A/N: Hello all! I hope you are enjoying your day, wherever and whenever that might be. Thanks to TMI Fairy, Caedmon Cousland (welcome back after a hiatus), Kalstorm99, HarwinSnow, Raimon, and BridgesLost (welcome to the story- you were too kind) for the reviews. I hope you all find this new chapter entertaining. Big things to come in this chapter!
Maris III
A small crowd had been permitted to gather within the Red Keep's inner courtyard as the morning sun sent its warming rays through the wintry clouds above. Bundled tightly under furs and wool, Maris could not help but be intrigued as she gazed at the square neatly demarcated in the dirt with small wooden stakes. Forty feet by forty feet, the dueling ring had been erected by servants hours before in preparation for the King's practice today. For weeks, it had been an open secret within the Royal Court that the King had taken to learning the ways of the sword, supposedly with far more resolve and vigor than he had shown as a younger man. With his daily flights above the city, Aegon rebuilds his bond with Sunfyre and allows it to heal fully and grow in strength. He does the same for his own body during these sparring matches. Maris' keen eyes had not missed the details of Sunfyre's increasingly irrelevant injury, noting how its once crooked wing seemingly drifted further and further back into its original position, allowing it to remain in the air for much longer periods of time, and to move far more gracefully. Its rider had also shown improvements. While he still moved slowly, carefully negotiating each step taken, he no longer showed the obvious signs of his broken ribs and hip that had troubled him since his earlier confrontation with the Queen who Never Was.
Until this morning, the King's matches had been behind closed doors, with only a few select servants in attendance and under the supervision of Steffon Connington, her father's appointee to the formerly vacant position of Master-at-Arms. It was also rumored that Ser Jon Roxton, the King's Justice, had been called to assist with these lessons, as he possessed a valyrian steel blade capable of matching Blackfyre blow for blow without scarring or snapping.
A hush fell over the nobility that had assembled as the doors of the Small Hall were thrown open and the King emerged from within. Taking short, but firm strides, he strode in plate to the stakes, escorted by the two members of his Kingsguard, Sers Marston Waters and Willis Fell. After he had taken his position in the ring, planting Blackfyre in the dirt and leaning upon it, his opponent emerged, following the same path with quiet purpose. Ser Jon Roxton's dark eyes remained fixated on the King with an almost manic appearance, and he wore a thin smile upon his face. He smiles as though he learned to smile by watching others. There is something… wrong about that knight. Shaking her head slightly to dispel that errant and troubling thought, Maris watched as the second man entered the ring. Ser Steffon, who stood just outside the enclosure, gestured to urge the two to begin.
Pulling Blackfyre from the packed earth from where it had been planted, the King made the first move. Hefting an oaken shield that was emblazoned with his golden three-headed dragon, Aegon approached his 'enemy' with the measured steps of a wary foe. The Knight of the Ring simply waited, motionless, his eyes still seemingly straining with anticipation. When the King had made it to within five paces of him, he drew Orphan-Maker in a single, fluid motion. Leveling it at the King that approached him, Roxton lifted his own shield into a guarded position and moved forward, crossing the remaining distance until he was but an arm's length from his enemy. For a moment, the two men faced each other without moving. The silence was broken almost as suddenly as it had fallen when Blackfyre was hefted and swung in an overhead arc towards the Reachman's head. Roxton caught the dark, smoky blade with his own, which resulted in a piercing metallic squeal as the two blades slid along one another. Whatever dark magic and rituals preserve and hone their blades will not allow for them to bite into one another. They almost slide when they make contact. Deftly, Roxton spun out of the blade-lock and drove his shield into the King, who stumbled backwards, teetering on the edge of a thoroughly unimpressive collapse. He managed to right himself, planting his feet firmly in the earth. Roxton could have killed him then, were this a real fight.
