Daven
Daven waited at the edge of the camp, fiddling with his hand-dragon, checking it for scratches, cracks, or powder buildup, as the Beikango traders had taught him. As he worked he watched the sun slowly rise above the horizon. Streaks of crimson and gold mingled with the black shadows of night that still lurked nearby. Baratheon and Lannister colours together. Were I a more foolish man I'd try to make some kind of omen of today's battle out of it. Daven shook his head as memories of yesterday's battle returned to his mind like so many creeping insects, he had slept poorly last night. He looked, outwards over the field, some fools had been calling yesterday's battle a victory, but most called it for what it was, unfinished.
"Good morning Daven," someone said behind him.
"Ser Kevan," Daven rose quickly as the older, portly, and balding Lannister approached him. He slipped the hand-dragon back into its sheath. "I'd not thought to see you so early in the morning."
Kevan smiled grimly. "Lord Tywin has summoned the army's commanders for one last meeting before today's battle."
"Lord Tywin sent you to summon me?"
"Ah," Kevan gave an awkward smile and shrugged his shoulders. "I volunteered. Lord Tywin is speaking privately with Lord Mace," he shook his head. "A rather awkward meeting I must say."
"Is Lord Tywin truly so wroth with Lord Mace? The man can hardly be faulted for trying to hold the river. The bank is higher on our side," Daven spread his hands. "It's as good a place to defend as any in the Reach."
"Yes," Kevan agreed. "But the plan was for Lord Mace to avoid battle, and in so doing lure Stannis away from the river, and onto the open ground so common in these lands."
"Where we could make use of our numbers and outflank Stannis," Daven extended Ser Kevan's line of thinking.
"And surround Stannis and destroy him and his army," Kevan finished and sighed. "It would have been a decisive victory."
"And make an end to this war," Daven said.
"Not an end. Not so long as the North and the Ironmen remain recalcitrant," Kevan said gently. "But it would have been a good start. A few months, maybe a year, and we would all return home to our wives and children to weather out the winter."
"Ah yes… my wife."
"Is something wrong?" Kevan asked concernedly.
"Ah no," Daven shook his head. "She's just a bit, uh spirited is all."
Ser Kevan nodded his head. "Northern ladies often are. Get her with child," he said simply. "A child will calm her spirit."
Daven wasn't so sure but, unwilling to push the issue, said nothing more on the subject. "Where's your squire," he asked to change the conversation.
"Hmm? Oh, Gunthor is with his father."
"I see, and how is Lord Mathis?" Daven asked genuine concern tinging his voice, he'd had the misfortune of seeing Lord Mathis' wound for himself. The injuries done by sword, axe, mace, lance, or arrow were as nothing compared to the devastation a dragon could do to a man's flesh.
Ser Kevan frowned. "He was awake, well mostly awake, for a half hour last night. The maesters gave him some milk of the poppy for the pain and to help him sleep. It's unlikely he'll be coherent at all today. But our Lord of Goldengrove should live, though admittedly it's hard to be certain at this point, and even should he survive it's doubtful he'll ever walk again or even ride," he finished sadly.
"A shame for such things to happen to such a doughty warrior as Lord Mathis."
"Tis a fair sight better than dying," Ser Kevan said bluntly.
"I suppose," Daven said glumly. "What's that?" He asked, spotting something moving in the fields that separated the camp from the Cockleswent.
Ser Kevan narrowed his eyes. "A rider," he said and jogged forward several paces as the rider grew closer. "A scout, one of ours I think."
It took less than a minute for the scout to ride to them. He was breathing heavily as he pulled his horse to a halt next to Daven and Ser Kevan. "My lords," he gasped. "The enemy is stirring, they're mounting their steeds, and readying to leave their camp."
"To attack or flee?" Daven demanded of the tired man.
"To flee my lords," the scout gasped. "They're loading their wagons."
"Come with me," Ser Kevan commanded waving a hand to bring the scout along behind him. "And you Daven."
Daven swiftly followed Ser Kevan, who led them straight through the camp, heading directly to Lord Tywin's command pavilion, and passing by the rest of the slowly waking camp. If we can catch Stannis on the march, Daven smiled unable to even finish his thought he was so excited at Stannis' mistake, at least until he gave the situation a bit more thought. An army on the march is vulnerable, so why would Stannis risk leaving the riverbank? Why make such a mistake? His smile turned into a frown
In less than ten minutes Daven and Kevan joined the other high lords and commanders of the Westerlands and the Reach, several dozen men in total. All of whom milled outside of Lord Tywin's pavilion, most of them in robes and other comfortable clothing with only daggers at their sides, only a few were in armour. King Joffrey was there, guarded by Sandor Clegane in his white cloak and white armour. The king was struggling not to yawn in the bare light of early morning. Waiting impatiently near the edge of the crowd was Ser Garlan, the silk sleeves of his doublet bulging around the layered bandages wrapped around his left arm.
