His sister's scream wakes Peremore Hightower in the dead of night. His lamp burned out, he tumbles blindly out of bed with a thud, scrambling for the door to the next room in the dark. With a desperate tug, he flings it open, the lit lantern by the door momentarily blinding him as he stumbles in.
As his vision clears, he sees Maris standing in the dim light, her pale face floating above her black nightgown, panting and drenched with sweat as choking smoke rises up from the fireplace in a dull haze around her. In shaking hands, she clutches an empty pitcher, the water within emptied onto the fire that had been burning in the hearth a moment before, now drowned to smoldering embers.
Peremore coughs, waving the smoke away from his face as Maris turns to see him, letting the pitcher drop to the floor with a clatter. Her legs waver and, fearing an impending fall, Peremore rushes to her side, wrapping his arms tightly around her thin, cold body and ushering it swiftly back to the bed.
"What's wrong?" He asks, urgently brushing long stray strands away from her face to reveal bloodshot eyes. "What happened?"
"She was here!" Maris gasps, pointing to the fire. "I could feel her!"
"Who?"
"Stannis' witch! I saw her eyes in my dream. When I woke, the fire was blazing out of control! It was her, I know it. Her eyes were the fire. The fire was her eyes. She…"
"You've been pushing yourself too hard," Peremore tries to calm her.
"No," she pulls away from him. "You don't understand…"
The door flies open as Lyman Darry, half-dressed and disheveled, stumbles in brandishing a dagger. He gags as he hits the cloud of smoke, recoiling and rushing to the window. He flings open the shutters, letting the cold night air rush in to drive out the haze.
"What happened? I heard a scream?"
"It was the red witch," Maris stares, glaring down at Peremore, as if daring him to question her again. Her breathing steadies, the strength returning to her stance as she stalks to the window to let the crisp wind and moonlight cleanse her of some polluting touch. "She's more powerful than any of you can understand. And she's done something. Something terrible. I don't know what. But her fire is burning within the castle now. We have to warn the king."
In his chambers in the Manning manse, Gunthor Hightower has not slept for a moment the whole long night. He sits naked in a chair, pulled close to the hearth, staring across the room, washed with orange firelight, at Lady Melisandre, sleeping untroubled in his bed.
His sheets and blankets lie tossed and crumpled to the side, save for the one wrapped tightly over his own shoulders, leaving her, never cold, exposed. Wearing nothing but the ruby pendant around her neck, the flowing, soft curves of her body rise and fall as she breathes peacefully. Gunthor cannot look away, even as goose pimples stab icy pricks into his neck and a cold ache settles into his shoulders, sensations that now persist even as the fire and the blanket make him drip with sweat.
He refuses to blink. When he closes his eyes, all he can see is the… thing. The impossible abomination of shadowy sinew that had crawled out of her as he sat, petrified, before it looked at him with his own face and disappeared. In that moment, Gunthor had expected the Seven Hells to open up as the demons of the deep dragged him down to some eternal torment. He wanted to run. But hours later, the stones remain cool and uncracked and - for so much as he cannot escape the terror of the shadow rising from the woman in the bed, he cannot kill the urge to fall back into her all over again.
Gods, what have I done? He glances to his wardrobe, where he knows his sword and dagger wait, sharp and ready, then back to Melisandre, deep in slumber. What is she? Some evil thing, surely. Strike her down now, before it's too late! But how can evil be so beautiful?
His eyes are pulled back to her, remembering the feel of her skin beneath his hands, the cinnamon taste of her lips, the sultry smell of her hair, the rush as he reached to touch the heat within her. His muscles tense, torn between cold steel and warm flesh.
As he stares, her eyes flash open. Gunthor nearly jumps out of the chair.
"Come back to bed, my knight," she yawns, unperturbed, raising one welcoming arm. Her voice is soft, yet silences all screams of protest from the back of his brain. Letting the blanket drop away, its edge dangerously close to the hearth, he takes slow steps back to her side.
Sliding into the bed, he lets her arms wrap tight around him, banishing the cold chills from his muscles as she presses him tight against her, the warmth growing from her chest into every reach of his body. His face pressed against hers, he can see nothing but her fierce red eyes, glowing with invitation.
