[ GOT / ASOIAF : Magic Network ] Chapter 61 - 65

Chapter 61: The City Watch of King's Landing

The sky was only just beginning to lighten, the first pale fingers of dawn stretching across the eastern horizon.

Within the barracks, four or five hundred pairs of living eyes remained, all fixed upon the terrifying figure before them, trembling like leaves in an autumn wind. The Lava Warrior they beheld was clad in crimson armor that seemed impervious to any mortal weapon. He had unleashed hell itself—a torrent of flame that had transformed men into charred corpses. The pungent odor of burnt flesh hung heavy in the air, almost unbearable, and no man among them dared offer further resistance.

The Hound wiped a streak of blood from his face with the back of his gauntlet.

"Listen well!" His voice boomed across the yard. "The former Master of Coin, Lord Petyr Baelish, and the former Master of Whisperers, Lord Varys, are plotting treason against the crown. By order of His Grace the King, the City Watch of King's Landing will immediately take these traitors into custody and seal all city gates. Any who resist are to be put to the sword!"

He surveyed the men before him, his scarred visage terrible to behold. "I am in command now. Does any man object?"

The Hound's lips curled into a savage grin, as if he yearned to tear apart more flesh and savor the hot blood of men.

Silence hung in the air, broken only by the crackling of flames and the soft moans of the wounded.

"Good. Had you obeyed from the start, none of this bloodshed would have been necessary. A pack of fools, forgetting who it was that granted you those gold cloaks."

The Hound began relaying Prince Joffrey's orders with cold precision.

"Reorganize yourselves into fifty squads, eight men to each. You shall select the squad leaders," he said, turning to the man at his side. "Understood, Grey Rat?"

The man nodded silently before moving into the crowd to identify familiar faces.

The Hound paced back and forth, his heavy boots crunching on debris. "Five squads will be stationed at each of the seven city gates. None shall enter, and none shall leave." His voice hardened further. "And you yourselves are not to move a single bloody inch from your posts."

His eyes narrowed to slits. "I care not if you see lords, ladies, ministers, or merchants of the realm. Even if you witness your own wife being mounted by beggars in some stinking alley, you'll damn well remain at your post until the morrow!"

The gold cloaks exchanged uneasy glances, their faces pale.

"The other fifteen squads will accompany me to your headquarters. The place crawls with traitors. Remember this—they are no longer your brothers. They made their choice."

The Hound chuckled, a dry, mirthless sound that made the burn scars on his left cheek contort into crimson fissures.

"The remaining men will stay here on standby, searching the corpses and buildings. Should even one rat slip beyond these walls..."

He left the sentence unfinished, allowing the gold cloaks' imaginations to conjure terrors greater than words could convey.

Grey Rat had already selected the fifty squad leaders, each man looking more uncertain than the last.

The Hound held out a mailed fist. "I shall count to five. Form up by squads!" His voice dropped ominously. "Five, four..."

The gold cloaks' hearts hammered in their chests. They frantically pushed aside their neighbors, scrambling to find their positions. The crowd descended into chaos in an instant.

"Two..."

Some men stood completely bewildered, while others, fearing the consequences of association with cowards, physically dragged the hesitant into the ranks.

"One." The Hound nodded. "Not bad."

"Grey Rat, cut a lock of hair from every man and bring them to me. If any are bald, other hair will suffice."

Grey Rat appeared confused by the strange request, but he dared not question it. He could only obey.

Taking the hair to be used as a magical locator, the Hound nodded with satisfaction and slowly walked to the far left of the neatly arranged fifty squads.

He patted each squad leader firmly on the shoulder.

"You five squads, to the Dragon Gate. You're in command." His hand moved to the next man. "You five squads, to the Iron Gate. You shall lead..."

Seven squad leaders were thus appointed as temporary commanders, their hearts filled with conflicting emotions. Was this an honor or a death sentence?

"Serve well," the Hound growled. "Fear not, I shall remember your faces."

His gaze swept across the assembled men like a blade.

Far more than seven officers felt their hearts seize in their chests as cold sweat beaded upon their brows.

"Move out immediately! I'll count to ten, and you'd best be gone from my sight. Ten, nine..."

The gold cloaks departed with a swiftness they had never before displayed, moving like a well-trained host rather than the undisciplined rabble they truly were.

Watching the thirty-five squads march through the gate, the Hound turned to face the fifteen squads that remained, staring at him with anticipation mingled with dread.

"What are you waiting for? Get your horses, and let's be about our business. Your former commander, Janos Slynt, is a traitor as well. Kill him!"

Though most gold cloaks served as infantry, the stables still housed more than a hundred horses, as the Hound had known all along.

The sky brightened steadily.

The great city was stirring from slumber, and the commotion created by the gold cloaks hastened its awakening.

The broad Street of the Silent Sisters had held only a few scattered travelers, but now the thunderous sound of hooves and angry shouts echoed through the narrow ways, instantly rousing countless dreamers from their beds.

Common folk frantically sought refuge in alleys and doorways. Windows opened throughout the street, and faces peered out in alarm.

They beheld an ominous sight. Hundreds of mounted men galloped wildly past, each armored and bearing weapons. Some were splattered with bright blood, and others bore the unmistakable marks of fire.

