. "By the time you return, if Joffrey still has his head, I shall have his heart."
Later that day, beyond the castle walls on the shore of King's Landing, Ser Gunthor broods atop his chestnut destrier, sulking along the cobblestone road leading down to the sea. His orange wool cape wraps heavily around his black doublet, his pale blonde hair made white by the glaring midday sun. He breathes in the salty air and glares at a mocking gull. Behind him, two of his guard follow silently at a distance, unsure of what confounds the knight, but certain it is best to leave him in silence.
The calls of merchants peddling fish and oysters, spice and wine, fabric and all manner of novelties from distant lands roll off Gunthor unnoticed as he rides by. He finally comes to a stop in front of his ship – The Vigilant One – where it has rested, sails down, tightly moored, since his arrival in the city. If any crew remains aboard, they are below deck. Even in this state, it is an elegant thing, modeled after the swan ships of the Summer Islands. The carved knight at its helm stares down at him – his late uncle, Ser Gerold Hightower, the White Bull.
The finest ship in our fleet, he thinks. It deserves better than to be trapped here in the filth of the capital. It will take months to wash off the stench. Why should it wait another day? Let Leyla and Alysanne play their games. They do not need the boy.
"You there, ser!" a loud voice bellows down from above. Gunthor turns to follow its sound. Beside The Vigilant One is moored an actual swan ship, and standing atop its deck in black and red feathered cloak, is the biggest Summer Islander he has ever seen. "You from Oldtown?"
"I am Ser Gunthor Hightower, third-born son of Lord Leyton Hightower and Captain in the Oldtown Guard."
"Xondo likes to hear this!" the huge man loudly claps his hands. At the sound, more of the crew appear behind him. "Do you live in the Red Castle, Ser Gunthor?"
"For now, I do."
"Very good! Now tell Xondo this, ser. Do you know Prince Jalabar Xo?"
Jalabar Xo sits in the Tower of the Hand, whittling a new arrow. Edward Stark watches the exiled prince at work. Satisfied with his work, he passes it to Yorren, the Nightswatchman sitted on the floor beside him.
"Not bad," Yorren smirks, scratching at his grizzled stubble. "Certainly better than the shite they give us up at the Wall." He takes a swig from his flask. "Wouldn't mind having some of them fancy goldenwood bows you've got, either." He pulls out his own knife and begins to whittle away at another branch. Edward watches as the wood slowly becomes an arrow. Septa Mordane had forbade the children from leaving the tower, and there was no room to practice archery indoors. So Jalabar had taken to passing the time by carving new arrows, and it seemed he had already made enough to power an army.
I hope we can use them soon, Edward thinks. He had pleaded with the septa again that morning. Surely Ser Arys' armor is already growing rusted, he had said. But the old woman would not listen, and Jory had agreed. They were stuck, no matter how badly Edward yearned to see Lyman, to serve Ser Arys, to shoot his bow and, most of all, to warg in the dungeons with Maester Gaheris. He had tried to do it here, on his own, to no avail.
"Focus, boy!" Syrio Forel's soft voice snaps. "You must watch to learn!"
Edward snaps his head back around as Syrio's wooden sword smacks against the wall inches above Arya's head as she ducks just in time and jabs. Syrio nimbly slides out of the way of her attack. Edward focuses on their movement. He was getting better every day with the sword, faster than he ever had with Ser Jaime or Ser Arys. But the bruises on his back from the wooden sword were proof he had yet a long path ahead.
The rap-rap of wooden swords clattering against each other echoes off the tight stone quarters as Arya and Syrio exchange blows. This round has lasted for what seems like ages, longer than his sister has ever gone without receiving a would-be lethal strike. But for all her effort, she was no closer to hitting the swordmaster. She's losing her patience, Edward sees, studying the familiar twitches of his twin's face. He knew that look all too well. Nothing good ever came of it. It usually ended in a stern scolding from Father. Syrio can see it, too, Edward knows. His 'true sight,' that was what had made him the greatest of all the bravos. He can see her moves before she makes them. Edward watches more closely, and tries to do the same, for both master and student. She's going to lung now, he realizes. And then he sees the vase in her path.
