In a tiny inlet along the rocky shore of Blackwater Bay, a small rowboat lies moored in the sand, lit by the faintest glimmer of a sunrise. Here, on this hidden beach beneath the shadow of the Red Keep, a trail of footprints leads across the sand into a cave and, at the back of the cave, to a cluster of disappointed faces on men holding torches, their light revealing the red witch, Melisandre, as she stands before a tightly sealed passageway.

"This is the secret entrance you promised?" Davos Seaworth scoffs. "It does not seem so secret anymore."

"Watch how you speak to our lady!" Ser Clayton Suggs, turns about, jabbing an accusing finger into the smuggler's face as he spits. But Davos is undisturbed.

"Our lady is Selyse Baratheon, ser," Davos shakes his head as he turns to leave. "Do not forget it. We should leave before the morning exposes us."

One by one, the men slowly turn to follow. Last to leave is Melisandre herself, resting her forehead against the collapsed stone, burning with fury as she whispers scorching eastern curses against whatever foe has denied her vision.

Lord Varys sits with a confident grin, hands crossed over his knee. The slits of sunrise through the window reflect off his soft, freshly perfumed bald head. His orange tunic lies carefully, without wrinkles, over his relaxed frame. Any evidence of his time in the Black Cells has been scrubbed away with lavender soap.

"The last of the passages have been sealed, your grace. None shall enter nor leave this keep without the blessing of your word."

"Good," Renly nods approvingly, sitting opposite him in a heavy green nightrobe to ward off the sudden chill of autumn. "That witch's spies will not skulk our halls any longer. What other whispers have you heard?"

"I have the name of the ship the Stark boy escaped on. The Cinnamon Wind. A trader out of the Summer Islands. It never arrived at its scheduled port. It is possible young Edward's guardian persuaded them to change course."

"To where?"

"That I cannot say. But if they see land anywhere, east or west, you shall know. As for the girls, they have reached White Harbor, in the care of Lord Baelish."

"Damn," Renly curses. All three Starks beyond his reach. "What of the Hightowers?"

"Lord Tyrell's fear of them comes from pride, not wisdom, but you made the right choice to place them under guard. They have their own plans, ones I have only begun to untangle. But the truth will come to light. It is the maester, I fear, who holds the key."

"That Gaheris?"

"Yes. My little birds often spied him keeping secret company of the Hightowers. And, at best I can figure, he was the last man to see your brother alive. He may have witnessed the killing."

"Or done the deed himself," Renly scowls. "He's given himself to the counsel of Cersei's bastards."

"Perhaps," Varys muses. "My eyes and ears in Oldtown are rooting out his origin as we speak. I suspect they will find he is some lost cousin or nephew of Lord Leyton. As for the bastards… The other ones, your brother's... The lowborn youths are simple folk, awed by the wealth you've thrown their way. They will not risk their new status by offending you. But it is the younger boy I am concerned with."

"I nearly raised Edric myself."

"Yes, and you did well. So well he sees himself a true noble. Be careful of him, your grace. He is just a child, still, but if he is led to believe you blocked his path to the throne, he may prove dangerous."

"Hmm…" Renly links his fingers together. His suspicions confirmed. Even here within these walls, there are still threats. But now, at last, he wields the deadliest weapon of all. Information. "You may leave, Lord Varys. See to your little birds. You serve the realm well, as always."

With a smile, Varys takes his exit, but Renly lingers in his chair a moment longer. One step at a time, he tells himself. Swaying the Hightowers and Starks will come later. First to crush Joffrey. Then Stannis. And then all the Seven Kingdoms will be mine.

Joffrey Baratheon sits impatiently at the head of his council table in the royal solar, casting an irritated glare at the empty seat at his left hand.

"Has anyone seen him?" he scowls. "He's never late."

"Lyman has seemed these past days," Peremore Hightower notes softly. "Ever since the parlay with Lord Renly."

"Can he not handle a little gore?" Joffrey snorts. "We can't be squeamish now, not when we finally have an advantage! Ser Barristan! Find my councilor and bring him here!"

