A Maid As Fair As Summer - Chapter 6 - kacchixx (2024)

Chapter Text

Nat IV

There is no way to know night and day from her cell.

Her cell is warm – warmer than any place underground has any right to be. But it is also dark, with the little light only coming from the small gap below the door and the flickering torch from the hall outside. The rest of the cell remains in gloom, with neither moonglow or sunshine piercing the thick, stone walls of her windowless prison.

The only sound she can hear is from the rats and the only stench she can smell is her own piss and sh*t. The cell is dank, as is expected from a place like Braavos where the sea is never far. She wonders if Yumi and Kevyn are kept with the same accommodations. Nat doesn’t know. She hasn’t seen them in days.

Has it been days though? Or merely hours since they were captured? There is no way to tell, truly, except for the times when the gaolers switch shifts. There are two of them to tend to her but they only speak to Nat when necessary. The burly, hooded man with the gruff voice would snap at her when she refuses to eat the mash of meat he insists is food. The other one… the girl, is a lot kinder. One day, she even brought Nat a piece of lamprey pie from the kitchens – a rare luxury for a prisoner locked in a dungeon.

They do not mean to kill me now, that much is clear at least. They are keeping her alive, for some bizarre purpose of their own. Nat can only hope that Yumi and Kevyn are being afforded the same courtesy. Nat wouldn’t know. She hasn’t seen them since they were all taken captive. And for as long as Nat was in the dungeons, she hasn’t heard anyone else around her other than the gaolers.

If Kevyn and Yumi are being kept somewhere, it is not anywhere near here.

Many times, Nat tried to speak to her jailers to know for certain -- both of whom wore the Phantom’s red cloaks, emblazoned by R'hllor’s burning heart. Nat did not realize how much one would hunger for the sound of a human’s voice, if deprived from it long enough.

Everyday she asks. Everyday she pleads. “Where are my friends?” she would ask, everytime they come to bring her food or change the sh*t bucket. “What do you intend to do to us? Do you mean to burn us?” She knows her pleas for mercy would only fall to deaf ears so she just continues to ask. “Where are my friends?”

She changes it up eventually, if only to see if they would respond to any other prompting. “Is the Lord of Tatters well? Is he a good master? How well does he treat you?” Nat asks about the weather, about the sea, about the comings and goings in the castle. “Has autumn begun yet? Has the dragon egg hatched? Do the ships still sail the narrow sea? How long has Duke been working for you? Where are my friends?”

It did not matter what she asked. Her hooded gaolers remained tightlipped. Sometimes, the girl would give Nat a pensive look, as though she was tempted to speak before closing it again and leaving. The man does not even bother to extend the same hope towards Nat. Whenever Nat addresses him, he looks at her like the pile of sh*t in her cell just spoke.

Nat struck gold only once, when she mentioned the red priestess in one of her questions. It was the girl who looked at her with confusion and it was the girl’s voice that finally broke the silence of her dank cell. “There was no priestess.”

Nat had been too astonished by the fact that the girl responded for her to fully absorb the words. “No?” She asks after a beat. “You say that but I saw her. Red cloak much like yours but with a bit of gold around her wrists. She has dark hair, tanned skin and marks of flame on her left cheek.”

In the darkness, Nat could almost hear the girl shake her head. She wore silver chains on her neck and they rattled everytime she moved. Nat is unsure what she looks like but there is something in her speech that betrays her origin from the Summer Isles. “There is no one like that here. No priestess.”

Nat remembered the same question etched on Yumi’s face, her insistence that Nat had been talking to no one but the swirling smoke all along. Could she have dreamt all that? The red woman and her dreams of fire? The red woman called her by her real name. “No priestess? Then who… who is leading you, might I ask?”

“Not a priestess, to be sure.” The girl who gave her lamprey pie, replies, her chains ringing with her airy shrug. “There is only the Lord of Tatters here.”

Nat had wanted to ask more questions but Burly had arrived just in time to hear their exchange. He admonishes Lamprey Pie for speaking to her, before dismissing her. Once more, silence reigns in her cell. Lamprey Pie refuses to talk a word in the succeeding days, even when Nat only carefully asked her questions about the weather.

Then one night, as she is finishing supper, Nat finds herself bathed in orange light for the first time in a while. She blinks and glances up through the bars where she finds the Lord of Tatters, in shimmering scarlet, his robes gleaming brightly in the glow of the torch he holds.

“The thief.” he greets jovially. The man’s eyes are paler than stone and darker than milk. His voice is spider soft when he speaks. His Bastard Valyrian is fluent, if a bit accented. “Or one of you, at any rate.”

“Where are my friends?” Nat demands, rising to her full height to regard her captor from beyond the bars. She feels her knees shake from disuse. “Take me to them or elsewise–”

“‘Tis scarcely polite to threaten your kind host who gave you both food and board, wench.” the Lord of Tatters scolded, with a slow, deliberate shake of his head. “In the land where I came from, we hold the laws of hospitality sacred still.”

“The land that exiled you so, do you mean? And I am a captive here, not a guest, Lord Frey.”

Lord Frey looks pleased, not even taken aback. “I would be surprised that you know your Westerosi Houses but you look like you came from my country yourself. Tell me, which of them fathered a bastard and left you to fend for yourself across the Narrow Sea? The Daynes with the purple eyes? No, perhaps the Velaryons with their Valyrian descent? Did you hear of my house of the Twin Towers from your father? Or was it a mother?”

The Priestess called him that, Nat realizes with some hope in her heart. It was the red woman who told Nat his name – something not even Yumi managed to unearth during all the time they spent in preparation. Not even Duke the traitor told them who the exiled lord was.

She has to be real, Nat thinks to herself, a little bit of her confidence to her sanity restored. There was no way I could have dreamed that. There was no way I could have known his name.

She realizes she has been silent for a while when Lord Frey shrugs. Let him talk, Nat thinks. He seems to like the sound of his voice anyway.

“All right, then. Keep your secrets.” His chuckle sends some chill creeping into the back of Nat’s neck. “You call yourself a captive but I have been nothing but kind to you, even when you planned to steal from me. Perhaps, I ought to have given you to the Berovierri… or offered you to the Sealord. The Braavosi hate thieves, see. Do you know what they do to them here?”

Nat knows and has seen it for herself but she chooses to not dignify the man with an answer.

He appears unbothered by her sullen silence. “They geld the men and maim the women but leave them alive long enough so they can beg for scraps in the streets. An unfortunate fate, if you ask me – their many-faced gods preach that death is the greatest gift that one could get so they’d try to deprive their enemies of that for as long as they can. Suffering is what makes a man, they believe. And only after suffering can an evil man deserve the gift of death.”

“The God of Many Faces wants their enemies to suffer.” Nat drawls darkly. “The Lord of Light wants theirs burned. And there’s some god in the Sunset kingdoms who prefers to see his foes drowned. Why are all the gods such vicious c*nts?” She pushes the sh*t bowl with her foot and asks: “You call me a thief. And I have suffered enough in the silence of your dungeons. Have you come to burn me then, my lord?”

His strange, pale eyes study her through the bars. Nat does not know if he likes what he sees. “This is a bad place, is it not? A dark place. And foul too. The good sun does not shine here at all. Nor the bright moon.”

“Not a great way to treat one’s guests, is it?”

