Joffrey Baratheon stands in a window of Maegor's Holdfast, crown upon his head, looking down at the spiked moat below. There are no sweeping views to be seen from the Holdfast, surrounded on all sides by the looming walls of the Red Keep, enclosing the inner sanctum and those trapped within it in their own tiny world, cut off from the castle and the city beyond.
There is still a stain of dry blood on the far side of the moat where Renly had executed Ilyn Payne. But since that day, no men have emerged from the doors into the Keep. For all they could know, the castle was abandoned. But as Lyman Darry slips into the solar, arriving early to their council meeting, he finds the young king waiting, on edge, as if his uncle's forces may storm the holdfast at any moment. Unnoticed, Lyman steps past the empty council table, once again wondering by what bizarre fate he had been deemed worthy of a seat there. A feat of pure chance. But it was time to do a small part towards earning it. A councilor should have no secrets from their king.
"Your grace?" he cautiously breaks the silence, drawing nearer to the window.
"Another day and still he does not show," Joffrey mutters, barely acknowledging Lyman. "Is it out of fear or disrespect?"
"He underestimates you."
"That's right! He thinks he's so mighty, him and all his other traitors!" Joffrey finally turns away from the window, stepping back towards Lyman. "But once we're free, I'll show them who they should really be afraid of!"
"I've never doubted you," Lyman swears, praying the lie does not show on his face.
"Of course not," Joffrey laughs, confidently dropping into his seat at the head of the table. "You and the Hightowers have always listened, not like the stupid old men that served Father. No, take your seat. Here." He points to the chair to his right.
"Your grace, there is something I must confess," Lyman nervously forces the topic into the open, the chair shifting with a squeak that seems deafening. He strains to maintain a confident face as he sits, glancing over to Joffrey as he gulps down jumbled words, searching for the right thing to say. But to his surprise, the young king's mouth drops open to laugh.
"Ha! You really thought I didn't know? Your little seamstress may be clever, but you can only hide so much. No one gets that fat off of the sort of rations Gaunt is feeding us!"
"Oh." This was one response Lyman was unprepared for. "So… it's not a problem?"
"Of course not! Did you hit your head?" Still laughing, Joffrey jumps up, hurrying to a cart in the corner where a flagon of wine waits. "Even precious Ned Stark had a bastard, Lyman, no one is going to throw you out over that!" He fills two goblets to the brim with strong-smelling drink.
"Well, there's another…"
"Another!" Joffrey spits, fumbling the flagon and spilling wine on the floor with a wet splat. "By the gods, no wonder Father liked you so much!" He returns to the table, sloppily carrying the overfull goblets. But he stops, withholding Lyman's drink for a moment. "But you must tell me where you're finding them."
"Of course, your grace," Lyman lets his smile relax as he accepts the wine, taking a long, relieved drink. "Lady Cassanda lives in the Castle Wendwater, in the Kingswood. I mean to make her my wife once you have your throne."
"She sounds practically lowborn," Joffrey chuckles disdainfully as he sits back down. "I don't think I've ever heard of that family."
"They are not wealthy, but I am honorbound…"
"True, true, so they say. You may do whatever you want with the girls. Once you're Lord of Harrenhal, no one but me will be able to tell you what to do. And I say do whatever you like."
He raises his goblet in a toast. Lyman meets it with a shining clink, and together they drink. This is good, he thinks. This is right. He lets his worries simmer down as he relaxes in the chair. Outside the chambers, he can hear the rest of the council approaching.
"I wish I had eyes in the Riverlands," Joffrey muses, once more staring out the window. "I wager Ser Urrigon and Alyn have made short work of the traitors by now."
Lord Rolland Crakehall waits behind a massive oaken desk, polished to a careful sheen. Even seated, he towers over the room. He sits in dark green, with brown leather resting over his broad shoulders, largely obscured by his massive beard, thick brown curls tightly braided and corded through black steel rings. His hair has retreated back across his scalp, leaving the top of his head bare and deeply furrowed, while what remains tumbles in loose, gray-tinted waves down to his shoulders. His huge fingers drum an impatient beat on the table.
Before him sit Ser Erren Florent and Alyn Ambrose. The tall knight, clad still in all black from his clandestine mission, sits arms crossed, his receding hairline a black arrow pointing down to his impatient face. In contrast, Alyn's thin frame strives to take up as little space as possible, nervous sweat beading under his tight orange curls, waiting to release an anxious waterfall down the front of his freckled face.
