The noon sun glares down from a cloudless sky upon the Blackwater Rush and the town of Tumbler's Falls. But most harshly of all, it beams down upon the two sprawling camps just south of the small village, as if the river has overtaken its borders and flooded the countryside with a sea of many-colored canvas.

In the midst of it all, Ser Urrigon Hightower sweats within his tent, hunched over his table, his confounded stare boring holes into the smooth oaken wood. His long black hair is disheveled, his huge beard tangled into thick, unruly curls, eyes bloodshot. It's been too many days since their parlay was interrupted by the news of King Robert's death. Too many days without word from Lord Randyll Tarly and the rest of the army's commanders. His place at the war council had only been guaranteed by Robert's favor. Without that, he fears he is fast on his way to becoming just another landed knight.

"Have you heard anything?" Urrigon's head snaps up to glare across the tent at his squire, Alyn Ambrose, perched on a distant stool, cup of tea wavering nervously in his hand.

"About what?"

"From the other squires? I know how they talk. Am I out? Are the lords meeting without me?"

"I… They don't really talk to me, ser," Alyn shakes his head, sheepishly. Urrigon can tell that much is true. But also that he knows anyway. Word travels fast through an army with nowhere to march. Even Randyll Tarly's iron fist can't hold a grasp on that sort of gossip.

"By the gods, I'm going to lose my mind here!" His head drops back down to the table with a heavy thud. "If I don't die of thirst first!" The waiting had been compounded by Lord Tarly's ban on drinking within the camp, leaving him without the comfort of alcohol for more days than he could remember enduring.

"Perhaps if you tried the tea, ser?" Alyn offers. "It always calms my nerves."

"I want nothing to do with your damned leaves!" Urrigon grumbles, facedown. "Besides, it's too hot. Isn't it supposed to be autumn?" He lets out a heavy sigh. Another failure to add to the long list that trailed behind him, all the way back to father's manse in Oldtown. There was only one chance for remaining at court. He had trained Prince Joffrey well. If the boy was now king, perhaps he would show favor? But the missive from the High Septon had not named Joffrey as the new king, only declaring that Robert was dead. If anything has happened to the boy…

A rush of wings snaps Urrigon out of his thoughts as a raven comes flapping furiously into the tent, landing on the table in front of him with a crash of loose feathers. Alyn jumps to his feet, spilling the rest of his tea as he rushes to shoo the bird away.

"Go on, get out!"

But the raven is unbothered. It stay in place, shuffling its dark wings back into place and eerily staring up at Urrigon, head tilted to the side as if waiting. For something. Urrigon raises one hand to silence his squire.

"Wait, boy!" The eyes. The crow takes a hopping step forward. The eyes should be black. But he is looking down at two milky white orbs, like a blind man, but watching with impossible sight. Only then does he look down to see the thin scroll tied to its feet. "Maris."

Moving quick, he fumbles at the nonplussed bird's leg, struggling to get his thick, calloused fingers around the thin twine binding the message. Finally, it comes free. Sealed with no official sigil, but a dollop of pitch. He cracks it open.

"Perhaps it got lost?" Alyn steps closer, squinting at the bird in confusion. "We should take it to the maester's tent."

"No," Urrigon shakes his head. "This is meant only for us." His brow furrows as he tries to read. He had never been much good at letters, much less the fancy penmanship his children had mastered so well. Losing patience, he tosses it to Alyn. "Read it, boy!"

Alyn holds it up to the light, his confusion only deepening as his eyes scan the page, growing wider with each line.

"Dear father. We write to you from Maegor's Holdfast, in the service of King Joffrey Baratheon, First of His Name. By now, you are most likely aware that his grace, King Robert, is dead. What we must now tell you, though, will come as a shock, but we swear by The Father that every word is true. The king is dead, yes, and not by natural cause. He was murdered by the men of House Tyrell, at Lord Renly's command, with the intent to disown both King Joffrey and Lord Stannis to make himself king. Renly now holds us at siege along with His Grace in the Holdfast. We have discovered he plans to recall the royal army to arrest Lord Stannis and ensure his path to the throne. You must find a way to prevent the army's retreat, or there will be no hope to stop him. May The Warrior give you strength. Your loving children, Peremore and Maris."

As he reaches the final line, his fingers slip open, letting the written words, now spoken into air, float slowly to the grass and dirt below. Jaw hanging open like a gutted fish, he stares at Urrigon, eyes swollen to huge, muddy-green pools, looking for answers.

"Shit." The huge knight lurches to his feet. "I'm going to need ale. Now."


Far off in the wine cellar of Maegor's Holdfast, Maris sits entranced within the ring of candles and ancient First Men symbols as Maester Gaheris watches her carefully. Joffrey lies asleep in the corner, propped up against the barrels, while Peremore paces the floor.