He sighs. “No, I suppose not. But guests do not try to steal from their hosts, do they?” He lifts one hand as though to show her the torch he was holding. “This is all that stands between you and darkness, thief. This little fire. This gift of R'hllor. Shall I put it out?”

“No,” She finds herself admitting. The glow of the fire gave her the momentarily relief she did not know she desired. She did not think she could bear that again, to be left in darkness with nothing but her dark thoughts for company. She stares at the fire. “Please.”

Lord Frey’s lips curve into a mocking smile. “So you have come to love the fire, it seems. The Lord of Light is not much of a vicious… c*nt, now is he?”

“I need the torch.” she replies firmly, willing herself to not beg. Her hands open and close against the bars, staring the man down.

“I am like this torch, wench. And you are much the same. We were made for a single purpose – to keep darkness at bay. Do you believe that?”

“Is that what you tell all those that you make kindling to your Nightfire?” Nat challenges, wondering if there is any point in exchanging barbs with her future executioner. But Nat is sick of the silence and Lord Frey is the first to have spoken to her so earnestly in days so she continues talking. “Do you make it your custom to speak to your instruments before burning them?” Her heart fills with dread. “Is that what you have done to my friends before you burned them?”

“I have done no such thing.” For a moment, hope flares up within Nat. They are alive. They weren’t burned. But they are swiftly dashed by the exiled lord’s next words. “I prefer to see them in the light of the sky when I cleanse them of their sins. The fire burns so low down here.”

“Does the shadow of the darkness scare you as well, my Lord of Tatters?” Nat mocks, her teeth gritted.

She hears, more than sees, him shake his head. “No. For I have seen the truth.”

“And pray tell, what truth is that, m’lord?”

“The way the world is made. The truth is all around you, plain to behold. The night is dark and full of terrors, the day bright and beautiful and full of hope. One is black, the other white. Hate and love. Bitter and sweet. Male and female. Pain and pleasure. Winter and summer. Evil and good. Ice and fire.” His voice is slightly louder at the last pair, as though emphasizing it. “Death and life. Everywhere, opposites. It is a truth she showed me. And it is the truth that I was made to understand that you did too.”

Nat is stunned. She stares at him in awe, her words laced with disbelief. “You saw her. You saw the priestess.”

His face darkens when he nods. “Aye. Many years ago. I was on a ship bound to Volantis, ill with fever and stripped of my titles and lands, all because my cousin, the king, deemed that I spoke out of turn.”

“You’re cousins with the king?” This is news to Nat.

“That is what the King would like the realm to believe, as I have the ill fate to learn. My mother was a Baratheon of Storm’s End, see – the House where the first Baratheon king hailed from. But it was long rumored that the royal family was more a lion, than a stag – thanks to a little bit of incest between a queen and her white knight a hundred years ago. So no, mayhaps we were never cousins but the king would rather have me thrown out of Westeros than admit that.”

His tirade means nothing to Nat, with all the queer names and his rambling fraught with century-long history she did not particularly care about nor understand. But she can tell that telling the story makes him angry, with how much his little, pale fists are clenching the bars.

“I thought I was to perish in that damned ship. I’ve never been to sea, only rivers. We have so many of them in Westeros. The captain thought he would have to throw me off into the sea before he was paid. But alas, it was not meant to be.” He pauses and lets an exalted smile grace his pale face. “I saw her. The red priestess. Tall and beautiful. With the very image of flames tattooed on her skin. She told me I was not meant to die in that horrid place. That I still have a purpose to fulfill in this world. That I have to live.”

“A purpose?” A sense of foreboding grips Nat, the red woman’s words echoing in her head. And when the time comes, you shall be Natalie of House Targaryen once more.

“A dragon, she told me. Only a king’s blood can wake a stone dragon, she said. And I have the blood of Robert Baratheon within me, more than any of the impostors holding the crown now. And Robert himself has the blood of the dragon in him too. So I have the blood of both dragon kings and stag in me.”

Nat scoffs. “You mean to resurrect a dragon?” The Lord of Tatters is even more insane than Nat imagined then. Many men have tried to bring them back and many men have failed. Including her own grandsire, who believed himself to be Aegon the Conqueror reborn throughout all his life.

“Three dragons.” he corrects, showing the number with his fingers. The straight statement causes Nat to look at him with wide eyes. “The red priestess guided me to them when I came here and had guided me to the Lord of Light.”

He continues. “It had been a wedding gift to a long-dead exiled princess, I heard. But she had to sell it off to survive the perils of the Red Waste so it went from one merchant to another over the decades. The king did allow me to keep my riches when he stripped me off my lands so it was of no consequence for me to buy them back.”

Nat’s questions come out a hiss. “Was it of no consequence for you to burn men to hatch them then? How many have you burned now? A hundred? A thousand? All for petrified stones?”

The man has the nerve to only chuckle. “All common criminals, I assure you. Merely the scum of the good earth. The red priestess warned me of all the blood I have to shed to bring the dragons back. I have to keep the fire burning, she said.” Another careless shrug. “All the sacrifices from before? From Aerion Brightflame to the nine mages to Summerhall and down to the alchemists in the employ of the Mad King? The letting of blood has started years and years ago and I, Walter Frey, blood of both Dragon and Stag, would be the one to succeed when they all failed.”

Walter Frey lets the silence stew as Nat holds her gasp. She chooses her words carefully now, feeling fear at the sight of the smiling man before her. When she speaks again, she does so with some dread. “And how many more would it take you to succeed, might I ask?”

There is a triumphant air about it when he proclaims his next words, his eyes shining: “Hm. It might be very soon.” His smile widens. “The red priestess told me one last thing after all.”

Nat stares at him, waiting but somehow already knowing.

“She said that for years, I will have to keep the fire burning and burning. But one day, the right kindling would arrive, along with two more. She has violet eyes. And she is the only other person to have seen the priestess.” His pale eyes regard her now, “You will see your friends again soon, fear not. Just know that when the maesters write the history of my reign as Walter the Dragonborn, they will say that it began tonight.”

Lottie III

Lottie doesn’t know how long she’s been trapped in the claws of sleep.

She is dreaming, she knows. She does not feel any pain or exhaustion, no matter how long she’s been walking. She doesn’t feel the ground beneath her feet nor anything against the skin of her palms. The Voice continues to spurn her on, as it always does in her dreams.

Walk. Walk. Walk.

The only thing different from her usual dreams is the door. Gone is the emptiness of the field that was the fixture of every dream she ever dreamed. Gone is the whiteness of snow and some thorns and some fire. She is in a hall now, walking endlessly between halls filled with blood-painted tapestry.

And I can recognize all of them.

Over both sides of the hall, she sees the entire history of mankind, all depicted in colorful painted figures and interconnected by smears of red blood. She saw a time when magic reigned in the lands of Westeros where giants and unicorns roamed the earth, all guided by the Children of the Forest. She saw the first hint of bronze when the First Men came where wars were fought and lands were scorched before a pact was forged. From the tapestries, she recognized heroes of old – Lann the Clever, Garth the Gardener, Durran Godsgrief…

Then the darkness consumed all the colors and all Lottie saw for a while was black. The Long Night, her mind supplied as she watched tendrils of ice overtake the walls and white, thin figures dot amongst the black. The white starts to overtake the black but she soon saw a smidge of fire amidst ice and Lottie couldn’t believe the relief it brought her when she did.

Fire amongst ice. Love amongst hate. Sweetness in bitter times. Life found among Death.