Once more the King of the Seven Kingdoms came forwards, swinging his blade in calculated measured strokes that were clearly meant to force his opponent towards the edge of the enclosure. Roxton took one step back, then two, followed by simply dodging the third swing and sending a cut of his own across the King's shield. The gash in the wood was deep, rendering the shield almost useless and sending splinters of it flying in all directions. Two of the golden dragon's heads had been struck off, leaving a maimed, one-headed beast in its wake. Casting a single glance upon the splintered ruin upon his arm, Aegon deftly undid the straps that bound it to him and cast it aside. Taking Blackfyre into both hands, he stepped backwards. He intends to use its greater length to keep Roxton at bay. While his opponent had allowed him to remove his shield, the Reachmen would abide no further delays, moving forward quickly and sending a flurry of blows raining down upon the King. Aegon raised Blackfyre to meet them, catching them each by twisting his blade this way and that to prevent them from biting through armor and into flesh. While Roxton was clearly holding back, the attack was still impressive to behold, and Maris thought that Aegon's spirited defence was to his credit. Only a few months ago, he was a broken man, in mind and in body. It seems that recent events have reforged into something new. Something harder.
As Roxton drove the King to the edge of the enclosure, clearly intending to end the fight with a disqualification, Aegon roared through his helm. Using Blackfyre to turn Orphan-Maker aside, he got within Roxton's guard for a split second, driving the point of his blade towards the man's chest. The Reachlord's eyes widened slightly beneath his training half-helm, and it was only with incredible reflexes that he was able to interpose his shield between his opponents blade and the armor above his heart. Breathing heavily, he used his shield to redirect the King's attack towards the sky, leaving him overextended and without the ability to guard himself. Lightning-quick, Orphan-Maker screeched across the King's black-steel gorget, leaving a deep gash. Stumbling backwards, Aegon clutched his neck, falling onto his arse as he scrambled to ensure that he had not taken a wound. Breathing in deep gasps, his voice emanated from within his helm.
"I yield, Ser."
Ser Jon Roxton nodded, and extended a hand to his King. The crowd cheered as the two men withdrew from the sparring square under guard. A loss, but not a humbling one. If the King continues like this, he may prove himself more capable than even the optimists may have dared hope. He and his dragon grow stronger by the day. Woe be to those who expect to face a still-indolent Prince upon the field of battle.
Maris was surprised to find that her father did not share her estimation of the King's performance. Supper found him in a foul mood, sullenly tearing at his supper with the ferocity only the enraged can muster.
"To be humbled in such a manner is outrageous! And by a Reachman no less. I was ashamed to see such a display."
Despite their courtly title, the Four Storms seated around the table were remarkably subdued. Maris, upon seeing her father's reaction, had initially decided against weighing in on the conversation, hoping to avoid the redirection of his frustrations. Ultimately, it was Floris who decided to address her father's complaints as she bashfully stirred her soup.
"The King was terribly injured, was he not? I thought he performed most dashingly and admirably."
The Lord of Storm's End raised his eyes to meet those of his youngest daughter, his annoyance diminishing somewhat visibly. Father always did have the most patience for Floris, and even I cannot disagree that he is being overly harsh. I expect that the King's defeat is not all that is troubling him.
"A king should never allow himself to be so visibly humbled, my sweet. Too many already have doubts about this war, and need reassurance that their lord and master will be able to protect them from their enemies."
Maris cleared her throat. "What news is there of the enemy, father?" News from the north had been scarce as of late, even to the likes of her 'friend' Lord Bryndemere. Her father's mood, in conjunction with the rumors abound in the court, had led her to believe that something of note had recently occurred to break the uneasy status quo.
With a hearty sigh, her father placed his leg of lamb back upon the platter before him. "You ought to not disturb yourself with such things, my dear. Women and war are not made for one another."
Resisting the urge to roll her eyes, she redoubled her efforts. "I fear for Lord Bryndemere, father. I am concerned that any negative developments may cause him to reconsider a proposal."
Judging by how her father's bushy black eyebrows raised in surprise, she knew she had found a hook with which to pull information from him. Ideally he will not directly confront Lord Bryndemere about this. That would be a tad unfortunate… and require some explanations on my part.
