Renly Baratheon's solar is empty, his conspirators all gone back to their daily lives, leaving no trace of their meeting save the handful of texts and scrolls stacked neatly on the table. All are gone, save Loras Tyrell, who gingerly kneels beside the window with a handkerchief to wipe up a stray drop of blood left by Petyr Baelish's broken nose.
"Was it wise to anger Littlefinger so?" he asks, half a whisper only to himself. He glances over his shoulder to wear Renly broods in the far corner.
"He needed to be shown his place. He treated his knowledge as a privilege to bestow on us. His little games could have doomed us all. Now he knows who to fear."
"But will that fear make him more loyal? Or will it drive him away? The man is a snake; he is loyal to no one. And he would be a terribly inconvenient enemy to have."
"If he tries to betray us, I will break more than just his nose," Renly scowls.
With a sigh, Loras tosses the stained handkerchief out the window and crosses to his lover. Renly turns brusquely away, but Loras wraps his arms around him, hugging him softly but firmly. He smells of flowers, Renly of sod. He can feel the thick muscles of Renly's back tense beneath his clothes.
"This isn't you," he whispers. "This isn't your way. This is Robert. You're different. That's why you will succeed where he failed. You will be a great king."
"I will not be a king at all if I am not feared, if I am not respected," Renly shakes himself free.
"This is not how you win the respect of these people!"
Renly sighs heavily. "If I could bind them to my side with nothing but flowery words I would. But these are dangerous times. Any division in our ranks, any wavering in our conviction and we will fail. Because Tywin Lannister will not fail. His allies will not second-guess him. So I have to fight like Robert. To take the crown, he had to bend the kingdom to his will. Now I must do the same. It takes one kind of man to do that, another to rule. I can be both."
"This is about my father, isn't it?" Loras asks quietly.
"I…" Renly hesitates. "When I am king, your sister will be my queen. Your father will be my Hand. House Tyrell will be second to only House Baratheon in all of Westeros. But he has to understand – he does not control me. He will not control me."
"He does not seek to control you! He only… he wishes to offer counsel. As I do now."
Renly shakes his head, staring out the window, the veins behind his stormy blue eyes tightening, pulsing and relaxing. He turns, quickly, and pulls Loras close, placing a fierce kiss upon his neck and lingering, breathing in the scent of flowered perfume and nervous sweat before releasing him. The knight is unsure how to respond.
"Perhaps you are right. Your father, too, I was too hard on Littlefinger. But if he speaks to us truly, then we must not let the Starks slip through our grasp."
"Edward is leaving today, with Ser Gunthor."
"Don't let the boy leave the city. I don't care what you have to tell the Hightowers. But we need him here. Ned Stark is a fool, blinded by bards' songs of honor and valor. He will never join us unless he has no choice."
"But…." Loras hesitates, nervously tugging at his collar.
"I will find an answer for my brother. I'll make him understand."
"And Lord Stark?"
"We will deal with Lord Stark when he returns."
Since the death of Grand Maester Pycelle, care of the Red Keep's ravenry has fallen to the half-dozen maesters remaining in the Keep – as different in age, shape and expertise as can be, but all anxiously shuffling about in their drab robes and rattling chains, still shooken by the former Grand Maester's impromptu execution and awaiting word from the Citadel on his replacement. In such an environment, it is no great hurdle for an enterprising spider to slip through the cracks and so it is Varys, not a maester, awaiting the weary bird flying south from Stone Hedge.
His soft hands pull on the string around the raven's foot, freeing the missive tied there, sealed with red ink, marked by the Bracken stallion. With a crack, Varys breaks the seal, his eyes rapidly scanning the contents as thin beads of sweat begin to grow on his bald head.
"Which is it?" a stern voice startles Varys, a rare event. Maester Gaheris has silently entered the room, his chain discarded. He smirks. "You are not the only man born with light feet, Spider. So who is it? That missive means one of two things. Either Ned Stark has captured or killed Gregor Clegane or…"
Varys begins to move to the door, the small scroll still clutched tightly in his hand. "I fear we will be lighting candles for the King's Hand in the sept tonight."
"I see," Gaheris steps aside, allowing Varys to leave quickly, faster than the maester has ever seen the eunuch move. He stays for a long moment, waiting in the doorway, and notices that Varys is not headed in the direction of the king,
Not far away, in the chambers presently occupied by the guests from House Hightower, another missive sits unrolled on a table beside a large tray of bread, cheese, fruit and sweetmeats. The broken wax on its seal marks the lion of Lannister.
"They've proposed a marriage between Myrcella and Arthur in exchange for our unwavering fealty to Prince Joffrey's claim to the throne," Alysanne explains. "Were we to persuade Father to end the betrothal to the Stark boy, they would offer Heleana as a bride for the prince himself."