Daven followed Ser Kevan as the older man took the scout by the shoulder and began to push through the crowd of highborn. Daven began to follow but had a small start as, from the corner of his eye, he saw something dark and swift move, but when he turned there was nothing. Probably just a dog, nothing to worry about.
Daven made to continue walking but a mangled scream and a panicked shriek from inside the tent turned his steps into a swift run that sent him rushing past Ser Kevan and the scout, and into the tent. Daven's rush came to a dead stop as he saw Lord Tywin, the great Lord Tywin, the lion of Casterly Rock, futilely trying to stop the blood that was spurting from his slit throat. Standing next to Lord Tywin was Lord Mace with a drawn dagger.
Rage rose in Daven's heart and in only a moment he was stepping forward and drawing his dagger and shouting. "Traitor!". But just as quickly the rage depleted as details made their way past his anger. Lord Mace's stance was wrong, he was too far away from Lord Tywin, and most importantly his dagger was free of blood. But if not Lord Mace than who? Before Daven could think any more on the matter he was pushed aside by a screaming King Joffrey.
"Murderer!" Shouted the king. "Assassin! Traitor!" Joffrey drew his sword.
"No! Wait, Your Grace," Daven tried to grab King Joffrey's attention but the king shrugged his hand away, and with an almost perfect thrust stabbed the Lord of Highgarden in his round stomach. As Daven froze as Lord Mace fell to the ground and in a moment seemed to stretch out forever met Lord Tywin's eyes, and as that bare, single second, seemed to stretch into hours, he saw a flash of fear in those green gold-flecked eyes, before Lord Tywin went still and silent.
Ser Garlan pushed past Daven, murder in his eyes and his dagger drawn, as he charged at the king. Daven acted without a thought, he grabbed the Tyrell knight by his wounded left arm and pulled him away from the king. Garlan roared in pain and anger, as he turned, moving faster than Daven had seen anyone, save for cousin Jaime, move before. He made a thrust with his dagger at Daven's stomach.
Daven quickly stepped backwards only narrowly avoiding the blade of the bloodthirsty Tyrell knight, but then Garlan did something with his feet sending Daven falling to the ground as he tripped over Garlan's hooked foot. As Daven fell he took a tighter hold of Garlan's arm and dragged the younger man down with him. They grappled amidst the fallen chairs and twisted carpets of Lord Tywin's pavilion. Daven was slightly larger, but Garlan was stronger than he seemed and was possessed with incredible speed and flexibility. And rage. Twice Daven thought he had trapped the Tyrell knight, but even as he tried to stab Garlan with his own dagger, the younger man would squirm free and try to twist the lock back on Daven. A fate that he avoided twice until Garlan grabbed hold of Daven's beard and forced his head to twist sideways. With this leverage Garland was able to push Daven into the leg of Lord Tywin's heavy oak table, trapping his arm.
Garlan yelled and attacked Daven with his dagger. Daven felt the pommel of Garlan's dagger pummel his right side, he felt ribs crack under the weight of the knight's blows, and he felt ribs break. With a final flurry of blows, Garlan left Daven on the ground, wounded and gasping for breath through the pain that had quickly consumed his chest.
Daven lay still for what felt like hours but was likely only seconds. Only now did Daven begin to take notice of the rest of the fighting in the pavilion. Reachlord and Westerman fighting each other with dagger, fist, and knife. A sudden roar got his attention and Daven slowly turned his head. His eyesight blurred from light from lack of air as he struggled to breathe through the pain. Garlan, armed with a stolen sword, was locked in battle with the Hound. Behind the Hound, Joffrey was on the ground pressing his hand against a wound on his leg.
Daven pushed himself up to his knees and fumbled at his belt for his hand-dragon. With difficulty, he managed to pull the weapon free, with greater difficulty he pulled back the lock and took aim at Garlan Tyrell. Only to have his line of fire blocked by the snow white cloak and armour of Ser Mandon Moore, who joined his Kingsguard brother in arms in the defence of King Joffrey. Faced down by two swords of the kingsguard Ser Garlan did not waste time in making a swift retreat, taking some of his father's bannermen with him.
Daven lowered his arm and gritted his teeth through the pain that continued to shoot through his ribs. Only then did he begin to take note of the rest of Lord Tywin's pavilion. The living were already leaving the Reachlords guarded by soldiers and the Westermen nursing their new wounds. The dead were fairly few in number, aside from Lord Tywin and Lord Mace, Daven only saw a couple Reachlords he didn't recognize lying still on the ground and… and Ser Kevan. He was lying not far from his brother with a great read and black stain marred the front of his silk tunic. Daven closed his eyes, forced himself to his feet, and left the pavilion. Once outside it became clearer that the fighting had not spread far beyond the pavilion and had been swiftly ended by the arrival of Ser Mandon Moore, Ser Bronn Wolfsbane, and half a hundred soldiers. The Reachlords, many of them bearing wounds, were on their knees and were surrounded by Ser Bronn's men.