With a deep gulp of air, Lyman Darry takes a delicate step into the circle, careful not to smudge the maester's incantations nor let a drop spill from the ladle in his hand. Slowly he traces the steps, worn down into a path through the dirt of the cellar floor, until he is at Maris' side, kneeling to lower the ladle to her cracked lips. Here in the depths of the keep, there is little to mark the passing of the days, save the slow, steady dripping of candle wax. But Maris has been in this state for two days, at least, with no sleep, no food, no drink save the water carefully poured into her mouth.

Her eyes remain hazed over like pale moons against the dark rings forming around them. Her hair lies salty and matted, skin grey, breath rapidly panicked one minute and barely discernable the next. Lyman cannot begin to comprehend what is happening within her mind, what questions he had went unanswered. The cautionary tales his nursemaids spun at his bedside had made one thing clear – the man was wise who left ancient magics alone. Their power always came at a cost. Better to keep his head down and follow orders.

As the last drop pours over the dry ridge of Maris' mouth, he glances back at Eliza, asleep in the corner. What manner of danger has he brought her into now? Her and their child? Before his mind can conjure new fears, he turns back to Maris. His heart stops. Her eyes are back.

With a choking, screeching, desperate gasp for air, her arms snap upwards, smacking Lyman across the face and sending the ladle clattering to the floor. He crashes backwards onto the candle behind him, cursing as the burning flame sears through his vest and rolling out of the circle.

"Maris!" Peremore shouts, rushing to her side as she slams backwards, writhing back and forth. Gaheris watches, unconcerned. He holds her tight, determined to stop the shaking as her mouth creaks open and closed, as if trying to remember words. "Get more water!"

Lyman rushes back to grab the whole pitcher, tripping over his feet as he dumps what is left onto Maris' face, the shock stilling her spasms long enough to seize the vessel herself, cradling it close to her face as she drains with loud, eager gulps. One, then another, and another, cold water splashing down the front of her dress, until it is all gone. Finally, breath calming, she lowers it from her face, looking up at her brother and Lyman as they hunch anxiously over her.

"Well?" Joffrey's shrill voice calls from behind them, snapped from his slumber by the sudden commotion. "Did it work?"

"Father…" Maris slowly forces out each syllable from the depths of her throat. "I found Father. He knows. He got the letter."

"Thank the gods," Lyman sighs, releasing two days' worth of anxiety. He slowly backs away, leaving the siblings to themselves, back to Eliza's side as she rubs the remnants of sleep from confused eyes. But which gods do we have to thank? Best not to think of that.

"Then our fate is in Ser Urrigon's hands now," Gaheris nods, solemnly. He looks down at Maris her eyes still wide and bloodshot, and gently brushes a tangle free from her long hair. "You did well, my dear. You have made your ancestors proud."

"That was incredible!" Joffrey cuts him off as Peremore slowly helps Maris to her feet. His eyes gaze on them with an emerald fire. "Why didn't you tell me about this sooner? I want to know everything…"

"Not now," Peremore insists, and for once, Joffrey listens. "She needs rest."

"Then you!" The young king turns to Gaheris. "I want to know everything about this witchery! I want to bring my uncle to his knees for what he's done!"

"And we will, in time, your grace. But there is nothing to be done now. Come, let us leave this gloom and face the sun once more."

The maester places a guiding hand on his shoulder and leads him away from the dimming candles, following Peremore and Maris out the door. Lyman and Eliza are left alone, kicking dust over the last few flickering flames as the door swings shut and heavy feelings of relief and confusion begin to sink in. For a long while, the echoes of departing footsteps are the only sound.

"What just happened?" Eliza takes Lyman's hand, breaking the silence.

"I don't know," Lyman pulls her close, letting her warmth bleed into him as he stares down at the blurred chalk scrawlings at their feet. "But I think everything is about to change."


On the outskirts of the royal army's encampment, beyond the carefully enforced barriers erected by Lord Tarly's stern commands, lurk the camp followers. An army all to their own – all manner of merchants looking to ply their wares, whether it be food, drink, steel or flesh. Crammed within rickety wagons and patched tents, they flock to serve the basest needs of men-at-arms.

Lord Randyll Tarly had forbidden any such peddlers from stepping foot within the borders of the royal camp and had persecuted with a vengeance both those who slipped past his guards and any knights who attempted to go out to pursue their desires. Such filth, as he put it, would only bring disease and drunkenness into the camp, destroying the army's carefully maintained discipline. But Urrigon has sent his squire here nonetheless, out into the sea of tents, campfires and wagons to return with nothing but the finest of ales.

