"She was right!" Renly hisses under his breath, stalking back through the halls, his counsellors hurrying along behind him towards the Small Council chamber. It had seemed inconceivable, but everything Melisandre had said was true. Cersei and Jaime Lannister have both slipped through his grasp - one dead, the other fled. "All this time we thought we were facing the might of House Lannister, and it's just that useless brat!"
"A vile deception," Mace agrees, huffing and puffing as he attempts to keep up. Renly struggles to recompose himself as he rounds the corner, relaxing muscles clenched tight with rage. He takes a deep breath to steel his resolve and shoves open the chamber doors. There, waiting within, Varys sits in his old seat, freshly washed clean in a bright orange tunic, his old perfumes filling the room.
"My lord, what is he doing here?" Mace freezes in the door, eyes locked on the old Master of Whisperers, who returns his cold gaze with a tauntingly friendly smile.
"You have imprisoned Lord Varys for two weeks now and found no proof of his disloyalty," Renly declares, calmly taking his place in the king's chair. "This witch of Stannis' clearly has a net of her own spies within our very midst. To win this game, I will use every tool at my disposal. Now, sit."
Begrudgingly, Mace drops into the Hand's chair as the other Reach lords and Ser Aron file in. Renly looks up to Loras, standing by the door, but can read no reaction beneath his white helm. Lowering his gaze back to his council, he places both hands firmly on the table before him, summoning the voice of a king.
"Lord Tyrell, you will be pleased to know that Lord Varys has confirmed your suspicions of the Hightower women. They will be confined to their chambers, on constant guard. Ser Aron, at the end of this meeting, Lord Varys will take you to every secret passage in this cursed keep to seal them. And Maester Varman…" All eyes turn to the thin, quivering old maester at the far end of the table. "First, send a bird to the High Septon, attesting to the truth of Stannis' apostasy. Then, send word to Lord Tarly. The Lannister threat has been reduced to a mad bastard and a bitter old man with a failing army. Let Robb Stark finish them off. We know now who the true threat is. He is to turn the whole of his army back to the capital. Once the full power of our army is returned, my blaspheming brother will not dare stand in our way!"
"Aye!" Lord Florent jolts to his feet, raising his hand in salute though he has no drink to toast. "To King Renly Baratheon, the first of his name!"
The rest of the men join in the cheer, rising in excitement; even Mace cannot help but feel a surge of confidence at their swift change in fortune. As Renly rises to receive the praise, the sheen of confidence returning to his face, none notice the crow perched in the window, eyes a glossy white as another pair gazes through them with a sense of growing dread.
Maris Hightower jolts back from her chamber window with a shout, crashing backwards onto the floor as her mind snaps back into her body. Stumbling to her feet, clouds clearing from her eyes, she shakily makes her way to the cart of refreshments nearby. Propping herself up against the wall with one arm, she carefully pours a glass of wine, closing her eyes and taking a long drink as her breathing slowly settles into a smooth rhythm. With a sigh, she sets the glass down and straightens her dress, turning calmly back towards the door. But before she can take another step, it slams open, revealing Maester Gaheris, blue eyes blazing with impatience, looming as her brother Peremore waits behind him.
"Well?" the maester gestures expectantly.
"We need to talk to Joffrey, now," she insists, cutting a quick path to the door. But Gaheris stays planted in her way.
"Not without me. The two of you told me you had him under control, but he just lost his mind in front of Renly and half the lords of the Reach! The Lannisters were our only bargaining power, and now they know we don't have them!"
"We are well aware of that, n'uncle," Peremore scowls.
"Don't call me that!" Gaheris snaps, spinning to point an accusing finger in the lad's face. "No one can know that! And these damned walls have ears!"
"The walls have ears, but my birds have eyes," Maris pushes her way through to the hall. "We have to warn the king. Renly no longer sees us as a threat. He's turning on Stannis. He's going to recall the royal army to the capital and arrest him as a heretic. And once that happens, we're all that stands between him and the throne. And he has no reason left not to kill us all."
"Then we must remove Joffrey through the tunnels, no matter what Barristan says. There's no other option."
"Not anymore," Maris shakes her head. "Varys is serving Renly. He knows the tunnels."