"By the Seven, Maris, that is favorable news indeed." Taking her hands into his massive, calloused palms, her father spoke one more. "I wouldn't normally wish to distress you or your sisters with such information, but given your concerns, I would not wish to keep you uninformed." Releasing her from his grasp, her father ran a massive hand through his black mane of hair, which Maris could not help but note had a few more grey hairs than it did months before. "From what our outriders and informants have told us, our enemies have departed from Harrenhal, heading south. We may have a battle on our hands, and soon. It is only a thirty days march from Harrenhal to the capital."
Maris pursed her lips. I had feared such things had transpired. Before she could respond, Cassandra spoke up, drawing herself up as she was wont to do in order to convey the proper image of a Lady.
"What aid can we count upon from our allies, father? Surely there remain forces to be mustered?"
Borros Baratheon chuckled mirthlessly. "No aid within a thirty days ride. Johanna Lannister has written of a great victory in the West over the scum raiding her shores, but true aid from the West, both in the form of gold or men, remains elusive. Perhaps if she can drive the Ironborn completely away we might be able to call upon her to send us reinforcements, but I expect the war will have reached its conclusion by then." Pausing to take a sip of wine from a silver goblet emblazoned with a prancing stag, he continued. "Nay, any hope of help lies instead to the south. The Dowager Queen and her mummer's charade of a Hand have written their kin in Oldtown, begging him to raise more forces." He scoffed. "As if we need more Hightowers strutting about."
Maris was intrigued. "I would have thought the Hightowers had already bankrupted themselves raising their first host for the King. How does the crown expect them to muster yet another army?"
Her father eyed her with a look of mild amusement. "It seems that a portion of the prewar treasury was stored within Oldtown for safekeeping. The King has authorised his kin to use that to pay for additional forces." Drumming his fingers upon the oaken table that they sat around, her father took another sip of his wine. "One must hope for the Seven's favor in times such as these. Lord Hightower is months away, and we still can only muster one dragon for the defense of the city to the three the Black bastards command at their disposal. Our greatest advantage lies with the prisoners Lord Strong took in the seizure of the capital." His expression grew colder. "Even now the King considers sending a piece of each of them to the forces of the Pretender. Perhaps then they would understand what an advance on the capital would truly mean."
A chill ran down Maris' spine. Perhaps they would reconsider. But they may also decide that the violation of the safety of the prisoners would not end there, thus rendering the value of the hostages moot. Maris frowned. Then again, what if they do not care a whit for the hostages? An army led by savage northmen and treacherous bastards may see them as just a minor inconvenience to their plans. Plans that could end with a crown atop their own heads. She wasn't certain what to make of such speculations. If they are as ambitious as I fear, it is only a matter of time until they appear again over the city. Then again… they most likely would have already, if possessed of such sentiments. Perhaps they are indeed bound by their oaths to a long dead Queen, and fear for her remaining children. We had best hope so.
As they filed into the now familiar chambers of the Queen's ballroom, Maris could not help but feel the tension. While this session had been arranged as one exclusively between the Dowager Queen and the Four Storms, that did little to ease the anxiety. Without anyone else to distract the Queen, her exacting and prying vision would be fully directed upon them. She has already judged us, and found us wanting. A small smile played at the corners of her lips, regardless. Whether she has found us wanting is not the only important factor, however. The support of our father is the last bastion of strength for her regime, and she knows it. She too must balance her own jealousies and ambitions against those of our father. Maris drew some comfort from such thoughts, and drew them about her as a shield as she and her sisters took seats upon chairs in the presence of Alicent.
Their host had chosen a beautiful dress of grey and white for the occasion, one that accentuated both her still-lithe form as well as her familial origins. About her neck, she wore a golden three-headed dragon pendant, its eyes twinkling with inlaid rubies. Upon noticing how Maris regarded it, she flashed a brilliant white smile.
"A gift from my late husband." She gave it a tap with a well maintained finger nail. "He had it presented to me only a few days after I had announced I was carrying our first child. It was then that I knew I was truly one of the family."
Maris nodded. "It is beautiful, my Lady. The former King must have been a most generous husband."