Through this chaotic maze, Alyn hurries along, his lanky silhouette hidden beneath an oversized cloak and massive straw hat that bobs with every nervous glance over his shoulder to ensure he hasn't been followed. This is stupid, he knows. Lord Tarly's going to find out. But he was a good squire. His knight ordered and he obeyed. A simple mission, there and back, he assures himself, ignoring the shouts of merchants marketing in his direction. It can't be that hard. If nothing else, it was a distraction from the dark words waiting in the tent – treason, murder and terror.

The heavy cloak disguising his squire's regalia, brightly festooned with the red and yellow colors of House Ambrose, is painfully unseasonable for the blistering sun. The white ravens flying out from Oldtown declared that Autumn had begun, but it certainly did not feel like it here. Nonetheless, Alyn is determined to endure the heat rather than risk being spotted on his hunt for contraband. He nervously tugs the wide brim of his hat lower to hide his face as he spies a nearby vendor peddling hefty oak barrels of wine and ale. Rubbing the golden rose pinned to his chest for good luck - the favor of his betrothed, Elinor Tyrell - he makes his approach.

"Excuse me, good man, I'm looking to buy a barrel of your finest ale." He tosses his voice to a lower pitch without looking up from the ground.

"Well, that depends," the vendor grins - a hunchbacked man with brawny muscles showing through his torn shirt, a long scar running the length of his bald head. "On how fine ye' can afford."

"I can afford whatever you have to offer." Alyn produces the coin pouch, shaking it to let the golden dragons clatter together. "Don't waste my time with cheap horse piss."

"Of course not, ser," the vendor chuckles, and Alyn begins to suspect he's recognized his age. Merchants took great pleasure from hoodwinking the young, his father had taught him. But he was too smart for that, watching carefully as the man peruses his supply for any sign of deception. At last, a stout barrel is selected – smooth, oaken, un-rusted bindings. He gives it a firm rap with his knuckles. That's what someone with experience would do, right?

"I've sold this brew to King Robert himself!" the merchant boasts, unwittingly freezing Alyn in the midst of a second knock. They don't know. His blood turns cold as the words of Maris' letter begin to flood his brain again. Straightening up, he throws on his deepest voice.

"I'll take it. Thank you, good man." He can't bring himself to count the coins he hands over, tossing down anything to get him out of here. With a grunt, he ties the barrel to his back with a rough-hewn rope harness, hurrying away from the tent.

"Good day, and the gods shine on King Robert's army!" the merchant shouts at his back as he trudges on with heavy steps.

"Gods save King Robert!" Alyn grunts back. They're all he has left now. Moving as fast as he can beneath the weight, he forces down the thoughts of conspiracy. One step at a time. Hunched over beneath the barrel, he can feel the cold prick of the rose pin against his chest. Elinor, give me strength. Had her kin truly slain the king? His retreat passes in a blur, leaving behind the enticing sounds and smells, nearer and nearer to the solemn borders of Lord Tarly's domain.

Confident he is safe from sight, he stops for a moment, yanking the hat free with a spray of sweat as he lets himself breathe. Wiping his brow with one scratchy sleeve, he frees his canteen to take a long drink of water, thankfully still cool. Here in the shade, the sun doesn't seem so bad, the warmth on his skin a pleasant glow instead of the brutal unshielded heat. On days like this he was grateful for the dusky skin he inherited from his mother, keeping him from burning up like Father did. Though it makes his thick freckles darken to an embarrassing degree.

Finishing off the last drop of water, Alyn flops the hat back on. Heaving himself back to his feet, he straightens the straps on the barrel to a comfortable position and turns back to the camp. And then he sees them. Lurking a few yards off with satisfied sneers on their faces, wait Lord Tarly's squires - his son, Dickon, and Claude Varner.

Dickon's studded riding armor glistens in the sun as they approach, his obnoxiously perfect light-brown hair carefully combed to give him an air of authority. His father's perfect future knight. Claude looms over the younger boy, taller and broader, his own blonde hair shaved close to his square scalp, making him look like a pile of blocks with angry blue eyes drawn on.

"My lord father was right to send us to watch you, Ambrose," Dickon crosses his arms victoriously. "Serving that drunken knight has dulled your good senses."

"The worst part is I bet he won't even drink it himself!" Claude kicks a heavy boot at Alyn's right knee. Unable to dodge under the weight of the barrel, the blow lands hard. The leg buckles, sending him to the ground with a cry of pain and a loud thud, the ale jostling violently as it knocks the air out of his lungs.

You're older than them, fight back! But Alyn knows that will only make things worse. And so he goes limp on the ground, face in the dirt, feeling the sharp poke of Elinor's favor as it's pressed into his chest. "I demand to speak to Lord Tarly," he grumbles, his mouth filling with dust and grass.