For a moment, it appears that the old knight may yet question the command. But instead, he slowly rises from his seat, exiting without a word, leaving the young king alone with Peremore, Maris, Maester Gaheris and Desmond Gaunt.

"Who knows how long he'll take," Joffrey grumbles as the door shuts behind the Lord Commander. "The meeting has begun, I won't waste more time."

"Your grace…" Gaunt opens his mouth to report, but is immediately cut off.

"Not you! Maris. My uncle Stannis waits outside our walls. I must get word to him to ensure his loyalty to my crown. With your power, there is nothing the traitors can do to stop us!"

"Your grace, my sister is weary…" Peremore begins to protest.

"Not so much that she cannot speak for herself!" The king turns to Maris who sits silently further down the table, seeming smaller than usual. Her face is gaunt, the sharp angles of her cheek bones protruding through her pale skin, dark rings still resting heavily below her eyes – the cost of skin-changing so long and so far to reach her father in the field. Still, she offers a thin, cracked smile to the king's demand.

"My brother is kind to share his concerns. But I serve at your grace's command. Bring me a letter, and I will see it reaches Lord Stannis' hands."

"Excellent," Joffrey smiles, the glisten returning to his emerald eyes as a new world of possibilities begins to open in his mind. "Maester, fetch your quill. Today we seal the doom of those who would steal my throne."

Lyman Darry is alone in the Holdfast's small sept when Barristan finds him. He kneels, struggling to remember the words to his prayers in small spurts as the light through the stained glass windows coats him in shifting hues.

"Your king is looking for you, boy," Barristan announces himself. Lyman's head snaps to attention, but he remains on his knees.

"Ser… I don't know what to do."

"About what?"

Lyman hears the clink of approaching boots on the smooth marble tiles. How can I tell him? He can imagine the disapproving look. The 'I told you so.' Vindication that I should have been sent home long before things got so out of control. Dishonorable. Unfit to be a knight. And so he answers with only silence.

"I am not so old as to be blind." Barristan is at his side now. He turns his head to see his anxious face reflected back on the Lord Commander's white-armored calf. "I've seen the servant girl. And I can't say I'm surprised."

"It's not just that!" The retort comes out half-hearted. Lyman can't manage to summon anger at the deserved disappointment. But as he looks up, he sees Barristan's face isn't offended, nor judgmental. Rather, he isn't looking down at all, but staring out the window with a mournful gaze.

"Go on. Tell me. What troubles you so?"

"There's another. Cassanda Wendwater. She… she came to me, after I was wounded by the boar." Spoken aloud for the first time, the words begin to spill out. It doesn't matter anymore. Let it all be known. "She went to the king first, but he sent her to me. I didn't know! I was going to marry Eliza, I swear! But Lord Renly brought word from Wendwater, and now they're both pregnant! I can't marry both of them! I don't know what to do!"

"Do you want me to tell you?" Barristan sighs, resting one hand against the pane. "Tax me for what I've learned in all my years of service, of what an honorable man should do?"

"Yes!" Lyman rises to his feet. "Ser Barristan, please, I don't know who else to talk to!"

"No…" Slowly, Barristan turns away. He walks with careful steps in between the small painted statues of the Seven, watching with lifeless, jeweled eyes. "The truth is, I knew what Robert saw in you. He saw himself. I saw that too. Did he think he could train you to avoid his mistakes? Or did he only want a kindred spirit to help him relive his youth in aimless recklessness? We'll never know, now."

"Ser, I… I didn't…"

"Oh, I know you didn't mean it. Few do. We raise children to fear the monsters who mean to cause harm. And I've known many in my day. But I've come to learn it is the men who believe they act harmlessly, or even for the good, that are most dangerous. That's why I sent you away, boy. I've seen too many failures. I could not trust myself to set you on the right path."

"You're the greatest knight I've ever known!"

"No," the old man shakes his head slowly. "No. Perhaps the Hound is right. Perhaps there are no great knights. I don't understand this world anymore, Lyman. Perhaps I never did."

"You must have some counsel!" Lyman pleads.

