Far from White Harbor, the sun rises over King's Landing as the fresh morning welcomes Joffrey Baratheon, seated at the head of his council table, to the new day. From the disheveled hair tangled in his crown and the dark shadows beneath his eyes, it is clear the summons has come far too early for his liking. But a glimpse at the cold stare pointed at him by Maris Hightower puts an abortive end to any potential complaints.
"It happened again," she states, not waiting for the young king to speak first. Her voice, cold and plain, is enough to command the room. "I felt it in the night. The witch has moved within the castle once more." She lets the report hang heavily in the silent chamber.
"Your grace, I must council caution," Ser Barristan lifts his gaze carefully towards the young king. "There is no reason to believe that this Red Woman has any unnatural power."
"Maris has never been wrong before, Ser Barristan," Joffrey glares back. "Can you say the same?" The old knight offers no report, only a silently disapproving face. Joffrey turns back to Maris. "Do you have any idea what she's doing?"
Maris shakes her head. Maester Gaheris leans forward instead. "The Citadel has writings about her kind. If this witch is a follower of the so-called Lord of Light, there are an assortment of powers that they claim to, including an ability to see through flame. Perhaps what Maris has sensed is some effect of such a trick."
"I could feel her eyes in the fire," Maris holds her ground. "She's been watching all of us."
"Then we need to be watching her!" Joffrey grinds his teeth in frustration, rubbing the remnants of the last night's sleep from his eyes. "I need to know what Stannis is planning!"
"The last time we tried that, she…" Peremore protests, placing a defensive hand on his sister. But she pulls away.
"I'll find her," Maris insists, rising from the table. "This time she won't force me out so easily." She turns for the door, black robes flowing behind her, as Peremore and Lyman jump up to follow. Before any of his remaining councilors can speak, Joffrey is behind them.
The four youths leave the solar, walking swiftly in silence through the halls to the nearest balcony overlooking the moat. Lyman casts nervous glances over his shoulder for prying eyes, but only Gaheris, Ser Barristan and Ser Arys follow at a distance. As they step out into the morning sun, he quickly closes the door behind them. He has already heard whispers of witchery among the servants, catching the more superstitious lot looking the other way when Maris passes by. It would be of no help for them to see what is about to come next.
Maris' ravens sit, clustered as ever on the parapets below, as if waiting for some carrion feast to appear on the steel spikes that line the moat around the holdfast. Their chattering falls quiet and their black heads turn up as their mistress approaches. A stiff wind is blowing in on the tide, carrying a salty scent up from the bay beyond the red stone walls and catching Maris' hair in a whipping grip as she looks down over the edge. She reaches out, her spindly fingers wrapping around Lyman and Peremore's arms as they wait by her side and her head tilts up to the sky. The ravens below begin to caw with a fresh fury as one, the largest of the flock, takes to flight. Mouth falling open as the bird rises to meet her, Maris' eyes roll to white, going limp with the support of the older boys as the raven flies higher, higher, up into the blue sky, past the towers, over the walls and out of sight.
It soars, strong black wings fighting the wind as it rises, over the rooftops of the Red Keep. Through its wondering gaze, Maris can see it all – through windows, over parapets, down to the yard, where the Tyrell guards are assembling in formation. She remembers the path to the manse where Stannis has sheltered, flying up over the outer walls, past the main gate and into the city. But then, looking down on the streets below, she nearly drops from the sky. Stannis is already here, riding tall atop his horse with Lady Melisandre at his side and a small handful of knights at his back.
She circles back, letting the wind catch the raven's wings in a high circle – near enough to see and hear through the bird's attuned senses but high enough – she hopes – not to arouse the suspicion of the witch far below. Stannis does not speak a word, but as he arrives in the shadow of the Red Keep, she can hear the cranking of chains beginning to be rolled back. Atop the walls, the sentries cry out:
"Open the gate!"
"Have you gone mad?" Mace Tyrell thunders, face red as a tomato, spittle flying as he points a furious finger down the Small Council table. "Yesterday you were ready to storm out into the city and take Stannis by force, now you open the gates to him? He is not a man who can be reasoned with! He will not simply step out of your way!"
"You did not see what I saw," Renly Baratheon answers coldly. He sits at the far end of the table, beneath a heavy black blanket, his crown resting on the table in front of him. He has not slept all night; the marks of exhaustion are plain in the dark lines beneath his eyes. "My brother has given himself over to the darkness. We have no defenses against this witch."
"Your grace, I beg you, see reason!" Mace insists, pleadingly. "Witches and fire spirits, murderous shadows, these are all nursemaid's tales! In the Reach we see fools every year claiming to be some lost descendant of the Greenhand himself, boasting that they can make crops grow, dry wells flow, barren women give birth. And they are all charlatans and frauds. If there ever was magic in this world, it is long gone now. What little was left died with the last dragon."