The knight who led them wore an exquisite helm shaped like a snarling hound. Some recognized it at once. "The Hound," they whispered, drawing back from their windows.

He led his men straight to the central square, then veered northwest toward Cobbler's Square, near the headquarters of the City Watch. This would become the day's greatest battlefield.

The gold cloaks' headquarters stood quiet, yet something in the air spoke of wrongness.

The snores emanating from the various chambers were noticeably fewer than was customary.

The reason was plain.

Some knew action would be taken today; others knew something would happen soon. Some had learned that someone might strike this day; others simply sensed they were in peril. Some merely felt the strange atmosphere that hung over the barracks like a shroud.

Whatever their knowledge, all understood they were caught in a deadly vortex. How could any man sleep soundly in such circumstances?

The Mud Gate Captain, "Ironhand" Jacelyn Bywater, was among these wakeful men, and a particularly singular one at that—a double agent. No, a triple agent.

He hailed from a minor branch of House Bywater, of little status or influence. The king had knighted him for valor during Balon Greyjoy's rebellion, where he had also lost his right hand, earning him the name "Ironhand."

For three years, he had served as Mud Gate Captain. None called him dishonorable or craven, yet none knew of his clandestine relationship with the infamous Master of Whisperers, Lord Varys.

And more recently, emissaries from both House Lannister and the Master of Coin had approached him. He had pledged himself to them as well.

A true triple agent.

By virtue of these conflicting loyalties, he ought to have been among the few who possessed the most detailed and comprehensive knowledge of the events soon to unfold.

The Lannisters sought to stage a coup while King Robert was absent from the capital, elevating the Crown Prince to the throne. The two loyal ministers were forced to resist, quell the Lannister conspiracy, and report their success to the king upon his return. Such was the tale spun by these ministers.

But was this the truth? Would it become the truth? Ironhand harbored his doubts.

Which side should I choose?

He stared blankly at the dim ceiling until a clamor arose from the camp gate, growing louder and more distinct by the moment.

Ironhand immediately seized the sword that lay beside his bed and took up position behind his door.

He heard wooden doors being kicked open, the chaotic tramping of boots from left to right, from right to left, the clash of steel upon steel, triumphant shouts, agonized screams...

Before long, the sizzling sound of roasting meat and the desperate shrieks of men pierced the air outside.

Ironhand shuddered. What manner of horror was that?

Yet this proved merely a brief prelude. The roar of flames soon drowned out all other sounds.

So hot!

He hastily retreated several paces from the walls and the inferno that raged beyond his door.

BANG!

His door burst inward, revealing a familiar face framed in dazzling red armor.

Ironhand cast aside his longsword and dropped to one knee. "Lord Sandor, I, Jacelyn Bywater, captain of the Mud Gate, stand ready to serve you and His Highness at your pleasure!"

The Hound regarded him with narrowed eyes. "You're mistaken. You serve His Grace the King."

Ironhand hastily amended his words. "Yes, yes, forgive me. I'm overwrought. Of course, it is His Grace's will I follow. Long live the King!"

The Hound extended a hand and helped him to his feet. "The situation here grows too chaotic. You shall identify the traitors for me."

Ironhand exhaled slowly, relief washing over him.

The Hound was about to continue his grim work when the Prince's instructions suddenly filled his mind: "The gold cloaks sent to Mud Gate are slaughtering one another. The rebel faction has enlisted a dozen sellswords to their cause. Stop them."

The Hound retrieved the locks of hair taken from the gold cloaks and employed his magic to sense their positions. All seemed normal. The men dispatched to Mud Gate were already approaching Fisherman's Square.

Yet their adherence to their path did not preclude other complications.

This development troubled him. The Hound felt genuine surprise. What promises did the Spider and Littlefinger make to inspire such foolhardy defiance?

The Mud Gate required attention, but the Red Keep demanded it even more urgently. He could not divide himself in two.

Therefore...

The Hound's gaze fell upon Ironhand, who had just risen to his feet.

It's you.

Chapter 62: Change in the Red Keep

Dawn had scarcely broken over King's Landing when the throne room of the Red Keep already teemed with guards.

A hundred or more men-at-arms wore the crowned stag of House Baratheon emblazoned upon their armor and cloaks, while another hundred bore the crimson plate of House Lannister, polished to a high gleam in the early morning light.

Varys and Petyr Baelish exchanged a knowing glance, each reading the same thought in the other's eyes: the hour was at hand.

Clack, clack, clack...

Two long columns of gold cloaks marched past them, their armor freshly burnished, heading toward the throne room with measured steps. These were the men of the Red Keep garrison, some three hundred strong. The Small Council typically mobilized but a third of their number at most, yet today every man stood present.

Leading this formidable company was Janos Slynt, Commander of the City Watch of King's Landing.

The lowborn commander was a stout man of diminutive stature, his greed surpassing even his barrel-shaped belly, yet he understood well the value of loyalty to the crown—or at least the appearance of it.

"Haha, Lord Petyr, Lord Varys, set your minds at ease," the commander declared, thumping his chest for emphasis. "My lads are more than sufficient to ensure the safety of all. When His Grace returns, he will find the Red Keep exactly as he left it!"

Littlefinger's lips curved into a smile that never reached his eyes. "Lord Varys, shall we proceed together?"

