It is still far from dusk and The Scarlet Swan is already bustling with business. Ser Arys Oakheart and Lyman Darry brush flowing silk curtains and strings of colored beads aside as they step into the luxurious brothel. The entry hall is crowded with drunk men, scantily clad women and at least one peacock. Lyman nearly chokes on the onslaught of duelling aromas – exotic perfumes, spiced foods, strong wine and dank sweat. He turns to Arys, struggling to speak over the shouting and the loud Eastern music.

"Why here?"

"The king has been here before," Arys answers. "And it is one of the few brothels in this city that Littlefinger does not control."

"Do you not trust Lord Baelish?" Lyman asks, but before he can answer, they have caught the eye of the matron. Chataya. A tall, slender woman with short, tightly curled hair, she saunters towards them in a tight green feathered dress, her dark skin glistening in the light from the chandeliers above.

"It is not often I see a man of the white wear his cloak into my home," she speaks with a thick accent of the Summer Islands. "It must be a very special occasion."

"We are not here for your wares," Arys answers bluntly, every muscle in his body visibly tense, even beneath his armor. Chataya sighs, running a long finger down the front of his breastplate. They have attracted the attention of several of her women.

"Then what do you want, then, good ser? Our food? Our music?"

"I mean your wares are not for us," Arys blurts. "For another."

"Ah," Chataya pulls away. "I see. The last time I gave service to that great other, he left a small gift with one of my best girls. Now all she speaks of his the babe and the father. It is most inconvenient. But I hear that such children are arising from every shadow, these days."

"Will you render us your services or not?"

"Take your pick and trouble me no longer." She turns and several alluring women step forward from behind her, all clustering close to Arys. Lyman can hear the knight's heavy breathing as one of them attempts to pry free his helm. But Chataya has turned to him now. He is overwhelmed by the smell of unknown fruits and flowers as she draws near. "And what does the young heir of Harrenhal desire?"

Even here they know, Lyman blushes. "I am here only with Ser Arys," he insists. Even if I wanted to stay, I have no coin of my own.

"A pity," Chataya sighs. "My girls would have enjoyed your company. It is so rare to see a fresh face here in our home. I suppose you are just a boy, after all. You will return to us soon enough. All men do."

With that, she backs away, disappearing into the writhing crowd, her green dress mixed into a rainbow of debauched colors. But the girls remain. Unlike the ones still circling Ser Arys, they can't be much older than himself, Lyman thinks, and all breathtakingly beautiful.

"Would you like a drink?" a blonde in a thin pink mesh barely covering her ample chest leans close, pitcher in one hand and goblet in another. He demurs, but on his other side, a slender Dornish girl presses her body tightly against his side, holding a tray of savory pastries.

"Have this," she slips one into his agape mouth. Her fingers taste like lavender, the pastry a flaky crust wrapped around a mix of crab and shockingly spicy peppers. He nearly chokes. Damn it, Arys, hurry up! He cranes his neck to catch sight of the knight, but he has disappeared. He tries to blur out the faces of the girls in his mind, picturing instead Cassanda Wendwater, far away in her horrid father's crumbling keep, or Eliza, tucked into a creaking servant's bed, their child growing in her belly.

"Are you sure you won't stay?" Another, red-haired and voluptuous, takes Lyman's hands into her own and guides them into the slits on the sides of her loose blue dress. "Don't you like what you see?" He quivers at the touch of her soft skin and his half-conjured illusions vanish.

"I…." he stammers, but before he can think of the excuses that have vacated his mind, strong hands yank him fiercely backwards. Spinning around, he sees Ser Arys and breathes a sigh of relief, the peppers still hot on his breath.

"We're done here. Let's go."

Arys has chosen a dark-haired, buxom woman for the king's consort; she wraps her arms around him on the back of her horse as they follow the road back to the Red Keep, night finally fallen over the city. Lyman follows close behind, his discomfort growing with each rhythmic lurch of his mount, agitating a growing tension between his belt. He remembers now where he had seen the pepper-and-crab pastries before – Ser Borros shoveling them down by the handful before disappearing with a prostitute into an upper room. They make loving easy, he had said. But for Lyman, this ride was proving anything but easy.