“It’s the prince.” her mouth said without thinking. She watched the figure vanquish the darkness with his fire, pushing off the black and bringing color to the walls once more. “He was the prince that was promised.”

And his is the song of ice and fire.

She’s been walking for a long time now – eight thousand years of fraught history. From when Bran the Builder built the wall to when the Andals came, bringing the silver of steel and the gold of Seven in the walls. From the crimson flames of the Valyrian Freehold, to the yellows of the sails of her ancestor, Nymeria. She saw the destruction of Valyria, the color of the flames drawn in blood. And then she saw the black and red of Aegon the Conqueror’s banners as he soared over the seven kingdoms he made his.

This is where she is now, walking amidst the colorful but bloody history of the Seven Kingdoms and the Dragon Kings. The door grows ever closer, as though promising a new chapter once the long walk is over. The walls are a lot more familiar now and Lottie can almost hear the songs that each milestone in history has inspired.

Maegor’s Six Wives for the construction of the Red Keep and all the blood let for its secret tunnels. The Good Queen plays for the eighty years of peace that the realm enjoyed. The Dance of the Dragons heralds the dark time when the dragons all died. The Great Bastards sings for when war broke out between the Blackfyres and the crown. The Grief of the Dragon strums for the tragedy of Summerhall.

And suddenly the door is right before her.

But it hasn’t ended, is her first thought. For there are still two more centuries worth of tapestry she expected to see before reaching the door – a tall oval mouth, set in a wall fashioned in the likeness of a human face. Shouldn’t the future be beyond this door? Laura Lee thought it would be. Laura Lee said it would be.

You have been drowned and returned to us. The girl had promised just before she plunged Lottie into the dark, murky waters of the Blackwater. What is dead can never die but rises, harder and stronger.

Would the walls waiting behind this door be as clear as the tapestry that stood behind her? The clarity of her visions now emboldened her. Lottie cannot wait to know what is afoot and there is only one way to find out.

Come. Come Come. The Voice cries. Lottie takes a deep breath and goes inside.

The last thing she hears is the metal door creaking open before there is a flash of light and a ringing sound. And suddenly Lottie finds herself abed in another room, with elegant Myrish drapes hung around. There is a warm weight on her arms, pressed on her chest. When Lottie feels it against her, she feels a rush of love settle in her heart.

A silver-haired man leans over her, haunting violet eyes fixed on the bundle in Lottie’s arms. He reaches out towards her, his long elegant figures caressing her cheek. Lottie feels some love for the handsome man too but it has flecks of sadness in it that she is not sure she understands.

“He’s born strong.” the man says. The sound of his voice is as beautiful as he is. “The blood of the dragon is strong in him, Elia.”

Lottie’s mouth opens without her willing it and an unfamiliar voice comes out of her throat. “I have it myself, husband. Lest you forget.”

“I haven’t. You have a huge portrait of her hanging in Sunspear. The first Daenerys. YouMartells never made us forget it, that’s for certain. Did you know my mother means to name my sister after her?”

She feels herself smile at him as she sees faceless figures flash in her mind. She recalls her brothers, though Lottie cannot remember their names. “If the dragons lived now, I would have ridden the biggest of them.” she says.

“Perhaps our children might.“ The man says and once more his eyes are distant, riddled with grief. Lottie finally remembers the reason for her sadness, finally recalls how she could never reach him – no matter how hard she tries.

“Will you make a song for him?” She finds herself asking, hoping to bring him back to the present and out of the desolation of his past… or the future he both so dreaded and chased after,

“He has a song.” the man replies, his tone still filled with melancholy. “He is the prince that was promised, and his is the song of ice and fire.” He looks at his side, as though seeing someone else but there is no one besides them in the room. “There must be one more.” he mutters. “The dragon has three heads.”

One more. The Voice says. One more.

The man goes to the window seat, picks up a harp, and runs his fingers lightly over its silvery strings. Sweet sadness filled the room as the world fades like the morning mist, only the music lingering behind as another light flashes before Lottie’s eyes.

Now, Lottie finds herself staring at the sky and the wide expanse of a green field underneath it. She is kneeling on one knee now and the weight she feels against her is that of a broadsword’s steel instead of a babe. Yonder, she sees a tower standing upon a lone island, its twin reflected on the still, blue waters of a lake. Oak trees grew along the lakeshore, a dense stand of them with a litter of fallen acorns on the ground beneath. Beyond them was a promise of a thriving village.

Lottie thinks of the many peasants who would live there, of the inns that would be constructed and the taverns that would thrive. It would be no Winter Town but it would be hers. For the first time, something would be hers.

“Jon” the man before her intones. He stands tall as she kneels but she can still see his long brown hair and the long, bearded face that is already turning gray. In his hands is an unsheathed sword that she knows to be Valyrian Steel but instead of fear, Lottie feels nothing but pride.

“Jon, do you swear before the eyes of gods and men to defend those who cannot defend themselves, to protect all women and children, to guard this holdfast given to you, to obey your liege lord, and your king, to fight bravely when needed and do such other tasks as are laid upon you, however hard or humble or dangerous they may be?"

She feels herself nod. “I do, Father… my Lord Stark.”

“Then rise, Jon of House Whitestark, now the Lord of Queenscrown, vassal house of the Starks of Winterfell.”

She rises, finally no longer a bastard but now a lord of her own keep. The man she knows as her father reaches out for an embrace and gazes at him fondly. More bodies come closer. She recognizes them as her natural siblings – four of them red haired and one brown. They are grinning at him, happy.

But they are no longer just a single family now. Maybe, they never were. Lottie now has her own House, her own holdfast to protect. She will have her own children and her own wife. Perhaps, one day her own daughters would be Starks too, in the way she could have been but never quite.

But none of that matters now, she thinks. Because winter is coming…

Coming… coming… coming…

The scene suddenly shifts once more, away from the beautiful, crisp autumn day in the North to another candlelit room. This time, she is unable to make out much of where she is because her sight is blurred and her limbs are too heavy. All Lottie can do is to crane her neck and move the small fingers of her hands.

Then she feels herself being lifted upright and feels her skin rub against the rough fabric of a robe. She hears a man start to hum as Lottie’s body bounces gently, up and down. Only when he puts her down again does she see the man’s face. He has dyed blue hair, the roots silver. Aged lines covered his face but he remained handsome. His violet eyes are darker than the first man’s, but just as haunted.

He places Lottie on his lap, as though she is little and light enough. It is then Lottie realizes why she cannot move much, why only a gargle comes out her mouth when she opens it.

The man has a soothing voice when he speaks. “One day, we will go home, Natalie…” There is a lot of hope in that voice, even when his face looks lonely and defeated. “Our home is beautiful, child. Westeros. Oh, how I long for you to see it! There’s green hills and flowered plains and great rushing rivers, where towers of dark stone rose amidst magnificent blue-gray mountains, and armored knights rode to battle beneath the banners of their lords… your lords. One day, it will be yours again. All yours again”

His handsome face cracks into a slight smile when Lottie babbles and giggles. “One day, you will succeed in doing what my ancestors failed to…” He hums again, his beautiful voice filling the room. It is all Lottie can hear as she finally lets sleep take her and closes her eyes.

“One day, you will be the dragon I never was, Natalie..”