Varys heaved a delicate sigh. "I confess I remain perplexed as to what urgent matter demands our attention at this ungodly hour. In service to His Grace's realm, I scarcely closed my eyes last night."

"Who can say?" Littlefinger agreed with a shrug.

Indeed, both men harbored misgivings.

The scheme had been meticulous—investigating the councilors' networks, bribing or eliminating gold cloaks throughout the city, and striking at the Small Council almost simultaneously. The forces within both the Red Keep and the city would surely suffice to quell any resistance thereafter. The plan had appeared sound; at minimum, the removal of these troublesome officials seemed assured.

But what arrogance had led their enemies to believe such machinations would go undetected?

Once such a conspiracy came to light, could a mere handmaiden and the Hound truly hope to overcome two members of the Small Council with roots that ran deep as the foundations of the Keep itself? Not even with Lannister gold behind them!

Yet the uncomfortable truth remained—they had indeed discovered the plot and had made robust preparations to counter it.

The situation appeared excellent.

Their lingering doubts and unease were merely the instinctive caution of men long versed in the game of thrones, nothing more.

And so Varys and Petyr deferred to one another with practiced courtesy before striding confidently through the massive doors of the throne room.

Within the great hall stood the assembled courtiers and ladies of the Red Keep, their finery a riot of color against the austere stone walls.

Beneath the shadow of the Iron Throne's twisted blades sat the familiar council table, where Grand Maester Pycelle and Renly Baratheon, Master of Laws, were already seated. No empty chairs remained.

Beside the throne stood the Castellan of the Red Keep, four knights of the Kingsguard in their gleaming white armor, and the handmaiden Hanna, her face a mask of studied neutrality.

Petyr's keen eyes swept the chamber. "My lords are truly diligent in their duties. It seems Lord Varys and I are the last to arrive. Has the meeting already commenced?"

The Grand Maester cleared his throat wetly. "Forgive our presumption, my lords, but the Crown Prince's steward, the Lady Hanna, has informed us that an urgent royal edict must be proclaimed without delay, and so—"

Varys immediately grasped their intent.

A royal edict? How trite and unimaginative a ploy, yet such crude devices often yielded the desired result.

Hanna approached the council table and presented a sealed scroll. The round wax seal bore the unmistakable imprint of the king's royal signet.

"If it please my lords, I would ask that each of you examine this in turn," she said, her voice clear and steady. "Verify that His Grace's seal remains intact and genuine. Afterward, I shall ask the Grand Maester to read aloud the king's commands."

Hanna had received this sealed edict from the Hound, and it proved most fortuitous on this day.

She first presented it to Grand Maester Pycelle.

The ancient maester scrutinized the document with painstaking care, nodding solemnly before passing the edict to Renly.

"I defer to the Grand Maester's wisdom in such matters," Renly remarked with a smile that held little warmth. He cast an enigmatic glance at Hanna before passing the edict directly to the courtier at his side.

One by one, the royal decree made its way through the assemblage until it reached Varys and Littlefinger, who stood at the chamber's center.

Varys caressed the parchment with his powder-soft palm, murmuring praise: "Most exquisitely crafted. The crowned stag impressed in the wax displays particular artistry—majestic and strong, with precise detail. I can find no cause for concern."

He handed it to Littlefinger.

Petyr accepted the scroll with a respectful bow, exchanged meaningful glances with both Renly and Commander Slynt, then strode forward to return it to Pycelle before retreating once more to the center of the hall.

"It appears there has been some oversight in today's arrangements," he observed lightly. "Lord Varys and I shall simply have to endure standing here to hear His Grace's proclamation."

The atmosphere within the throne room grew taut as a drawn bowstring.

The assembled nobles had already regarded the unusual summons with deep suspicion, and now, having witnessed this peculiar tableau, even the dullest among them sensed that momentous events were poised to unfold.

Pycelle broke the seal and unrolled the parchment with trembling fingers. He cleared his throat with a sound like gravel in a copper pot.

The throne room fell abruptly silent, hundreds of eyes turning toward the aged Grand Maester.

Far away in the Neck, Joffrey was also watching intently through his magical sight.

In less than the span of a heartbeat, the Grand Maester's eyes widened in shock, his lengthy white beard quivering violently.

The assembled court held its collective breath. What dire news did the scroll contain?

After muttering incoherently for several moments, the Grand Maester at last straightened his stooped shoulders and began to recite in a voice gone suddenly firm:

"The following is decreed by Robert, the First of His Name, of House Baratheon, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm.

I hereby declare that Petyr Baelish of House Baelish, Master of Coin, and Varys, Master of Whisperers, stand accused of high treason. These men—"

The hall erupted in a cacophony of gasps and exclamations!

Ser Meryn Trant of the Kingsguard, standing beside the throne, bellowed, "SILENCE!!!"

The court fell abruptly quiet, all eyes fixed upon the two ministers standing at the hall's center. Their faces remained impassive, betraying nothing.

"—have colluded with the foreign enemy 'Bloodraven' Brynden Rivers, amassed wealth through illegal means, corrupted courtiers and officers of the realm, abused their sacred authority, conspired to harm the kingdom, and most grievously, orchestrated the murders of the former Hand of the King, Lord of the Eyrie and Warden of the East, Jon Arryn of House Arryn, as well as my own brother, the former Lord of Dragonstone and Master of Ships, Stannis Baratheon of House Baratheon.