"Damn them all," Gaheris slumps, his furious energy briefly dissipating. With a sigh, he closes his eyes, silently calculating possible solutions. The siblings exchange a nervous glance as they wait, the moment hanging ominously as the memory of Renly's raised hammer, hungry for more heads. Finally, Gaheris' eyes snap back open, the purple flecks flashing with a streak of brilliance. He reaches his arms out to grab Maris by the shoulders and pull her into his gaze. "Maris. Maris, you will need to trust me. You're our only hope."
"I don't understand…"
"You will need to stretch your power further than ever before," he lets her go, beginning to make his way down the hall. "We'll need a dark place, very quiet, to hone your focus. Maybe the cellars…"
"What?" Maris and Peremore hurry to follow him.
"We have to warn your father. He holds command in the royal army, he can turn them in our favor if we reach him in time."
"Father!" Maris' jaw drops. "He's been on the march for weeks! It could take days for my birds to reach him! I've never skin-changed for more than…"
"It's possible!" Gaheris cuts her off. "There are old ways known by the First Men, ways I've studied. I can help you do it, but we have to act fast if we're going to beat Renly's birds."
"I can't…"
"You can do this, Maris," Peremore stops, taking her hands in his; cold, but comforting, his voice ever-calm. "I believe in you." He looks to Gaheris, waiting impatiently at the end of the hall. "We believe in you. Go to the wine cellars, that should work. I'll bring the king."
"He can't know about this," Gaheris shakes his head.
"He'll demand to know how we were able to reach Father. I will not keep secrets from his grace." He does not flinch under the maester's suspicious glare. "Not ones that will ensure his place upon the throne."
"He won't understand."
Maris scoffs at that. "You're a teacher. Teach him."
In the wine cellar, Lyman Darry paces frantically back and forth across the length of the room, carving a path through the dust and gravel in front of the looming racks of barrels, the missive from Castle Wendwater still clenched in his fist.
The memories come crashing back in waves. It was here, his first time with Eliza, their faces flushed red with sampled wine, the culmination of countless secret glances as she had toiled over his new squire regalia, giving over to impulse for the first time. She had reached for him first, the drink washing away her better judgment as she climbed up above her standing to claim him. And he had been more than happy to oblige. That first time had turned to another, and another; from the secrecy of the cellars and the larders to her rickety bed in the cramped servants quarters, ending with the child now growing in her stomach.
But beyond those happy moments, comes the memory of Cassanda Wendwater, once locked away by shame, but now broken free. He sees her in her pale, ghostly nightgown and nothing else, her long raven hair covering his freshly bandaged wounds as she pulled back the covers. And then the morning after, when the weight of his disgrace was heaped heavier by the realization that the king he served was not the honorable man he seemed. That had all been buried. But now this cursed letter has torn it all free.
He stops pacing, leaning precariously forward, and unwrinkles it again, as if perhaps he misread it the first five times. But no, the words remain the same. Thirty scrawled lines from Lord Wendwater to say that his daughter was pregnant and he knows Lyman to be the father. He had failed to secure the debt of the king. But now he had the heir to Harrenhal. With an exasperated grunt, Lyman crumples the paper once more and hurls it into the far corner of the room, turning back to the barrels and grabbing the wooden sampling mug.
Just as he cracks open the valve on the nearest barrel, the door swings open. His heart drops to see Eliza standing no longer in his mind, but in the threshold, the door slowly swinging back shut behind her. Her long brown hair tied up behind her head exposes the look of uncertainty on her face, one hand cradling her stomach. Lyman puts down the mug and hurries to embrace her, breathing in the familiar smells of soap, linen and the sweat of hard work.
"What happened?" she asks. "You're upset. Everyone is upset."
"I… The parlay went poorly. Lord Renly is executing Lannister men. It was... distressing." A lie, one that comes alarmingly easy. "I've seen men die before. I killed, even, but… never like that. There was nothing I could do to stop it. Ser Ilyn… I didn't know the man. To be honest, he always frightened me. But he didn't deserve that." That much at least is true.
"I'm sorry," she whispers, stroking his hair with her fingers – worn from labor but more comforting than soft hands could ever be. His heart slows for the first time since that morning, savoring the moment. If it's ending, this is how I want to remember it. He buries his face in the curve of her neck, kissing the bare skin, trying to forget. She holds him tighter. "He'll never take us. You have to know that. Lord Stannis will come and put an end to his threats."