Coming right behind Daven was Joffrey, limping and holding onto Ser Mandon to support his injured leg. He glared at the Reachlords. "Kill all of them! Kill the traitors! I command it!"
The soldiers hesitated for a moment looking to their leader. Ser Bronn shrugged. "As his Grace commands," and ran Lord Arthur Ambrose through with his blade. His soldiers followed suit raising their blades and sending blood flying.
Daven closed his eyes and said nothing.
Melisandre
Her body heaved with great breaths of pleasure, pain, and pure exhaustion. Melisandre strangled a moan as she pulled herself upright off of the damp ground and from there into her saddle. Her power, spirit, and body drained by the birthing, aching in the predawn gloom, and she knew her trials today had only just begun. The day would pass slowly and painfully as she forced herself to remain seen astride her mare and next to Stannis. She wished instead that she could retreat to the restful embrace of spending the coming day within a wagon, but it would not do for her to stay hidden from sight. The servants of R'hllor must be strong and be seen to be strong. Nonetheless, she struggled not to slump in her saddle as her pale mare's hooves splashed in the slow and cool waters of the Cockleswent, as they made their way back to the camp. The darkness of night still hung heavy in the air, though far away in the east pricks of pink were beginning to appear on the horizon.
Even so, as she grew closer to the camp she began to see the shadow of movement as men, horses, oxen, and wagons moved in the dark. Stannis had given several new commands to his commanders after their... meeting last night and now they were being carried out. By the time the sun rises this army will be gone. Melisandre twisted the reins around her hands as another cramp twisted her insides and sent fiery shocks of pain through her body. Her mare left the river and passed the low bank with it's barely started defences, passed the perimeter of the camp and the hurrying only half awake soldiers, and up the hill until Melisandre reached the summit, where the nightfire, now reduced to mere embers, still smoldered.
As Melisandre waited for the sunrise in the east, she watched the army make ready to leave and ate of necessity for the first time in a decade. Bread, bacon, and cheese simple fare but her drained body struggled to keep it down. She chewed mechanically, forcing the food down her throat, even as her stomach threatened to send it back up.
Near an hour passed before the army left the bank of the Cockleswent. Using the chaos and confusion that Melisandre knew was consuming the enemy as a smokescreen to flee the larger enemy army. She had thought for a time of using the death of Lord Tywin to launch an attack but Stannis head feared that an attack would only serve to unite the enemy, and even if it did not the enemy was so numerous as to make an open battle too risky for Stannis' demoralised army.
They marched westwards away from the ford and towards Cider Hall, where they would rest before retreating up the Mander, back to Bitterbridge and all the way to King's Landing if need be. Early in the afternoon, the army was joined by several riders from, men loyal to Stannis who had been taken prisoner by the enemy and who had escaped during the chaos of Lord Tywin's death, chief among them was the beardless Lord Owen Fossoway, who brought news of the enemy.
"Lord Tywin is dead, slain at the dawn, rumour has it by Lord Mace," the young Lord of Cider Hall spoke to Stannis and his council. "Lord Mace himself was killed by the bastard, by Joffrey, which sparked combat between many of the present Reachlords and the Westermen. I have it on good authority that Ser Garlan fled with some of the Reachlords and several thousand men."
"Only some of the Reachlords?" Questioned Lord Alesander Staedmon.
"Things were so confused," Lord Owen continued. "That by the time Ser Garlan fled many hadn't even heard of Lord Tywin's and Lord Mace's deaths. At first, they thought it was an attack by you, Your Grace. And after the fighting was done… well given the choice between the son of a murderer and a king who would you choose my lords?"
"Even king who had executed their fellow lords?" Lord Casper Wylde asked.
Lord Steffon Varner shrugged his shoulders. "There's not one House in all the Reach that hasn't dreamed of taking Highgarden for themselves if House Tyrell has betrayed the king then it only mean opportunity for every other house."
"A false king, but the point is understood" Stannis ground his teeth. "What other casualties occurred amongst their lords, and how many of the soldiers?"
"I can't say Your Grace I escaped not long after Ser Garlan fled, but from what I saw I wouldn't think the army's numbers were terribly damaged, though there was still some fighting as I left."
Stannis frowned. "If you escaped, my lord," King Stannis spoke. "Where is your cousin, Ser Jon Fossoway?"
Lord Owen glowered a moment before speaking. "Lord Mace offered Ser Jon his freedom, on account of them being goodbrothers and Ser Jon accepted. Lord Mace welcomed him back with open arms."
"A foolish mistake," Lord Casper Wylde declared.
"Very," agreed Lord Owen. "But then disloyalty runs in the blood of the green apple Fossoways. Your Grace if I might offer my assurances that my own family would never repeat the treason of our cousins and-"
"-Enough my lord," Stannis interrupted the Lord of Cider Hall. "See to your men and then ride ahead. We'll arrive at Cider Hall by tomorrow evening at the latest."
