Red Keep, Throne Room.
Grand Maester Pycelle rose on trembling knees, his maester's chain softly clinking."In a word, Your Grace… the realm's finances are dire. Envoys of the Faith and the Iron Bank both express grave concern. We must swiftly find a capable Master of Coin."
Jaime Lannister had vanished with only a letter left behind, and Cersei Lannister's temper—already foul—burned hotter. All others stepped lightly.
She frowned. "When will Gars Tyrell, the Golden Rose, arrive?"
Varys folded his hands. "Queen Regent, my little birds report that since reaching Bitterbridge, he hasn't stirred."
Pycelle glanced at Varys. "Your Grace, I fear that says all Highgarden's mind: the Golden Rose watches and waits."
"Cowardly Golden Rose," Cersei sniffed. "Varys—any word of Petyr?"
Varys shook his head slightly. "Littlefinger buys men. We cannot know which—perhaps a stableboy, perhaps a turn-key. Small folk or great—any might be in his purse. So he slipped from a well-guarded cell like a ghost…"
Pycelle interjected, "Your Grace, surely you don't mean—"
"Pour my wine."
Behind her, Lancel Lannister hastened to fill her cup.
Cersei swirled it, sipped Summer Red. "He could resume as Master of Coin."
Varys blinked. "Your Grace, most know by now he abetted Lady Lysa in the poisoning of Jon Arryn…"
Pycelle, for once siding with Varys, urged, "Such a crime cannot be forgiven—not even for an accomplice, much less to seat him again on the Small Council."
"Enough," Cersei cut them off. "Bring me other names before our next council. No more prattle."
Silence stretched.
Pycelle ventured, "Then perhaps we should consult the Hand—Lord Tywin."
Her cup struck the table with a thud. "Pycelle. My father sits in Casterly Rock. I sit here. Are you senile?"
He flinched and bobbed his head.
"Candidates before the next meeting. Next matter."
…
Her voice sharpened. "What is Gawen doing about this?!"
Varys sighed. "My birds say the Gold Cloaks seize rumor-mongers as soon as words take wing—but the effect is poor…"
Pycelle's eyes flicked toward the Queen Regent's anger. "Your Grace, King's Landing holds many tens of thousands; the Watch numbers only a few thousand. Arrests cannot quench malice. I have even heard…"
Cersei's tone turned to ice. "Heard what?"
Pycelle hesitated. "That you poisoned King Robert."
Varys' eyes glittered. "Oh dear—have my little birds grown lazy? Such a novel lie. Vile tongues…"
He turned to the old maester. "Where did you hear it?"
"Near the Mud Gate," Pycelle said. "They say it started there."
Varys dipped his head, smiling thanks.
Pycelle went on, slow and grave. "Your Grace, doubts about a king's blood rise with every new reign. Lord Crabb's dragnets are timely; baseless slander soon burns out."
Cersei's eyes trembled. She stood. "I'll have those who foul Joffrey's name weeping songs to the Stranger, begging for death's kiss!"
She swept from the hall, anger smoldering.
When she'd gone, Varys smiled at the tottering Grand Maester. "You saved Lord Crabb just now, truly. But for you, the lioness's wrath might have fallen on him today."
Pycelle's hands paused over his parchments. He rolled one up. "Had Janos Slynt not died…" he murmured.
Varys cocked his head. "You mean?"
"Only one man can keep the Gold Cloaks steady now," Pycelle sighed. "We have no choice."
Varys' lids lowered, amused. "You fear Her Grace may strip Gawen Crabb of command in a rage?"
Pycelle shook his bleary head. "I fear the mob might break the Red Keep's gates. Some troubles must be slowed—at least until our new Hand reaches the city."
Varys bowed slightly. "Ever prudent, Grand Maester."
"I am only an old fool," Pycelle muttered. He hesitated, then added, "Why would the slander fix on royal blood? With no proof, who would believe it? At most, smallfolk make sport of such tales."
Varys leaned close, smile deepening. "And if there were a little proof?"
The scroll slipped from Pycelle's fingers.
His spotted hands shook. "Varys—what do you mean?"
The Spider only inclined his head, offered no answer, and drifted away smiling.
…
Outside the Throne Room.
"Let this matter be mine, Queen Regent!"
Cersei halted, turning her green eyes upon Lancel. With Jaime gone, Lancel's star had climbed: Captain of the Red Keep for the Gold Cloaks, and in command of the Lannister Red Cloaks as well—one man holding all the Keep's defenses.
"You can do it?"