"Swift as a deer!" Arya shouts and lungs. Syrio lightly spins out of the way, but this time her momentum is too much and her sword smacks against the wooden stand along the far wall. Atop it, an ancient red vase topples over. Arya does not notice, turning to run back at Syrio as it slides over the ledge. Before anyone can say a word, Edward dives forward, catching it moments before it strikes the ground.
"Well, caught, boy!" Syrio stops, long enough for Arya to land a harsh blow to his side. Without looking down, he swiftly snatches her training sword away with one hand. "That was an ill-gotten victory. One must always fight with honor. Edward, it is your turn to face Syrio Forel."
Edward gently returns the vase to its proper place, but Yorren rises to snatch it away. "I ain't letting nothing get broke on my watch," he grumbles. "Or I'm sure to get the blame." He stalks off to find safe storage for the antique. But as he passes the door, three quick knocks stop him in his path. "Who goes there?" he bellows.
"Ser Gunthor Hightower!" a voice calls from outside. "With a message for Prince Jalabar!"
Yorren looks back to the others. "Syrio Forel knows this knight. Let him in." the Braavosi beckons. Sensing the lesson is over, Arya heads off, chasing the smell of freshly baked rolls to the kitchen. Yorren opens the door and Gunthor steps in, two Oldtown guards in their armor behind him.
"You may deliver your message," Yorren makes way for the knight. "Alone."
"Of course," Gunthor flashes a quick smile, signalling his men to wait as he steps across the threshold. "You have nothing to fear from me, Brother. My Lord father holds great respect for the men of the Night's Watch and House Stark. As you can see," he lifts the edges of his orange cape to display a sword-free waist, "I am unarmed."
"What word have you for me?" Jalabar asks.
"Emissaries from the Summer Islands, your grace. A ship calling itself the Cinnamon Wind. They asked your name in the harbor, and I told them I would pass along their good will. They gave this as a gift."
Yorren tenses as Gunthor reaches into a hidden pocket in his cloak, but he only retrieves a round, pinkish fruit with a hard shell that looks almost like the scales of a dragon's egg. Jalabar's eyes light up as he takes it.
"A dragonfruit! It has been years since Jalabar Xo has tasted its sweetness," he holds it up beneath his nose, breathing in deeply the aromas of his homeland. "Where may I find this ship? I must see them."
"My men can show you the way," Gunthor points to the door.
"Good day, my friends," Jalabar bows swiftly as he exits, leaving his new arrows behind. As the door closes behind him, however, Gunthor lingers. He scans the room until his eyes come to rest on Edward. He kneels down to face the boy. He didn't really come here for Jalabar at all, Edward can see it in his pale blue eyes. He wants me.
"I'm glad to see you're well, Edward," the knight smiles, his teeth glistening white even in the dull light of the hall. "Heleana has not stopped asking about you. She's worried, you see. With time's as they are, we've had to hasten our plans to return to Oldtown."
"Oh," Edward frowns. He had finally begun to enjoy his time with Heleana. "Do you think I could say good-bye, before she leaves."
"I can do better than that. You know what your father was discussing with us, don't you?" Guntor waits for Edward's nod. "Then I can tell you that you are promised a seat upon our ship, if you so choose. We leave in four days."
Edward's mouth creaks open, but no words come out. He tries to look at Syrio and Yorren's reaction, but Gunthor is too close, blocking his view of all else, his pale, chiseled face looming expectantly for an answer. But for all of Edward's watching, for all his studying of faces, he could not have imagined this. And so no answer comes.