Alicent, nodded, but her face tensed with those words. "He was indeed. Yet when it came time to bestow the greatest gift he could grant upon our son, he dithered. It took him until his dying breaths to replace his eldest daughter as heir. Much suffering could have been avoided if he had done so earlier in his reign." Her fingers traced the heads of the dragon upon the pendant. "But alas, such things are in the past, now. My son now sits the Iron Throne, with only a handful of diehard opponents still disputing his reign. No doubt they resist because they rightly fear that to bend the knee would still mean death or bills of attainder. It is a shame their resolve has been so bolstered by 'volunteers' from the Vale, savages, and bastards atop dragons wrongfully bestowed." The Dowager Queen let loose a light, sweet laugh. "I must say, however, the notion that a Prince of disputed paternity was the one to devise the plan to enlist bastards is all too perfect. I'm certain something about their nature spoke to his own. That same nature will be their undoing, however. They may have overcome my sweet son with treachery, but my eldest is wiser, and a veteran of dragon combat himself. They will need all three of their number to pose even the slightest threat to him."
Cassandra watched the Queen intently, whilst Floris watched, mouth slightly agape with awe. When Elyn noticed, she gave her a nudge, after which Floris audibly snapped her mouth shut. Suppressing a giggle, Maris smoothed her dress. Seeking to distract Alicent, Cassandra spoke up.
"My Queen, if I may, I am certain the King will prevail against our enemies." Smiling ever so sweetly, she continued. "I've prayed to the Seven for such a victory, and for the Queen to return to us in health. It would be glorious for her to join him, as Rhaenys and Visenya once did with the Conqueror."
Maris gritted her teeth. She feared her sister might've resorted to too much flattery. Meetings with Alicent had taught her that a delicate balance of flattery and deference was the key to maintaining her acceptance.
Alicent smiled, but it was clear that Cassandra's comment had touched a sore nerve. "I thank you my dear. It is sweet of you to pray for them, and I am certain the Seven will look kindly upon your exhortations." Her manicured fingers drummed upon the armrest of her chair. "Coincidentally, I have brought the four of you before me today in order to see whether you might be of some use for a task of the utmost import."
Maris was most intrigued. "How might we be of assistance to you, my Lady?"
Alicent allowed her smile to drop slightly. "My daughter, the Queen, has suffered much. The injustices committed were… unspeakable."
Maris was shocked when for the briefest moment, the facade surrounding the Dowager Queen dropped. Lines appeared across her face, telling of exhaustion and grief kept at bay by force alone. But what shocked Maris the most was her eyes. Deep brown eyes, normally twinkling with a carefully cultivated mixture of mischief, haughty confidence, and authority had been replaced with orbs of pure, unrestrained hate.
"My grandchild, Jaehaerys… was taken from her… from us. I will stop at nothing to see those responsible for such treachery, and those who support them, utterly extinguished."
As quickly as the lapse in composure had appeared, it was gone. Alicent resumed her appearance as though nothing had changed. Clenching her fists, she continued.
"In order to see that proper justice is done, I must temporarily assist my son and his Lords in the running of the realm. But Kings should not need their mothers to render them aid, or to support them in times as trying as these. For that, they should have their Queens. As you put it most aptly, my dear Cassandra, Aegon had his Rhaenys and Visenya, Jaehaerys had his Alyssane, and Viserys, his Alicent. Aegon II must have his Helaena returned to his side, to support him in all the ways a wife must. I, regrettably, have found myself nearly overwhelmed with the affairs of state, and my daughter requires the most… delicate of care." Brushing a few tiny mites of dust from her dress, Alicent resumed. "The four of you served as companions to my granddaughter when she was forced into hiding. I am considering making you each Ladies in Waiting as a reward for that service. Helaena must be encouraged to return to her duties by women of noble birth close to her station. If chosen, the four of you would serve alongside septas and Grand Maester Orwyle in order to accomplish this. It would mean swearing yourselves to the utmost secrecy and placing the recovery and wellbeing of the Queen as the highest priority."