He could have jumped for joy at Arys' dismissal upon his return – "I'll see the woman to his grace. It is my guard tonight. Sleep well, the king will need you in the morning."

Lyman practically runs the rest of the way to his small chambers near the royal bedroom, wiping sweat from his brow, heart racing. He slips through the door and is already tearing off his clothes before he realizes Eliza is asleep in his bed. But asleep no longer. She leans up, the blanket falling away from her bare chest and her stomach, not yet showing a bump.

"At last, my Lord of the Haunted Castle," she smiles, that alone nearly making him faint. Her long brown hair is tangled around her thin, pale face. "Where have you been?"

"In service to the king," is his only response as he dives for the bed, letting her eagerly tug free his strained trousers as they begin to kiss and a bellow of laughter from the other side of the wall announces the king has been introduced to his own night's companion.

At guard outside the king's chambers, Arys stares intently at the sconce on the wall opposite his post. He has come to know this sconce very well, every polished curve and scuffed blemish; familiarized by night after night of standing silent guard while attempting to ignore the sounds of passion reverberating from beyond the door behind him. They were mighty oak but on night's like tonight might as well be thin of paper.

"Good evening, ser."

Arys flinches – so focused on the sconce, he had not noticed the approach of Barristan Selmy. "Lord Commander!" He attempts to straighten his stance even further at attention.

"Calm yourself, ser. Ser Borros is ill. I am taking his post tonight." The old knight settles into the space on the opposite side of the door, sinking into his armor with a sigh. "I see his grace has company this evening."

"He demanded it."

"As he will. But it speaks well of his health. For that we must be grateful. Tell me, how are you?"

"I feel fine, Lord Commander. Why, is Ser Borros catching?"

"No, no, lad," Barristan chuckles, but does not turn his head. "Not illness. About all this. The king and the queen and the children. About the Grand Maester."

"The Grand Maester was a traitor. The king executed his justice."

"Eh." Barristan nods, but in that single short syllable, Arys detects an unfamiliar strain of doubt. "There are many traitors left to judge, if Lord Renly's claims are true."

"Lord Commander…" Arys hesitates to ask. But the question has plagued him for some time now. "If the king were to… falter, now, before the trial, without naming a new heir… what would we do? If it is true that the queen's children are bastards?"

"The king will not falter," Barristan insists.

"But if he does? Who would we serve?"

"We would serve the king. Whoever the Seven reveal him to be." What doubt could be heard is gone, replaced by the age-old stone wall of discipline. A loud thump followed by a woman's squeal and the king's guffaw shakes the door behind them. "Does that sound like his grace is dying to you? King Robert shall recover, the traitors shall be punished and the realm shall prosper. And we shall serve through it all."

On the far side of the castle, Lord Renly Baratheon sits agitated on the edge of his bed, his black silk nightrobe hanging loosely over his broad shoulders, exposing the dense, curled black hair coating his muscled chest. Loras Tyrell, clothed only by a blanket draped over his slender back, leans against a far corner, wine in hand. But Renly's attention is solely focused on the man before him, sitting backwards on an intricately carved chair, still fully dressed – Lord Petyr Baelish, the Master of Coin.

"Littlefinger, what in the name of the Seven brings you here at this hour?"

"I have concerns, my lord."

"You always have concerns," Renly snarls. "None of which are worth interrupting my sleep."

"And what a deep slumber that must have been," Baelish smirks, glancing to Loras.

"Dispense with your message and be gone before I throw you from mine own window," Renly snaps his attention back to him.

"It is about the trial. I fear this is all happening too fast. I counseled you before to bide your time, to wait until the war was over to make your claim."

"And I ignored you then, as I shall now. Tell me, Littlefinger, when was the last time you visited your lands?" No answer comes. "Now, I've never been there, I don't know anyone who has. But I've heard of it, what little there is to here. Lording over a bog, on the smallest of the Fingers. I wonder, were you named for your home or for your prick?"