Lord Owen paused a moment. "Yes, Your Grace," he stood from the table, bowed, and then took his leave.
King Stannis turned his attention to his other lords, but Melisandre did not pay attention her mind had turned to other matters, to other opportunities.
After the meeting, Melisandre made her way to the part of the camp reserved for House Fossoway. She walked purposefully through apple marked tents of House Fossoway. Red apples only, she noted. Lord Owen was within his own tent preparing for his departure to his family's ancestral castle. A generous person could call Lord Owen the proud scion of an ancient house who was much concerned with his family dignity, but Melisandre was not so generous and saw Lord Owen for what he was, a gormless, arrogant, and blindly ambitious man-child, a tool at best. But every tool has a purpose, even a dull one.
Melisandre entered the tent without asking. "My lord."
Lord Owen jumped. "Lady Melisandre. What an unexpected pleasure."
Melisandre let her fairest smile play over her features. "How old is House Fossoway?"
"P-pardon my lady?" Lord Owen stuttered, clearly surprised by the question.
"House Fossoway, how old is your family?"
"Uhm," Lord Owen stalled for a time struggling to clear his mind. "Lefend, er, legend traces our descent from Garth Greenhand by way of his son Foss the Archer, which would have been over ten thousand years ago."
Melisandre said nothing but slipped further into Lord Owen's tent. "And?"
"Uhm, the maesters can trace our line back nearly three thousand years, to the Andal Conquests. Beyond that things grow a bit vague."
"And for how long have the sons of House Fossoway been loyal servants to their rightful king?"
"Always," Lord Owen said with more than a hint of alarm in his voice. "If this is about my traitor cousin-"
"-Does Cider Hall of a godswood?" Melisandre interrupted.
"Uhm… no," Lord Owen said lamely.
"I thought all the great castles of Westeros had a godswood and a weirwood heart tree."
"Cider Hall used to have a heart tree, but… my ancestors burned it when we converted to the Faith of the Seven."
"And why did House Fossoway convert?"
"Our king demanded it of us..."
"And a loyal vassal does as their king demands does he not?" Before Lord Owen could respond Melisandre spoke again. "Come to my nightfire tonight," she laid a hand on his arm. "I insist." Then she turned and left.
That night as the faithful gathered to hear her prayers Melisandre lit the nightfire Stannis Baratheon stood in attendance, and Lord Owen Fossoway stood opposite from him. As Melisandre turned and spoke her prayers to the gathered faithful she met Lord Owen's eyes, and the Lord of Cider Hall bowed his head in understanding. Lord Owen left for Cider Hall later that night and the rest of the army followed in the morning.
It was nearing evening by the time the walls of Cider Hall came into sight. The gates opened before the king and his escort, including Melisandre, followed him. Lord Owen waited within, his household spread around him, as the king entered Cider Hall and rode up to the middle of the courtyard where he dismounted and waited.
"Your Grace," Lord Owen knelt. "Cider Hall is yours."
Stannis bowed his head slightly in acknowledgement.
Lord Owen stood and pulled a letter from his belt. "Some good news, Your Grace. A raven has come from King's Landing. Lord Edmure has defeated the Blackwood rebels in a battle along the Red Fork and has left Lord Jonos Bracken to put Raventree Hall under siege. Lord Edmure writes that he is now moving south to battle the Vances."
Stannis nodded almost imperceptibly. "What news of Joffrey?"
"My men report he is still idling on the Cockleswent but is gathering supplies to begin a march."
"Likely to try and finish what his grandfather started," said Lord Renfred Rykker.
"And we have not the numbers the challenge him," Lord Alesander Staedmon replied.
"We will continue northwards," Stannis said, cutting off his lord's doomsaying. "Send a raven to King's Landing for reinforcements and supplies, they are to meet us at Bitterbridge."
"Yes Your Grace," Lord Owen bowed, and waved a hand to his maester, sending the grey-robed man off to his tower. "There is one more thing, Your Grace if you'd please come with me."
Stannis said nothing but followed the Lord of Cider Hall through the outer courtyard, past a narrow gate under the inner wall and into the inner courtyard where the sept was. Where the sept had been, Melisandre smiled for the stained glass windows and crystal regalia had been shattered, and the statues of the Seven had been dragged outside and the placed amidst an unlit pyre.
Lord Owen snapped his fingers and a soldier quickly crossed the courtyard, carrying a burning brand which he passed to Lord Owen. The Lord of Cider Hall offered the brand to Stannis. "Your Grace."
Wordlessly Stannis turned his gaze from Lord Owen to stare at Melisandre, Lord Owen then took it as a sign from the king and instead offered the brand to Melisandre. Silently Melisandre took the brand without a word and advanced upon the false gods. And as the light faded from the sky she smiled as the flames consumed them. A smile she forced herself to keep, for though the flames burned hot all she saw within them was ice.