Dragon… dragon… dragon…

When she comes to her senses once more, she is no longer in the candlelit bedchambers with the humming man. She has regained the use of her limbs and the clarity of her sight, her feet planted firmly on the ground once more and no longer kneeling.

Lottie realizes that she is at a market now, a great square of beaten earth surrounded by warrens of mud-baked brick, animal pens and whitewashed drinking halls. Hummocks rose from the ground like the backs of great subterranean beasts breaking the surface, yawning black mouths leading down to cool and cavernous storerooms below. The interior of the square was a maze of stalls and crookback aisles, shaded by awnings of woven grass.

A hundred merchants and traders were unloading their goods and setting up in stalls. Yet, even as they move on to start their day, Lottie feels all their eyes stare at her.

There is weight on her arms once more, like on the first vision but in place of the gurgling bundle that filled her with love, she now holds a box that only fills her with grief. Three petrified stones stare back at her, shimmering like polished metal in the light of the rising sun.

Dragons eggs. But amidst the heat, they remain stones – valuable stones that could save her life in the Red Waste, but nowhere near the splendor they could have been.

Like Mother’s Crown, Lottie thinks bitterly. She is close to bursting into tears then, remembering her dear, cruel brother who died with a golden crown of his own. He was never the same after he sold their mother’s crown to feed themselves. He was never the same after men started calling him the Beggar King.

I am the beggar queen now.

Viserys was right all along.

I will never amount to anything else.

The tears in her eyes blur her vision but she does not have long to ponder because the flashes start again and she is out of the Eastern desert. The air is much colder now, more humid and suddenly Lottie is on the deck of what she immediately recognizes as a river galley. She stumbles slightly when she slowly realizes where she is. Distantly, she can hear the rumble of the oars slapping the water and the urgent commands of a man as the galley sails swiftly

Over a short distance away, Lottie can see several other sails giving chase but they are slower and sluggish. From where she stands, the gold of the Greyjoy’s Kraken is visible and even as it grows smaller by every passing minute, Lottie still feels some dread settle in her bones.

A small but desperate shriek breaks into her grim thoughts and Lottie looks to the side to spot a child leaning over the railing, screaming at something – for someone. The little girl is dressed in green, her gown embroidered with yellow roses that Lottie would recognize anywhere. Something about the way she carries herself is overwhelmingly familiar.

“Laura Lee!” The girl screams and Lottie freezes in realization. “Stop! Stop! Laura is still there! Help! Help! Stop the barge!”

When the girl looks back up and away from the raging river waters, all the pieces fall together then. The young Jackie Tyrell stares at her wide eyed, hazel orbs pleading in desperation. “Please, sailor lady! Help her! Laura Lee! She fell! Laura Lee fell!”

And suddenly, Lottie realizes she is Lottie now. Not anyone else. Not the mother who just gave birth nor an upstart lord swearing his vows. She is not an infant hearing her first bedtime story nor is she the queen forced to sell her last treasures to not starve. She is Lottie Martell again and she finally has free reign over her body. The words that she speaks next are her own. “Laura Lee?”

“Yes!” Jackie Tyrell exclaims in sheer relief. She points at the water and shouts: “Please save her.”

Scarcely a second thought, Lottie runs towards the deck, jumps out of the galley and into the freezing waters of the Mander. She feels her body crash against the surface before the cold overwhelms all of her. For a moment, she recalls the sensation of breathlessness, of death, of Laura Lee’s hands forcefully holding her down the water – before her vision clears and she can see a young girl drifting motionlessly on the riverbed.

Lottie wades downwards, fighting against the current to reach Laura Lee but no matter how fast she swims, the girl only seems to drift away even further. Water bubbles sprout around her when Lottie tries to scream her name but it goes unheard against the angry, blue waters. And the drowning Laura Lee remains unresponsive.

And then suddenly, she remembers the words Laura Lee had said when they were safe in her room at the Tower of the Hand. The words that saved her… The words that roused her long enough to save herself…

LIVE, Lottie screams, more with her mind than her mouth. The voice that comes out is not hers, but The Voice in all her dreams.

You have to live!

LAURA LEE

LAURA LEE

LAURA LEE

Finally, Laura Lee’s eyes open.

“Lottie.” she greets. Then, her eyes widen and she shouts. “LOTTIE!”

And then, it is Lottie waking up.

The feeling of the featherbed on her back is the first thing she feels before the streaming sunlight begins to assault her vision. Next, she hears a gasp and rustling of cloth. She feels fingers ghosting over her face. “Lottie…” a familiar voice calls and it reminds Lottie of water. “Lottie.”

Finally, she looks at her side. The next feeling that consumes her is relief.

“Laura Lee.” Her voice comes out in a rough rasp but it is hers. Not The Voice. Her face splits into an exalted smile. “You did not drown.”

Confusion clouds Laura Lee’s face as she helps Lottie sit upright. A cup of tepid water is shoved towards Lottie’s mouth. She greedily drinks from it, like a man dying of thirst in the deserts.

Beside her, Laura Lee speaks. “No, I did not drown. But you did.”

The memories of their trip to the castle beach begin to wash over her, like the fall of water from the Water Gardens in Dorne. She remembers Laura Lee’s hands holding her down and can remember the sensation of choking. Her eyes fly around her throat. “I truly did, did I?”

Laura Lee’s hands close around Lottie’s hands. They are trembling, as are her lips. “I was worried. You were unconscious for a week, Lottie. A week! You woke up for a little while. You even spoke to me! But suddenly, you were just gone. And I couldn’t do anything until Travis arrived. We were so reckless. I was so reckless. We shouldn’t have done that. I shouldn’t have–”

“Lau…” Lottie’s hands cup the other girl’s cheeks, her voice falling into the rhythm of the same hum the blue-haired man sang to her in the dream. She feels Laura Lee relax against her palm, her breathing even. Lottie flashes her a kind smile. “You said it yourself. I was reborn. Harder and stronger. And for that, I thank you.”

A frown creases Laura Lee’s forehead. “Lottie, what do you–?”

Lottie does not let Laura Lee finish her question, springing out of the bed and asking. “What happened while I was gone, Laura Lee? What did I miss?” She heads towards the mirror and finds only a gaunt, exhausted young woman in her reflection. “Did anything noteworthy happen while I was away with my dreams?”

“Your Father had a quarrel with the Lord Hand.” Laura Lee replies, eyes downcast. “He asked that the ball be postponed until you recover but Lord Tyrell refused to heed the request. He petitioned his grievances to the King but the Ball still went on, as planned. Prince Malcolm has since left the Capital, with the Master of Whisperers, Lord Snow.”

So that is the source of Laura Lee’s discomfort. “He left me here?”

“He means for you to recover before you make your journey back to Sunspear, he said.” Laura Lee sounds like she does not believe it herself. “You are not alone. Ser Travis and your handmaiden, Lisa, remain in the Capital to escort you back when you are well enough to travel.”

“And the rest of the guards.”

“Your father left with them.”

Lottie regards her friend carefully. “Speak plainly, Laura Lee. Has there been rumors of my Father going to war against the crown?”

At Laura Lee’s reluctant nod, Lottie scoffs. He meant to leave me, is her epiphany. He does not care if Lottie dies or becomes the Crown’s hostage whenever he tries to rebel. He means for me to be disinherited, as he always planned.

“Mayhaps, the present is just as interesting.” she mutters, causing Laura Lee to look at her in askance. With a shrug, Lottie continues asking. “And where is my sworn protector and my aide now, may I ask?”