"My lord, I…"

"Ah, ah, ah. Does your tower even have a name? Or have you forgotten, it's been so long since you visited. But no matter how hard you try to hide from it, that will always be who you are. No matter how many fine clothes and titles you wrap yourselves in, no matter how many friends you buy, you will always only be Petyr Baelish, grandson of a landless knight, blown in from Braavos; a runaway boy hiding from his past by making magic out of coin in the big city. You are no leader. That is why you council caution; on and on, always caution. You have your place. But it takes a leader to bring action, and I was born to lead. Do not trouble me on this again."

"But Stannis…"

"I will deal with Stannis!" Renly slams his fist on the bed frame. He rises in a fury, tugging Baelish up out of his chair by the collar. "He thinks he is a leader, but he is not. He is a husk of a man, loved by none. I will send him back to Dragonstone to brood for the rest of his days. But step in my way again and I will tell him it was you who conspired to kill the king and deceive the realm!" He shoves the silent lord to the door. "Ser Loras, see him out. And return to your own chambers. I want to be alone."

Dejected, Loras obeys. As the door closes behind them, Renly paces the room, robe open, the cold stone biting at his bare feet. Finally, he stops, his eyes falling on the corner where the fabled war hammer of his eldest brother sits, seeming to glow in the moonlight let in by the window. Stepping into the square of light, Renly wraps each of his hands around the metal shaft, tightening his grip. Every muscle pulses as he strains to lift it.

Slowly… slowly it shifts ever so slightly off the stone – before slipping and crashing back to earth with enough force seeming to shake the whole castle. Whirling about, Renly punches the wall, his mouth agape in a silent scream of rage. He pulls back his hand to his chest, knuckles bloody, and steps out to the open window, the cool night air soothing his naked body and raging temper. He looks down at the city before him.

Soon. Soon it will all be mine. And just let Stannis or Littlefinger or anyone try to stop me. He looks back to the hammer. Today an inch. Tomorrow it will rise above my head, and smash the skulls of all who stand in the way.

Renly is not the only one without sleep in the Red Keep tonight. In the Tower of the Hand, Edward Stark has crawled out of his window, canvas on his lap, brush in hand, feet dangling over the ledge as he paints by the light of the vast night sky. His trunks are packed for the sail to Oldtown, all save the few things needed for his final days here.

But tonight, turning uncomfortably in his bed, he had dug out his paints, brushes and canvas for one final work. Coming to life on the blank slate before him, the Red Keep looms in darkness beneath the starry heavens. And on a roof beneath the vast display, sit three children and three direwolves – himself and his sisters. A bond broken in life, but re-forged in his imagination. Above their heads, bright against the black sky, he drips a spot of blue mixed with white. The Eye of the Ice Dragon. He traces the line from his canvas up to the sparkling stretch of real night and finds it there, ever watching from its northern home. True North.

And yet I keep going further south, he sighs. Father said men across Westeros all had their own names for the stars. What will they call the Ice Dragon in Oldtown? He wonders, yet knows that it is still the same sky; the same moon and stars that will shine down on him and his sisters, even on Father away at war and Mother and his brothers so far away. Winter is coming, he remembers, and shivers from a phantom breeze on the summer's night. When it does, the lone wolf dies, but the pack survives. Our pack is scattered now. But he swears in his heart that no matter how far he travels, one day they will all be together again.

Somewhere in the Keep far below, a man is singing a song Edward does not know. High above the spectral voice, he holds his canvas close, shuts his eyes tight and wills the gods to breathe his dream to life.

Night passes and a new day dawns, the soft morning sun giving warmth to Peremore and Maris Hightower as they walk together on the bridge into the Maidenvault, where Queen Cersei and her children have been sealed away. In her hands, Maris holds a framed, half-stitched lion on crimson backing. As they near the end of the bridge, a flock of ravens flies cawing overhead as if heralding their arrival.

