The dawn is still hours away in King's Landing when a haggard old man, hunched over in worn out servant's clothes, hobbles into a long-since abandoned and forgotten corner of the keep, a servants quarters whose use none could recall. Such a massive castle is always full of places like these, ghosts of stone, built for a purpose long since fulfilled, now empty for decades or more. The perfect home for those who do not wish to be found. The old man stops, straightens his back, cracks his neck and, removing a false nose and beard, turns to great such a wary guest – Kevan Lannister.
"Varys," Kevan glares, unimpressed. "There is no need for your theatrics. As often as you scurry about these halls, you're as unnoticed as the rats."
"Perhaps," the eunuch smiles in his irritating way, lips scarcely moving. "But still, it is better to be safe, with such precious lives on the line."
"Did you speak to Slynt?" Kevan cuts directly to the reason for their meeting. The Master of Whisperer's games and riddles have slowly ground down his patience. "My lord brother's hand has been forced. Our men cross into the Riverlands as we speak."
"They were, of course, never there before," Varys titters. "Not under your banner, of course."
Kevan silences him with a glare. "We must act soon. The Stark boy leaves today, does he not?" Varys nods, knowing better than to interrupt now. "That is good, Jaime wished him to be left out of this. And it would not do to incur the wrath of Oldtown, not now. We need their support, if we are to withstand against the Tyrells. Give this to Lady Alysanne." He presses a small missive sealed by red wax lion. "Do not think to open it, eunuch."
"I would never suffer the thought." The missive disappears up Varys' sleeves.
"See that you don't, or you will indeed suffer. Now, I wish to review our plans again. They must be ready at a moment's notice. First, Slynt. Then, Jaime."
On the far side of the castle, in Renly Baratheon's solar, a somber gathering of nobles cluster, murmuring around a large oaken table where Lord Renly sits between Lords Mace Tyrell and Petyr Baelish, a pile of scrolls, papers and books sprawled out before them.
"I believe my uncle Garth should speak for us in the trial," Mace is arguing, stifling a yawn, unused to rising so early. "Few men know the law better than he."
"We can decide who shall speak at the trial later," Renly shakes his head. "First we have to prepare our case. These accusations are great, and my brother, for all his hatred of Cersei, is want to believe them. But we must convince the Faith. And the High Septons coffers are lined with the gold of those we cannot trust."
"Surely House Hightower will side with us," Lord Lorent Caswell speaks, looking at Mace. "Your Lady wife…"
"No love is lost between my darling Alerie and her siblings," Mace shakes his head. "Whatever mad plan her father has conceived high in his tower, she has no part in it. No, the Hightowers cannot be trusted."
"We need evidence," Loras insists. "Evidence so clear that even the High Septon cannot deny it."
"Lord Orton Merryweather believes his own son and heir may be a bastard fathered by King Robert," Garrett Flowers offers, idly tugging at his curled mustache as he tries to draw nearer to the table.
"I have more than enough bastards on my hands to deal with," Renly grimaces. "Merryweather only wants the lands that were stripped away from him. Tell him to come beg when he has something worthwhile to offer. Like a witness."
"I shan't say we'll find many witnesses," Mace chuckles. "I can't imagine that the queen and her lover were presenting themselves as the night's entertainment in Flea Bottom!"
Renly nearly slams the fat lord's face into the table for that quip. If you have nothing useful to offer, old man… But Lord Florent interrupts. "If we only knew who her lover was…"
"For the Father's sake, Alester, we all know who it is," Loras throws his arms up in frustration. "You can say the name! Jaime Lannister! It will not summon Lord Tywin's wrath all the way here. It's pathetic how men still grovel in fear at that traitor's name, not while we have his children in chains and his armies in our vise. That name has no power here, not anymore!"
"That name will always have power, boy, so long as it sits upon its pile of gold!" Mace silences his son, his weariness suddenly gone. "To make such an abominable accusation would require a mountain of proof that we do not have! As I said, there are no witnesses…"
"There may be one," Petyr Baelish finally speaks up.
"What do you mean?" the Lord of Highgarden squints, his chin folding in on his jowls in consternation.
"The Stark boy."
"Edward?" Garrett asks incredulously.
"Bran," Baelish answers. "His third son. Fourth, if you count the bastard."
"Gods, how many children does Stark have?" Loras laughs.