“Ser Dayne will be riding in the lists today.”

Lottie’s eyes widen, almost as surprised at this as she was the tidings related to Dorne. “He’ll be joining the tourney? Travis?”

“If he had the choice, he wouldn’t. He wanted to stay and stand guard but the King wanted to see the newest Sword of the Morning in action and with the ever increasing scrutiny towards the Dornishmen in the Capital, he was left with no other option but to obey.” Laura Lee shakes her head, as though in mirth. “I cannot say I am not relieved, princess. Him being away is the only reason I am able to pay a visit now. Lisa is the only one to allow me inside.”

Lottie snorts. “Is Travis angry at you?”

“I cannot blame him if he is. I almost killed you after all.” Laura Lee’s face is shrouded with guilt. She seems to debate about asking Lottie something, before she settles for: “Do you want me to call for him now? He and his squire should be in the tents now. There is still some time before the tourney starts.”

Lottie waves one hand in dismissal. “Let him focus on unhorsing the prince for me.” She remembers the little girl in her dream then, with her green dress and yellow roses. “Pray tell, did he choose Lady Jackie? Is she to be our new queen?”

Laura Lee nods in assent. “Better her than you, as Travis said. He seems relieved you were not chosen.”

Not that she had any chances to because the prince did not really fancy her. “If I was made the consort, he would have to be named Kingsguard, as my sworn protector.” There were only six of them — white cloaks who could hold no land, take no wife and live only to serve the king. Lottie never knew Travis for his promiscuity but she knows that a man has needs. “And he doesn’t want that. What else happened, Laura Lee?”

She tunes out Laura Lee’s voice then, the present suddenly immaterial as flashes of her long dream starts coming back. She thinks of dragon eggs, the lone tower in the middle of the lake, the wizened older man and the white haired prince with the song. Was that a peek of the past that she needs to know of?

She thinks of the rose thorns, the fire, the snow and the royal grave – and wonders whether she would dream of them again. Was that a glimpse of the future she is yet to unearth?

Lottie wonders what it all means.

Jackie IV

The Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, himself – Ser Hoster Mallister, escorts Jackie to the Prince’s pavilion. It is the first morning of the weeklong tourney contest where besides the jousting, the crown would also host a competition of melee, ax throwing, archery, horse races and even singers.

Jackie had walked by the beginnings of a mummer’s show when she entered the tourney grounds and the palace servants had been quite busy preparing for all the feasting and frolicking that would take place soon.

The Crown is particularly open-handed with the prizes for this tourney and the lavish champion purses drew out even more challengers from all across the land than there were ladies in the Maiden’s Ball. The most famed knights, the greatest lords and the mightiest warriors should be riding in this tourney.

But the Prince would best them all, Jackie thinks, though not with pride. As he always does.

It is still early in the day but the camp is already beginning to stir. Fat sausages sizzle over fire pits, spicing the air with the scents of garlic and pepper. Young squires hurried about on errands as their masters woke, yawning and stretching, to meet the tourney’s first day. A serving man with a goose under his arm bent his knee when he caught sight of them approaching. “M’lady. M’lord.” he mutters before going on his way to where the fire burns.

The shields displayed outside each of the tents they walk by heralds its noble occupant: the flayed man of House Bolton, the trout of House Tully, a row of seashells for the Westerlings, a weirwood tree, red stallion, silver seahorse, white ram, triple spiral, purple unicorn, dancing maiden, blackadder, twin towers, horned owl, and the falling star and white sword of House Dayne’s Sword of the Morning.

“Ser Dayne is the early favorite to ride against the prince in the final tilt, my lady.” Ser Hoster remarks as they were passing House Dayne’s tent, when he notices her eyes lingering on it. Jackie caught a glimpse of the Sword of Morning inside, being dressed by his squire.

“Yes.” She heard of Ser Dayne’s prowess from Laura Lee, who has gotten quite close to the Martells and their retinue over the past few weeks– at least with what remained of them after the Prince of Dorne stormed off from the Capital several nights ago.

He is a formidable warrior, her cousin says and he was knighted during the brief War in the Stepstones a few years back. “I heard Ser Dayne is a good sword. Mayhaps, even the best in our generation. ” Which does not say much. Unlike many of the men his age, Travis Dayne had seen battle firsthand.

“And a good lance, I expect. Our prince would find himself facing quite a difficult challenge, if they meet each other in the lists, that is.” His words do not match his face though. Worry lines crease the old knight’s countenance as he looks back kindly at Jackie. “I imagine, my lady has lost herself quite a bit of sleep in worry for her royal betrothed.”

Jackie did lose some sleep over the past few days but not for the reason the Lord Commander thinks. Shauna has not spoken to her in the days after the Ball after all, spending most of her days with the Wandering Crow who has stuck around for the tourney, in hopes of recruiting more knights and warriors for the Night’s Watch

That is a futile endeavor, in itself. A Southron Knight would sooner join the City Watch than swear a vow of chastity for a gloryless post in the distant and cold North. Even the once honorable Brotherhood of the Kingsguard did not hold as much appeal as it did in the old days. It has been a long time since a knight of the Kingsguard made it to a bard’s song and Jackie knows that their Lord Commander was having some difficulty in recruiting for the seventh spot.

Jackie smiles at Ser Mallister – an old man who did serve with heroes like Brienne of Tarth and Loras Tyrell a lifetime ago. Of the six remaining that served the Kingsguard now, only he is still made of true steel. Or so her Lord Father always says. “Are you losing sleep over it, Ser?” Jackie jests.

The man looks troubled. “How could I not, my lady?” is only his scoffed reply. “The Prince is a good enough lance but Ser Travis is a lot more than a green knight who only saw tourneys. Harsh places like The North and Dorne breed hard men who knew battle like no other. Real battles. The likes of them in tourneys makes for an unpredictable outcome.”

He means they are harder to bribe. Or intimidate. “But you would make sure the prince prevails, would you not?” The Knights of the Kingsguard would ride in the lists too, if she remembers true and would be sure to defeat a few of these men who couldn’t be coerced into losing, so the prince did not have to face them in the final tilts.

“I am an old man, my lady. And this is the biggest tourney the realm has ever seen in fifty years.” And not to mention, the cumbersome quarrel with the Dornish prince, Jackie reflects. It goes unsaid, if the Lord Commander’s grudging huff is proof enough. “I would sooner convince the prince to just not join the lists, than risk His Grace some tourney injury.”

Jackie hums in agreement and the conversation halts when they finally reach the Royal Pavilion. It is situated the closest to the Blackwater and with the tent being made of rich, golden silk, it is easily the grandest and largest structure in the camp. Outside the entrance, the immense iron shield blazoned with the crowned stag of House Baratheon is displayed, glinting in the rising sun.

Jackie had hoped to find the prince already dressed in his mail but luck is not with her today. They find the prince only in his trousers, barking orders as his two squires present him with golden armor. The prince is tall, wide of shoulder, narrow-waisted and magnificently muscled. He is every bit the prince sung about in songs but Jackie only finds dread in her heart whenever she looks at him.

Prince Jeff looks much better armored than bare, she thinks. When he is done dressing and equipping himself, Jeff finally looks at her and smiles in greeting. “My lady.”

“Your Grace.” Jackie greets back, dipping in curtsy. “I see that you are ready to joust today.”