Their crimes are unforgivable!

They are to be imprisoned forthwith, to await my personal judgment upon my return.

In accordance with the wisdom of the gods, and to demonstrate mercy and compassion, I hereby pardon the transgressions of all those who served under their command, who shall retain their respective positions. However, any who oppose this decree or plead for clemency on behalf of the accused shall be deemed guilty of the same offenses.

Let the Small Council execute this royal command, under the supervision of Hanna, steward to my son Joffrey, and Sandor Clegane, sworn shield."

The hall fell deathly still.

Lannister guards, Baratheon men-at-arms, and gold cloaks alike gripped their sword hilts and spear shafts with white-knuckled intensity.

Littlefinger turned to Renly, his voice wounded and incredulous. "Lord Renly, we have served together on the Small Council for many years. Surely you know my character better than this? Someone must have poisoned His Grace's mind against us with vile falsehoods!"

Varys collapsed to his knees with a heartrending sob. "There must be some dreadful mistake! I beg you, I must speak with His Grace! My loyalty has never wavered—His Grace has always known this!"

The courtiers remained as silent as the stone statues that lined the hall.

Hanna stepped forward, her voice firm. "The lords may plead their case to His Grace in person upon his return, but now, we must adhere to the royal decree. Guards!"

Several of the guards took an instinctive step forward, immediately prompting countless swords and spears to be drawn from their scabbards with a steely chorus.

Commander Slynt raised his hand forcefully. "Sheathe your weapons! This is the Small Council chamber, not some common battlefield!"

The commander turned to Hanna, his jowls quivering with barely contained rage. "His Grace would never act with such haste. This decree must arise from some grave misapprehension!"

Hanna's face hardened with righteous indignation. "Do you dare defy the king's explicit command?!"

"I dare not," Slynt countered. "I know only that His Grace entrusted the City Watch to my care, and I am bound to ensure that both King's Landing and the Red Keep remain peaceful and free of strife."

The doubt etched upon the commander's face was plain for all to see. "Even if this edict proves genuine, I care not how His Grace punishes me upon his return. I will not permit any precipitous action today! These are members of the Small Council, not common criminals!"

Varys and Littlefinger had already exchanged meaningful glances with many of the assembled courtiers, their silent communications woven like an invisible web throughout the chamber.

Then Renly rose to his feet.

Chapter 63: Surround Three and Miss One

"Perhaps the two ministers might simply return to their residences and remain behind closed doors," Renly suggested to Hanna, his voice smooth as polished stone. "We could post men outside to guard them. That would hardly violate the spirit of His Grace's decree."

The youngest Baratheon brother smiled, though it did not reach his eyes. "I wonder, would my counsel be considered among the 'opposition and pleading' the decree forbids?"

"I concur," interjected the Castellan of the Red Keep, his voice carrying weight across the hushed chamber. "By all custom, the execution of such a decree would fall to me, yet these circumstances are... unusual. Caution would serve us well."

Renly felt a prickle of surprise that the Castellan, a man of some consequence, would so openly declare his position.

But that mattered little now.

He knew his eldest brother's temperament all too well. If the fierce Robert truly had knowledge of these matters, he would have thundered back to the capital, war hammer in hand, to pulverize the two traitors into bloody ruin.

This was no royal decree. It was a Lannister coup, plain and simple.

In such a maelstrom, what value did a castellan's tepid support truly hold? Renly cared nothing for such trivial considerations.

What gnawed at him was deeper disquiet.

Did this coup target only Varys and Littlefinger? Or did it herald a complete rupture with House Lannister?

How breathtakingly foolish and arrogant!

Had Lord Tywin himself orchestrated this from Casterly Rock? Had he emerged from his mountain fortress? With how many swords at his back?

Renly could only prepare for the worst.

Should actual violence erupt, his score of Storm's End men-at-arms would prove woefully inadequate against the hundred and fifty Lannister guards and three hundred gold cloaks. He would be overwhelmed in moments.

He must, therefore, secure the allegiance of the Royal Guards and the courtiers present.

Two hundred Royal Guards would suffice to tip the scales of this conflict. Yet since Robert's Rebellion, when King Robert claimed the Iron Throne and the Crownlands, while Renly was granted Storm's End and the fealty of the Stormlands lords, the brothers had grown apart. They were no longer of the same herd.

Renly lacked the authority to command the Royal Guards.

Moreover, the decree called not for immediate execution of the ministers, but reserved judgment for the king personally. Given this, the Royal Guards would likely favor the Lannisters, who claimed possession of the royal decree.

Fortunately, the courtiers and their attendants numbered some three or four hundred swords.

Renly caught the eye of Ser Loras Tyrell, the Knight of Flowers, and offered a courteous nod.

The handsome knight immediately understood the silent command. "I stand with Lord Renly's wisdom in this matter," he declared. "Allowing the two ministers a few days' peace in their own residences would prevent any irrevocable mistake while honoring the letter of the decree. Is this not prudent?"

He placed a hand upon the hilt of his sword. "I willingly offer myself as their guardian."

Other courtiers and knights aligned with House Tyrell murmured their agreement, a chorus of assent rising from around the hall.

Ser Arys Oakheart of the Kingsguard stepped forward, his white cloak billowing. "Who granted you leave to speak in this chamber?" he demanded. "Hold your tongues!"