"I saw what I saw," Renly glares up from his seat with a shudder, remembering the attack. "Ser Guyard was struck down by some abomination of the Seven Hells before my very eyes. It had the face of a man and a body of pure darkness. Do you doubt my senses, Lord Hand?"
"I…" Mace stumbles, running out of words. He looks over to Loras for support. But his son is silent beneath his white helm. Slowly, his shoulders sink, the air seeming to deflate out of his chest as lowers himself into his seat. The other lords of the Reach uneasily look away from him. "What then is your plan? Stannis will not be bargained to his knees."
"The matter will be settled as it always should have been," Renly nods, each word carefully uttered. "We know that our cause is just in the eyes of the Seven. I will testify to the depths of Stannis' dark devices. The High Septon will decide his fate, and the fate of Cersei's bastards. And when all is brought into the light, the people will see who their true king is."
Renly rises, looking around the table from one man to the next, as if daring any more challenges to come forth. Seeing none, he begins to step towards the door, slow at first, but gaining confidence with each step, even as he keeps the blanket wrapped tight around him.
"Your grace!" Loras cries after him, holding up the crown he has left behind at the head of the table. But he waves it away.
"I will be crowned by the High Septon. As it should be. Until then, keep that locked away where it belongs." Without another word, he lets the door slam behind him, disappearing into the hallway as his silent counsellors linger, staring at the closed door, none wanting to be the first to follow.
The doors to the castle yard open to reveal Stannis waiting at the bottom of the long stairway. He stands, looking up, an impatient scowl on his face. To his right stands Ser Davos Seaworth, to his left, the Lady Melisandre. Behind him, a ramshackle collection of assorted knights, no more than a dozen, stand at attention, with young Heleana Hightower nearly invisible, hidden by the armored men that tower above her as she joins them, looking up expectantly, to see who will appear to meet them.
Renly stands, his disheveled, exhausted appearance brushed aside, combed and washed into a regal appearance, dressed in black and green. With him stand the lords Mace Tyrell, Alester Florent and Gareth Caswell, flanked by Ser Loras and Ser Parman Crane in their white Kingsguard armor. They stop at the top of the stairs, looking down at their guests, who appear quite haggard in comparison to the fresh finery of Renly's council.
Seeing his brother has no intention to descend to him, Stannis takes the first step up the stairs with an irritable grunt, his knights following in clattering fashion as they make the arduous climb up. As they rise, Renly scans the assortment of men, looking for signs of threats. And it is then, as Gunthor Hightower steps into view, that his blood goes cold. He had met the man before, but only now does he recognize in pale skin and golden hair what he had seen the night before in shadow – the face of death.
He takes a nervous step back as Stannis nears the top of the stairs. Loras and Mace cast concerned looks his way, but he does not notice, unable to look away from Gunthor as he draws near, expecting the shade to come creeping out from behind his pale blue eyes or crawl forth from his smiling mouth to kill again.
"Brother!" Stannis' voice snaps him back to attention to find him standing directly in front of him, dark eyes glowering, the eternal storm behind them brewing fiercer than normal. "I am glad to see you have come to your senses. But do not think recanting at this hour will make me forget the injustices done against me and my men."
"I've recanted nothing," Renly insists, turning away from the knights to banish Gunthor from his sight, directing all his attention towards Stannis, knowing he cannot afford to show fear. "I stand by every word I said. I may have acted brashly, but I did so for the sake of the Seven Kingdoms. And when we stand in the Sept of Baelor, the High Septon will see that my cause is true."
"What have you ever known of truth?" Stannis shakes his head, stepping past Renly. The lords of the Reach part to let him and his men enter the Keep, though Mace makes no effort to contain his animosity as they walk by. "You will get your trial, Renly. I will see to that. I will have justice for Robert and the Iron Throne in the rightful hands."
"Well, we want the same thing, then," Renly hurries to catch up.
"Do we?" Stannis stops, his face somehow growing even colder.
Renly searches for some retort, but finds nothing to say. Instead, he and his brother turn away from each other in silence, bringing them to face Maester Varman, who stands waiting upon them, a scroll clasped tightly in his frail old hands.
"My lords…" He extends the message outward, uncertain which Baratheon to offer it to first. Before Stannis can respond, Renly snatches it away. "A message from Atranta."
Stannis grits his teeth impatiently as Renly cracks open the green wax seal, eagerly reading the message contained within. As his eyes flit down the page, they darken, and his face begins to grow red with rage, his delicate sense of composure collapsing in on itself with each new line. Finally, finished, he crumples the paper in his hands.