Arya
In a strange way life in King's Landing was much like life in Harrenhal. No one really seemed to care about her or even notice her so long as Arya stayed quiet and respectful, but instead of scrubbing floors and fetching water Arya was made to accompany Princess Shireen almost constantly, for though there were other children at court Arya was the only girl, and she'd overheard Queen Selyse saying that it would be improper for any boys to be in Shireen's company for so long. Arya didn't think she was meant to hear that, but as Queen Selyse seldom let Shireen leave her sight, Arya heard many things she was likely not meant to hear, both from the queen and from others.
As the weeks passed her by in King's Landing Arya heard hundreds of things, most of them just gossip, which maid was fucking which knight, which knight the cooks hated. Or how often Queen Selyse trimmed her moustache. But some were important, snippets of greater conversations bits and pieces between the queen, the lords, and the Small Council. She heard that there was still fighting in the Riverlands between Lord Edmure and rebels led by House Blackwood and House Vance, and with bandits led by Beric Dondarrion, who had been stripped of his lands and titles by Lord Alester. That Ser Justin Massey was leaving King's Landing to join Stannis in the Reach. She heard that there were Dornish raiders in the south led by the Red Viper and that sellsails had been spotted gathering in the Stepstones and the Disputed Lands. That Lady Arryn was furious that Lord Royce had come to King's Landing. She heard that the Golden Company had made camp in the Disputed Lands for nearly three months but hadn't taken a contract with Lys, Myr, or Tyrosh. Arya didn't know what was worse not learning more about what was going on beyond the walls of the Red Keep or knowing that there was nothing she could do to about any of it.
With a quiet sigh, Arya pulled her mind away from matters beyond the walls and back to tonight's ordeal. Her guards were escorting her through the halls of Maegor's Holdfast. Arya was wearing the silly blue and yellow dress Princess Shireen had given to her as a gift, it had little white lace snowflakes embroidered along the hems and around her waist. After every dinner, Arya had with the princess she was given another dress. Soon I'll have more than I had in Winterfell. Her guards led her up a twisting flight of stairs though they needn't have bothered Arya had made the journey from her chambers to the princess' dining room so many times she'd all but memorized every inch of the floors and the walls, every statue, and every tapestry.
The dining chamber itself was guarded by two of the kingsguard, who Arya recognised as Ser Robar Royce and Ser Emmon Cuy. Arya's own guards moved to the side to let her pass, and as Arya advanced Ser Emmon opened the door for her, letting Arya enter the small dining room behind it. The room was occupied by a broad oval table, made from beechwood, around the table were arrayed a half dozen chairs all but three were already occupied. Shireen was sitting at the head of the table, opposite from the door, the chairs on the right side of the table were occupied by two boys both a couple of years older than Arya and Shireen, one was dark haired and severe looking, the other had black hair and blue eyes, both of them had big ears. She recognised the first as Dickon Tarly, the lord of Horn Hill, and the princess' cousin, he'd been at several of the dinners before. She didn't know the other boy, but she thought he looked a little like Gendry. Farther across the room was another smaller table, where Queen Selyse and Lord Alester were sitting. Ser Rolland Storm lurked in a corner of the room, like a white shadow behind Princess Shireen. Patchface wasn't present, thank the gods, Arya was not afraid of the fool, but he unnerved her with his queer rhymes and strange songs.
Arya took the seat at the foot of the table, opposite Shireen, and next to the boy who looked like Gendry, leaving the two empty seats of Stannis and Steffon Seaworth who arrived only a few moments after Arya.
Shireen smiled as the Seaworth brothers sat down. "Thank you for coming," she said. "Thank you all."
Arya smiled as if she was happy to be here. As if we had a choice, Arya glowered internally, remembering what Joffrey would do if he didn't get his way. Dickon Tarly didn't look very happy either, but then he never did.
"Welcome all, for those of you who don't already know," Shireen continued. "This is my cousin, Edric Storm," she waved a welcoming hand at the new boy.
"Hello," he said charmingly.
Arya put a smile on and greeted him in turn. As was proper. Arya smiled and gave thanks as the first of the three courses, a thick chowder, was brought out. As was proper. Arya laughed politely when Edric told a joke that made even dour Dickon Tarly chuckle. As was proper. She took dainty sips of the chowder, and polite bites of the venison pie that followed. All as was proper. She smiled sweetly when appropriate, said her courtesies. Yes my Princess, no my Princess, of course, my Princess. All her thoughts were bent on remembering the lessons Septa Mordane had tried to drill into her. So much so that she began to lose track of what was actually being said letting herself fall into a trance, one not so unlike what Syrio had described sometimes happening in battle. This is a fight, she decided, just a different kind. That one thought of Syrio swiftly began to bring others to the fore of her mind. Before long Arya felt long repressed sadness and anger begin to well up, but she quashed them back down, though not before she felt some tears begin to well up.