Maris was impressed by the wisdom of the Dowager Queen's offer. By making us attendants to the Queen herself, she can ideally assist in her recovery whilst keeping us safely sequestered away from rivals. Our father will be momentarily satisfied with the prestigious appointments, buying Helaena time to resume her role, rendering us harmless to the Hightower ascendency at court. If, however, any information were to leak about the Queen or her condition, it would provide her with the perfect excuse to dismiss us from court, or worse. In other words, this is Alicent's way of preventing us from truly threatening to usurp Helaena as Queen. Once more, she found herself respecting the political acumen of the woman before her. Though Cassandra was her sister, Maris could not help but find it amusing watching her features contort ever so slightly as she came to terms with the same information. If I know Cassandra at all, she will see this as one further obstacle between her and a crown.
Before any of the sisters could respond, Alicent retrieved a small silver bell from where it sat beside her seat and rang it, evidently calling for servants to bring refreshments. Soon, a freckled girl with pale skin and green eyes came through the doors, bearing drinks, followed closely by an olive skinned woman with long, black braided hair, carrying a second pitcher of wine. The first woman had nearly reached the table set aside for them to place their goods when her foot caught on the rug, and in her haste to extract it she lost her balance and lost her hold on the tray, sending it clattering to the floor with a resounding crash and spilling red wine across the polished stone floor. Looking petrified, she apologized profusely, and scurried away to fetch something with which she could clean up the mess. The second woman gingerly placed her tray upon the table and withdrew a rag from her apron, quickly kneeling and slowly sopping up the spilled wine. Alicent, though annoyed by the disruption, quickly poured herself a glass of the remaining pitcher's contents.
As their host attempted to make polite conversation with Cassandra, Floris, and Elyn, Maris remained distracted by the woman cleaning up the spilled wine. She was soon joined by the other maid, who quickly began to dab at the spill with a towel of her own. What intrigued Maris was that the woman who had first begun to clean up the mess was almost unmistakably Dornish, with dark eyes, dark hair, and tan skin. While she had undoubtedly paled over the course of the winter, the woman still possessed the sun-kissed appearance of one of Dorne's denizens. What is a Dornish woman doing here, in the midst of court and attending Reachmen and Stormlanders? Maris was surprised that none of the others present found it so odd. They must have grown accustomed to ignoring much of their surroundings in favor of more 'pressing' issues. Realizing that her attention would be noticed if she gazed too long, she turned back to the conversation ongoing between Alicent and her sisters. I must needs have those two followed. If nothing else, I am most curious to learn how such a maid came to be in Royal employ.
As had become customary, Maris had met Lord Bryndemere in the Godswood in the early evening shadowed by the ever-vigilant Ser Genrick. Cassandra had been displeased that their father was continually allowing her to leave at such a time to meet a suitor, even under accompaniment. Her parting remark had been just short of insinuating that Maris had resorted to favors of the body in order to maintain a Lord's interest, remarks that Maris had decided would need to be addressed with some haste after she returned. I cannot allow her to play on father's fears. To lose my only outlet into the wider world would be a cruel and devastating blow. Dispelling such foreboding thoughts from her mind, she attempted to contain her excitement as she awaited the Lord of Tarth's arrival. I finally have information valuable enough to repay him with for all of his gifts, she thought to herself. Sending Alla, her maid from Storm's End, to follow the two women had paid dividends in the most fascinating of ways.
The sound of measured steps on the stoney path caught her attention, and she turned to greet her visitor, bedecked as ever in Suns and Crescent Moons.
"How fare your attempts to pacify the city's rabble, Ser Bryndemere?" She asked, breaking the silence.
Twisting a corner of his waxed mustache, the Lord of Tarth grinned slightly. "They go as well as one can expect, when one accounts for the considerable amount of crime and moral degradation that is generally accepted within this city. It appears the riots that ended the Pretender's reign did little to disrupt the businesses of those who deal in less-than-savory trades. The good news is that the city watch has no problems with recruitment. The promise of two warm meals a day is more than enough to tempt many into our ranks, and my fine knights have maintained discipline admirably. Tarth has a long history of dealing with criminal types, as I am certain you are aware."