"Sleep, sleep," she whispers into his mouth. "We have such work left to do."
In the Red Keep, Lord Renly Baratheon stirs in his sleep. His eyes opening just a slit, he sees thin beams of light leaking in through the curtains covering the window. With a sigh, he reaches one arm over to the far side of the bed, feeling the soft, warm touch of Loras' lithe muscles, lying beside him. He lets his hand linger for a moment, rising and falling as deep breaths move the sleeping knight's chest in steady rhythm.
He lets loose a sigh of relief that his lover is still there. The quarrel between him and Lord Tyrell had kept them apart for too long. But now, all is restored. He rolls over, eager to make the most of lost time, his muscles poised as his movement rouses Loras groggily from his slumber. But before they can kiss, a pounding comes at the door.
"What in the Seven Hells is that?" Renly bellows, leaping from the bed and tearing off a blanket to wrap around his naked torso as he storms to the door.
"Your grace, I beg your pardon…" Ser Guyard's voice is muffled behind the door. With an irritated grunt, Renly yanks it open, just enough to stick his face out.
"Someone had best be dead!"
"I…" The normally stony knight's voice falters beneath his white helm. "It's Lord Varys."
The now-former Master of Whisperers lies with his feet still planted on the ground, slippers unremoved, his back flat against his mattress, the bedding undisturbed. There is no sign of a struggle. His tunic remains carefully pressed. At first glance, he could be only sleeping, save for two small details - his eyes, wide open, staring sightlessly at the ceiling, and the bloody slit through the fabric above his heart.
Renly's face is already dark as a storm as he enters in a black robe, pushing aside the guards clustered around the dead eunuch. His scowl deepens as he looks down at the body. Behind him, he hears Loras gasp in shock. Renly turns to see his Lord Commander, half in armor, jaw still dropped, staring past him with a horrified look in his eyes.
"Ser Loras, remain in the hall," Renly commands, dispensing with the soft tone of moments before. "Do not let anyone pass. Not even your father."
Loras obeys quickly, eager to be rid of the corpse's presence. Waiting for the door to close, Renly leans back over the bed to examine Varys more closely. The fatal wound is barely perceptible, like a keyhole into the man's chest. The bleeding appears minimal, and long since dried.
"I've never seen anything like it," Ser Guyard murmurs. "What kind of a blade could do that?"
"I don't know," Renly pulls back. He forces down the rising fear twisting his guts into knots. "But we will find it. Bring the men together. Keep only those that came here with me or Lord Tyrell. Disarm the rest and confine them to the garrison. I want a heavy guard posted on Ser Aron, the bastards, the Hightowers… anyone without my implicit trust. Bring them before the throne one by one to be questioned. Start with Ser Aron."
"At once, your grace."
"And one more thing, Guyard. I want my crown. These schemers should know who they are dealing with."
As the knight in his white armor hurries out of the room, Renly lingers, looming over Varys' body, his silhouette darkening the pale face as he closes the dead man's eyes. He flexes his shoulders, urging the blood to pump harder, faster through his veins as he calls up the furious spirit he had so often seen Robert summon all those years growing up in his shadow. Our enemies kill with needles. We will smash them with our hammer.
Hours later, the doors to the Great Hall swing open as Leyla and Alysanne Hightower are ushered in. They immediately see that something has changed. The Reach lords sit at their table at the foot of the Iron Throne, with Ser Guyard and Ser Loras on guard in their white cloaks to each side of the spiked steps. Centered between them, Robert's Warhammer rests ominously, pointing like an arrow up to the royal seat, where Renly Baratheon sits, clad in all black, his face crossed by beams of light from the windows behind him, setting to sparkle the golden antlered crown atop his head, resting firmly in a bed of black curls.
"So it's done, then?" Leyla tilts her head, looking up at the crown.
"Lady Hightower," Lord Tyrell's voice bellows from his seat, closest to the throne. "You are speaking to King Renly Baratheon, First of his Name, King of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm. Remember your courtesies and wait upon him to address you."
Leyla's eyes narrow into a menacing glare towards Mace, but Alysanne plasters a broad smile across her face and curtsies, her sister reluctantly following.
