The Queen's Ballroom is smaller than the Great Hall of the Red Keep, and it holds no Iron Throne. But the court assembled here today is smaller than that of the Keep outside, and holds no great lords nor ladies. Instead, a small crowd of humble servants stands huddled together, lined up in clumsily spaced rows, each bending their knees in turn to the boy sitting in the stone throne, cast in shadow by the blinding light shining in through the window behind him.
"Hail Joffrey of House Baratheon, the First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm!" Ser Barristan Selmy declares as the next line of peasants dips to the floor, heads bowed. Joffrey nods approvingly, the heavy golden antlers of the crown slipping forward over his brow. He waits until the supplicants eyes are lowered, then nervously slides it back up so that they do not see. He leans forward in the throne, so as not to be swallowed up by its huge size, but he cannot escape the shade it casts.
The darkness shrouding his face may be an unwitting blessing, though, disguising from view the unmistakable nervous strain on his face, desperate to look composed and authoritative as slender beads of sweat slide down his forehead, his breathing quick and choppy, green eyes darting from face to face, mouth not daring to open for fear of choking up the knot tightening in his stomach. You must never let them see you weak, boy! His father's voice thunders in his ear as loudly as it ever had in life. The moment they see you falter, the knives come out! Robert had been the strongest man in the Seven Kingdoms. But it hadn't saved him. I have to be stronger, harder. Joffrey grinds his teeth, tightening his back and clenching his jaw as the next row of servants dips to bow.
"Hail Joffrey of House Baratheon, the First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm!"
Ser Barristan's booming voice is still echoing off the columns of the Ballroom as a hushed council assembles in the royal solar. The Hound and Ser Arys Oakheart stand guard by the door, watching the unlikely collection of advisors assembled in mismatched chairs around a long wooden table drug into the center of the room. The floor has been scrubbed relentlessly – one blessed with ignorance would never guess at the massacre that had occurred there just two days prior. Seated at the head of the table, Joffrey is dwarfed by his father's favorite chair, ornately carved with swords and dueling stags. Lyman Darry, weary-eyed, shaggy brown hair poorly combed, sits to his left; Peremore Hightower, stern, pale and angular as ever, to his right. They are joined by Maris Hightower, Ser Barristan Selmy, Maester Gaheris and the Holdfast's steward, Desmond Gaunt, a stout man with a deformed left hand, the ring of grey curled hair remaining on his bald head tied back behind his shoulders.
"We have stores enough to last us not quite a moon, perhaps longer, if we ration carefully," Gaunt is nervously reporting. "Water will deplete faster, but I could, perhaps, collect more if The Father is gracious to bless us with rain. Medicine will be the greatest concern, if any sicknesses arise. I maintain a small supply, but mostly simple poultices and bandages."
"If the need arises," Gaheris interjects, "the secret passages…"
"Must be sealed off," Barristan interrupts the maester. "This Holdfast is meant to be impenetrable. They are our chief concern. Rationing food will do little good if assasins pass beneath the walls while we sleep."
"Do you doubt the ability of the guards to defend our king, Ser Barristan?" Gaheris' eyebrow raises. "I assure you, no one in Lord Renly's court knows of the passages."
"I do not doubt our skill at arms, maester. But I fear our numbers. If the passages are left open, they must be kept on constant guard, and we do not have the men to spare."
"And how do you know they are safe?" Peremore adds, leaning forward. "How, in fact, did you learn of them? They have passed centuries without discovery."
"It was a matter of chance," Gaheris insists.
"If it was only chance, then surely any other man may just as easily chance upon them. What of the Spider? I find it hard to believe there remain secrets in this Keep unknown to Lord Varys."
"Well, what does his grace think?" Gaheris turns to Joffrey, who has yet to speak. Slowly, all eyes turn towards the king.
"I think…" Joffrey hesitates. "I think the passage should be sealed. But left open."
"Your grace, I don't understand…" Barristan squints, befuddled.
"If you can't keep up, perhaps we should find some one who can, old man!" Joffrey slams his palm on the table, too hard, grimacing at the pain.
Before anyone else can speak, Peremore interjects again. "I believe his grace meant that the passage should be sealed and guarded, but left accessible in the case that we may come in need of it again."
"Yes!" Joffrey shouts, nodding approvingly. "That's what I meant! It isn't that hard."
"Of course, your grace," Barristan dips his head respectfully, his face unreadable. "If I may, there is one remaining matter that I wish to broach. That of your minority."