"Father would never," Gunthor scoffs. "He has his own plans for Edward, whatever they may be. Only Mallora knows. But how rarely has he deigned himself to meddle in affairs down on the ground beneath the Tower? He will climb down from his chambers to sleep with his wife before you will ever convince him to change his ways."
"I know Father as well as you," Alysanne scowls. "I only meant to explain the offer."
"Still, a princess for Arthur is nothing to sneer at," Leyla tosses a piece of cheese into her mouth, sprawled out on the chaise. "And a place on the Small Council, for good measure."
"Father will never concede. He couldn't care less for who sits the Iron Throne, in case you haven't noticed from the last ten years!"
"Exactly. Which is why I don't see why we even need bother asking him," Leyla shrugs.
Gunthor is aghast, if only for a moment, before composing himself, any concern melting away quick as the morning dew. "I've said it before, the two of you may do whatever you want, but I am taking Heleana and Edward and I am leaving."
"The Lannisters want the boy to remain here," Alysanne adds quietly.
"That will not stand," Gunthor's eye twitches. "Father was very clear. He wants Edward in Oldtown. I've delayed long enough, and now the city is on the brink of war. Scores of lions and roses at each other's throats! You want to play games with the Lannisters? Don't let me stand in your way. But I told you already – I won't keep Heleana at risk here."
"Don't blame this on the girl!" Leyla throws up her hands. "You're just a coward! When things get hard, you run away home to hide under Rhea's skirts!"
"Don't you dare!" Gunthor's strained calm finally snaps, raising a shaky finger to his sister's face, his muscles tensed. "You will not call me a coward, and you will not spread any vile rumors about me or our father's wife! If you must know, I will indeed be glad to be gone from this filthy city! I cannot bear the company of these sniveling schemers any longer, but most of all I cannot stand to see your stupid fat face for another day! You think you're so clever? Go ahead, stay, and it will be the rope that hangs you!"
With disdain, Leyla spits directly onto her little brother's face. Gunthor does not flinch, nor wipe away the wine-stained phlegm clinging to his left cheek. Without a further word, he turns to go, only to find Alysanne waiting by the door with a disappointed look on her face.
"Don't go, not like this. We have to stand together. We are all Hightowers."
"We are not the same. One only needs eyes to see that!" Gunthor pushes her aside. "It's only a name. But we do share a father, and I, for one, plan to honor his wishes! The boy leaves today!"
Gunthor is in full armor when he arrives with his personal guard outside the Tower of the Hand. Hela rides beside him on a small grey pony. Her long brown hair is woven up upon itself, the same rose-like ring she had worn on her first day in the city. Her pale skin seems to glow in the afternoon sun, as if the promise of a return home has given her new life. Edward, standing at the foot of the steps, offers up a faint smile he fears will not hide the bittersweet taste of this farewell. Around his neck, he wears the pendant she had brought – the small ruby clasped between a weirwood wolf and ebony raven.
"A good day to sail!" Gunthor declares. Edward nods in agreement. The Stark household has assembled to send him off. Lyman Darry's face is stretched into his big, goofy grin; Septa Mordane looks down proudly; Ser Arys is at attention in his white armor, shined by Edward one final time; Jory has returned – if his reservations towards the departure remain, they do not show on his stoic face; even Syrio is there. But his sisters… He stops, half-turned, hands shaking. He had prayed they would come.
Around the corner, Jalabar Xo appears in his feathered cloak, atop his horse and leading two others – a packhorse born down with their luggage and a small, brown one, Edward's favorite. Tessarion pads softly along beside them. But still no Sansa, no Arya.
He looks back to Hela, whose face has turned from excitement to concern. "I can't…"
And then the door creaks open and two small figures slip through. Jeyne Poole and behind her… Sansa! One arm led by Jeyne, the other wrapped tightly around his painting! He runs back up the steps, nearly tripping on his way, throwing his arms around her so hard that she stumbles, dropping the painting. She steadies herself, leaning forward into his embrace, and they stop, teetering on the edge of the top step, Edward's face buried in her gown to mask his tears. And slowly, though he cannot see it, she begins to cry as well.
He tries to think of words to say, anything to bridge the void of their divide. If only he could take it back – the truth about Joffrey, about Bran, all of it. But I can't lie, he knows. I can't take back the truth. Slowly, he pulls away and turns his head slowly up, praying to see a smile on her face. There are dark, sleepless circles around her eyes, a puffiness to her cheeks and her pristine auburn hair is tangled – but the smile is there, and it is the most beautiful thing in the world.
"Thank you for the painting," she says softly, wiping away his tears with the hem of her sleeve. "It's very pretty. I'll hang it on my wall, and every time I see it, I'll think of you." Edward smiles back with a sniffle and she turns him back around to see the crowd of well-wishers staring with uncertain faces. But he is not ready to go. He looks back, craning his neck around the half-open door, begging for just one more wish to be granted, for a face matching his to peer back.