"Brother, what is it?" Stannis asks, reaching for the letter, but Renly pushes past him, lunging towards Lord Florent, who jumps back, startled and confused.
"You!" Renly bellows, his voice echoing off the walls as he jabs a condemning finger in the older lord's face. "All along, it's been you!"
"My lord, I don't understand!" Alester throws up his hands in defense, looking panicked to his fellow lords for some answer. But they stand back, their faces as puzzled as his. Renly forces the wadded missive into his hands.
"Do not play me for a fool any longer!" Renly shouts as Alester frantically unfolds the letter, flinching at each new furious word. But the page holds no answers, his face only growing more confused as he reads.
"I… my lord… I had nothing to do with this! I have only ever been loyal to you!" The letter shakes in Alester's hands as he looks pleadingly to Renly, then to Mace, but both turn away.
"Ser Loras!" Renly commands. "See to it that Lord Florent does not sully my presence again. Leave him to the company he has chosen - my brother and all the other traitors."
"Renly!" Stannis finally steps forward. "You claim peace, but heap more insult upon me? What is the word from Atranta? What have you done?"
Turning back to face Stannis with a dark glare on his face, Renly offers no answer. He only spits at his brother's feet before stalking away down the hall.
"There's my peace! Use that to shine the bastard's shoes!"
Within Maegor's Holdfast, Joffrey lingers outside of Princess Myrcella's bedchamber as Maester Gaheris stands in the doorway, blocking his path.
"Your grace, I must again advise you, do not do anything to excite your sister," the maester protests to diminishing returns. "She remains in a fragile state…"
"And whose fault is that!" Joffrey snaps, cutting him off. "You promised you'd make her better, but she just sits in there and gets worse every day! Pycelle may have been a traitor, but at least he was a healer! What kind of maester are you?"
With a clattering of chains, Joffrey finally pushes past Gaheris into the room, his eyes blinking to adjust to the dim light – nearly as dark as night, save for a few small candles. He stumbles over a stool, grunting with agitation as the maester follows after him.
"Good news, sister!" he shouts in the direction of the bed. Myrcella, invisible beneath a high pile of heavy blankets, rolls over and makes a faint noise in reply. His patience expended, Joffrey marches straight towards the windows and begins to tear open the thick drapes blocking the noontide sun from the room.
"Your grace, please…" Gaheris futilely protests as blinding beams of light burst into the room, illuminating the cluttered and disorganized space, every surface overflowing with various potions, charts and poultices representing weeks of care gone nowhere.
"Stannis has come for us, Cella!" Joffrey shouts, yanking down the last curtain. "We're going to be free!" He turns back for the bed, waiting for a response. Beneath the blankets, Myrcella rolls over again. Her small, pale hands finally emerge to pull the covers away. As they slip down, her face recoils as it is drowned in sunlight, highlighting every dark line on her face. She seems to have aged a year or more, alarmingly thin, the luster gone from her golden hair, her emerald eyes dull and sunken.
"Stannis… Here?" she speaks, hesitantly, her voice weak and cracked. Joffrey nods, but stays back from the bed, as if afraid her condition may be catching. Instead, he glares at Gaheris.
"Yes. Renly has opened the gates to him at last. Surely he will put an end to all this. And once I'm on the throne, we can get you to a measter worth his chains."
"Gaheris has been very kind to me," Myrcella insists, with faint force.
"Kindness is no cure," Joffrey scoffs. "Any halfwit can be kind. But they won't stop you from dying."
Gaheris opens his mouth to protest, but before he can, the door swings open once more as Lyman hurries in. Myrcella's face immediately brightens to see the older squire, rising up to greet him only to painfully slump back down on the pillows.
"Lyman!" she manages to wheeze. He freezes, caught off guard by the sight of the sickly princess, and immediately drops into a rushed bow, only to be stopped halfway by Joffrey grabbing him by the shoulder.
"What is it? What's going on?" he demands, pulling Lyman back out of his half-bow to look at him. "Has Stannis sent word?"
"No, your grace," Lyman reports, awkwardly glancing back and forth between the king and the princess, propping herself up on the edge of the bed. "Eliza sent me to find you. Your royal regalia is finished and ready for a final fitting."
"Perfect!" The irritation immediately vanishes from Joffrey's face as it lights up with a smile. "When my uncle sees me, I want him to remember who I am. Take me to her."
With another quick bow to Myrcella, Lyman turns to leave as quickly as he came in. But as they go, Joffrey stops to pull Gaheris back in one last time, his voice dropping to a hissed whisper.