“I am ready to win today, make no mistake, my lady. Though my royal father says it was not fitting, since the tourney is being held in my honor. But what better honor than to be its champion? I’ll win this. Don’t you agree, Lord Commander?”

Imperceptibly, the old knight’s mouth twitches. “I do not see why not, my prince.”

Even a warrior as fierce as him turns into a voiceless lickspittle before a prince. Jackie is unsure why she is disappointed.

Jeff only obliviously puffs his chest in response, as he regards his own reflection in the looking glass. “I have you to thank, Lord Commander. You did train me, after all.”

Ser Mallister bows, seemingly uncomfortable. He should be, Jackie thinks scornfully. "Pray pardon me, Your Grace. But I must equip myself for the lists. I will be riding against Lord Umber today and that’s not a man to underestimate."

Jeff waves a curt dismissal and the old knight bows and exits without another word. Jeff then finally turns to her and studies Jackie from head to heels. “I’m pleased you have come to wish me luck this morning, my lady.”

Jackie summons her most charming smile. “I thank you for inviting me, my prince. I pray for nothing else but for the Seven to guide you and lead you to the glory of victory.”

“I thank my lady for her prayers.” The prince says, nodding approvingly. “I must request that she grant me her favor as well. So that I can go into the lists with her blessing in my heart.”

It is a charade they both know, a chivalrous dance they have perfected since they were little. Jackie does not know who they are playing it for though, when everyone else in the tent has already made themselves scarce.

The prince does not know how to talk to her, she realizes — now that Jackie is his betrothed. There is a stilted note in the way he delivers each line, as though he is a mummer in his first show, a singer in his first performance. Jackie has seen much less of the prince in the last week than even Shauna herself and they are back to being nothing more than strangers to each other once more.

Right after the Ball, the prince had gone on a royal hunt in the Kingswood with Lord Randy Arryn. He called it a celebration. Jackie was more inclined to call it avoidance. Her father had been livid, of course. He had hoped to parade them both around the city before the tourney.

In the end, it was the king that placated The Hand, citing that it would be the last few days of freedom for the prince. “Let him enjoy his days outside of the marriage bed.” the king had said, according to her father. “He scarcely would want to leave it when he gets a whiff. There’s no other pleasure in the world likebedding a woman, Hobert! You should know!”

This is the first time that they have seen each other since the Ball and since Jackie so inelegantly interrupted his dance with Shauna. Jackie wonders if he would have gone out to hunt for a week so soon after if she hadn’t.

But if there is to be a small relief with all this business, it is that Jeff seems to not know how to act around her just as much as Jackie does. And she cannot blame him if he resorted to dancing the dance they both know so well. When Jackie thinks hard about it, they do have some things in common. Jeff wants to be a gallant knight just as much as Jackie longs to marry one.

And yet why does she feel so empty whenever she looks at him? Why does Jackie feel nothing but dread when she thinks of their marriage bed? Where is the twinge of jealousy she felt when he was looking at Shauna? Why is Shauna not talking to her? What is Shauna’s–?

“You are beautiful, my lady.” she hears Prince Jeff say, breaking the spiraling chaos in her thoughts. He sounds more sheepish and awkward than he ever has. Jackie forces a smile.

“It is good of you to say so, my prince. And you look handsome in that armor too.” She doesn't know what else to say. She lowers her head and holds her tongue.

The silence lingers when Jeff does not speak and it is clear that he has no idea what else to say either. Once more, she finds it naught in herself to blame him. They are to be married in the next fortnight and yet, despite their many, many, many walks, they hardly know anything about the other.

Unable to bear the silence any longer, Jackie shifts from one foot to another and asks. “I hope your hunt did go well though, my prince.”

“Unfruitful. We heard rumors of a white stag somewhere in the Kingsroad but we did not see anything. We did chance upon a boar though. I mean to have that served for our wedding feast, if you do not mind..” He looks at her then, eyes softening. “How did you spend your week, my lady? Were you… were you with… did you spend it with Lady Shauna?”

He still thinks of her. Jackie is relieved when she feels a familiar semblance of annoyance bloom within her. And I do not like it when he does. Perhaps, I do desire him after all.

She flashes him a smile but something in it seems to make Jeff wince. Somehow, Jackie gets some satisfaction from that. “Were you hoping she would come with me to wish you luck, my prince?” Was it her favor you wanted after all? Is it she who you want to marry?

“What? No!” He looks abashed, offended even. “I just…”

He is not one for words, Jackie can tell. Then she remembers how Ser Mallister acted around him and she understands. Prince Jeff spent all his life with lickspittles and fawning lessers.. He has never faced opposition in his entire life so he doesn’t know how to act when there’s a bit of it.

For all her father’s faults, Lord Tyrell has never once coddled her with untruths. So for once, Jackie grants him some mercy and decides to be truthful. “My prince, if I may speak plainly.” She does not wait for him to respond and just continues. “You did not ask for this marriage, I know. I did not either. But you and I both know we’ve been arranged from the beginning and the ball… the ball was nothing but a farce. If either of us refused, there would have been dire consequences.”

He nods quietly in agreement, eyes clouded. Jackie wonders what his own father told him – if it was half as terrifying as her own conversation with her Lord Father.

“I know I was not your first choice.” she adds. “As much as it pains me to say it.”

“I hold nothing against you, Jackie. I am certain you would make a great queen.” he admits, eyes unable to hold her gaze. “In truth, if it had to be someone, then I’d prefer it to be you.”

If it had to be someone other than Shauna that is, she hears. Again, Jackie feels heat grow in her chest. I’m angry. Good. It means I care what he thinks. I care what he feels for me.

I may still learn to love this man.

“All the ladies would leave the capital soon.” Shauna would leave soon and would be out of his reach. “And by then, you may forget your own wiles. Our parents are arranged too but they found love in each other… eventually. There is no reason we should not find the same.”

He looks at her dubiously. “My parents did not love each other.”

Neither did hers but he does not need to know that. Jackie feels the vein on her forehead pop because this is exactly what Shauna said during the Ball.

Jeff is certainly making it difficult for Jackie to be as truthful as she can. She closes her eyes then and decides to speak with her father’s words “You’ve never quite liked turnips… but when the cooks prepare them, you eat them, do you not?”

“Yes? But I quite like turnips.”

Jackie huffs. This is not how this is supposed to go. “Well, I don’t…” she pipes back in annoyance, which only serves to make Jeff blush. “But we must perform our duty to our fathers and the realm. And because of that, I shall eat it. As much as is required of me…”

Jeff does not say anything in response and for a moment, Jackie is fearful that she overstepped. Thankfully, the prince’s squire head peeks from the flap of the tent, his pale face flushed with exertion.. “The opening ceremony is about to start, my prince.” The boy glances at Jackie and nods. “My lady…”

Jeff straightens then with a relieved sigh. He looks at Jackie, a small but strained smile painted on his face. He holds out one gloved hand. “Your favor to me, my betrothed?”

Her hand flies to the silver necklace, a silver locket Norm had it commissioned for her before she went to the Capital. It would protect you, he had promised as he clasped it from behind. He insisted it was blessed by the High Septon, that by wearing it, the Seven would guide her through any hardship.

If the prince wears it, he will be protected from harm and the wedding would go without issue…

Her hands flits away off the necklace as she plucks a napkin out of her corset instead. She hands it to him wordlessly.