"My what?" Joffrey scowls.
"In keeping with tradition, the law would hold a regent should be appointed until the day you come of age. Given the treasons of House Tyrell and House Lannister, this may prove a difficult task."
"I do not need a regent."
"Your grace…"
"Did the Young Dragon require a regent when he conquered Dorne?"
"No, your grace…."
"Do you believe that my father left me ill-prepared to take on his throne?" Red fury flushes to Joffrey's face as he rises from his chair. "Who do you think he wanted to take his place? His son or some crusty old regent?"
"It is only according to custom…" Gaheris rushes to intervene before Barristan can speak, rising halfway from his chair.
"Sit down!" Joffrey shouts. The maester quickly complies. "Are you going to call my father a failure, too? Do you think I'm unworthy of his throne? Do you?!"
For a long moment, no one speaks. Lyman twists nervously in his chair. Gaunt glances back to the door, uncertain of how to proceed. Peremore and Maris each open their mouth slightly in turn but, thinking better of it, close them again, letting the silence remain. Until at last, a gruff voice barks from the rear of the room.
"Your grace, if may speak!" The Hound does not move from his post, face obscured, his voice rattling about in his helm.
"Do you have a seat at my council, dog?" Joffrey sneers.
"No. But I swore to your father to protect you in all things. And so I am bound to speak to you of threats to your life. May I speak on this matter?"
"Well, you already started, so you might as well finish," Joffrey slowly retakes his seat while the Hound takes two clunking steps forward.
"Your claim to the throne's already been challenged by that bastard Renly and his rose-headed Tyrell cunts. And considering everything that happened since then, you can't count on Lannister gold anymore. All you've got to your name right now is that crown. If you want to keep it, you'd best have more to back you up when you march down to try and sit the Iron Throne."
"And what do you suggest?"
"I think every fucker here already knows."
"Lord Stannis." Peremore finally speaks. Joffrey turns to him as the Hound steps back into place. "He is a strong man, your grace, like your father. Though they quarreled, their trust was never broken. He is a great commander and known throughout the Realm as a man of hard honor and justice. If he says you are the true heir, the people will believe him. They will trust him to guide you until the day you become king in full."
Joffrey sinks back into his chair, deep in thought. His gaze drifts down to his feet. He folds his hands together, interlocking narrow fingers one by one but stopping and readjusting, twisting his back to seem taller, and shifting his hands before finally resting them on the side of the chair to drum out a soft beat of nervous agitation. At last he looks back up at the council.
"Father always spoke well of my uncle. Stannis would make a strong Hand and, perhaps, a loyal regent. But we have no way to reach him."
"In that, we are favored by chance, your grace," Barristan replies, suppressing a sigh of relief. "Your father, may The Mother bless his soul, had the wisdom to send for Lord Stannis before his untimely passing. With any luck, he will have already landed and be at the gates as we speak."
Dirt smears across a fine tiled floor as boots trample across the mosaic face of a crimson, fish-tailed lion as a line of huffing men-at-arms tote a half-dozen groaning wooden trunks across the pristine yard of Lord Alberic Manning. The lord himself, tunic rumpled, face beat-red, currently stands at the gates, berating Ser Davos Seaworth.
"Your men are destroying my home, Seaworth! I welcomed Lord Stannis to lodge here, not his entire garrison! This is not a barracks!"
"Lord Stannis will remain with his men until he is granted his proper place at court," Davos insists, unwavering in face of the lord's fury. "As his bannerman, you are dutybound to provide him with whatever he requires."
"I will not be lectured on my duty by an up-jumped smuggler!" Manning bellows.
Offering no reaction, Davos simply turns away, back to directing the men as they set up camp in the yard. Throwing his arms up in frustration, Lord Manning finally turns to follow until the sound of pounding hooves stops him in his tracks. Turning, he sees a pack of knights careening down the street towards him. He jumps backwards just in time as the leading riders pass beneath the gate, golden Baratheon banners whipping back and forth in the wind. The a dozen knights follow, kicking up dust in Manning's face.
The dirt-coated lord coughs violently as he stumbles into the yard, watching the knights dismount. At their center, he immediately spies the antlered helm of Lord Stannis Baratheon himself, in full armor.