"Arya?" Shireen's concerned tone shocked Arya out of her memories. "Are you alright," the princess asked.
Arya bit back a reflexive uhm. It's not polite, Septa Mordane's voice echoed up from the depths of memory. "I'm fine, thank you, my Princess."
Shireen frowned but before she could speak a slammed fist sent cutlery rattling and silenced all conversation in the room, even Ser Rolland was startled, his hand going halfway to his sword before he realised that there was no real danger. Lord Alester, who was glaring at the queen, spared a glance at the children's table before unclenching his fist and standing up. He took Queen Selyse's hand as he stalked away and all but dragged his niece, the queen, out of the room.
A few moments after Lord Alester and Queen Selyse left the room Arya leapt on the chance their disturbance had given her. "Princess, might I be excused. Just for a moment."
Shireen looked startled for a moment, but then smiled her queer shy smile that touched only half her face. "Of course, Lady Arya."
Arya stood from the table, curtsied, and mumbled her thanks before leaving. She ignored the twin stares of the kingsguard knights and travelled down the hall, turned the corner, and stopped. Arya closed her eyes, swift as a deer and quiet as a shadow. She slipped her fancy shoes off her feet and slipped down the hall, following the echoing footsteps of Lord Alester and Queen Selyse.
She shadowed them for a minute before the two Florents stepped inside a narrow little hallway that ended in a small window. Lord Alester and Queen Selyse were standing close together, glaring at each other. Lord Alester's fists were clenched so tight his knuckles had turned whiter than the snowflakes on Arya's dress. Quiet as a shadow, Arya crept closer to the queen and her uncle, staying hidden in a corner and within the shadow of an old statue.
Queen Selyse spoke first her voice sharp and shrill. "I don't want Shireen to hold one of these dinners again! It's disgraceful to have her," Selyse's faced twisted in anger. "Cavorting with the children of traitors, criminals, and now a bastard who shames me and my husband with his every breath!"
Lord Alester waved his hand dismissively. "She's been kept isolated for too long, Shireen needs to learn how to speak to people, how to play the game of words, and that's not something she's going to learn from you or His Grace."
Selyse's face twisted even further at that insult. "I will not tolerate this insult upon my family's honour."
"Whether or not you tolerate it is not my concern. I am the Hand of the King and unless King Stannis himself demands that these dinners cease then I will have them continue. Have I made myself clear?"
"Perfectly," Selyse said tersely.
"Good, then let's return to dinner." Lord Alester turned to leave but stopped when Selyse spoke again.
"I don't want her to sit the Iron Throne again. It's not her place. A princess should be learning the womanly arts not sitting atop that monstrosity. Beside what if she cut herself? It's to dangerous for her to-"
"-Dangerous?" Lord Alester interrupted the queen, his voice quiet, and cold and sharp as a knife's edge. "Do you want to know what's really dangerous. Being the first reigning queen to ever sit the Iron Throne. Which Shireen will be." Lord Alester's voice went even colder. "That is unless you can do what you've failed to do thus far and give King Stannis a son."
Queen Selyse went stiff and slapped her uncle. "You will not speak of my private affairs in such a manner."
"You're a queen Selyse!" Lord Alester shouted back. "You have no private affairs everything you do is of concern to the realm!"
"You will not speak to me like this I am your queen!" Selyse made to slap her uncle again but Lord Alester blocked her blow and grabbed her shoulders with both hands.
"You are a queen because that is what I made you! Do you have any idea how many favours I had to use up, how many strings I had to pull, or how much gold I had to spend to make you Stannis' wife! And what have you done to show for all my work? Only a single sickly little girl."
Selyse stepped back, shocked into silence by her uncle's anger.
Lord Alester exhaled and stood up straight, seemingly forcing himself back to calmness. "There is one thing upon which your husband and myself agree and that is that if Shireen is to rule one day she must be seen to be ruling. Now let's get back to dinner, lest the children start to worry." The two adults turned and began to make their way back to the dining chamber. Arya froze inside her shadow praying for Lord Alester and Queen Selyse to look past her. They didn't.
"What are you doing!" Queen Selyse shrieked.
Arya winced and slipped out of the shadows. Somehow she didn't think Queen Selyse or Lord Alester would be as understanding as her father.
Sansa
Casterly Rock loomed large and golden in the sunlight the great bulk of the Lannister castle was more massive than anything Sansa had ever seen. King's Landing, Winterfell, Goldengrove, and every other castle, city, or town she'd ever seen could have been swallowed up by the mountain to never be seen again. They rode their horses up the stone steps that led to the Lion's Mouth, the great gate of Casterly Rock. Within the Rock Sansa's horse was quickly taken away a page while a second page led her to a pair of Lannister women. They were both a few years older than Sansa, and had the typical golden blonde hair and green eyes of House Lannister, though neither had the stunning beauty of Queen Cersei, and they looked similar enough to be sisters.