"Enough," Baelish answers, perhaps too quickly. "Lady Catelyn has blessed her lord husband with many heirs. One of which was crippled in a tragic fall from a tower during the king's visit. And then nearly killed again by an assassin wielding a Valyrian steel dagger."
"Valyrian steel?" Mace's jaw drops incredulously, but Renly leans closer to listen.
"A dagger that once belonged to me. But was lost, in a wager, to Tyrion Lannister."
A silence falls over the room. Renly's gaze intensifies as the pieces slowly begin to fall together and a boiling rage begins to grow.
"You told her, didn't you?" he stands with a fury, his chair clattering to the floor behind him. "You told Lady Stark that the Imp tried to kill her son! You started this whole bloody war! You knew this all along and you waited to reveal it until now!"
"I did not know for sure!" Baelish protests, seemingly surprised for once by the sudden outburst. "And as you can see, such accusations…"
Without hesitation, Renly slams Baelish's face into the table. The Master of Coin snaps back up, hands flying to a suddenly broken nose, blood splattering across the papers before him. Mace nearly falls from his chair in shock.
"Do you not fear me, as you fear my brother?" Renly bellows. "I warned you once before, Baelish!" He turns to the rest of his shocked conspirators, displaying shaking hands, veins bulging with fury. "The storm is in my veins, just as it is in Robert's! Those same hands that killed Pycelle are my hands as well! Do not test me! This is no game!"
"Of course, my lord," Lord Florent nods frantically. Mace exchanges a nervous glance with his son, who rushes to Renly's side, only to be pushed brusquely away.
"Don't tell me to be calm!" the stormlord shouts, then turns back to Baelish, sitting crumpled in his seat, hands clutching his ruined nose. He tears the thin man up onto his feet and drags him to the window, shoving him backwards with enough force to propel his upper half out into open air. "Is there anything else you would like to share, Littlefinger?!"
"That is all, your grace!" Baelish shouts, his voice at a fever pitch, spitting out bloody bile from behind red teeth, his bitten tongue already swollen. "I swear to you, I will hide nothing."
"Let him go, Renly!" Mace shouts.
"Do not think to command me!" Renly turns, throwing Baelish to the floor. He seems taller than ever, towering above all others in the room, each muscle pulsing with every deep, raging breath. But Mace, having risen from his chair, does not turn away. Instead, the fat old man seems nearly ready to trade blows, before Loras steps between them.
"Renly, my lord…" he begs for peace with no more words than that. And it succeeds. The other lords let loose a sigh of relief as Renly's rage disappears as quickly as it appeared.
"My lords, I apologize," he says, calmly, before turning to Baelish, where he lies on the floor. "Is there anything else you have to share, Lord Baelish?"
Littlefinger looks up, his grey-green eyes unreadable, hands covering his ruined nose. "Nothing my lord. Only that if you wish to win this fight, you must keep the Starks close, above all else."
That's it, Edward thinks, lowering the lid closed on his trunk and snapping the latch shut. My whole life packed away. His room seems so empty now, as if he had never really been there. Half of his belongings had never even been unpacked after they were brought back from the squires' quarters after they'd all been confined to the Tower. So that had made it easier.
But it was still strange, packing it all away, mixing all his scattered dreams together – the artist, the warrior, the scholar – had made him remember Syrio's words. Who am I, really? Not what anyone expects from me, but the truth of who I really am? A harder question to answer than you might think. But where better to learn the answer than Oldtown? He lugs the trunk to pile it next to the others by the door, where they wait for a guard to help carry them down the winding stairs.
He peers out into the hallway, but there is no sign of Jory or Fat Tom or any of the others. The tower has been eerily silent all day. Had the guards all had the same nightmare as well? Did they think Father was dead? No, they would never abandon us. Perhaps they're recruiting more men.
Edward yawns as he steps back into the room. He had been awake all night, warging under Maester Gaheris' watchful eye, squeezing every possible moment of training out of his fleeting remaining time with the only person who truly understood his greatest secret. Would there be another? Gaheris had assured him there were others in the Citadel who still studied the Old Ways, that they would find him when the time was right. But for now, they remain strangers, a world away. He slumps down on his bare bed.