"My lord!" Manning calls out as Stannis dismounts, dropping heavily to the ground. He wrenches off his helm with a grunt, handing it to a scampering squire, before storming up the steps into the manse without acknowledging the call. Instead, one of the knights turns around, an orange, woolen cape draped over freshly shined armor. Ser Gunthor Hightower takes off his helm to face Lord Manning.
"This is your fine manse, isn't it, my lord?" Gunthor smiles, flashing a bright, disarming smile down at the scowling older man. "It is a lovely home. You have the thanks of House Hightower for opening it to us in this dark hour."
"What is happening? Why are you back so soon?"
"The traitor Renly has denied Lord Stannis entry to the Red Keep."
"Traitor? Renly? What do you mean? Why?"
"King Robert is dead. Murdered, so Renly claims, by the Lannisters."
"Murder? The king?" Manning's jaw drops. "Impossible! I knew there was fighting in the Keep, but no! There must be some mistake!"
"I fear there is no lie in it," Gunthor shakes his head, his earlier pleasantries replaced with solemnity. "We have sent riders to the Sept of Baelor. If Renly will not tell the realm of this calamity, we will. It is a day of mourning."
"But I don't understand!" Manning pulls Gunthor close, leaving dusty handprints on his armor. "Why would Lord Renly lie? Why has he not announced this? And why in the Father's name is Lord Stannis still here if his grace is slain? He should be in the Keep!"
With a glance to the other men in the yard, Gunthor drops his voice to a whisper. "I do not lightly call the Lord of Storm's End a traitor. Renly has declared our Lord Stannis an apostate and Prince Joffrey a bastard."
"Then who sits the Iron Throne?"
"I will not speak it," Gunthor pulls away. "But you are a wise man, Lord Manning. I believe you may figure out the treason yourself."
"Stannis will not take this rejection lightly," Lord Mace Tyrell warns as he steps into the Royal Sept, where Renly Baratheon stands vigil over King Robert's body. Light shines down through the stained glass windows, coloring the chamber in a dozen hews and casting a shifting kaleidoscope onto the dead king's pale, perfumed face. Ser Loras Tyrell stands silently by his side, freshly dressed in the shining white armor of the Kingsguard. Neither turn upon the sound of the lord's entry.
"My brother takes nothing lightly, not even his porridge." Renly answers coldly, the joke dropping like a rock into the echoey vault of the sept. "I told you I was not meant to be disturbed."
"I thought you would want to know…"
"Father." Loras cuts Mace off. "Unless you failed in delivering his grace's message, what is it that is so pressing you must disturb this sacred watch?"
"I only thought…"
With a sigh, Renly turns away from the bier, his cold blue eyes forming an icy glare as they come to rest on the Lord of Highgarden. "We are well aware of Stannis' protestations. He is an apostate and a schemer who must be disinherited. And most importantly, he is outside. I will deal with him when I am ready, and not a moment before. First, we must deal with the threat within our walls – The Lannister bastards who murdered Robert."
"Well, they aren't going anywhere, that much is certain," Loras smirks. "Maegor's Holdfast is more a prison than a shelter."
"Prison it may be but it is no good if we cannot retrieve them and prove they were responsible for the assassination. Lord Tyrell, has your investigation yielded any new information?"
"No," Mace looks down at his feet, embarrassed.
"And no one has seen this Maester Gaheris?"
"No." Mace reluctantly shakes his head again.
"We must find him, and pray he is still alive somewhere in this damned castle," Renly scowls, beginning to pace. "He is the only witness to Robert's murder. It will be our word against Lannister gold. If the people are to side with us, he is the key. And to think I barely knew the man existed until a week ago. That is what worries me the most. What do we even know of him, beyond a name and the contents of his office?"
"I believe he hails from the Reach…"
"The Reach, eh? Then we can count upon his loyalty."
"The maesters hold loyalty to no family names nor…" the Lord Tyrell stammers.
"Oh, I beg no more platitudes, Macs!" Renly scoffs. "We all know the truth of it. You have no shortage of maesters in your pocket. Send ravens to Oldtown. I need everything there is to know about this Gaheris by the time we find him!"
The sound of a pounding hammer shakes the darkness in the cellars of Maegor's Holdfast as Ser Arys Oakheart seals the entrance to the secret passage with a makeshift wall of shattered crate planks. Ser Barristan holds a stern watch over the proceedings, flickering torch held high to guide Arys' hammer to each nail.
"There, done," Arys steps back, looking approvingly at his work. "That will hold."