Ser Meryn Trant and Ser Preston Greenfield stand guard at the entrance, their white cloaks hanging stiffly in the windless morning. Meryn moves to meet their approach.

"What business have you here?" he growls from beneath his helmet.

"To see the prince and princess," Peremore answers.

"They aren't taking visitors."

"We only want to return this," Maris holds up the needlework, forcing a sweet air onto her normally cold voice. "It must have fallen from Myrcella's window."

"Ah, let them be, Merryn," Preston calls from his post. "What harm can they do?"

Merryn glares at his sworn brother, but steps aside to let the siblings pass nonetheless. The door creaks open and they step inside. But their path is again barred by another knight, not of the kingsguard. Peremore squints at the pin sinching his green cloak – an oak leaf. One of the Oakheart brothers.

"Take them to the children," Merryn commands and the knight relaxes.

"Come this way," he speaks, and Peremore knows the voice – Thaddeus. Second youngest. A braggart, but not so skilled as he would claim, dreaming of a wife beyond his worth. He leads on past more guards, down winding halls and up stairs until they enter a large, spacious solar. The doors swing open, revealing Tommen and Myrcella playing on the floor in the center of an elegant carpet. It takes a moment to see Joffrey – the prince is lurking in the far corner, a foul look on his face, dark rings under his eyes from lack of sleep.

"Maris!" Myrcella jumps up, her face lighting up to finally see a friend. She rushes to embrace the older girl, who begrudgingly accepts the hug. "It's so good to see you!" Quickly wriggling free, Maris produces the needlework.

"We wanted to give you this. My birds found it. It is yours, isn't it?"

"Yes!" Myrcella gasps, snatching the fabric back with a nervous glance to Joffrey. "Seven bless your ravens! I thought I'd never see it again."

"What happened to it?" Peremore asks pryingly.

"It blew away," Joffrey answers before his sister can. "She was silly and left it by an open window. Thank you for returning it. Even if it is a stupid lion."

The Hightower siblings nod in unison, trying very hard to pretend that they believe Joffrey's story. "How are they treating you?" Maris asks.

"Terribly!" Joffrey shouts before anyone else can respond. "It's a disgrace! Renly and the Tyrells are all a bunch of traitors, and I want their heads on spikes."

"Nuncle Renly is kin," Myrcella whispers faintly.

"Not anymore! If he's says we aren't his kin, we shouldn't have to treat him like we are!"

"They won't let us see Mother," Myrcella adds sadly as the prince stomps back to brood in his corner. "We haven't seen her since before they took us."

"Mother?" Tommen hears the name and finally looks up from his toys. But, seeing the queen is not there, he begins to cry. Myrcella runs to comfort him and Maris awkwardly follows. Peremore, however, hardens his face, turning to confront Ser Thaddeus.

"Ser, what is the meaning of this?" he demands of the captain.

"We did not think it wise, to…"

"Did the king command you to deny the queen the company of her children?"

"No, but Lord Renly…" Thaddeus looks nervously over his shoulder for support from his fellow guards, but the door is closed.

"On whose orders are you holding the queen and her children here?"

"His grace, the king."

"Correct. For it is King Robert, and only King Robert, who dictates the custody of the royal family. Not Lord Renly. So tell me again, ser, why the children have not seen their mother?"

"Listen, boy…" the knight lurches forward, but Peremore does not flinch.

"Call me by my name." he demands coldly. Thaddeus hesitates. "My name, ser."

"Peremore Hightower."

"Good. Is it true, ser, that you aspire to a place in the Oldtown Guard?" Thaddeus nods. "And that you believe you can rise high in their ranks, as befits a knight of Old Oak?" Another nod. "Then you should understand, ser, how your aspirations may change were I to tell my aunts, and they to tell their own father, Lord Leyton, how cruelly you separated these young children from their mother in this time of distress?"

"I understand." All intimidation has deflated from the captain.