A thunderous rumble of protest rose from the assembled nobles. Many proclaimed they would not suffer such discourtesy, that every knight present had the right to voice his counsel.

The solemn dignity of the throne room collapsed into utter disorder.

Hanna bit her lip in frustration. Whose creature was this Arys? Could he not see how his words inflamed the passions of all present?

Were these protestations genuine outrage, or merely the coordinated response of those aligned with certain interests?

Hanna felt a stab of disquiet. The Crown Prince had instructed her explicitly to remove Varys and Littlefinger through political means whenever possible, yet it seemed blood would inevitably stain the marble floor before the day was done.

Yet comfort came to her as the Prince's voice echoed in her mind: "Fear not. All draws to its conclusion."

BANG!

A tremendous crash reverberated from the entranceway. Brilliant light swept across the hall, accompanied by the harsh music of steel against steel. Every eye in the chamber turned instinctively toward the sound.

Varys and Littlefinger, certain that reinforcements had arrived, turned with confident smiles that froze upon their faces like winter frost.

The massive doors of the throne room were thrust open by gold cloaks, revealing a solitary figure framed in the archway. From either side, a tide of gold-cloaked men poured into the hall like a river breaching its banks.

"The Hound!!" exclaimed the Commander of the City Watch, jabbing a trembling finger toward the figure. Disbelief contorted his features. "How came you to command my men?!"

The Hound lifted his helm, exposing his ravaged face, and advanced toward the stout commander with deliberate steps.

The assembled court watched in silent dread as the blood-spattered warrior approached.

The Hound clasped the commander's shoulder with mocking familiarity. "I hear your father was a butcher," he rasped. "Did he teach you only to devour meat, not to recognize your true master? What means this talk of 'your men'? They belong to the King!"

Commander Slynt surveyed the newly arrived gold cloaks. Some faces he knew well, others were strangers to him, but the manner in which they regarded him had changed utterly. Gone was the deference he had come to expect.

He opened his mouth to rebuke them, but the cold steel in their eyes extinguished his wrath and bravado in an instant. Though he knew not the cause, he understood with sickening clarity that the City Watch no longer answered to his command.

The commander forced his lips into a semblance of a smile. "Lord Sandor, my loyalty to His Grace is beyond question. We stand as one in this matter."

"Heh." The Hound's eyes bored into his like augers. "Can you guess what I desire to do at this moment?"

The commander struggled not to avert his gaze, but beads of sweat erupted across his brow, and his heart hammered against his ribs like a war drum.

"Lord Sandor," he said, fingers twitching.

"I truly cannot fathom what you—" He exploded into sudden motion, drawing a dagger from his belt and lunging at the Hound with desperate ferocity.

The Hound seized the commander's wrist with contemptuous ease, then caught the incoming left fist as though intercepting a child's blow. He tightened his grip until bones creaked in protest, then drove his knee upward with brutal force.

Clang~

The dagger tumbled from the commander's nerveless fingers and clattered against the stone floor. Agony blossomed in his abdomen, turning his face as crimson as boiled crab.

The Hound drove him to the ground with a savage kick. "You all bear witness!" he called to the stunned assembly. "This man not only defied His Grace's decree but raised steel against the king's justice. Can any doubt remain regarding his treasonous intent?"

The Hound retrieved the fallen dagger. "In the name of King Robert, first of his name, I sentence Janos Slynt, former Commander of the City Watch of King's Landing, to death!"

Without so much as bending his knee, the Hound flicked the dagger through the air. It struck with unerring precision, embedding itself in Janos's throat.

Janos stretched his arms outward in mute appeal, his fingers grasping at nothing as he thrashed weakly. Blood flowed ever more freely from the wound, his breathing growing shallow, until at last his limbs stiffened and he lay twisted in death.

Silence reigned, broken only by the soft hiss of steel leaving scabbards.

The gold cloaks the Hound had brought likely outnumbered all others combined.

The Royal Guards, who had initially favored the authenticity of the decree, drew their swords and leveled them at the three hundred gold cloaks formerly under Janos's command.

The balance of power had shifted utterly.

Hanna delivered her final ultimatum, voice ringing clear across the hall. "The decree stipulates that all subordinates shall receive pardon for their transgressions and retain their positions. This moment is your final opportunity to demonstrate loyalty!"

The gold cloaks stationed within the Red Keep exchanged uncertain glances. Who among them would dare stand against the combined might of their fellow soldiers and the Royal Guards, who outnumbered them several times over?

Clang~ Clang~

Within the span of a few heartbeats, hundreds of spears clattered to the floor, abandoned by men who valued their lives above their pride.

Hanna began to convey the Crown Prince's instructions. "Lord Varys, Lord Baelish, submit to supervision without resistance. Only thus might you hope to clear your names."

She approached the two men and whispered words meant for their ears alone. "In truth, the Crown Prince harbors doubts regarding these accusations. His Highness even interceded with His Grace on your behalf, earning his father's wrath. Take heart—when His Grace returns to the capital, matters may yet take a favorable turn."

Heh, only a simpleton would believe such obvious falsehood.

Yet Varys and Littlefinger recognized the subtle message beneath her words: the possibility remained for the two sides to coexist, without the need for mutual annihilation.