With a long, weary sigh, he places a white-gloved hand on each of Lyman's shoulders, for the first time looking him squarely in the eyes. "A man's honor is not some possession he can hoard. It comes from every life he touches. I do not know if it is possible to do no harm - in your case, or any man's. But do honor upon those around you. And it will be reflected back as your own."

"Thank you, ser," Lyman bows quietly as Barristan turns away, beckoning for him to follow. "There's one more thing. About King Robert, before he died. About what he said of Joffrey. His plans in those last days…"

"No," Barristan stops in the doorway, without turning back. "That, boy, you must bare in silence. Now come. Our king awaits our service."

With that, the knight is gone, and Lyman is alone again in the sept. With answers? Or just more questions? He passes a final glance to the stone face of The Father, bathed in a cold, amethyst light. With a final prayer for just judgement, he leaves, letting the door swing shut behind him.

Riding back through the streets of King's Landing, Davos' returning party finds the gates to Lord Manning's manse already open when they arrive. As they pass within the yard, he can feel a sense of dread settle over them.

"Something's happened," Melisandre whispers. The only man in sight is Ser Gunthor Hightower, lingering by the manse's crimson door, waiting upon their return. His usual cocky smile is gone from his pale face.

"You there, Hightower!" Suggs barks, jumping down from his horse. "What happened here?"

"Riders from the Sept of Baelor," Gunthor answers, stepping out into the light. "The High Septon has issued an edict. He denounces Lord Stannis as an apostate who has blasphemed the Seven by bringing a demon-worshipping sorceress into his home to bewitch his body and mind."

The words fall heavily on the men. Slowly, Davos turns to face Melisandre, raising his stub-fingered hand to point accusingly as his face darkens with anger. "You! I warned him to leave you behind!" Suggs and Godry Farring quickly step between the smuggler and their lady, hands on the hilts of their blades. But Davos throws up his hands. "You need not fear me! Let our lord cast his judgement."

He turns and marches up the steps into the manse, past Gunthor, who shakes his head. "Lord Manning has given him three days to be gone from this place. Half the men deserted the moment the Septon's word arrived."

Davos enters the manse without reply, with Suggs and Godry close on his heels. The remaining men from their party linger in the yard, whispering amongst themselves and casting uncertain glances towards the door before finally following their superiors inside. Gunthor, however, remains outside, leaning against a post, watching Melisandre as she stands alone.

A slight morning breeze tugs at her copper hair and at the edges of her crimson robes. The rising sun reaches her back as it creeps over the walls of the manse, casting her shadow long – too long, Gunthor thinks – all the way across the dirt to rest at his feet. She seems to be listening to some phantom sound, searching for something without moving her head. Gunthor nervously follows her gaze, scanning the courtyard for whatever could be troubling her, until both their eyes come to rest on a raven, perched atop the parapet, silent and unmoving.

Melisandre locks eyes with the bird, as if bidding it into some silent challenge. Gunthor feels the hairs along the back of his neck begin to tingle. He can hear angry shouts rising within the manse, but he stands captivated by the woman and the bird. Slowly her head twists slightly to the side, the ruby around her neck seeming to glow with a light not from the sun. The raven's head twists to follow her movement… but it stops, frozen in place. Slowly, feather by feather, it begins to twitch. Gunthor cannot look away as the bird begins to shake, loose feathers dropping from crooked wings as it tries to take flight, yet stays pinned to its perch by some invisible force. Thick beads of sweat grow on his forehead as he watches the raven's beak drop open and hears a low, strangled final cry leak out.

And then – a rush of wind and a burst of flame. The raven drops to the ground, a smoldering heap, the rancid smell of burnt feathers rushing to fill Gunthor's nostrils. Slowly, Melisdanre turns to face him, her elegant face undisturbed by what has just transpired.

"You do not shy away from me, ser."

"N…no, my lady," Gunthor shakes his head, nervously looking at the smoldering bird on the ground behind her. "Did… did you do…"

"The Lord of Light grants many gifts," she smiles, her slender finger tracing a line across his chest as she walks past him, into the manse. "I have asked him to find your little lost wolfboy. Come with me, and we shall see what he will answer."