“Thank you, my lady.” he says, gripping the cloth. Jackie has many such others in her chambers. It would not be missed. “No victory will be half as beautiful as you.”

Victory, she thinks, while she watches him leave. Whose, I wonder?

Jackie wonders which side of the bracket the Sword of the Morning is on.

Tai III

When she tells her household guards that Van would be riding with her to the tourney grounds, there were questioning looks exchanged between their helms. They were no doubt told of her father’s instructions to her, even though they’ve known Van for almost as long as they did Tai.

“But my lady.” The Captain of the Guards objects, a Lannister bastard from some minor castle Tai barely remembers. “... your Father left word that Lady Vanessa must ride alongside the Tyrells. The Hand expects her–”

“She will ride with us.” She insists, with finality in her words. With her Father still off dealing with the mess she made in the Westerlands, Tai remains to be the only authority these men should be worried about.

And this might be the last time, she reflects sadly but also not for the first time. Her father sent word that he’s certain of his return for the Prince’s Wedding and shortly after that, it is time for her own. Simone Westerling would be coming to court soon and Tai still has not told Van about her.

Her guards then prepare a litter for them to ride on – a wooden carriage with drapes of yellow silk so they can still see the city around them. From the inside, they turn the world gold and Van’s excited smile is as brilliant as the sun in the sky. The tourney is to be held beyond the city walls, right beside the riverbank of Blackwater Rush. Numerous pavilions have been raised and the common folk are heading to the same direction by the thousands to watch the games.

From the small gasps coming out of Van’s mouth, it is clear that the splendor of it all has taken all her breath away. “This is the first time I am seeing a tourney up close.” she cries defensively, when she sees Tai stifle her chuckle. “We don’t get them in the Iron Islands and your Lord Father hardly ever holds one in The Rock.”

Tai ignores the slight smidge of contempt in Van’s tone when she mentions her father. “Is it better than your songs say then?”

Van co*cks an eyebrow at her. “By all means! The shining armor? All the silver and gold caparisoned in the horses? The crowd? All these banners? And the knights themselves… the knights most of all?”

“You’re as good as any of them.” Tai isn’t impressed by the lot that came to the capital for this tourney. Most of them are green, young and not battle-hardened at all. The knights of more acclaim are now lords to their own keeps, with sons that are old enough to represent their houses in their stead. “If I remember true, you spent more time in the training grounds at the Rock than you ever did in the library.” Tai points out.

“You remember true. That is why I am joining the melee.”

Tai’s eyes widen in surprise. She didn’t know of this. The melee would be held on the fourth day of the tourney, after the tournament of singers. It is even more dangerous than the joust. “You would?”

Van nods. Her entire body is buzzing with anticipation now. She seems ready to spring out of the litter but it hasn’t stopped yet. “I have Lord Tyrell’s leave to do so when I asked. He said it would be best for the Crown if the Iron Islands are represented somewhat.”

They live in more progressive times now and gone are the days when women who held swords were only a thing of wonder and legend. They are still uncommon for certain, but not so rare that they are banned from joining contests of strength or from enlisting in a war. The infamous Brienne of Tarth made certain of that.

This doesn’t calm the foreboding that settles in Tai’s heart though. She sends a frown towards Van. “I didn’t expect you and the Lord Hand to be on.. friendly terms now.”

Van only shrugs in response. “He treats me well, that’s why.” The implication goes unsaid. “And if he indeed intends for me to continue my ‘warding’ in Highgarden, I might as well ensure that I keep my peace with him.”

This might be the last time. It seems like Van is aware of it too. Each day crawling by is each day that they would soon be apart – Taissa to return married in the Westerlands and Van to start her own new life in Highgarden.

The litter finally stops at the field where they erected a makeshift tiltyard as the tourney arena. Van and Tai exit and start walking towards the seats where other high lords and ladies sat. Horns are blown and the parade begins just as they take their position. Taissa hears the whole crowd cheer when knights from all sides of the continent begin to ride forth.

These are the heroes of a hundred songs and each one looks more fabulous than the last. The six remaining knights of the Kingsguard lead the parade, all wearing scaled armors the color of milk and cloaks as white as fresh-fallen snow. With one missing from their ranks, another one of this tourney’s purpose is to recruit a knight skilled enough to join them.

Ser Travis Dayne thunders past them swiftly thereafter, the hilt of the greatsword Dawn poking up over his right shoulder. “His sword was forged from the heart of a fallen star, I heard.” Van whispers. The girls around them giggle as he trots past.

The other riders, Tai does not know much of. There are hedge knights of all sorts, unsung free riders, newly knighted squires and young lordlings who had done no great deeds as of yet. Heirs to their own houses like Randy Arryn and Elmo Tully ride past, alongside many others.

Beside her, Van remains in awe. “Do you think your father will hold a tourney for you when you get married?” At Tai’s look of askance, Van elaborates. “Lord Tyrell has promised me some freedom and might allow me to attend certain events, he said. If I prove myself a champion in the melee, he might allow me to represent Highgarden in any other tourneys.”

“You? Represent Highgarden?”

Van shrugs. “Neither of his children can fight after all.” She chuckles. “Imagine me being the champion of your wedding’s tourney. Hell, I might end up riding against your future Lord Husband!”

The mention of her impending wedding only unnerves Tai, especially with the casual way Van rolls around it. She remains silent, eyes affixed on the riding knights as Van prattles on.

“Do you think your husband would be one of these knights? They have several from the Westerlands, hm. Ser Farman? Ser Marbrand? Do you think he is any good of a warrior? Or is he more of a statesman?”

She’d be a lady… One of the most beautiful the Westerlands have to offer. Tai wants to say but her tongue suddenly feels heavy and she lets the moment pass.

“I am quite certain they would have me marry someone soon too but I do not think I would marry a knight.”

This catches Tai’s attention. “You won’t?”

“Lord Tyrell hinted about betrothing me to his son, Norm.” Van says this with as much carelessness as she does most things, as though the prospect does not faze her at all. “A kind man, if Lady Jackie is to be believed. But not a warrior. I think I’d prefer that. Those bookish types. Can you believe it? The future queen might become my sister by law.”

Lord Tyrell moves well. And right there and then, Tai understands why her own father respects the man. Van would forever be the Crown’s hostage, she realizes. Even if she would end up not inheriting the Seastone Chair in Pyke, her own sons could contest their birthright when the time comes.

Van stops talking when the blare of trumpets grow louder, to Tai’s relief.

All of the other knights have already ridden past but none looked as majestic in their armors as the Prince. “I dare say he makes the others look like beggars.” Van remarks. His Grace is shining gold from head to foot, with a stag head for a helm and a golden sword encrusted with rubies. “Let’s see how well he rides then.”

The Prince acquits himself well, despite Van’s initial doubts. Prince Jeff unhorses his own friend, Randy Arryn first, then one of his Kingsguard for his second win. On his third, he rode three passes against Ser Marbrand, a younger son of one of her father’s bannermen. Neither man lost his seat but the king eventually gave the victory to his son.

Van huffs in disbelief. “This is a cheat. Ser Marbrand’s lance was steadier, his blows better placed. He should have won.”

“Would that if Jeff’s not the prince.” is all Tai offers but both of them know it is the right answer.

The jousting goes all day and well into the afternoon, the hooves of great warhorses pounding down the lists until the field was a ragged wasteland of torn earth. Several times, Van stands in triumph whenever the riders crash together, lances exploding into splinters as the common folk chant the name of their favorites. Whenever a man falls, Van only chuckles.