"Arya?" he asks. But Sansa shakes her head, no. She isn't coming. He begins to cry again, but she takes his hand tight in hers and gently, step by step, leads him down from the tower. He feels the warmth in her touch and it forces a smile back to his lips as he waves at each friendly face, though their kind words scarcely register. At last, waiting by his horse, are Tessarion, his long tongue hanging out, mismatched eyes eager for adventure; and Lyman, holding the reins, dressed in one of the fine new doublets with the scarlet plowmen on each breast.
"I'll write you when I get to Oldtown," Edward promises his fellow squire.
"Don't forget my sigil," Lyman smiles.
"I could never," he smiles back, genuinely this time.
"Just no bats," Lyman tussles his hair one last time. "I hate bats."
Edward laughs and looks back to Sansa, realizing he's still holding her hand. She bends down to kiss his forehead, then her blue eyes are staring into his grey. "Tell Arya I love her," he asks, barely a whisper. "I'll write to her, too. You should visit, sometime. Once this is all over."
"We will. Even if we have to tie her to the back of the horse," she laughs, but Edward does not share it. He looks back over her shoulder, to the towering Red Keep behind them.
"Stay safe," is all he can say, and forces all thoughts of Joffrey from his mind.
"Of course I will!" She holds him tight one final time. "We'll be alright. We'll all be alright, because we're warriors, remember?" They both look down at the waiting wolf. "You're going to do amazing things in Oldtown, Edward. I just know it. And one day, we'll all be together there – You, me, Arya, Robb, Bran and Rickon, Mother and Father. Maybe for your wedding!" Edward blushes as Sansa gives a wave to Heleana atop her horse. "She's a good girl, you know. Don't mess it up."
"I'll try not to. But I won't have you to tell me what to say."
"You're smart enough to figure it out," she whispers in his ear. "Maybe you can ask the wolf."
Lyman moves to help him mount, but Edward ducks back to hug Sansa one final time. "I'll always love you," he whispers. Even if you marry Joffrey…
"Not as much as I love you."
And with that, Lyman is hoisting Edward up into the air and onto the saddle and his hands are on the reigns and Sansa and Lyman and everyone are waving good-bye as the line of horses leave the Tower of the Hand behind once and for all. And as Edward finally breaks his gaze from his family and friends, he thinks he sees, just for a moment, Jaime Lannister watching from a parapet high above.
But that's impossible, he knows. Jaime is in the dungeon. But whatever phantom of his former knight is looking down on him, it nods proudly and then is gone. Should I say something? Edward wonders, but only for a moment. It was surely only his imagination. Jaime Lannister can do many things, but he cannot walk through walls. And so he rides on, falling into pace beside his betrothed, who laughs freely to a joke of her own making as they go forward together into the future. Beyond these walls, the possibilities are endless.
The door to Renly's chambers slams open violently, sending him leaping out of his chair, his goblet clattering to the floor, spilling wine onto the rug. He is halfway to the table where he has left his dagger when he sees the intruder – Garrett Flowers, bent over, panting for breath.
"What's wrong?" he scowls. Could Loras have failed? Could the Hightowers and Starks have resisted? He feels a chill run down his spine, thinking of those terrible direwolves.
"Lord Stark is dead!" Garrett gasps.
"Damn that fool!" Renly pounds his fist on the table. It will be almost impossible to convince Lady Catelyn to send Bran south to testify now.
"I fear we have a larger problem, my lord." The bastard is standing now, composing himself, pressing out the wrinkles in his doublet and straightening his hair. But the panic in his eyes in unmistakable. "The Goldcloaks have turned on us."
"What do you mean?"
"They've freed and armed the Lannister men and march on the Keep as we speak."
This can't be happening. Not now. Not when we're so close. "How much time do we have?"
"It can't be long, my lord," Garrett answers, but Renly is already pushing past him out the door.
"Guyard!" He roars, and his captain comes running. "We are under attack!"
"By who, my lord?" The knight is confused.
"Lannister scum. Rally the defenses, they must not breach the walls! I will join you there when I am ready." Renly turns back to Garrett. "If they can turn the City Watch, the Kingsguard is not safe either. Take men to guard my brother. Trust no one but our own!"
With a curt nod, Garrett is off again, sprinting down the halls. Renly turns back into his room, breathing heavily now, and slams the door behind him. My armor, where is my armor… Instead, his eyes fall on the warhammer, still resting in the corner of the room. He stalks towards it, years of overflowing fury pulsing through his veins, now caught in a vise here at the precipice of his victory, to have his hopes dashed… No.
His hands wrap around the handle, tightening their grip. The gentle hand Loras loves will mean little if our heads are on spikes. It is time to water the stones with lions' blood.