The two sisters stepped forward and curtsied to Sansa, who courteously returned the gesture, as the elder of the two spoke. "Hello Sansa, I'm Cerenna and this is Myrielle," she gestured at the younger woman and smiled. "Daven is our brother," she stepped forward and embraced Sansa in a hug. "We're so happy to welcome you to our family."
Sansa froze in surprise and not knowing what else to do returned the hug.
Cerenna smiled. "The servants will see to your belongings, Myrielle and I have other plans for you."
Their plan as it turned out was to take Sansa on a tour of Lannisport. The sisters took three fine horses from the stables, and half a dozen redcloaks as their guard, and then led Sansa into Lannisport. The differences between Lannisport and King's Landing were obvious. Lannisport was just as large but was far less crowded than the capital. The sewers and pipes were fully functional sending the refuse and filth of the city into the ocean instead of leaving it in the streets. As a result, the city was cleaner and smelled far better. In place of the Flea Bottom and crowded stinking wharfs of the Fishmarket were prosperous shops and wide clean streets where nearly everything one could imagine was sold.
They must have passed through half a hundred shops and sold everything, the best jewelry the West could offer, fine wines, delicate luxuries from the Free Cities, fine furs from the North, and beautiful dresses. They never stayed very long there was always another shop for Cerenna and Myrielle to show Sansa. Throughout it all the sisters spoke endlessly on the uniqueness of this shop, the specialities of that shop, and a hundred other details that Sansa soon forgot in the flurry. As they traversed the waterfront shouting and the sound of drums drew Sansa's attention to the harbour. A number of galleys were moving in the calm water, their red and gold sails were furled, and their great battering rams lurked beneath the water, as the oars pushed the ships off their moors and into the Sunset Sea.
Cerenna answered Sansa's unspoken question. "There's ironmen raiders around Kayce and Feastfires. The fleet's going to go teach them a lesson they won't soon forget."
"They have a king again," Myrielle said. "Did you know that?"
"I'd heard that Lord Balon had crowned himself again," Sansa replied quietly.
"Oh no he's dead," Myrielle said. "His brother is king now?"
That caught Sansa's attention and she turned to look at the Lannister girl. "Victarion?" She asked recalling some of what Theon had said of his uncles.
"No not him and not the priest either, the other one Uron or Eron or something like that."
"Euron," Sansa supplied. In those happy years in Winterfell Theon could spend hours boasting about his family, how strong and brave and fierce they were, but he only rarely mentioned Euron, and there was always a hint of dread when he did mention his banished uncle.
"That's it," Myrielle said gleefully. "King Euron," she sniffed. "Though I dare say he won't be a king for long, Lord Tywin will set him straight just like he will all the other traitors and rebels that plague King Joffrey's realm."
Even only a few weeks ago Sansa would have spoken her agreement, made some courteous declaration of loyalty to King Joffrey, and House Lannister, now she simply stayed silent. For a few seconds, Myrielle and Cerenna waited for Sansa to say something as courtesy dictated but as the silence stretched on and became awkward the two sisters turned and continued to show Sansa the sights, sounds, and shops of Lannisport, all of which Sansa paid only a fleeting attention to. Four hours past noon they returned to Casterly Rock.
Her goodsisters led Sansa upwards, through endless corridors, and deeper into Casterly Rock, to a set of rooms on the southwest side of Casterly Rock, overlooking Lannisport and the Sunset Sea. That night Sansa dined with her goodsisters Cerenna and Myrielle, her goodmother Lady Myranda had chosen not to dine with them.
For a time the two women had tried to speak with Sansa, as they had in Lannisport, but she only responded with meaningless courtesy, uttering nonsense platitudes to their every question or concern, if she responded at all. In time the two sisters gave up and let Sansa eat her meal in peace.
After her dinner, Sansa retired to her own chamber and spent her evening alone. She stole a blanket from her bed and moved out onto a large chair that rested on her chamber's balcony, overlooking the Sunset Sea. Wrapped in the blanket and sitting in the chair she could see the great stretch of the western ocean, and she watched the spectacular sunsets. The sea turning into a great mirror of gold, crimson, and blue. Purple clouds streaking across the blue sky. She could even watch the goings on in the harbour of Lannisport. It was windy so high in Casterly Rock but the sea seemed calm, disturbed only by the ships the plowed through the waves. In the distance, she could faintly see the Lannister fleet making it's way farther west. When the sun slipped beneath the horizon Sansa returned to her bed and cried herself to sleep. Sansa came to spend a good many evenings like that.
A week after her arrival at Casterly Rock, Sansa and her goodfamily were awoken by a squad of redcloaks, led by a skinny sergeant with a huge beard, who entered their chambers unannounced.
"What is this?" Cerenna demanded of the sergeant.
"A precaution mi'lady. Her Grace the queen fears that there are traitors inside the Rock."