In the Maidenvault, Prince Joffrey Baratheon sits in the solar with his sister Myrcella, while young Tommen plays on the floor in the corner. The freshly forged chains that bind the royal children to the tower may be invisible and, but their weight bares down all the same. Joff stares out the window of the solar at the knights assembling for the march below. He counts the men, marking their banners, matching names to the ones which he knows. He at the head of the assembly, he sees the black and orange sigil of House Hightower being raised beside the green and red huntsman of House Tarly. Green eyes narrowing into irritated slits, he turns back to see Myrcella, dutifully stitching a golden lion onto a crimson backing.
"You seem pleased with yourself," he glares venomously.
"Yelling at the walls won't make anything better," she responds without looking up.
"I should be down there. I should have my sword. I should be riding with Ser Urrigon to kill the traitors and bring their heads back to Father!"
"And yet you're not. You might as well close the shutters, they're making a dreadful racket."
"I'll show you a dreadful racket!" Joff stomps to her and snatches the framed fabric out of her hands. She jumps back in her chair as he storms back to the window and hurls her work out into the open air. "At least your stupid sewing can go outside!" Startled by the outburst, Tommen begins to cry. "Oh, shut up!" Joff shouts at his little brother.
"Joff!" Myrcella rushes to comfort Tommen. "It's bad enough to be stuck in here, can you at least not be horrid about it for one day?"
"Not be horrid?" Joffrey's face flushes red, hands gripping the edge of the empty chair. "Do you know what's horrid? Uncle Renly is out there telling disgusting lies about us! He's trying to steal my throne!" With a yell, he hurls the chair against the wall. It thuds off and clatters to the floor. Angry to see it isn't broken, he stomps to where it's fallen. Tommen only cries louder, and Myrcella rocks him back and forth, singing a soft, soothing tune. But her comfort is drowned out as Joffrey brings his foot down hard on the spine of the chair with a sharp crack. He kicks down again and again, splintering the wood until his foot breaks clear through. He bites his tongue with a grimace of pain and tears it free, turning back to his siblings.
"I know Father doesn't believe them, but he's testing us. He wants to see that we're strong. So you can cry in a corner all you want. But you don't ask a king to be quiet! What are our words? Ours Is The Fury! They say I'm not a Baratheon, well I'm going to show them my own fury! I'm going to tear this damned place apart until he sends for me! And I will make every single one of them regret ever speaking a word against us! Maybe I'll cut out their tongues. You can stitch that into your stupid napkins."
Without another word, he stalks out of the room, right foot limping slightly as it leaves a trail of dripping blood where the broken chair has cut him.
Deep beneath them, in the Black Cells, Jaime Lannister remains unaware of all that has transpired in the past days. He sits, idly scratching away at the wall of his cell with a loose stone. If the faint light from the torches beyond the heavy door were to allow him to see himself, he would be horrified. His once perfect golden hair is no long and matted, tangled with a new, unkempt beard. His green eyes have lost their glisten. He lives only for Cersei's next shrouded visit. But it has been long. Too long. He has lost count of the days. Until, at last, he hears footsteps. For a moment, his heart beats faster. But no, it is a man.
"Jaime," the familiar voice whispers. Uncle Kevan, back again. For a moment, Jaime does not respond, dejected. Unless… Could today be the day? "Jaime!"
"Are you here to free me, nuncle?"
"No. Not today. But soon. The situation has taken a dire turn. Your sister has been accused of treason. Lord Renly claims that her children are not the king's, but bastards, born of an affair."
"An affair with who?" Jaime's blood goes cold.
"He has not said. But it does not take more brains than eyes for the court to guess. Rumors already fly about the court. Abominable rumors."
"What, me?" Jaime forces a laugh. "You can't be serious. Are they that dull?"
"Is it true?" Kevan asks bluntly, his voice cold and accusing.
You already know the answer, don't you? Jaime realizes with dread. Cersei would never tell, yet you know all the same. You always saw through our lies. Even more than Father. He never wanted to see. But he only says – "What?"
"I need the truth, Jaime. There are too many lives at stake. Soon there will be a trial. They will question you. Torture you, perhaps."
"Then you'd best hurry up and free me, nuncle. It matters not what I tell them. Once Robert has an idea in his head, none shall dissuade him."