Maris nodded. "I suppose the depredations of the Free Cities had to have been good for something. Compared to Lysene slavers, the rabble of King's Landing must pose no danger to a knight of Tarth."
Bryndmere chuckled. "Indeed, my Lady, they do not pose a threat to their lives. They do, however, present a formidable threat to their purse-strings"
Grinning, she nodded. "And what else could be expected of those poor men? War has dragged them from their keeps, away from their families and responsibilities! How are they to survive without the company of whores, or the thrill of betting on cock fights?"
Her response elicited another laugh. "Without such simple and wholesome pursuits, my men would grow mad with boredom and lonesomeness. Twould be a terrible fate for such stalwart men in the King's service."
Their stroll through the winding paths of the Godswood brought them to a small pond that had been dug to allow for birds and small fish to make their home within during spring and summer years. Stopping, Maris sat upon a carved wooden bench positioned to overlook the pool, gazing at its dark, cold waters. The winter constellations shown on its still surface, visible through the arching reflections of the tree branches above their heads. Absentmindedly, she took a small, smooth stone into her hand, before casting it atop the surface of the pond. It skipped six times before finally sinking. The ripples it cast about the pond whirled and twisted, with starlight dancing atop the waves.
Lord Bryndemere whistled softly. "Consider me most impressed, Maris Baratheon. Not many possess such a talent."
She shrugged. "Not many bother to try and learn. My sisters either weren't interested in such a trivial pursuit or considered it a game fit for the smallfolk. But I was better than most I knew, better than the boys who challenged me." She smiled. "My record was fifteen bounces."
Her companion lifted a stone into his hand, allowing it to rest in his palm. He threw it suddenly, flicking his wrist and sending it hopping across the surface of the water three times.
"I disagree. Such a diversion is much too fun for only the smallfolk to enjoy."
"I concur most heartily, Lord Tarth." As much as she was enjoying herself, Maris could no longer resist her curiosity regarding what was happening in the wider world. "What news do you bring me?" She asked.
Sending another stone skipping across the surface, Bryndemere sighed. "I bring little news that could be regarded as encouraging. Lord Cregan Stark, along with his Black allies, have departed Harrenhal and march south."
Maris nodded. "So my father told me. He believes that our hostages may keep them at bay."
Bryndemere nodded. "One can hope. Although from what I have gathered from those who inhabited the keep during the Pretender's reign, it seems that Lord Corlys Velaryon's bastard grandson was quite smitten with the girl who humiliated the King not too long ago. If he hears of her subsequent maiming, he may not be so cowed. Young men will move mountains for the sake of love or lust. And Baela Targaryen is the type of girl that would make even old men act young."
Maris, to her surprise, found herself feeling the unwelcome pangs of jealousy as Lord Bryndemere spoke. She decided to head him off. "Careful now, my Lord, or I will be wounded by your expressions of adoration for her."
Lord Bryndemere turned to face her and smiled. "Maris, my dear, have no fears regarding my attention. The Lady Baela is most certainly not the type of person that could capture my heart. And I doubt she would even consider accepting any suitors from south of the God's Eye."
Maris, despite not being entirely satisfied with his answer, decided to change the subject. "What of the Hightowers? Have they not been gathering forces? What do you know of their plans?"
Smiling knowingly, he complied with her change of course. "Lord Lyonel Hightower has indeed been granted permission to use the portion of the royal treasury in his possession to raise a new host. Supposedly, he has taken all sorts of men into his employ. I have heard rumors of an exiled Prince from the Summer Isles, who commands a host of five hundred archers, all bedecked in bright feathers and bearing goldenheart bows into battle. Dornish raiders from the western marches have mustered, eager for loot and battle. The urban poor of Oldtown, hungry due to the onset of winter, are flocking in droves, encouraged by the promise of coin. Lord Hightower will soon have an army formidable enough to march. I would not be surprised if he pays a visit to the Lady Tyrell on the way, in order to retrieve his brother and encourage her to join the cause."