"Oh, you'll be talking to him alright," Dickon laughs. "Cut that swill loose, Claude. Leave it here. Father's waiting."


A loose strand of rope at the top of Urrigon's tent sways loosely in the breeze. It dangles tantalizingly out of reach, far above the huge knight's head as he leans back in his chair, squinting upwards as he tugs on his beard, attempting to focus on the wavering string to silence the frantic thoughts in his head. Think, think! There has to be a way! But thinking had never come easily to him. He would prefer to cleave problems in two with his axe. But the task before him will require much more than brawn.

To defy the Tarlys – and by extent, the Tyrells – one of the other lords on the council will have to turn. Lord Varner was out of the question. He and Lord Tarly were goodbrothers, and regardless of that, House Varner had hated House Hightower with a burning passion ever since Urrigon's grandfather had betrayed them during the Peake Revolt. As for Lord Rowan, he was well-known as the most loyal of Mace Tyrell's lieges, relentless in his attempts to marry off his eldest daughter to Ser Loras. Which leaves…

The Florents.

The fox-faced lords of Brightwater Reach had always believed they should have received Highgarden after the annihilation of House Gardner on the Field of Fire. They had always knelt to House Tyrell – once only lowly stewards – with a sneer facing the dirt. Or at least that is what Urrigon can remember his father telling him, years ago, before giving up hope that he would ever master the finer arts of nobility.

And now it was up to him to outthink the strongest lords in the land. How to convince the Florents to turn against their liege? He begins to piece together an argument in his head. If the Tyrells had truly slain the king, surely such treason laid void their claim to The Reach? Yes. Yes, that could work…

"Ser Urrigon!" The cold, familiar voice stabs him in the back like a knife. Snapping to attention, he turns to see Lord Tarly standing in the entrance to his tent, a dozen knights flanking him. The cold lord's iron scowl twists on his face as his bald head sparkles in the sun like a mace ready to strike. In an instant, the heat of the day is sucked away. "I wish I could say I was surprised."

"What do you mean?" Urrigon lurches to his feet – a head-and-a-half taller than Tarly but feeling towered over all the same. Surely he can't know already…

"Your reputation precedes you, and you have met it. Why his grace, may the Father judge him justly, saw fit to give you this command we will never know. I was content to let you disgrace yourself. But to drag the heir to Red Hill down to your level is a crime I cannot abide."

A chop of the hand and the knights part, as Claude and Dickon drag Alyn forward. The boy looks even thinner than usual, head slumped, his freckles darkening into one large bruise.

"If you've harmed my squire…" Urrigon's blood begins to boil, his hand itching for his axe.

"He is your squire no longer!" Randyll cuts him off, the knights taking a step closer, daring him to move against them. "I cannot allow you to corrupt him further. He may be of muddied lineage, but he shows promise. With proper training, he may yet make his father proud. And in that, at least, he will have surpassed you."

"Do not speak of my father…" Urrigon's hands grip the back of his chair, picturing its carved legs caving in the arrogant lord's skull.

"Oh, I knew your father well. To tell you the truth, I always preferred him to Lord Leyton. Even before the old fool went mad, he was a man of poor discipline. Ser Octavian is a strong man. A respectable man. It's no wonder he sent you away."

"I serve the king!"

"The king is dead!" Randyll's voice finally rises; a single, silencing shout like a clanging symbol, signaling the nearest knights to drop their spears, pointed level towards the furious knight's chest. "Do not challenge me further, and you will be allowed to return to your home without charge."

"Let the boy go," Urrigon slumps back against the table, beaten. "He's a good squire. He did only as he was told."

"And that's the problem, isn't it?" Randyll motions to Dickon and Claude, who quickly pull Alyn to his side. "No, young master Ambrose will stay in my care, to receive proper training." With a quick motion, he snatches the favor off of Alyn's chest, leaving behind only a jagged tear. At that, Alyn snaps back to attention, lunging for the stolen pin.

"Give it back!" But Claude and Dickon grab him again, dragging him away, kicking and writhing, out of the tent.

Randyll snorts with disdain as he twists the golden rose between his finger and thumb, letting it sparkle in the beam of light from outside. "A shame to waste a good maiden on his kind." He slips it into his belt before looking back to Urrigon. "Don't leave your tent."

With that, the lord turns and marches back out into the sun, his knights following him in turn. Last to leave, a fox-fur trim lining his blue cape, Ser Imry Florent spares a parting glance before passing out of the tent and out of sight. His rage boiling over, Urrigon reaches for the nearest chair, swinging it high and hard into the air and smashing back to the ground with a deafening crack that splits it into pieces, leaving him holding nothing but a shattered spar.