"Thank you, Lord Hand," Renly looks down from the throne. "Lady Alysanne, Lady Leyla, we are graced by your presence."
"You could be graced more often if you let us out of our chambers," Leyla mutters under her breath.
"What would you require of us, your grace," Alysanne speaks up before anyone can respond to her sister's insolence. "On behalf of Oldtown, we wish only to serve."
"I'm sure you do," Mace harrumphs derisively.
"Peace, Lord Hand," Renly maintains a calm but strong voice. "There is a murderer in the Red Keep, one that has struck against my own Small Council. Lord Varys, after all his years of loyal service to the crown, has been vilely slain in his own chambers. We wish to make a record of all the men and women who accompanied your family into the Red Keep so that their whereabouts at the time of the murder may be accounted for."
Before Leyla can blurt out another jab, Alysanne steps to the lords' table. "Of course, your grace. Though I can assure you, all of our servants are of impeccable character, whom my sister and I can both personally vouch for."
"Certainly," Mace pushes a scroll and quill across the table to Alysanne as she sits, struggling to maintain a semblance of pleasantries on his red-flushed face.
"But you must understand," Lord Florent adds, more cordially, "we must investigate all suspects. Anyone without the implicit trust of the Crown."
Nodding, Alysanne's small hand snatches up the quill, quickly marking each name and position from memory with swift, precise strokes. But behind her, Leyla remains looking up at the throne, hands planted on her broad hips, lips mischievously curling.
"Your grace, out of our great concern for your safety, I must ask, have you considered the possibility of threats outside the Keep?"
Renly cocks his head to one side. "Our defenses are impenetrable, Lady Hightower. I can assure you, no assassins will be slipping past our guards."
"I'm sorry, your grace, I was not clear," Leyla corrects herself, flushing the venom from her voice in favor of sweet sincerity. "I'm not speaking of base intruders. We have all heard the stories of the witch from the East Stannis keeps company with."
"A false priestess that has seen him denounced by the High Septon!" Mace scoffs.
"Perhaps. But in Oldtown, and in my own travels across the Narrow Sea, I have seen and heard the stories of these Red Priests of R'Hllor and the shadowbinders of Asshai. These are ancient customs, from the far borders of civilization, men and women who consort with demons and live their whole lives between fire and shadow. They speak of powers devised from the higher mysteries; some parlor tricks, like conjuring sparks, others more sinister, such as spying on their enemies through a burning flame or summoning murderous spirits that can walk through walls. They can kill without ever laying a hand upon the victim."
A cold chill falls over the room. For a moment, no one speaks, the only sound the scribbling of the quill as Alysanne writes the final names upon the list before sliding it back across the table to a clearly disturbed Lord Florent. Mace, however, is unimpressed. Heaving himself up from his seat, he breaks the silence.
"I have no doubt that our enemy is of flesh and blood, my lady. We will find this killer, and their head will join the rest of the traitors on the spikes." He picks up the list, scanning the names. "That is all that we require of you. The guards will return you to your chambers."
"We are happy to be of service," Alysanne smiles. Both sisters curtsey as they depart, not protesting as the knights hurry them out of the room. Mace remains standing, looking about in confusion at his silent companions as the huge doors slam shut. The other lords and Renly himself remain solemn, sitting at ill ease in their chairs.
"You all can't believe that nonsense," Mace scoffs, nervously, trying to read Renly's face. He looks to Loras for support, but his son remains mute beneath his white helm. "Lord Leyton drove himself mad studying the so-called higher mysteries. Clearly he filled his daughters' heads with the same rubbish. We must keep up our interrogations. Put the suspects on hard rations until the guilty party breaks. I promise our killer is but a man of flesh and blood."
"That witch was the only one Varys' feared. And now he is dead. I will not be next," Renly rises, slowly descending from the throne. "Send my blaspheming brother a letter, Lord Hand. This will be his final chance to repent. Hand over the witch. Or face the king's justice."
"I knew Robert should have taken that eunuch's head when he had the chance," Stannis Baratheon scowls, clenched knuckles pressed tight against his jaw as he broods. He sits at his council table in the Manning manse, empty save for Ser Davos Seaworth, who watches his lord nervously by the embers of a dying fire. "His cursed little birds see everything. No doubt he orchestrated this whole scheme. Kill two brothers and make the third one king. Renly will be his puppet."