Crakehall's sons - Ser Tybolt and Ser Merlon - stand on towering guard by the entrance, cinching the tent flap shut to block out prying eyes, while a cluster of squires hover in the far corner, none disturbing the quiet that has laid over them ever since Alyn and Erren were dragged here, fresh from their flight across the river. Alyn's eyes are planted firmly on his feet, pulse still pounding, desperately trying to rationalize his next move. There's no going back now. They'll whip me as a traitor – or worse. The only hope now is if Urrigon's plan somehow works. Slowly, he looks up to face the looming lord as he finally breaks the silence.
"Boys, ale," Rolland orders without looking back to the squires, who make haste to fill three fine wooden tankards, studded with onyx and carved with boar's tusks, plunking them down upon the desk. Rolland is quick to take a long drink, but Erren does not touch his. Alyn takes a sip, careful not to show his unease at the bitter, lukewarm taste. Watching, Rolland offers a slight nod of approval before lowering his tankard, traces of foam still left in his beard.
Reaching beneath the desk, he produces the remains of Lord Tarly's ebony box, broken into pieces. Within its shattered remains, Alyn can see the scroll with Renly's seal.
"My maester has confirmed to me the truth of this scroll." He tosses it across to them. "Renly's hand and Renly's seal. But what they cannot tell me is why I should trust you. Why bring this to me now? Your families march in Renly's army."
"Because it is treason!" Erren insists, seemingly offended that the western lord would question his proposal. "House Florent will not stand for this!"
"In my experience, House Florent will stand for whatever will profit them," Rolland's dark eyes look down disapprovingly. "I cannot make such a move without consulting Lord Tywin."
"There's no time for that!" Alyn blurts out, scarcely believing his own voice as it leaps out of his throat. "Lord Tarly is leaving tomorrow! It will be too late, then!"
Slowly, Rolland turns to face Alyn, who can feel his face flushing red, freckles darkening as he shrinks back into his seat. But the big lord's face shows no anger at the outburst. "Your spirit is commendable, boy. But I cannot make such an oath without the blessing of my liege."
"What does Lord Tywin want?" Alyn feels his courage beginning to return.
"I don't think I understand."
"Why has he sent you to war against the Starks and Tullys?"
"To defend the honor of his House."
"And none have attacked that honor worse than Renly!" Alyn jabs one thin finger down onto the wrinkled letter. "He's accused Joffrey of being a bastard! Queen Cersei's son, Lord Tywin's grandson! He is the one true king of Westeros and Renly means to steal his crown! And if you don't join us now, we won't be able to stop him! Lord Tywin can wage all the war he wants but his grandchildren will be dead! You have your orders to defend the honor of House Lannister. This is how you do that! This is how we win!"
As his voice trails off, Alyn gulps quietly, his feet shifting in the dirt. Erren is glaring daggers at him, but Rolland leans back in his chair, arms crossed and eyes closed. Alyn finds himself holding his breath, waiting for someone to speak. But only a gnat buzzing in a far corner of the tent dares to break the silence. Until…
"Tybolt," Rolland's dark eyes snap back open, looking towards his eldest son. "One day, you will be in this chair. What do you think?"
The knight steps forward. "I think Lord Tywin honors those who act upon his command without requiring his time. I think that Renly and all who follow him are traitors who would destroy the good name of House Lannister. And I think that my blade yearns for traitors' blood."
The slightest approving smile curls Rolland's chapped lips. "Well put, my son." He stands, beckoning Alyn and Erren to follow. "Come with me. I will show you how I mean to humble the great Randyll Tarly."
"Any word from Lord Tarly?"
Back in the Red Keep, Renly Baratheon looks down the length of the Small Council chambers, waiting for a response. Lords Florent and Caswell turn to Lord Mace Tyrell, who can only shake his head. Ser Aron Santagar shrugs. But Varys nods, confidently.
"Randyll Tarly is a cautious man, your grace. He will not put his name to paper until he is secure and confident in your place upon the throne…"
"Randyll's loyalty to me is unwavering!" Mace interrupts. "He will do as I command!"
"I do not doubt that, Lord Tyrell," Varys' attention does not stray from Renly. "He will bring his armies to us, but he will not respond to our missives. The land is full of enemies who would use our words against us."
"He is wise for it," Renly decides. "Send word to the surrounding keeps. We will track his movements through them."
"At once," old maester Varman confers.
"I have more news, your grace," Varys offers. "My little birds have located Gunthor and Heleana Hightower. They have taken shelter with Lord Stannis in the Manning manse."
"I knew it!" Mace blurts out, pounding a victorious fist on the table.
"Many of Stannis' knights have abandoned him after the High Septon's denunciation. The Hightowers, however, seem unmoved."