"No!" Maris crashes to the floor of the royal solar, swatting desperately at her hair, writhing in pain as Peremore rushes to her side. Joffrey stands frozen by the chair she had been sitting in a moment before, his emerald eyes wide in terror.

"Maris! Maris, listen to me!" Peremore shouts, desperately trying to still his shaking sister, brushing her tangled black hair out of her face to see her eyes, still clouded over, unmoving and unseeing as her body rebels. "She's burning up! Get water, damn it!"

Joffrey does not move, his feet turned to stone as he watches his stoic counsellor's reserved façade shatter before his eyes. Behind him, Maester Gaheris watches, but does not act. Peremore looks to them frantically, arms wrapped tight around Maris as she fights against him, hands arched into claws, scratching at her face and tearing at her chest, ripping the seams across the front of her black dress as she screams, louder and louder, her cries crackling like a bonfire in the night. The doors slam open as Lyman rushes in.

"Damn it all, someone get her water!" Peremore screams, his voice cracking in desperation. Lyman rushes to the pitcher on the far side of the room, hurrying back in a mad dash as stray drops slop over the side until he hurls it outward, a wave through the air crashing into Maris' face with a wet smack that silences her screaming and sucks all sound out of the room in an instant. For a long moment, no one moves as Maris goes limp in her brother's arms, the only sound the soft dripping of water from her arched nose to the floor. Until at last, her eyes open again, the color slowly returning.

Lyman drops to his knees, creeping closer to Maris as Peremore keeps her grasped tight to his chest. With a gentle hand, he reaches out to brush away the hair plastered to her face. This isn't like the last time. Something has gone horribly wrong. Slowly, Maris' lips begin to creak back open, wispy syllables struggling to form.

"What happened?" Gaheris breaks the silence, cold and undisturbed.

"Leave her be!" Peremore shoots the maester a murderous glare. "You just stood there! Why don't you tell us what happened? I've never seen her like this before!"

"Yes!" Joffrey snaps out of his trance, turning around. "What was that?"

"Everyone should simply calm down," Gaheris raises his hands defensively. "Skin-changing is a taxing magic, and Maris is only still just learning. Your grace, this is why we counseled against…"

"I can speak for myself!" Maris cuts him off, pulling away from Peremore to rise shakily to her feet. Eyes wide but face still ghostly, slightly swaying from side to side, she points an accusing finger. "There is some other magic in this place, some witchery in the city. Something saw me!"

"Someone intercepted the message?"

"Not the bird, me!" She takes a shaky step forward, clawing back her hair. "They looked through its eyes into mine and set my brain afire!"

Now it is Gaheris' face that goes pale, taking his arrogant air with it.

"How is that possible?" Peremore demands an answer.

"Yes, how?" Joffrey chimes in, the two lads rushing towards Gaheris as he finds himself pinned into a corner. With one eye locked on the maester, Lyman offers a steadying hand to Maris, which she resists. "Is there something you aren't telling me?"

"Peace!" Gaheris bellows, the color rushing back to his face as he regains control. Peremore and Joffrey stop their advance and he steps forward, shouldering past them towards Maris. His voice drops to a calming tone, but his urgency remains unmistakable. Lyman has never seen him like this before. He's afraid, he realizes. The maester places comforting hands on Maris' shoulders. This time she does not pull away. "Who, my dear? Who saw you?"

"A woman all in red."

"That must be the witch they say travels with Stannis!" Joffrey blurts out.

"You may be right," Gaheris shudders.

"But she should be on our side! Why would she hurt Maris?"

"We cannot know her motives…" Gaheris runs his hand along the silver streak of his auburn hair. "Maris, you must rest. And I must think more on this." He heads for the door without another word, chain rattling, but Joffrey follows.

"I need to know more! How many witches are in this damn city? What can they do? Pycelle refused to tell me anything about that, but I need to know, now!"

The doors swing shut behind the young king, muffling his demands as he pursues his maester further down the hall. Lyman and Peremore glance at each other, wondering whether to follow. But instead they turn back to Maris, who has limped her way to the nearest chair, slowly settling down with a weary sigh.