"We cannot let out enemies see us as weak. I don't care what you have to do, when Stannis comes, I want her ready to meet him!"
The bright afternoon sun beats down on Maegor's Holdfast, an uncomfortable heat lasting in defiance of the early autumn breeze. Spanning the spiked moat, the drawbridge has been lowered for the first time since Joffrey and his defenders retreated inside following the Lannister insurrection and death of King Robert. Now, standing at the head of the bridge, the small party of loyalists assembles, waiting to see whoever will come to meet them.
At the forefront, Joffrey stands, prouder than ever, Robert's antlered crown resting atop his finely combed golden curls. His freshly finished royal doublet is tightly fitted, designed to cast his silhouette taller and broader than the body beneath. Slick black from head to toe, the only burst of color is the scattering of emeralds embroidered across his chest, setting him to sparkle as the gemstones catch the sun and reflect it back to dazzle the eyes of anyone unfortunate enough to be hit by the glancing beams. Over his shoulders is draped a light black cloak, embellished with rich gold trim that hangs down to the backs of his knees. Completing the ensemble, a burst of grey ptarmigan feathers is clasped tightly around his throat; the collar gifted to him by his betrothed, Sansa Stark.
Myrcella stands at his left, uneasy on her feet, in a dark black and crimson gown poorly fitting her shrunken frame, her face heavily made up to coat its sickly color, hair still dripping in its ornate braid after a long, thorough wash. Behind her, Peremore and Maris stay close together, wearing matching black and crimson clothes patchworked out of the royal garb left behind by the late king and queen. Above them, Maris' ravens sit perched upon the portcullis, watching all.
To the king's right, Lyman waits, a head and a half taller than his liege, dressed in the fine brown doublet King Robert had gifted him when he had been made a royal squire, embellished with crimson lines and pins down the length of it. He can feel the shadow of The Hound on his back, the huge guard towering over all, flanked by Ser Barristan and Ser Arys, their white armor looking worse for wear but polished to a shine nonetheless. Nearly blocked by the knights, Gaheris and the anxious steward Desmond Gaunt bring up the rear of the small procession.
As the sun beats down, they shift idly, waiting. Lyman glances nervously down the line, hints of doubt beginning to creep in. We know Stannis was spying on us, he can't help but think. What if he isn't here to free Joffrey at all?
But, as if summoned by his cautious thoughts, the door on the far side of the drawbridge creaks open for the first time since Renly had appeared to demand surrender and execute Ilyn Payne. But this time, no grand entourage exits, only a single old man in plain clothes with a wiry greying beard, approaching with confident humility – Davos Seaworth.
"Who is that?" Myrcella whispers, leaning on her brother for support.
"Hush, Cella," Joffrey quiets her and steps forward. The princess almost stumbles, but Maris and Peremore hurry to stabilize her as the king strides out onto the drawbridge, eyes narrowing as he examines the strange messenger. "Where is my uncle?"
"I am Ser Davos Seaworth." A swift, clumsy bow immediately marks the former smuggler's low birth. "Lord Stannis Baratheon sends his regards, Prince Joffrey."
"King Joffrey!" Joffrey is quick to cut him off. Lyman and Peremore exchange a nervous glance. Between them, the Hound lurches forward, unbidden, right hand already hovering over his sword. He steps onto the drawbridge with a loud thud, but Davos does not flinch.
"That is what Lord Stannis wishes to determine, your grace," the humble knight answers calmly. "You and your companions are welcome in the castle, where you may recover from your ordeal. On the morrow, my lord will speak to you to learn the truth of all that has happened here."
"And where's Renly?"
"He's in his quarters under a vow not to raise a hand against you and your sister until the High Septon can hold a trial to decide his fate, and yours."
"He's a traitor!" Joffrey insists, pointing an accusing finger over Davos' head to the towering walls of the Keep behind him, the crown shaking ever so slightly on his head. "And a murderer!"
"That is what his Holiness will decide, your grace. Now come. A meal's waiting, and I can see you all have grown weary."
Without another word, Davos turns to lead the way into the Keep. Joffrey glances back to the others, his face at first betraying a flash of uncertainty. But in a blink, it's gone, and he is impatiently waving the others onto the drawbridge to follow him and the Hound as they stride across. Letting the Hightowers guide Myrcella, with the Kingsguard close behind, Lyman holds back. He looks over his shoulder one last time to see Eliza watching from a window, no doubt with pride at the way her works sparkles on the king's chest. One hand on her belly, comforting their child, the other waves with a smile.
Lyman returns the gesture but, though his mind wants only to stay, his feet are already stepping onto the bridge, thumping against the planks all the way across to solid stone, where he follows the others into the waiting, shadowy mouth of the castle.