"That is… concerning," Renly frowns. "Perhaps we should remind Ser Gunthor that the safety of his sisters depends upon his actions."
"That may be unwise, your grace. I would advise against arousing the anger of Oldtown."
"Very well," Renly accepts this, waving a placating hand towards Mace, who's face is already flushed red, eager to bring down a hammer of judgement on his family's rivals. "You serve us well, Lord Varys. When my blaspheming brother is brought to his knees, they will face the same choice as everyone else. Bend the knee, or die."
Gunthor Hightower sits in his chambers in Lord Manning's manse, an empty flagon of wine lying sideways on the floor. The sun must have set by now, he thinks. He retired early, the stress of the past days leaving him too anxious to eat. Stannis has not spoken to him since the High Septon's condemnation, but by the growing quiet in the manse, he knows that all but the brooding lord's most loyal followers have abandoned him. No ravens have come from Oldtown, neither to confirm receiving his discovery of Edward Stark's flight nor to offer guidance on what to do next. Here among all this trampled finery, he has never felt so alone.
The fireplace in his room is burning low, but he is out of fuel to stoke the flames. For a moment, he considers leaving to fetch more, and more wine, but as he attempts to rise the wobbling spells of exhaustion and drink send him slumping back down onto the bed in a heap. Grunting, he pulls off his shirt, tossing it across the room and begins to tug clumsily at his trousers. Halfway off, his thoughts trail away, leaving him staring into the fire with his pants around his ankles. The red witch claimed she could see the future in the flames. He wonders, if he waits long enough, if they would speak to him, too.
He draws nearer to the fire, drunkenly crawling across the cold tile towards the warmth of the mantle, beads of sweat beginning to grow on his forehead, the hunched muscles along his back glistening. His blue eyes dance with the reflection of tongues of fire as they twist and burn, seeming to defy the fading embers to grow brighter and taller the more he draws near, threatening to singe his blonde eyebrows. Speak to me… He listens for something, anything in the crackling blaze other than the familiar, meaningless sounds.
No answer comes – until the sound of the door opening behind him. He turns to see Melisandre standing in the dark threshold, her white face emerging like a ghost from the shadow, the ruby pendant around her neck seeming to glow in the firelight.
"My lady, I beg your pardon," Gunthor drunkenly scrambles to his feet, shocked out of his stupor and standing only in his smallclothes. "I did not hear you knock."
"I didn't knock." She steps in and, letting the door close behind her, shrugs off her robes in a single motion. They fall silently to the floor, leaving her bare, pale skin shining as the fire seems to burn even brighter, setting every smooth curve to glimmer.
Abandoning all hesitation, Gunthor lurches forward, wrapping his arms around her and pulling her tight to him. He kisses her, open-mouthed, and she breathes hot air down his throat, her whole body seeming to pulse with a hidden inferno, warm to the touch as he runs his hands down her back. Still locked together, she pushes him and they collapse onto the bed, landing as one. The room, no longer chilled, is stifling, the heat relaxing Gunthor's muscles and fogging his brain. He feels as if he is melting into the mattress as she rides atop him. His broad hands cling to her waist for dear life, as if letting go would send him falling back into the darkness and awaken him from whatever dream this must be. The room seems to spin around them; they are cast adrift on a boat rocking across the hells' infernal seas.
But the scratch of her pointed nails, tracing the ridges of his chest and abdomen reminds him this is real – the fire, the bed, and her. He stares entranced, up her slender torso to her perfect face gazing back down at him over the ledge of her breasts, illuminated by the impossible light of the pendant still dangling beneath her collar bone. In that red glow, he sees her slender, painted lips making the shapes of an unknown, silent tongue.
How much time passes, he does not know, consumed by beauty and ecstasy and awe. But at last, it ends. A puff of steam carries the final unspoken words out of her mouth as she slips off of him, drawing the blankets up around her. Reality closes back in on Gunthor, the prying fingers of cold beginning to creep back in as he slowly sits up. He opens his mouth to speak, but finds his throat dry and ashy.
"You needn't say a word. Watch the flames with me." She wraps her arms around him, returning her warmth. He lets her curves melt into his side as they sit together, his eyes going dry as he stares into the dancing tongues of the fireplace. She takes his hand, resting it on her stomach, smooth as silk but somehow suddenly cold. He looks to her, confused, but she gently turns his face back to the fire. "You said you wished to see true power, Gunthor Hightower. Tonight, you will look it in the face."