Despite his lack of sleep, he had not felt tired until now. The rush of energy he felt when running in the body of his wolf had restored and reinvigorated him, after being the connection for so long. Waking life seemed so dull in comparison. And now there was nothing left to do. He looks to the corner of the room where his last painting still sits – the starry sky with him, his sisters and their wolves sitting beneath the eye of the Ice Dragon, heads and hearts pointed North. Will they be there when I leave, he wonders. Will they recognize me when I see them again? He lies down on the scratchy mattress and suddenly his eyelids grow heavy with the weight of rest denied until now. This time, no burning horror haunts his dreams, only the drifting specters of friends and family about to slip out of his life, perhaps forever.
Eliza had still been sleeping when Lyman Darry had crept from his chambers in the earliest hours of the dawn to prepare for the waking of the king. He still thinks about her now, her dark hair spread out on his pillow, her pale skin prickling with goosebumps when the blanket pulled off the bed with him, the glimpse of the slight lump in her stomach before he covered her again – that lump that signifies their coming child. A bastard. That was all it could be, and he hated himself for it. You can never marry her, the cruel voice of reality lectures him as he dresses. Not before, as heir to Darry, certainly not now as heir to Harrenhal!
And then there was Cassanda. He had told Eiza her story one night after sampling too much of the king's wine, and the seamstress had wept for the young lady of Wendwater, whose father had meant to sell her for naught but the hope of gold. She had told him he should marry her then, though they had not spoken of it since. But who will have me to husband; me not even a knight and already a bastard on the way?
With a weary sigh, he steps into the king's chambers and is shocked to find Robert already awake, sitting naked on the end of his bed, staring at the wall.
"Your grace, I'm sorry…" Lyman makes haste to the wardrobe to begin assembling the king's clothes for the day.
"You're not late," Robert shakes his head. "I'm only early. Sound for the bards, the king has awoke with the dawn!" He laughs, but there is no mirth in it. "Don't trouble yourself further boy, I can tell you are uneasy of late. But you have served me well. I could not ask for a better squire." He moves stiffly as Lyman slides a black and gold tunic over his shoulders and gently around his splinted leg.
"I'm fine, your grace," he forces a smile. "How does your leg feel? Better?"
Robert frowns. "No, no, I know your face too well. Your mind is on other things, not an old ugly sod like me. It's a woman, isn't it?"
Lyman demurs to answer, slipping away to retrieve slippers for the king and a comb for his unruly hair and beard. I should be grateful that the king wants to advise me. But how can I? Now that I know what he's really like. He, with more bastards than he can count, a wife who hates him, who sent me Cassanda in the first place? "I swear, it's nothing."
"Aye, who wants to talk of such things so early in the morning?" Robert shrugs as Lyman fits the soft slippers onto his broad feet. "But there is more and more to do. Tell me, Lyman, what do you think of my son?"
"Joffrey?"
"Edric. The maester, Gaheris, thinks I should make him my heir, give him my name. But I scarce know the boy. I should dine with him, perhaps, would that I could ride, could hunt… but I am stuck here with this damned leg and a thousand daggers waiting for me outside. Aye, even Renly, I fear. He has done me a great service, but I do not think he means it for my benefit. But you know the boy. Is he the answer to my troubles, or another Blackfyre waiting to burn what is left of this kingdom once the Lannisters are done with it?"
"Your grace, it is not my place…"
"Say 'your grace' one more time!" Robert shakes the bedpost angrily.
"You are in good health!" Lyman is beginning to sweat. What is he saying? "Your strength is returning! If the Cersei has betrayed you, can't you take a new wife? The Faith…"
"Aye, aye, they'll set her aside and Mace Tyrell will throw his daughter onto my bed, I have no doubt. But I need an heir. A strong one. If I die…"
"You're healing!"
"Get me wine. And help yourself." Robert shakes his head heavily. Lyman nervously moves to the corner of the room to pour two large glasses. He has never seen the king like this before. Whatever façade he was maintaining just minutes ago has crumbles. As he returns, Robert's hand grabs the goblet. He notes it is red and swollen, more than he remembered. "You are still young, boy. But when you get older, you will see the truth of it. A dying man can find the strength he needs, but it is not forever. You know, I have told you, how oft in my dreams I kill Rhaegar, again and again? My dreams have changed. These nights, it is my blood turning the Trident red. And it is those damned purple eyes staring down at me in triumph."
"Rhaegar is dead. There is a sea between us and the last Targaryens, if they aren't dead themselves already."