"The plan is in place," Kevan's hands tighten around the bars of the window. "But I must know the truth, Jaime. I have already lost one son to you and Cersei's foolish game. Tyrek is still missing, Tyrion too. Vylarr is dead. Your father leads our best men to battle for our family's honor. I will not spill another drop of blood if it is all for naught. So tell me now! Is it true?"
Slowly, Jaime stands, his limp muscles aching but the fire in his eyes burning again. Slowly, he steps into the light, until his face is so close to the window that Kevan recoils from his stench. "Joffrey is the one true heir, nuncle. And I will personally take the heads of anyone who dares say otherwise. I tire of waiting. I need a sword in my hand again. Do whatever it takes to put it there. I only ask one thing."
"What is that?"
"When the moment comes, see that no harm comes to Edward Stark. Whatever his parents have done to us, he is a good lad. I want my squire back in one piece."
Edward lies on the ground, legs sprawled out, his back against the door to Sansa's chambers in the Tower of the Hand. She has not left since Joffrey was arrested two days before. Now it is dusk, and he has spent hours now trying to think of the right words to say. He knows Jory and the septa have been arguing all day over Ser Gunthor's offer. The septa insists it is for the best, but Jory refuses to act without Lord Stark's permission.
All that and no one's asked me if I want to go, Edward sighs. He had made a fool of himself truly. Gunthor had waited for an answer for what seemed like an eternity, hanging in a deathly silence before finally giving up and saying he would return on the morrow for the decision. One day. One day to decide the rest of my life.
"Sansa?" He finally works up the strength to call out. She hates me, he knows. I did the right thing, telling her about Joffrey and the dagger. Didn't I? The truth is always right. But why does it have to be so hard? He presses his ear tight to the door, listening for any sound of movement. "Sansa, Ser Gunthor came today."
"Go away," she finally answers, her voice cold and distant, as if the whole kingdom separates them, not just one door. "I don't care about Gunthor."
"He's leaving the city with Heleana in four days."
"Good. I was getting tired of that Hightower girl with her stupid little games."
"He… he wants me to go with them." He waits, holding in his own breath, allowing nary the faintest sound until he hears a faint, shaking sigh from the room beyond. He hears the sound of a dress sliding across the floor, dragged by the slightest of footsteps until they stop at the door. He can hear her breathing now, she is so close. He waits, praying for the sound of her hand on the door, for it to open and for everything to be fine. But no more movement comes. Only short, soft breaths in a void. Until…
"You should go." Three words, brief, to the point, final. "You'll like it in Oldtown. It will be good for you." She pauses. He waits. "Heleana will be good for you. There are no books left to read in Winterfell. But you can see all the world from Oldtown."
"But I won't be able to see you…"
"Good. That's what I want."
"No!" Edward protests weakly, the sinking in his chest turning his words inwards as he tries to cry out and plea. "You don't…. We have to stay together. When the winter comes, the lone wolf freezes, but the pack…"
"I'm not in your pack anymore." She cuts him off. There is no anger in her voice. Only firm acceptance. "You made that choice. Run away to Oldtown and be happy. Run far away from me and Joffrey. Because if you stay here, I'll have to move you out of the way myself."
Edward shrinks back down to the floor, pulling his legs tight to his chest as tears begin to well up in his eyes. He wants to shout, but there are no more words left. What could he say? Lie, and tell her that it wasn't true? That Joffrey hadn't tried to kill Bran? No. It's over, he knows, and his head slowly plants against the cold, heartless wood of the door, with only the faint swish of his sister's dress walking away to lull him to sleep.
A/N: I'm back! So sorry that this took so long! The holiday season was hectic, and I've been working on writing submissions for some local scriptwriting opportunities. But now I've got more time on my hands, and I should be able to deliver on a weekly basis for the final chapters of this part of the story! As always, thank you so much for your reading, and for your patience. All feedback is greatly appreciated, and I hope you're as excited to read what comes next as I am to write it!