"Bring her grace at once," Peremore commands. Thaddeus hastens to leave upon the order, and Peremore turns to see Joffrey watching with a confounded look on his face.

"How did you do that? He never listens to me!"

"I have heard you command men before, your grace. You must learn to speak as one with authority. Act like a child, and they will treat you like a child. Act like a man – like your father, the king – and they will treat you as they treat him." He looks down to where Maris and Myrcella sit with a sniffling Tommen. "Your mother will be here shortly. Prepare yourselves. She will need you to be strong for her."

Cersei sits wrapped within a thick, woolen robe in her too cold chambers. She had burnt all the wood for her fire in the first night, fueling a brief but raging inferno to match her own fury, and they had not replenished it since. Now, as hot as it may yet be outside, her lush prison seems devoid of heat. She has not dressed for days, not since her uncle Kevan's last covert visit. The servants leave her food and wine at the door and she allows them no further. Those have been her only comforts. That and envisioning in her mind's eyes all of the ways she plans to murder Robert, Renly and the Tyrells once she is freed.

Those fantasies of vengeance are all that has penetrated her mind through the days-long constant flow of wine. That and memories of the witch. Maggy the Frog, they had called her as children. She had haunted Cersei's dreams more and more of late. Her and her wretched prophecy of doom for her children and herself at the hands of the valonquar – the little brother. Tyrion had never been further away, if she was lucky, the wretch might even be dead. But she had started to see him in the corners of blurred vision, leering at her from the shadows and speaking with the witch's voice.

It is nothing, she assures herself, as countless times in the years hence she first heard the prophecy. She pours more wine from a nearly empty flagon into her goblet, dreading the thought that it will soon be gone until more is brought with the evening meal. For a fleeting moment, she sees her dwarf brother's grin reflected in the scarlet pool and drinks it away. Damn the valonquar. Words cannot hurt me. Of course, the witch hadn't been all wrong. Robert had born many bastards, while she had given him no true children. None save the doomed creation of their first coupling.

How would things have been if her firstborn had lived? There were no doubts that babe had been Robert's. She rarely thought of it - the memory now makes her shiver with disgust, to have born that boor's true son, even for such a tragic end. Born out of hate, a cursed child that had withered and faded within the day. Joffrey's big brother. What a horrid thought. But he had that wretched dark, curly hair and piercing blue eyes that were all anyone seemed to care about now. What would they have called him? Steffon, perhaps, for Robert's father. Or Jon, for the judgmental old falcon he so worshipped. Or worse still, Eddard.

No. Whatever her fate now, she decides, it is best that the babe died. He would have had no love for Joffrey. He would have been cruel, she tells herself, cruel as his father, cruel as all Baratheons. She could picture him in the yard, black hair falling down his shoulders, angry blue eyes flaring as he beats down his little brother. Those cursed eyes. They had been the only thing strong about him. She realizes now she is seeing Edric Storm. The bastard, now beating her beloved Joffrey down all the same. Will you make the filth of your adulteries your new heir, Robert? King Edric Baratheon, First of His Name? No. I will kill you first. You and all your bastards and anyone else in my way.

A harsh knock comes at the door, and she thinks for a moment they have sent more wine early. "Leave it there!" she shouts, but instead the door creaks open.

"Your grace, the children wish to see you," Ser Thaddeus speaks through the crack. Even through her drunken haze, that call sparks life in Cersei. She moves to answer, but crashes out of her bed, sprawling naked on the floor beneath her robes.

"A moment!" she wheezes, the cold stones chilling her breath. "A moment and no more 'til I am there. Do not move from the door!" She laughs to herself as she fumbles to find proper clothes. The witch was a fool. A dead fool. There was nothing in the world that can keep me from my children.

Peremore and Maris had suspected that imprisonment would not reflect well upon the queen, but even then required all their tactful strength not to bulk at her appearance in the doorway to her children's solar. In her drunken rush, Cersei had spurned her maids, arriving haphazard in a loosely laced crimson gown, her hair askew and hastily applied makeup failing to conceal the red flush of drink staining her face.