Maris nodded. Goldenheart bows are supposedly the best in the world. Could five hundred of them bring down a dragon? I expect that Lord Lyonel hopes so. Before she could inquire about the thought, Lord Bryndemere continued.
"The whispers that intrigue me the most have little to do with the Hightowers, however. Supposedly, a raven was sent a few nights ago to the Arbor. The Redwynes declared for the King at the outset of the war, but have yet to stir. If I am correct, the King may have just made them an offer they would be loathe to refuse in exchange for their fleet."
Maris raised an eyebrow. "What might that be?"
"The hand of his remaining child in betrothal. Lord Redwyne's son is only seven. The Princess Jaehaera, while young, will eventually grow into a Princess in full, and a dragonrider as well. While women cannot inherit the Iron Throne, she is still the most desirable match in the Seven Kingdoms. A match valuable enough that the Redwynes might sail around Westeros in order to break the Velaryon blockade, to open the Narrow Sea and King's Landing to trade and replenishment."
Such a match makes perfect sense. The King knows that the city, if put to siege, would quickly starve. If the Redwynes break the blockade, however, we could be resupplied indefinitely by sea. All for the price of a young, sad, girl. The information she had learned earlier might even fit in with such plans.
"Lord Bryndemere, you will be pleased to learn that I, too, have some information for you."
The Lord of Tarth turned to face her, his face slowly adopting a mischievous grin. "And what might that be, my Lady?"
"Earlier today, as my sisters and I met with the Dowager Queen, two maids attended us. What struck me about them as odd was that neither of them appeared to be very experienced with their duties, which made little sense, given that they make their living within the Red Keep. Such things could be dismissed in the wake of the regime change, given that many new staff were likely hired in the aftermath of the Pretender's downfall. What struck me further, however, was that one of these maids was unmistakably Dornish."
Lord Bryndemere's smile faded into a look of concentration as he realised her information was of more interest than he originally had expected. "A Dornish woman? Employed in the King's own staff?"
Maris nodded. "I found that exceedingly strange. My father and his knights only recently defeated a Vulture King. It would be in ill-taste to employ such a person in the presence of those who spend much of their lives fighting Dornishmen. I simply couldn't believe it was all a coincidence, so I had a trustworthy maid of mine follow them."
Her companion waited in silence for her to continue.
"When she returned, she reported that the two 'maids' did indeed live in the serving quarters outside of Maegor's Holdfast. What she did observe, however, was that they had a babe living with them. A babe that sported freckles, lilac eyes, and silver hair." Maris smiled, despite herself, pleased with her discovery. "At first, I had thought the Dornish woman might be a spy, but I thought it too obvious. That was why I sent my serving maid to ascertain more."
The Lord of Tarth had by this point adopted a completely serious expression; an expression that encompassed equal portions intrigue, respect, and foreboding. He waited a moment, gazing at the once more still waters of the pond.
"My dear, I think you may have found something quite interesting indeed. The implications of such things could be… considerable."
Before he could continue, they both paused, having heard an odd wooden tapping noise approaching them from the path. As she turned, she saw Ser Genrick had drawn his blade, but had been disarmed by two massive men in mottled plate that lacked any discernible sigils. While one man tied her escort knight's hands behind his back, the other approached her and Lord Bryndemere, fingering a broadsword in his hands. He stopped a few paces from both of them. The silence resumed, except for the rhythmic wooden tapping. A few moments passed, until finally a bent and hobbled form emerged from behind one of the drooping elms that surrounded them. While she had only seen the Lord of Harrenhal a few times before, she knew immediately that she was once again in his enigmatic presence.
Larys Strong took a moment to lean against an alder tree, his brown hair and strong jaw shifting as he regarded them. His twisted foot remained supported by his oaken cane. Deep brown eyes searched them for a few moments, before he began speaking.
"You've picked a most inquisitive girl to court, Lord Tarth."
Lord Bryndemere nodded. "It appears so, Lord Strong. To what do we owe the pleasure of your visit?"