He squared his shoulders. "They're only chattering tongues. I'll pull them all out—until no one dares whisper."
Cersei liked the remedy—hesitated at the surgeon. She did not trust Lancel's competence.
Seeing it, he rushed on, "Your Grace, Gawen has but two hands and two feet—so do I. I need one chance to prove myself. I beg you."
Moisture glazed his eyes. Cersei's brow creased. She did not care for softness in men… yet the boy did need a proving.
Crack.Lancel clutched his cheek, aghast. Why did she strike me?
Cersei gripped his chin, lips curving. "Do not show me that face again, Lancel. Remember—your garb is mail, not skirts."
His answer quavered. "As you command, Queen Regent."
"My Lancel," she said coolly, "you shall have your chance. Do not disappoint me."
Her hand gentled, stroking the cheek she'd reddened.
…
The North — Winterfell.
In a scant few days, Stark bannermen had poured into Winterfell with their levies. With the traffic of men and horses, Robb Stark ordered all portcullises left raised between the inner and outer walls.
Everywhere came the ring of steel, the rumble of wagons, the barking of hounds.
A long column of heavy lancers crossed the moat, helms black and half-visored, black wool cloaks emblazoned with a white sunburst.House Karstark—led by Lord Rickard himself, with his sons Harrion, Eddard, and Torrhen riding abreast.
They were kin to the Starks and cut from the same hard cloth—tall, fierce, bearded, hair to the shoulders, cloaks sewn from bear, seal, and wolf.Most other lords were already come; these were the last.
…
Robb, fifteen, broad-shouldered, blue-eyed, auburn-haired like his mother's kin, had heard a chaos of tidings—each worse than the last, none certain:
That Lord Eddard slew King Robert and fled as a hunted outlaw; that his father's guards' heads rotted on spikes on the Red Keep; that Baratheon levies besieged the city; that Lord Eddard fled south with Lord Renly; that Arya and Sansa were slain by the Hound; that Lord Tywin marched for the Eyrie; that Rhaegar Targaryen had risen from death to claim the Iron Throne… and more besides.
Before he could swallow such poison, a raven came with a letter in Sansa's hand, sealed with their father's direwolf. The cruel truth no longer shocked.
Maester Luwin read: "...King Robert is dead; mother and brother must haste to the Red Keep to do fealty to King Joffrey… we must swear never to betray… I shall beg for Father's pardon…"
Lady Catelyn Tully flared. "That is Cersei's letter, not Sansa's. The Lannisters forced her hand!"
She gripped her son's fingers. He had summoned his father's bannermen, winning their hearts with cold courtesy and resolve. He was no more a child; she hurt for him—and was proud.
"Robb, the true message is what Sansa cannot write—how well the Lannisters 'care' for her. It is a threat. She is their hostage—their bargaining chip."
Robb's face fell. "Mother… there's no word of Arya."
Catelyn held her tears by force; she dared not chase that thought."I have written Lady Lysa at the Eyrie three times for the knights of the Vale," Robb said, "and no reply."
She felt his unease. "I will go to the Vale myself," she said. "I will bring you aid."
"Thank you, Mother. I only fear…"
For a heartbeat the cool, commanding heir faded, and a boy of fifteen looked for answers.
Catelyn saw the shine at his lashes—her son needed steel for his heart. A commander cannot waver.
"Robb," she said softly, "what do you fear?"
"I…" He faltered. All his life he had borne weights inside, alone as his father did—but Sansa's hand had cracked him.
He drew breath. "If I march south… even should we win—Father and Sansa are in Lannister hands. They'll be killed, won't they? Should I…?"
"Look at me."
He lifted his eyes.
"The Lannisters want you to think exactly that," Catelyn said, iron in her voice.
"You mean…"
"I mean you have no choice. If you go to King's Landing to bend the knee, you may never leave it. If you creep back to Winterfell, our bannermen will lose all respect—some may even go over to the lions.
"Then the Lannisters will be free to do as they like with their hostages. Our best hope—our only hope—is to beat the Lannisters in the field. If you can take Lord Tywin or the Kingslayer alive, you can trade them for our kin.
"Even that is not most important. Show such strength that the lions dare not move rashly, and Ned and your sister live. Cersei is not witless; if the war turns against her, she will offer them for peace."
"And if the war turns against us?" Robb asked.
Catelyn gripped his hand. "Then I will not lie. If you are defeated, we have no hope at all. The Lannisters are merciless to the beaten. Remember the fate of Rhaegar's children."
The Young Wolf's voice grew low and sure. "Mother… I will defeat the Lannisters."
.
.
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