"I'll get more water," Peremore declares, hurrying off. Lyman is left standing alone and uncertain. Gaheris afraid. Peremore afraid. Watching their stony faces turn shaken has set a fresh dread to creep its way up his spine. He remembers the words of Ser Barristan, and fights back the urge to panic.

"No, wait, there's more..." Maris, speaking again. He turns to her.

"What's wrong?"

" Before… before she saw me, I heard Stannis' men talking. The High Septon… he's sided with Renly. The Sept of Baelor has renounced Stannis as an apostate."

And with that, the dread takes hold.

The day winds on, and as dusk falls it finds Gunthor sitting alone at Lord Manning's dining table long after it has been picked clean by the servants, nursing the last drops of wine in his goblet. He can still hear Stannis and his knights debating in the next room. They did not come to dinner, leaving the meal an awkward affair between only him and their increasingly impatient host, who now hovers in and out of the room as he prowls his manse, inspecting the progress of the soon-to-be-evicted men-at-arms.

"Uncle?" He hears Heleana's voice behind him and turns to see his niece barefoot, walking slowly in from the shadowy hall in her nightgown, hair let down and ready for bed. "I don't understand. What's happening? No one will tell me."

"Well…" Gunthor's thoughts wander off. To be honest, he still isn't certain himself. "It's very complex."

"If Lord Stannis leaves, who will help us look for Edward?"

"We're going to find him," he promises, pulling her into an embrace. He can feel her breaths - short, nervous, afraid. He does not have the words to be a father, he knows all too well. But he will have to pretend at it anyway, at least until the girl is back safe in the Hightower. "With or without Lord Stannis, you'll see. There's nothing to be worried about."

"No, not at all, my dear," a soft voice interrupts. Both Hightowers look up to see Melisandre drift into the room, a small clay cup of warm milk held tightly with both hands. "Here, this will help you sleep. The Lord of Light will bless you with sweet dreams."

She bends down to hand the cup over to Heleana, who nervously accepts it, taking the smallest of sips. Satisfied, she stands and begins the walk back to her bedchamber, Melisandre close behind. Gunthor follows, and the three pass in silence, trying to shut out the dull rumble of the arguing knights, until they reach the door. Heleana gives a final tug on his hand.

"Good night, n'uncle." She forces a brave smile to her face, the flickering torchlight leaving her soft eyes in shadow, and turns away to step inside.

"Good night, Hela," Gunthor whispers back, softly closing the door behind her. He lingers there a moment longer, until he feels the warm touch of Melisandre's hand on his shoulder.

"We ask of the Lord of Light and he listens," she whispers in his ear, her breath feeling like a summer breeze on the side of his face. "He has shown me the boy you seek. He rides the Narrow Sea with feathered men of ebony."

The Cinnamon Wind, of course! Gunthor remembers. He turns to face her. "Where? Where are they taking him?" They should have reached Oldtown by now.

"They sail to a land where I saw men and women much like you." She slides her hand up his neck to graze his face, where his sharp-cornered cheekbone presses against his pale skin. "Silver-haired servants of a goddess of love."

Lys! Mother's land! It had to be! Gunthor thinks. His sister Lynesse still lives there in Prince Tregar's palace. A plan begins to form behind his pale blue eyes. His brother Humfrey captained the fastest schiff on the Narrow Sea. He could reach Lys faster than anyone. We will find the boy. Then, no matter what becomes of Stannis, we will be protected.

"I must tell my family of this!" He pulls away, though it pains him to abandon her touch. "I swear, I will bid them to defend your lord's honor. Renly and the High Septon will not get away with this."

"The Lord of Light has blessed you, ser. I will pray he grants your words swift wind."

Gunthor backs the rest of the way down the hall, unable to tear his eyes away from Melisandre as she remains standing outside Hela's door, her eyes seeming to grow red in the darkness. He walks on, past his own chambers to the offices of the maester. This letter cannot wait. Not with time slipping so quickly away. But as he writes, though the red witch has long since faded from sight, he can still feel her eyes burning into the back of his head and guiding his hand. It will take much more than one letter to repay this favor…