But was this assurance genuine?

To speak or remain silent? The two masters of intrigue faced a dire choice.

To speak meant certain, immediate death.

To hold their tongues meant possible death at a later hour, but also the chance of survival.

"Come, my lords."

The Hound and dozens of Lannister guards formed a ring of steel around them.

In the end, they chose not to reveal the information that would ensure mutual destruction—the truth of Joffrey's parentage.

The Small Council meeting concluded thus.

The courtiers dispersed with unseemly haste, as though some dread beast pursued them through the corridors.

Beneath the shadow of the Iron Throne, Hanna fixed her cold gaze upon the retreating figure of the Castellan of the Red Keep, watching as he staggered away like a man already marked for the grave.

Chapter 64: Summer

As of today, Bran had grown adept at wielding his strange gift.

He could slip his skin and transform into a bird to soar high above the world, become a frog to leap among lily pads, or enter the sleek body of a trout to glide through cool river currents.

But his favorite vessel remained his direwolf.

Bran had wrestled long with what to call the beast. Fortunately, after confiding in the Crown Prince these past days, he had accepted Joffrey's suggestion—"Summer."

Summer.

True summer belonged to the South; unlike in Winterfell, where no matter the season, one must dress in thick layers that hindered movement—especially climbing.

The Prince had spoken true in this.

Thinking on it, Bran could not help but grumble about his sister's stinginess. That magical piece of steel allowed one to speak with the Prince and Jon at the Wall, yet Arya permitted him only the briefest moments with it, never enough to satisfy his curiosity. She remained unmoved even when he threatened to tell their lord father.

What a miserly little ghost.

Bran felt certain that were the object his, he would prove far more generous—anyone who wished to use it might do so.

Yet he harbored no true jealousy.

Arya had received her talking piece of steel. His sister Sansa treasured a crown of winter roses, as pristine as the day they were plucked, seemingly eternal in their beauty. And he had been saved by the Prince, granted the magical ability to enter the bodies of animals, and could witness a colorless world with his eyes shut.

By comparison, Bran found himself well content with his gift.

With these extraordinary "eyes," he had observed sights previously hidden from him during their journey south.

He had watched King Robert and his father drinking wine and tearing at hunks of meat together, hunting side by side, laughing and cursing with unbridled honesty. The two men shared a bond closer even than that between Bran and Robb.

He had glimpsed his sister Sansa and Jeyne Poole with their heads together, whispering secrets that made them both flush crimson.

He had seen Arya befriending folk throughout the royal procession and in villages along their route, exploring every inch of their surroundings, never returning to camp until the shadows grew long. Her willful nature remained unchanged.

Of late, Arya had developed an obsession with wooden swords, practicing daily by the riverside with a butcher's boy named Mycah. She persisted even when her arms bore purple bruises from their mock battles. Her stubborn temperament endured.

Once, Bran would have raced out to join such diversions.

But matters stood differently now.

Since acquiring his "eyes," he had come to relish observing the world from myriad perspectives. Besides, their journey offered few towers worthy of scaling.

The inn where they currently lodged proved no exception. Though it sprawled across a goodly plot and rose three full stories of white stone, its height failed to tempt him.

Summer offered far greater intrigue.

And so Bran reclined upon his bed and sent his consciousness spiraling into Summer's body.

The direwolf, who had been lying upon the floor beside the bed, rose promptly to all fours, blinked his intelligent eyes, and slipped through the half-open door.

Summer padded silently down the staircase, though his passage did not go unremarked.

Already the size of a full-grown wolf, the direwolf's presence rendered the inn's servants weak-kneed. They stood frozen in place, not daring to stir until the beast had passed, whereupon they scattered like leaves before a gale.

Bran had grown accustomed to such reactions.

The royal procession changed camp every day or two, denying folk the opportunity to grow familiar with the direwolves. Thus, each time he ventured forth as Summer, he caused a minor uproar.

His lord father had counseled him to keep Summer close, but Bran's resolve had lasted scarce a fortnight.

He could not resist the seductive call of the bond. Besides, Summer posed no true threat to men; the wolf hunted only wild game.

Bran, inhabiting Summer's form, traversed the inn's common room. Ser Barristan the Bold and the Kingslayer both lingered there, along with various Lannister retainers who had declined to join King Robert's hunt.

Bran had long since learned the King's habits.

Robert scarce allowed a day to pass without dragging Lord Eddard into the wilderness in pursuit of game. Of late, he had grown reluctant even to bring a proper guard, setting forth with only Ned Stark and a handful of companions.

In the King's own words: "When Ned and I join forces, we can smash even the bloody Targaryens to pieces! What need have we for guards?"

Even so, his father insisted on bringing a dozen soldiers each time they ventured forth.

Before padding through the door, Bran surveyed the inn through Summer's eyes. They would break camp on the morrow.

He observed soldiers laughing boisterously as they raised their cups in toast.

He watched several handmaidens bearing wine and victuals up the stairs, where Queen Cersei, Prince Tommen, Princess Myrcella, and his sister Sansa conversed in apparent harmony.

He glimpsed the plump innkeeper, Marsha Heddle, leaning over to fill Ser Jaime's cup, revealing a row of blood-red teeth.

Bran recalled how the woman had smiled and delivered sweet cakes to the children upon their arrival. While he had relished the treats, her crimson smile had set his heart racing with unease.