The Small Council doors swing open as Renly's councilors slowly file out, idly chattering about the affairs of the day and the good news of the High Septon's decree. Their meeting has run long and into the night, leaving them ready to retire. But as Varys shuffles along behind them, the last to leave, he hears the lord's voice stop him.
"Walk with me, Lord Varys," Renly steps beside him, the eunuch hurrying his feet to match pace. Behind them, the doors swing closed and Ser Loras Tyrell and Ser Guyard Morrigan leave their posts, following close behind the two men in their kingsguard armor.
"What would you ask of me, your grace?"
"You've served me well, these past few days," Renly muses as they continue to walk down the long, familiar hall to his chambers. "But there is one problem which still confounds me, one question to which you have still not provided an answer."
"What is it that troubles you?"
"The Lannisters. How did they infiltrate the Red Keep and free their men? How did they reach Maegor's Holdfast? And, if it is true they are not hiding in Maegor's with Joffrey, how did they escape?" Renly watches Varys carefully, but he does not betray a reaction, nor slow his pace. "At first, I had suspected Littlefinger, but now you tell me he fled with the Starks to White Harbor. Lord Tyrell suspects the Hightowers, but I know they were opposed to the Lannisters from the start. Which leaves you, Lord Varys."
They come to a stop outside the door to Renly's chambers. Varys looks up to see Renly's blue eyes staring down at him darkly. "There must be no secrets between us. I would hate for old loyalties to stand in the way of our partnership."
Slowly, Varys' mouth twitches, as if forming the words carefully in his mind before speaking them out into the heavy silence lingering between them. "It is true, your grace, I served House Lannister for many years. Perhaps, at times, even to the detriment of his grace, your brother, may The Mother bless his soul. And it is true that I did aid the Lannisters in their attack upon the Red Keep, and that Ser Jaime and Ser Kevan did escape with my aid, taking Prince Tommen with them. But their cause is lost. I see now that you are the only man worthy of your brother's throne, and I will serve you truly in defending it."
Renly pauses for a moment, considering the confession. In the corner of his eye, he sees his Kingsguard's hands drifting towards their swords. But he shakes his head. Instead, he rests his own hand in a firm grip on Varys' shoulder.
"If you truly now serve me, and only me, tell me this. Where has the Kingslayer taken the bastard?"
"To Pentos, your grace, to hide him away from your grasp."
"Very good," Renly releases him, confident he has seen the look of truth in his eyes. "When all is finished, you will return the boy to me, and I will show him mercy. Let him join the Citadel, perhaps, or the Night's Watch. Until then, retire, and dwell upon how we may put an end to my brother and his witch once and for all."
Without another word, Varys bows and takes his leave. Yawning, Renly turns back through the door of his chambers. Ser Guyard remains on guard outside, but Loras follows him in. The door swings shut behind them with a dull thud, echoing down the hall as the Master of Whisperers disappears into the dark.
The door to Varys' chambers creaks open as he shuffles within, carefully lighting the lamp on the wall to cast flickering light over the small room. The eunuch has never required lavish luxury for his services. His belongings, though fine and collected with impeccable taste, are neither garish nor excessive.
As the door slowly closes behind him, Varys takes in a deep breath, drinking in the heavy cloud of incense and perfume that fills the room. Shuffling to his bed, he sits with a sigh, slipping off his soft shoes one by one. But something is different. Something is missing – no, something is in the room that should not be here. Without moving from the side of the bed, Varys slowly turns his head, scanning the room for anything amiss. Everything is exactly as he left it.
But he cannot shake the feeling of being watched, recognizing the sense of prying eyes as only a spymaster can. The top of his head turns cold as goosepimples sprout on the nape of his neck. Though nothing moves in the closed off room, he can hear the faintest whisper of wind. And in that moment, he remembers. This is the work of no man, but a power; a power he has felt before. And he knows there is no running from it.
Once again, his eyes scan the room, finally coming to rest in the furthest, darkest corner, where his dim lamp holds no sway. He stares into the darkness, parsing through the black silhouettes of his familiar furniture. There is something else lurking there – rather, not there, a heavy absence, roiling in nothingness, movement in open air, swallowing up all of Varys' years of intricate plans and aspirations as his mouth goes dry. He leans forward.
"I can see you."
From the darkness, with the hissing sound of deep, unknowable incantations, the nothingness takes form, stepping forward into view – a knight of pure shadow, its face a dark mirror of Gunthor Hightower. And in its hand, a blade.
Varys knows no gods to pray to. But he knows just as well there are powers in this world there is no use in resisting. Sitting peacefully on the bed, he closes his eyes, turning the whole world to black, and waits for the blade.