The king sighs. "So young… See to it my food is ready." He waves Lyman away, and the squire reluctantly obeys, drifting slowly to the door. "Gods, I wish Ned were here," he murmurs under his breath. And as Lyman slips out of the room, he can only agree.
Mya Stone bites off half a sausage impaled on a silver fork, a hot drip of grease falling down onto the bodice of her yellow gown. The bright dress is not a flattering choice for the pointy, angular Vale bastard, but she doesn't care. It's a finer dress than any fabric she's ever touched, and while she has always been more comfortable in rough-hewn pants, guiding her mules along narrow mountain trails, she cannot deny the lovely feel of silk and lace for the first time.
She gently dabs the grease away with one hand while hoisting the rest of the sausage into her mouth with the other. Must keep it clean, she thinks. When I return to the Vale wearing this, and with a dowery from Father, Mychel's father can never deny me his hand. She smiles, remembering her lover, and scrapes another heaping helping of sausage onto her plate.
"Save some for the rest of us," Gendry scowls, but Mya only laughs in reply, tearing off a large piece of hot bread, releasing steam and crumbs into the air.
"How long will your lord uncle keep us here, do you think?" she asks, looking across the table to Edric Storm. The youngest of the three bastards, Edric nonetheless commands the head seat at their morning meal; offering few words to his half-siblings.
"As long as we want, I should think," he shrugs, precisely cutting a boiled egg into thin white and yellow circles. "We belong at court, after all."
"Don't you want to go back to Storm's End?"
"What? No!" Edric laughs. "It's cold, and musty, and there's hardly anyone there."
"I think I should stay," Gendry nods, peeling an orange. While he has been slower to take to the soft new clothes gifted him, he has become particularly fascinated by the broad variety of fresh fruit available in the Keep. "I was going to be sent to the Wall, before. If Ser Aron has a place for me to smith, then I think I would rather do that."
"I should think so! Storm's End is cold, but nothing like The Wall. They say it's made of actual ice! And it never thaws!" Edric looks to Mya. "What does the Vale have that here doesn't?"
"Didn't you used to drive mules?" Gendry snorts.
"I have my Mychel," Mya's voice is different when she speaks of the far-off noble lad. Her usual brusqueness slips away and becomes light on the air. "He will be a knight soon, and he loves me. His father did not approve of us before but now – now we will be wed."
"You're still be a bastard," Gendry shakes his head.
"A bastard of royal blood, brought to the court by the king," Mya takes an angry bite of sausage. "Mychel is a fourth son, there is no girl in the Vale old Horton could find for him with a trace of royal blood. Not one whose seen King's Landing, neither. You think Edric's to marry some peasant?" She points at the boy with the skewered sausage, still dripping.
"Well… I shall not be a bastard much longer," Edric deflects, focusing on his egg.
"You can't change that!" Gendry laughs louder.
"I'm to be legitimized after the trial."
"Who told you that?" No answer comes, and Gendry scowls.
"Will he…" Mya hesitates, the unspoken acknowledgement hanging heavily over the table. I'm the oldest. Gendry's older, too. Will he be made heir over us? "Will we…"
"I don't know," Edric does not look up from the scraps of egg left on his plate. "I am… Well, my mother was highborn, too." The answer is as silent as the question, but just as clear. For a moment, the three remain in silence. Finally, Gendry rises to leave, taking his orange with him, the door slamming as he goes. Edric politely excuses himself a moment later, leaving Mya alone to finish her meal, the only conversation the scraping of knife and fork on plate.
"You are taking too long!" Cersei Lannister smacks her hand against the stone window of her room in the Maidenvault. Behind her, her uncle Kevan grimaces.
"Not so loud," he hisses. "Reveal me and your freedom will never come, that much you can be sure of. You must have patience."
"What good is freedom if my own children despise me?" she looks back at him, angrily. "If you had only heard the way he talked to me! He… he… he sounded just like Robert!" She shudders at the thought, and pours herself wine. Kevan glares disapprovingly, suspecting the half-empty flagon was full just this morning.
"The boy will come to see reason once he is free from these walls," he reassures her. "You must keep a level head, we cannot afford rashness, not with all your lives at stake."