"Good." Barristan turns, nodding at the two guards holding first watch over the hidden door. "Walk with me, Ser Arys." The younger knight hurries to match the Lord Commander's pace as they make their way through the tunnels, the dim shapes of their white armor floating through the shadow like long-lost spirits. "Tell me your thoughts on today's council."
"I…" Arys is hesitant to respond. "His grace is shaken. Any boy of his age would be. Once he is seated upon the throne and secure in his reign, with good council, I am sure…"
"My concern is now. Plans for tomorrow will gain us little if we do not survive today. The king is unaccustomed to authority. He sees knights as beneath him, so he will not listen to us. His chosen counsellors are young, still seeing with the wet, blind eyes of youth. Which leaves only the maester. And he is the one I fear the most. I know nothing of the man, yet he seems to hold me in some fierce opposition. Did you not see it today in the council?"
"I suppose he seemed… on edge. But that is understandable."
"What do you know of him?"
"What do you mean?"
"I know he came to us early in Robert's reign. I know that he taught the children Eastern tongues and cultures. He often translated for men who did not speak the Common Tongue. But I never spoke to the man, all those years. He is a mystery to me."
"I'm sorry, ser," Arys shakes his head. "I don't know the man more than you. By his accent, I would presume he was born in The Reach, but…"
"The Tyrells." Beneath his helm, Barristan's face darkens.
"Ser, the maesters swear…."
"Many men swear many things, Ser Arys. I have served too long to believe them all."
High above the knight's heads, Maester Gaheris' chains clink together softly as he dabs the forehead of Princess Myrcella with warm, lavender-scented water. The princess lies prone in her bed, skin clammy, her chambers filled with a thick haze of medicinal incense.
"What's wrong with her?" Joffrey asks impatiently, watching from the far side of the room with his companions.
"She has been under a great strain, your grace. All of this tragedy… she is in shock. It will pass in time. But we must ensure she is left in peace." Gaheris carefully covers Myrcella with her blanket and snuffs out the lamp, shooing the others out into the dimly lit hall. "I would advise the rest of you to get a good night's sleep as well. It has been a very long two days."
With that, the maester turns and walks off into the night. Joffrey, Lyman, Peremore and Maris linger as each rattling step fades softly away.
"It's still early," Joffrey smirks, turning back to the royal bedchambers. He shoves open the huge wooden doors and steps into the vast, luxurious room, dripping with fine furniture, lush tapestries and bejeweled carvings. He strides to a large wooden stand filled with wine bottles and pours himself a glass, waving for the others to join. The Hightowers follow quickly, but Lyman lingers by the door, unwilling to stay long.
"Where is this from?" Maris asks, curling up her nose at the bitter drink Joffrey has poured.
"How should I know?" Joffrey scowls, glaring at the bottle. He takes a sip of his own glass and gags. "That must have been Mother's." He storms to the nearest window and hurls the bottle out into the night air, waiting to hear it shatter on the spikes below. "No more of that shit. Find another of your liking, all good wine comes from the Reach, anyway."
Peremore, content with his untouched goblet, silently takes a seat by the fire as his sister peruses the selection. She stops on one sealed with the scarlet emblem of House Redwyne. "Here," she offers a rare smile and reaches for a gilded corkscrew. "Arbor Red." With a quick twist and a loud pop, the fresh bottle is opened. Joffrey quickly snatches it away and pours himself a glass first. He takes a long drink, then fills the goblet back up with a sigh.
"That's better," he grins, teeth stained red, and hands the bottle back. "Lyman, get over here!" At last, the older boy complies, accepting a heavy pour from Maris as Joffrey sits down on the edge of his parent's massive, overstuffed but bare-framed bed. Taking another drink, he at last reaches up to remove the heavy crown from his brow. For a long, silent moment, he stares at it in his hands before setting it down beside him, a golden pebble in the ocean of a pitch-black blanket. "I need to get new curtains."
"What happened to the old ones?" Lyman asks.
"I tore them down and had them burned. They had lions on them."
Joffrey laughs, and laughs some more, and slowly the others join in as Maris pours more wine. None notice the slight shift in the tapestry on the far wall – a golden stag dancing in the Kingswood, surrounded by all manner of wild game come to pay homage. It could be only the cool evening breeze blowing in from the still-open window. But behind it, through a tiny slit in the noble beast's eye, glints another eye – very real and very human. Pale blue with specks of violet. Watching everything. And waiting.