"Traitors! What traitors?"
The sergeant shook his head. "I cannot say mi'lady. I only know that we were sent to ensure no harm came to any of you."
Sansa quietly watched the confrontation continue from the door to her bedchamber, thinking of a similar day in a different castle that had also been purged of traitors by Queen Cersei. Ultimately Sansa's goodsisters quieted down and the redcloaks remained for the rest of the day, opening the door only for the servants who brought them food and drink, or who came to clean and change the linens. It was nearing nightfall when the guards finally left.
The next morning they were summoned to court in the great hall. The hall itself was everything one would expect from the Lannisters of Casterly Rock, great lion statues plated in gold, with ruby eyes, and ivory fangs stood guard at the entrance and by the high golden throne, where Queen Cersei sat. The hall was carved from the stone on the high on the southern side of Casterly Rock, the southern wall had great windows of stained glass that bore images of the magnificence of Lannisters past.
As a Lannister by marriage, Sansa joined her goodfamily on a dais that rose above the rest of the great hall. She was separated from Queen Cersei and the golden throne only by the Small Council. Which has received some new members, Sansa noted. Lord Sebaston Farman, a man of an age with the queen with three silver ships on his surcoat, the bald and soft, and weak-chinned Ser Harys Swyft, and the coughing Maester Pycelle. The only person missing was Lord Varys. It suddenly struck Sansa that she had not seen hide nor hair of the simpering Master of Whispers since arriving at Casterly Rock. Where is Lord Varys?
Before Sansa could give it any more thought Queen Cersei began to speak. "The court is gathered today to address the traitors in our midst. Let it be known that my father the great Lord Tywin, the Lion of the Rock, was, on the eve of victory over Lord Stannis, betrayed and murdered by Lord Mace Tyrell," the queen trembled with rage as she spoke. "And in their treason Lord Mace and his treacherous son Ser Garlan killed many of our brave western sons and brothers."
Lady Myranda went tense with fear, and Sansa heard her goodmother praying so softly she could scarcely be heard. "Not Daven. Not Daven. Not Daven."
Queen Cersei continued. "Amongst the dead lie Ser Addam Marbrand, Lord Philip Foote, Ser Flement Brax, and my own uncle Ser Kevan Lannister. Were it not for the courage of our great King Joffrey many more would have died including my cousin Ser Daven, who even now recovers from wounds dealt to him by the traitors."
Lady Myranda's prayers stopped as she gave a great gasp of relief and hugged her daughters close to her.
The queen continued, ignoring the outburst from her cousin's mother. "In light of this treachery, and by my authority as Queen Regent and Lady of Casterly Rock, I had all those whose allegiance is suspect placed under arrest, until such time as they have proved their loyalty."
Queen Cersei stood and walked from the hall, followed by the Small Council. Sansa and her goodfamily rose next walking a third of the length of the great hall. Sansa took care to see the faces of those they passed. There were no Reachmen present, even little lady Elinor Rowan was missing. When Sansa and her goodfamily left the hall, she began to turn left, to return to their chambers but was stopped by Myrielle's hand on her arm. Sansa repressed a flinch and turned to look at her goodsister.
"We're going to the sept, to give thanks for Daven's life and pray for his recovery."
Sansa froze. "Uh… House Stark keeps the Old Gods, I would prefer to pray before the heart tree."
Lady Myranda sniffed back her tears. "Of course Sansa. Cerenna, Myrielle and I will meet you back in our chambers."
"Thank you, my lady," Sansa made herself smile and give her goodmother a small curtsy before turning to make her way to her gods.
The godswood of Casterly Rock was nothing of the sort. It was aptly named the Stone Garden and that was what there was for there was little and nothing that could grow at the summit of Casterly Rock save for the heart tree. There were stone paths, stone rivers, stone hedges, stone trees, there were even little stone flowers, and a great many statues as well. The heart tree was a proper weirwood, though it was small and twisted, barely a quarter of the size of the tree in Winterfell, all the paths of the Stone Garden led to it. Sansa walked reverently towards the tree and knelt before it. The skirts of her dress spreading around her as her wide sleeves danced in the quick wind that raced around the top of Casterly Rock.
Sansa sat in silence for several long minutes staring at the roaring face of the heart tree. Daven was near killed. I should pray for him, it's what a dutiful wife would do in the songs… Sansa's heart hardened. But life is not a song.
"You killed my father," she accused the gods. "You killed Lady. You killed Arya. You killed Bran. You killed Rickon," tears began to form in her eyes. "Why couldn't you kill my husband? Why! What has my family done to you that you should hate us so?"
She didn't expect an answer and so was not surprised when no answer came. After a few minutes, Sansa stood to leave and the wind blew hard from the north, sending the branches and leaves of the heart tree rattling. Sansa paused in midstep as, for just a moment, she thought she'd heard Bran's voice in the wind.