"I've never met the man," Davos answers, struggling to soothe his embittered lord, his own rough voice struggling to find the right words. "But I have known men like him. They deal in duplicity and deceit. That may give them power, for a time, but in the end, no one truly trusts them. We may still sway the Faith to our side. Renounce the woman and make your case to the High Septon. Whose word will be believed by the people? You, famed for your honor, or the mad king's pet spider?"
"Lord Varys is dead," Melisandre's voice sets Davos to jump as she appears in the open doorway, Gunthor following close behind her.
"What do you mean?" Stannis slowly turns to look at her as she strides softly into the room.
"You wished him dead and I killed him."
"What have you done?" Davos rises, but Stannis raises a commanding hand to stop him.
"As I have told you many times, the Lord of Light has filled me with great power." Melisandre kneels beside the table, looking up to Stannis, her red eyes seeming to glow with a light Davos is unwilling to look upon. He turns away. "I have vowed to use that power in service to you, his chosen one, Azor Ahai reborn."
"I have told you not to speak that name," Stannis frowns, pulling his hands slightly away from Melisandre's reach. He glances suspiciously at Gunthor, silent in the corner.
"Why deny your destiny, my lord? Even now, when you see the power promised you?"
"We have seen nothing," Davos cuts her off. "Only your own unnatural claims."
"My lord!" A deep voice shouts from the hall. Ser Clayton Suggs and Ser Godry Farring rush in. Melisandre rises gracefully from her knees as her loyal knights move to Stannis' side.
"A rider from the Red Keep," Suggs reports, jutting out his fist in front of him, a missive crumpled tightly inside. Stannis waits patiently for him to unroll his fingers, allowing him to lift the letter and break open the cracked seal. All eyes watch patiently as he slowly scans the words contained within until, finished, he carefully sets it down on the table, rising his gaze to meet Melisandre, waiting expectantly.
"It is so. Lord Varys is slain."
At that, Davos drops back into his seat with a dull thud as Melisandre smiles triumphantly.
"My brother believes I have an assassin in my employ within the Red Keep. He demands I name the killer and hand Lady Melisandre over to the High Septon to be tried as a witch. In return, he shall beg the Faith for a pardon for my sake." Stannis spits the final phrase out like a curse. "After all this murder and treachery, he dares to make me beg for pardon? A pardon for demanding my own birthright? For standing in his way?"
With a rush, he jolts to his feet, knocking his chair to the floor with a clatter. Davos opens his mouth to speak, but Stannis shakes his head. "Ser Davos, leave us."
"My lord, I must protest. This course is…"
"You have made your case. But I am done playing Renly's games."
Bowing his head, Davos reluctantly takes his leave under the victorious sneers of Suggs and Farring. As he goes, Stannis beckons Melisandre come closer. She raises one soft hand to caress his shoulder, bringing him into the cloud of her perfume.
"Let me show you what powers await, my lord," she whispers in his ear. But he pulls away.
"I do not wish to know your secrets, witch, lest they condemn me. But do what you must to deliver the Red Keep into our hands without further bloodshed."
"The Lord of Light has shown me the truth. Only one more life will be required to bring us to victory. We must remove that which stands in our way."
Stannis stiffens at that. He raises an accusing finger square in Melisandre's face. "No harm must come to Renly. I must make that clear. I will not be named a kinslayer on your account."
"As you wish, my lord," Melisandre bows deeply as Stannis marches stiffly out of the room. She watches him go, a disappointed look of yearning in her eyes. "I will do without him, for now."
"Whatever you require, my lady, it will be done," Ser Godry vows, stepping forward.
"We give ourselves as tools of the Lord of Light," Suggs eagerly joins him. But Melisandre only waves them away.
"You may serve me by leaving us in peace," she insists, barely looking at them as she turns to the fireplace, bending down to carefully begin stoking the flames. The two knights glower at Gunthor as they begrudgingly head out, letting the door slam shut behind them. Some despairing part of Gunthor nearly follows them, but as he watches Melisandre at work, her hair sliding forward to dangle tantalizingly close to the rising flames, he cannot bring himself to leave.