"No," Cersei shakes her head, taking a long drink as she stares back out the window. "This is not how I die." The Valonquar…. The witch's words spin about in the back of her head, and she feels a tightness around her throat. But her little brother is far away, maybe even dead. And to imagine she has the Starks to thank for it…
"I'm glad you are so confident, but all the same…"
"If you have nothing useful for me, then trouble me no longer. After all, it is so great a risk for you to be discovered. Scurry back home to whatever rat's nest the spider has you hidden in."
"I thought you would like to know word of the war." Kevan is unmoved. Cersei gives no answer, but he proceeds nonetheless. "Our armies have moved against the Tully forces along the Golden Tooth. Riverrun will be ours before the Northern army has ever touched Tully soil. But this is no longer a matter of vengeance for your brother. This is a war for Joffrey's inheritance. We are gathering allies, those who will swear fealty to his cause."
"What of Stark? Has the Mountain killed him yet?"
"Ser Gregor has taken Stonehedge. When Stark comes for him, he will be surrounded by a second force of outriders led by Ser Addam Marbrand. It is very likely he is already our prisoner as we speak."
"A prisoner. Not dead? I want him dead."
"He will be kept alive, to be exchanged for Tyrion," he looks at her disappointedly, as if she has forgotten. With a shake of his head, he slips away to the hidden passage from whence he came. "All will be well. You need only wait."
Eddard Stark is a valonquar, too, Cersei thinks, a little brother. And Renly as well. She pours more wine, squinting at the horizon as if she will be able to see the brewing war. May the Stranger take them all before their grasping hands can reach us.
The great hall of Stone Hedge stinks of death. The hearths have been extinguished to keep the cavernous round chamber as cold as possible, preserving the highborn dead, plucked from the battlefield to be given proper rites and burials from a maimed septon, each in accordance to their titles. The rest, the smallfolk, nameless and faceless to the average lord, would be rolled over into a mass grave on the field where they fell. It felt wrong, so many lives lost to the dirt without a whisper to mark there passing. But that was the way of war. But if Lord Stark were here… That was what had drawn Karyl to him so. The way he grieved for each fallen man after the first battle. The way he knew their names, their lives, the dreams they'd had before the cruel world cleaved such hope from the minds forever. In his life, Karyl had met few good men. Good men could be incredibly frustrating. But in their absence…
"He's not here," Ser Archibald Pyle calls out. The old knight has entered silently, still in the dirty robes he's worn since their arrival. He has not slept, helping the septon clean and prepare the bodies. Ser Byron Birch hovers nervously behind him, nose wrinkled at the smell. In contrast, he has changed into fine clothes, ill-fitted, likely pulled from some chest lucky enough not to have been burned or looted by the Mountain's men. "We have not found his body. It is possible that the brigands took it with them. A trophy to give back to their master in the West."
Ser Addam would never, Karyl thinks. But Clegane? Stark's body is not here, that much is certain, he has walked the rows twice over, seen too many familiar faces – jolly Neville Buckwell, loyal Godric Sand, young Titus Risley – but their leader is nowhere to be seen.
"Keep looking!" Karyl commands. "He was the Hand of the King! I will not return to his grace to tell him that Lord Stark is not only slain, but disappeared as well!"
Archibald and Byron exchange a nervous glance at that, and Karyl feels a suspicious prick on the back of his neck, wrapping around to irritate the birthmark on the side of his face.
"Will you return?" Ser Byron asks. "To the capital, that is?"
In truth, Karyl has not begun to consider. He slowly begins to walk out of the great hall. The other knights step in line behind him, Byron breathing a sigh of relief to be free of the corpses. My father is on the frontlines, he knows. Marq's father as well. Lord Tywin has like to already attacked outright, if this is truly now an open war. But I swore the same oath to Ned and to the king. Who else will carry it on?
He takes a weary seat in a slightly charred chair, head resting in his hands. Stay, he decides. Await orders from the capital. And in the meantime, discover just what it is that has disturbed the survivors so.
"Would you dine with us, ser?" Byron asks. Karyl looks up, brushing his stringy black hair from his eyes, dirty and greasy. His hand twitches at the feel of it.
"First, a bath," he nods. "Then food. I still have many questions." With that, the three knights walk on together, and as their feet tread the stones, far away a raven beats furious wings against the wind as the walls of King's Landing first appear slight and faint on the horizon, carrying around its leg a simple message, but one that threatens to shatter what semblance of peace Westeros can still cling to. Dark wings, dark words.