Now, through Summer's keen nose, he detected not the metallic tang of blood but the lingering aroma of sourleaf.

Fear dispelled, Bran urged Summer toward the forest.

Land, grass, and human figures blurred past as he ran. Fresh wind ruffled his silver fur, coursing over his smoky, yellow-gray eyes. This was his true self now.

Bran could detect the subtlest scents in the soil, could smell animals from leagues distant. Even simple roasted meat yielded a complex tapestry of aromas that made his mouth water with anticipation.

He could see clearly in darkness, not with his human "eyes," but through Summer's natural vision. The sensation proved wondrous. Though lacking vibrant hues, the gray world revealed shapes with startling clarity. At last, he understood how Summer perceived him.

His hearing, too, had sharpened beyond measure. When he lay quietly in some corner, folk paid the direwolf no mind, speaking freely of matters they would otherwise keep hidden.

Thus had Bran learned something of people's true hearts. They seemed to despise all things in the world, whether fair or foul, virtuous or base.

Are all grown men and women so bitter?

He plunged into the forest and ran wildly, abandoning thought, merely dodging the countless trees that rose before him—leaping, turning, sliding beneath low branches.

He forgot all earthly concerns, desiring only to run forever thus.

But even Summer grew weary eventually.

Bran felt hunger gnawing at his belly, far keener than any human appetite, as though he had fasted for half a year.

He raised Summer's massive head and scanned his surroundings, sampling the air. King Robert and his father hunted aurochs deeper in the forest; suitable prey for Summer had fled far from the royal party's commotion.

He loped toward the scent of water and eventually arrived at the confluence of the Green Fork and the Blue Fork. Surely fish might be found here.

Nearby, he spotted Arya and Mycah engaged in their mock battle.

He remembered then: this was the place Arya had spoken of, where she hoped to find rubies—the ford where King Robert had slain Prince Rhaegar.

He waded on all fours into the shallow stream.

The taste of trout hung tantalizing in the water. Summer's jaws parted in eager anticipation.

But suddenly he sprang back to the shore!

Bran peered upstream. A foul, bloody stench approached, and a large, elongated shadow lurked beneath the surface.

Summer bristled with fear and unease.

Bran recalled the Neck, which they had traversed on their southward journey. There, he had encountered a scent almost identical to that of this hidden creature.

Lizard-lions.

Chapter 65: Ruby Beach

Bran's body jolted upright in bed, his dull eyes gradually clearing as consciousness returned to him.

He remembered.

Startled by the threat in the water, Summer had rejected his presence, hurling his awareness back into his own flesh. Bran wiped away nonexistent cold sweat, struggling to control his body, which had not yet fully reacquainted itself with his spirit. He climbed clumsily from the bed, his thoughts still fixed upon the sinister shadow lurking beneath the river's surface.

What a monstrous lizard-lion. It could swallow a man whole without strain.

Why would such a creature venture beyond the Neck?

Bran could not fathom it. He longed to consult Prince Joffrey, who possessed deep knowledge of magical matters, but the steel piece had lain silent these past fifteen days. Arya had mourned its stillness for half a day or more.

He must alert the others to the peril in the river.

Bran resolved himself to action.

"Make way! Men of House Tully, bearing urgent tidings for the King!" "Stand aside!"

The thunder of hooves and desperate shouts drifted from the west.

Bran hastened to the window. A score of riders clad in mail and boiled leather galloped along the River Road toward the inn. They reined up sharply before the entrance, dismounting with practiced swiftness and rushing inside without pause to recover their breath.

The riders vanished from Bran's view, leaving only flustered servants to tend their lathered mounts.

Bran could not wholly subdue the curiosity that gnawed at him. Since acquiring his strange gift, he had grown ever less tolerant of the agony of not seeing.

With practiced ease, he slipped his skin, entering the body of a small sparrow perched upon the rafters of the common room.

The breathless messengers had drawn the attention of all within the hall. The leader produced a wooden coffer containing two letters, each sealed with wax impressions—one bearing the direwolf of House Stark, the other the leaping trout of House Tully.

The messenger scanned the hall, finding no crowned head among those present.

"My lords," he announced, still fighting for breath, "Lord Hoster has dispatched us with these missives. His Grace the Crown Prince and Lady Stark send urgent word from Winterfell." His eyes continued their search. "Where might I find His Grace the King?"

Ser Barristan stepped forward, his white cloak hanging heavy from his shoulders. "His Grace is abroad. I am Ser Barristan Selmy, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. The letters may be entrusted to me."

"You are a knight without peer," the messenger acknowledged, extending the wooden coffer. Yet his face betrayed no relief.

"Though I know not the contents of these letters, Lord Hoster instructed us to deliver them to the King with all haste. Hundreds of our men follow close behind to lend their swords if needed. I beg you, my lord, treat this matter with the gravity it demands."

Barristan's weathered face grew somber at once.

The Kingslayer rose from his seat, impatience written in every line of his body. "Captain, why do you hesitate? The King and Lord Eddard will scarce return before nightfall. Either venture into the forest to find them or break the seals and learn what news they bear, lest we delay in some matter of import."

The sparrow upon the rafter yearned to know what words the parchments carried.