As the crackling in the fireplace grows louder, she turns back to him. The ruby around her neck begins to glow with renewed power as she pulls down the hem of her dress, letting her breasts spill out into Gunthor's waiting hands. At the touch of her skin, he feels all inhibitions slip away and accepts the descending kiss.
Much later, as night falls, Renly sits by the fireplace in his solar, tossing another log on the flames. No word has come from Stannis. He has sent his counsellors to an early bed, leaving himself alone with Ser Guyard. They will need their rest. Tomorrow, he has decreed, they will strike against Stannis. Slay his men. Hang the witch on the steps of the Sept of Baelor. But he cannot sleep. He can only picture himself standing before the people for the first time as their king. Words turn over in his head, a speech beginning to form.
Yes, the red witch is a liar. Boasting of false powers to fill men's heads with false promises. A tragic reminder of what can happen when we stray from the light of The Seven. But The Father will guide my hand in judgment to restore order and morality to the Iron Throne. Yes, that will do it. And if the smallfolk believe she really is a witch, the better for it. Renly the Witch-Slayer. That has a nice ring to it.
Renly shivers as a chill settles over the room, shaking him from his thoughts. He glances to the hearth, but the fire burns, undiminished. If anything, it is glowing brighter than it was before.
"Guyard? Did you open a window?"
"No, your grace." The knight steps to the table from the door, confused. Renly looks about the room. The chill has passed, like a phantom wind. But there is no sign of an intruder.
"Of course not." He sighs, massaging his brow. Just more nerves, the Hightowers words' still pulling at the edges of his imagination. Robert was never superstitious. Don't let them get in your head. "Some wine, please, Ser Guyard."
He hears the clattering of armor as the knight retrieves the flagon of wine and approaches him from behind. But then – the footsteps stop. The chill returns – close now, as if it is right behind him, pressing down on his shoulders.
"Ser Guyard?"
Renly hears a choking gurgle, and then a deafening crash as the goblet drops to the floor. Jumping to his feet, he spins around to see Ser Guyard frozen, wavering in place before him, head tilted down, perplexed, looking at his chest. There, above his heart, his glistening white breastplate is pierced by a pointed tip of pure blackness, seemingly weightless but unmistakably deadly. Crimson lines of blood begin to leak out from the slit in the armor, red rivers emerging from the dark to stain the white like blemished snow.
With a sigh, Guyard slumps to the floor, dead, revealing what stands behind him. The impossible blade is an arm, an arm attached to a body of pure shadow – as if all light has been banished from this space in the shape of a man. Renly cannot move, cannot breathe, cannot even close his eyes even as his brain screams he must, that it cannot bear to look upon this abomination. It flickers, intangible, a face – human yet horribly wrong – with empty black eyes staring through Renly's skull into his soul. His body feels as if it is made of ice. And then it is gone. A hissing rush of wind and the shadow dissipates into a thousand wispy tendrils of total darkness, and then nothing.
"Loras!" Renly finally finds the strength to scream, dropping to his knees and crumpling over the dead knight's body. His crown slips from his brow, rolling unnoticed across the floor. He hears feet pounding outside the door, hears the door slam open and Loras scream, tearing off his helm and throwing it across the room as he rushes to his king's side. Loras pulls him off the body, turning him over, desperately looking for wounds, panic flashing in his eyes..
"No…no…" Renly stammers. "Guyard… the shadow…" He steadies himself, forcing Loras to look at Guyard where he lies, at the smooth slit in his armor, stained with blood. The mark is unmistakable. They have both seen it only just that morning, piercing Varys' heart. Slowly, they turn to face each other.
"Renly, who…" Loras gasps, but he cannot speak another word as Renly grasps him by the sides of his face, pulling him close to see his own blue eyes wide with mad terror.
"Open the gates."
"We can't…"
"Open the gates!" Renly shouts, pushing Loras away as he springs to his feet. He looks desperately about the room, fearful the cursed shade may still be waiting, somewhere in the dark for him. "Waste no time. Open the gates. Yield the castle! We must let Stannis in!"