"My little ones, come to me!" she calls to them, and Tommen and Myrcella rush to embrace their mother, while Joffrey lingers. Nodding to each other, the Hightowers slip out, letting the door close behind them.

"Gods!" Maris curses under her breath. "Never make me do that again, Tommen is unbearable."

"Wait," Peremore stops her from leaving . "We should listen." In unison, they press their ears tight against the door, hearing first the sloppy, warm platitudes of a drunken mother greeting her youngest children. But eventually, the happy reunion peters out. On the other side of the door, Cersei looks up from kneeling on the floor to see Joffrey staring down at her with angry green eyes.

"What's the matter with you?" she asks, letting Myrcella and Tommen fall aside as she shakily rises. "I've come here to see you after all this time. Where's your respect?"

"This is your fault." He answers coldly, without moving. "Why are you letting them do this to us? They're mocking us in the streets, even within these walls. We all know it."

"Treasonous lies!" Cersei jabs an angry finger at Joffrey. "They will pay for their words with their tongues."

"Yet they talk freely, without fear."

"Joffrey, stop," Myrcella begs as Cersei steps away from her. Tommen begins to cry softly again as his mother slowly stalks towards her eldest son, any maternal warmth quickly slipping away.

"None of this would be happening if you had been a better wife to Father!" the prince continues, his pitch rising with each word as his temper frays. "You don't love him, and everyone knows it! The rest of the Lannisters are lousy traitors, why shouldn't they think you're one too?"

"Don't you dare speak to me that way!" Cersei shrieks, slapping Joffrey furiously across the face, her sharp nail catching on his cheek. Joffrey finally stumbles back, hand rising to the thin line of blood left behind. His eye begins to twitch. "You would curse your family? Condemn your own blood? You are a Lannister! Your grandfather has risked everything for the Lannister name! I have risked everything for the Lannister name! You are nothing without your family!"

"Bitch!" Joffrey lunges forward, shoving his mother back. His voice cracks and face flushes, mixed with the smeared blood as his anger grows, hands tightening into pulsing fists. "I should have you thrown from the parapets! Maybe then they will know who I really am! I am the crown prince of Westeros, I…"

"Stop!" Myrcella shouts, tears bubbling over, as she throws herself between mother and brother. Joffrey reacts instinctively, raising one fist before seeing the green terror in his sister's eyes. She drops to the floor, head in her hands, and he remembers Peremore's words. Lowering his arms and un-clinching his fists, he looks back up to face the queen.

"You are a fool! A weak, stupid boy!" Cersei continues to berate him as he straightens his back and flattens his hair, breathing slowly. "You know nothing of the world! Everything you have, everything you want – that crown, that throne – it is yours because of me! And I can take it away just as quickly. You think that fat pig of a king loves you? No! You're nothing without me!"

"I am a Baratheon." When Joffrey finally speaks again, his voice has dropped to a low, unfamiliar tone, each syllable evenly paced with his deep breaths. He speaks, for the first time, as one with the authority of his name behind him. He speaks like Robert, Cersei realizes, with a dawning dread. "One day, I will be king. I will crush the liars and traitors beneath my feet and I will prove to my father how true a stag I am. Tell me, mother, where are the lions of the West? Why have I never seen one?"

Cersei hesitates, struggling to collect her bearings. "They… they're all dead."

"That's what I thought." Joffrey turns away and helps Myrcella to her feet. "You are drunk. If you have no way to free us, then you are no use here. Good day, your grace."

Cersei opens her mouth to respond, but no words come out. Instead, she turns with a silent fury and storms out of the room, hurling open the doors and sending the young Hightowers scampering out of the way. By the time her pounding footsteps have faded from the hall, they too have faded back into the shadows, new stories to tell.

A/N: Thanks for reading! Not a lot of Edward in this chapter, sorry, but I had to close up some loose ends in the final calm before these next few final chapters. Let's just say not everyone's plans are going to go QUITE the way they're hoping.