Lord Strong pursed his lips, before letting out a short sigh. "Earlier today, some friends of mine informed me that they had been followed by a maid in Baratheon colors. They had been unaware of her presence until they caught her watching them from outside their quarters. Obviously worried, they informed me of their concerns."
Maris felt a sinking feeling in her stomach. I've erred. They may make piss-poor maids, but they likely know more than enough to know when they are being watched. Especially by an untrained serving girl.
Lord Bryndemere shifted his feet, conveying no fear, if indeed he felt any. "My companion meant your friends no harm, my Lord. I do not appreciate your attempts at intimidation."
Lord Strong nodded calmly. He had an odd manner about him, a placid coldness. His presence and manner of speaking were somehow both calming and intimidating in unison. While he had not raised his voice, Maris was still afraid.
"I make no efforts to intimidate, Lord Tarth. Such methods are not my way. I have come to ascertain your loyalties, and to inquire about what you know of those two women. If I find nothing amiss, you will be free to go about your business."
Lord Bryndemere frowned, but said no more. The Lord of Harrenhal turned to face her with an expression that was both equal parts calm and unreadable. While she did not find anything in it to fear, Maris was certain that many unfortunate souls had seen such a face before, deep below the Red Keep, during Lord Strong's days as the Royal Confessor.
"Lady Maris, it is clear to me that you know of the babe sheltered by my acquaintances. What is less clear is if you have surmised his identity, and furthermore, his import."
Maris swallowed. Her mouth was dry. "My maid reported that he possessed features most rare amongst the smallfolk."
Lord Strong shifted against the tree, easing the burden on his twisted leg. "There is no need to be coy, my Lady. You are a quick lass. Explain to me your thoughts regarding this child, as though I were the Lord of Tarth."
Maris sighed. "The babe has hair of silver and eyes of lilac. If you are sheltering him, it seems very likely that he is of some relation to the King, legitimate or otherwise."
Lord Strong clapped softly. "Correct. And his import?"
Maris blinked. "The King has lost both of his brothers, and both of his sons. The loyal Lords of the realm will not accept the Princess Jaehaera as his heir when they fought and died to prevent the illegal succession of Princess Rhaenyra. If this babe carries the King's blood, his import as a potential heir would be great indeed."
A small, joyless smile danced upon Larys Strong's lips. "Right you are, Lady Maris. The babe, named Gaemon by his mother, may well be the next King of the Seven Kingdoms. I had thought to hide him in plain sight, but that seems to have not been the wisest play. If the young Lady before me has ascertained it, others will, even if she agrees to remain silent on the matter. It may be time to unveil him, for the whole court to see."
Stroking his chin, the Lord of Harrenhal began strutting off slowly back from whence he came. His large companions followed closely after him, having undone Ser Genrick's bonds. To Maris' shock, a gaunt man wielding a crossbow jogged around the pond to join them from where he had been positioned directly behind Lord Bryndemere.
"Were we in danger?" She asked.
Lord Bryndemere released a pent up breath through his teeth. "I don't know."
They resumed their stroll through the Godswood, and she attempted to resist the urge to jump at every crack of a twig or crunch of a fallen leaf. She enjoyed the quiet, but calming presence of her guard and sworn sword, preferring to gaze at the stars. The fear that had settled within her slowly dissipated, and she found herself warily allowing a bit of excitement to creep back. A truly impressive discovery. A Royal Bastard! She was so lost in the implications that the sudden dragon roar overhead nearly caused her heart to stop. The trees about them danced about as a massive beast passed overhead. Lord Bryndemere grabbed her, pulling her to the ground reflexively and protectively. Daring to look above herself, she saw dark wings blot out the starlight. So they come at last. She strained to catch a glimpse of their attacker as it circled the keep from above, causing bells of alarm to ring. When its scales glinted, however, she began to laugh and shout with joy.
Lord Bryndemere, looking up, shouted above the din: "What could possibly be so wonderful at a moment like this, my Lady?!"
Maris, blinking back tears of relief, responded: "Its scales are silver, my Lord!"