"So we pray." Lyman tries to believe it. But even if Stannis comes and spares us, what happens then? The image of the crumpled paper behind him burns into the back of his brain. Once the drawbridge lowers, one way or another, things will never be the same.
With a crash the door slams back open as a frantic looking Maester Gaheris and Maris come rushing in. Maris freezes seeing the couple, but Gaheris barely registers them, holding tight to his chest a crate full of candles.
"You need to go," the maester orders bluntly without looking away from his work, shoving stools, straw and empty crates out of the way to clear space as he begins to arrange the candles in a circle on the center of the floor. Eliza watches, perplexed, as Lyman looks back to Maris, who stands examining them, her dark eyes resting knowingly on Eliza's stomach as Lyman moves to block her prying gaze.
"What's going on?" he asks.
"Go fetch water, lots of it," she orders in response, pointing out the door. Eliza hurries to obey, but Lyman stays behind.
"Maris, they can't be involved," Gaheris grumbles, his attention remaining on his work, his collar and cumbersome chains tossed aside as he continues arranging the candles.
"You said we would need help," Maris insists. "We can trust them." At that, she nods towards the sound of Eliza's departing footsteps, as if to note the price of betraying that trust. With a shudder, Lyman nods knowingly. Always so ominous, he thinks. You could have just asked. As he moves to make his own exit, the door swings open once again, this time revealing Peremore and Joffrey, with Barristan clanking in his armor behind them in the hall.
"I still don't understand what's going on," Joffrey complains, looking about the cellar. "How is all this supposed to stop Renly? It's just a bunch of candles!"
"Your grace, I beg you stay quiet, I must concentrate!" Gaheris barks up from the floor as he produces a long stick of chalk from one sleeve, brushing clear dirt from the stone floor to begin drawing an arcane symbol.
Joffrey steps back, agape. "That is no way to speak to your king!"
With a sigh, Gaheris stops, slowly rising to his knees and calming his breath as he turns to face the reddening boy. "Your grace, I beg your pardon. This is a vital matter, my urgency is only to protect you and your crown."
"I should hope so," Joffrey crosses his arms with a scowl. For all his irritation at the king's impatient theatrics, Lyman can't help but agree. The bizarre arrangement taking shape on the floor seems like nonsense. "What is all this?"
"Do you remember you once asked me what I knew of the higher mysteries? At the time, Pycelle forbid any such talk on the subject. But the truth is, I know much of that field. I have devoted years of study to it in secret. And today you will begin your own first lesson in the old ways."
"The old ways?" Barristan finally clunks into the room. He takes one look at the candles and scrawlings on the floor and takes a defensive step forward, putting himself between Joffrey and the maester. "Gaheris, what is this witchcraft?"
"I don't have time to explain to the likes of you. But it is the only way to prevent certain defeat."
"You want no part of this, your grace," Barristan pivots to escort the king out of the cellar. But Joffrey stands firm.
"I'm not going anywhere," he sneers defiantly. "But if you're scared, Barristan, you can wait in the hall. I understand frights can be a deadly peril to men of your age."
Barristan takes a step back, the wrinkles on his weary brow furrowing as he considers his next move, looking suspiciously back to Gaheris, who has already resumed his drawing on the floor. Without another word, he turns with a final glare at Lyman and Peremore and marches out, white cloak swishing behind him. Lyman wonders, for a moment, if he should follow. But before he can, Maris is pressing a sealed missive into his hand.
"Take this to the parapets and wait for a crow to come to you."
"What?"
"Its eyes will be clouded over, but it will still see. You must tie this to its leg, like a maester would. Can you do that?"
"Of course, but…"
"We can explain later," Peremore places a hand on his shoulder, both as an assurance and a push to the door. "As soon as you are done, come back here. Bring all the water you can carry. Maris will need all our help if we are to succeed."
Slowly, reluctantly, Lyman follows the orders, stepping back into the hall, where Barristan still stands guard. The old knight's glare remains, watching him disapprovingly as he hurries past. Averting his gaze, Lyman catches a final glimpse of the cellar as the door swings shut. There, Gaheris ties a blindfold around Maris' head as she sits on the ground in the center of the room, Peremore circling them, lighting the candles one by one as Joffrey watches eagerly. And then the door is closed, and he is alone with Barristan's accusing stare.
Making haste, he breaks into a run. He has a bird to catch.