Ser Barristan did not disappoint the little bird's expectations. He broke the seals and unfolded the letters. Though he did not read them aloud, the sparrow needed only to flutter to a more advantageous perch.

Flap, flap~

The bird's movement drew no eyes amid the tension of the moment.

Before the letters were closed by a hand grown suddenly tense, Bran's borrowed eyes caught fragments of text: Bloodraven, King's Landing, controlling beasts, attack, King, Lord Stark, support.

Unbidden, the memory of the lizard-lion invaded Bran's thoughts. His mind conjured a scene of terrible violence.

No!

Bran jolted from his bed once more, but this time he had willfully withdrawn from the sparrow's form.

He flung open his chamber door and hurtled down the stairs, his urgency such that he knocked aside several servants in his haste. None of that mattered now.

He burst into the hall and found Ser Barristan and the Kingslayer locked in fierce debate.

"There's a lizard-lion in the river!" he cried, his voice cracking with fear. "A massive beast—I saw it with my own eyes! Father and the King are in grave peril. You must go to them!"

All eyes in the hall fixed upon the wild-eyed Stark boy. Bran cared only for convincing the two Kingsguard knights of the danger.

"Believe me, all I have said is truth. A monster lurks in the water, poised to strike!"

His voice broke with desperation. "You must act swiftly, or it will be too late!"

Ser Barristan's decision came without hesitation. "No risk to the King may be dismissed. I would rather believe the boy speaks true and be proved a fool than ignore his warning and find myself a traitor through inaction." He turned to the men-at-arms. "Prepare to ride. At once!"

The Kingslayer's lips curved in an inexplicable smile.

Scores of seasoned warriors assembled with remarkable swiftness. After the briefest explanation of their purpose, they plunged into the forest's depths.

Despite his repeated entreaties, Bran remained at the inn. He attempted once more to enter Summer's body, but the direwolf resisted his presence. Left with no choice, he seized control of a hunting hound and silently followed the armed party into the wood.

Hundreds of leagues distant, Joffrey drew a deep breath.

The letters had reached their destination. The King hunted in the forest, and the lizard-lions waited in position, requiring only the final command to strike.

Joffrey closed his eyes, focusing his consciousness entirely upon the magical beast that lurked thousands of miles away.

When his eyes opened again, his vision revealed a curtain of clear, flowing water. Save for aquatic plants, no fish nor water creature dared show itself before this predator's gaze.

The lizard-lion brought with it strange new sensations. It reminded Joffrey of his earliest experiments in skinchanging—the world felt utterly transformed, as though he experienced it for the first time.

Little wonder Bran had grown so enamored of the practice that he could scarcely tear himself away.

The time for action had come.

Joffrey flexed the lizard-lion's thick, powerful tail. In the space of a heartbeat, the creature propelled itself to the riverbank with astonishing speed.

It dragged its armored bulk ashore, concealing itself within the dense foliage that bordered the beach, awaiting the King's arrival.

King Robert roared with laughter, brandishing a broken spear. At his feet lay a massive aurochs, slain in single combat.

"What did I tell you, Ned? I said there'd be no trouble. Who am I, if not the man who drove his hammer through Rhaegar's chest!"

The King pointed toward the river that flowed beside the wood. "Right there, I still recall it clear as yesterday. The Ruby Ford!" He laughed again. "A fitting name!"

"Indeed, Your Grace."

Eddard was reluctant to speak overmuch of Rhaegar, for such talk inevitably stirred memories of his sister Lyanna's dying plea.

That child, now in league with Joffrey—it troubles my heart.

Eddard mistrusted Jon's choice, yet forcing him to take the black would resolve nothing. He could only nurse his concerns in silence.

Whoosh~ Whoosh~

The tall grass to the west swayed in rhythmic patterns, allowing one to trace the movement of some unseen creature.

The King nudged Eddard with excitement, his voice dropping to what passed for a whisper when Robert spoke. "More game afoot. Keep still and witness how I bring it down."

Eddard had long grown accustomed to such moments and held his peace.

Robert exchanged his broken spear for a fresh one, advancing with exaggerated stealth toward the rustling brush.

Roar~

The quarry started, transforming into a black blur as it fled westward.

"Ha! A great boar!"

The King shouted with undisguised glee before charging in pursuit. Eddard and a dozen guardsmen followed close behind.

Bran cared nothing for the welfare of his borrowed form. The hunting hound raced forward with reckless abandon, rapidly outpacing the armored soldiers and closing the distance to the King and his father.

He caught his father's scent, mingled with the coppery tang of blood.

His mind conjured images of heart-rending tragedy, yet when he reached the source of the blood-scent, he found only the slain aurochs.

He pressed onward, following the fresh trail.

As he ran, a sense of familiarity settled over him. He had traveled this path before.

The rising smell of water vapor jogged his memory—he and Summer had ventured this way earlier. This was the western path that led to the Ruby Ford, where the lizard-lion lurked!

The hound redoubled its pace, muscles straining beyond their limits.

The trees thinned, and dappled sunlight broke through the canopy. At last, the river and beach came into view. He spotted the massive boar, and at the edge of the woods, a dozen human figures.

But there, surging from the water with preternatural speed, the enormous lizard-lion charged toward the King and his father, twin rows of dagger-like teeth gleaming in the sun.

Despair clutched at Bran's heart. We are too late.