The second bracket starts after a small break for lunch. And it is Ser Travis Dayne’s name the smallfolk chanted the most. He rides brilliantly, Van admits with an awed whisper. He overthrows Ser Farman and the young lordling Tully as easily as if he is riding in rings. Then he goes to win a hard-fought match with the white haired Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, who had won two other tilts with men fifty years his junior.

Later on the day as dusk is nearing, the crowd cheers the loudest it ever had. When Tai looks at the source of their celebration, she finds only a lone knight in the lists, bannerless and with no squire attending him. The knight looks to be a slight, young man in ill-fitting armor whose device is carved with a yellow and black bee.

“A Beesbury?” Tai voices out loud, confused. House Beesbury’s sigil looks nowhere like the strange, almost crude carving of the bee on the knight’s armor though and the Lord of Honeyholt has already ridden against Ser Mallister earlier in the day.

“No. A mystery knight. The commons love them.” Van explains, blue eyes blown wide in excitement. And Tai remembers. Mystery Knights are a staple in every big tourney, with helms concealing their identities and their shields either blank or bearing some strange device.

“Do you think it might be a famous champion in disguise?” Van asks. She looks to be thinking hard. “I’d love it if it were so. Like Aemon the Dragonknight when he joined the lists as a mystery knight to defend his queen’s honor.”

It seems like this Mystery Knight has the same idea because he trots his horse towards the royal stage, bearing his lance. “Lady Jacqueline Tyrell.” the voice from the helm intones. Tai has to strain her ears to hear. “I humbly ask for the favor of the Rose of Highgarden.”

It is not uncommon for a mystery knight to be this audacious, at least before they are unmasked by some better knight. Tai sees the king chuckle, ever good-natured and likely not expecting for Jackie to assent. She is expected to give her favor to her betrothed, if she hasn’t already.

But somehow, Jackie stands with a thoughtful look on her face. She stares at the mystery knight for a long time, almost transfixed before she unclasps a necklace off her neck and throws it towards the waiting knight who catches it deftly.

“Good fortune to you, my good knight.” Jackie says.

“I would gladly take it.” the knight says, voice booming from his helm. “If I thought I needed it.” When he rides back to the lists, the crowd goes even wilder.

“This is a slight to the prince. Her betrothed!” Tai shakes her head in disbelief. She did not expect Jackie to entertain the mystery knight at all, much less give him her favor, when the prince is still very much in contention for the championship.

There is an odd look on Van’s face though, like she realized something. She laughs quietly to herself, shaking her head but does not say much else to Tai.

The herald announces the next match. “Ser Luthor Redwyne!” his voice rings out. “And the Mystery Knight – the Butcher in the Yellow Jacket! Come forth and prove your valor!”

And proved his valor, he does. The Butcher is unstoppable, riding down one foe after another with such ferocity that Tai did not expect for such a small man. He is almost terrifying, even more so than the skilled Travis Dayne. Ser Aeron Bracken fell to the Butcher, as did Lord Davos Blackwood. The young Lord WIlmar Frey – who has inherited the Twins after its former lord was exiled by the king somewhere in the Narrow Sea – is unhorsed by The Butcher so violently that he seems to fly off his charger, his legs in the air.

Lord Frey survives, but not without some grievous injury that may cost him the use of his legs. Meanwhile, Prince Jeff rides against another one of his Kingsguard thrice without result, before being proclaimed as the winner by the king once more. Ser Travis Dayne’s victory is a lot more decisive than the prince’s, unhorsing every one of his foes in only the first tilt.

In the end, it comes down to four remaining jousters – Prince Jeff, Ser Travis Dayne, the Butcher and some other knight in the Kingsguard whose name Tai does not recall, Prince Jeff rides against the Kingsguard knight with similar results as his last three jousts. The tilt ends in another tie, broken only by the king’s pronouncements of his son’s victory. The commons do not even bother to hide their disappointment

The horn blows for the next joust and the next match inspires a lot more excitement from the crowd. The Butcher is the first rider to appear, still wearing his garish yellow cloak over his blue armor. His shield bearing the ornament of a buzzing bee is more chipped than it was at the start of the jousting but he looks pristine otherwise, Circled around his neck is the pendant that Lady Jackie gave him as her favor.

It glints in the sunlight, as though mocking the prince who rode before him.

“That Mystery Knight has a flair for dramatics, hm – “ Van points out, eyes trained towards the masked combatant. “...choosing the prince’s betrothed as the lady of favor. A bold choice.”

Tai nods “He possesses a keen eye for beauty, that’s for certain.”

Van chuckles at that. “I wish I thought of riding as a mystery knight myself. I would have happily asked for yours..”

Tai has no chance to respond because Ser Travis Dayne is now entering the lists as well, riding an elegant blood bay destrier that Dorne is popular for. The horse wore a blanket of gilded ringmail and Travis himself glitters from head to heel. Even his lance was fashioned after the golden spear of House Martell.

“If I had the coin, I would still bet on The Butcher.” Van comments, even as Travis Dayne confidently struts by them. “That one has a hungry look.”

Tai scoffs. “You couldn’t even see his face. How would you know that?”

“I just know.” Van smirks cryptically. She returns to being engrossed as the herald calls for the riders to take their positions. The Butcher silently complies while Ser Travis blows a kiss to some woman before riding to the other side of the lists.

Both riders couch their lances.

The gallery they are sitting on trembles as both the riders’ horses break into gallop. The Butcher leans forward as he rides, his lance rock steady but Ser Travis is agile enough to deftly shift his seat the instant before impact. The Mystery Knight’s point is turned harmlessly against the shield with the falling star while Travis’ hit the bee shield squarely. Wood shatters and it is a surprise that the Butcher is able to keep his seat at all.

A loud but rugged cheer goes up from the commons.

“It’s a shame you have no coin to bet.” Tai points out, watching the Butcher struggle to stay ahorse. “I can think of ways to spend your money. After I watch your mystery knight be unseated and unmasked, that is.”

Van only huffs in reply.

The Butcher does manage to stay on his saddle. He jerks his mount hard and rides back to the lists for the second pass. Something in the way he shrugs makes Tai think he is growling now.

Ser Travis tosses down his broken lance and snatches up a fresh one, a wide grin on his face. This is the first match where Ser Travis was unable to immediately unseat his rival on the first pass. He seems pleased by it.

The Butcher fearlessly spurs forward then, his horse’s gallop harder than ever. Dayne rises to meet him. This time though, when Travis shifts his seat, the Butcher shifts as well, somehow more deft and agile than the former. Both lances explode into smithereens and by the time the splinters and dust have settled, a riderless blood bay was trotting off in search of grass.

Ser Travis Dayne rolls off the dirt, his armor dented and defeated.

Van springs up in her seat in triumph. “I knew it! I knew she would win! I knew it!”

“She? You know–” But Tai’s voice is lost in the sea of loud, triumphant cheers that consumes the gallery.

Ser Travis Dayne is back on his feet by the time it ends, his ornate helm has been twisted and dented in his fall and now, he couldn’t get it off. The commons are pointing and hooting while the lords and ladies are trying to stifle their chuckles and failing. Over it all, Tai can even hear the King laugh while the Lord Hand smiles beside him. Finally, they have to lead the Sword of the Morning out of the lists, still blind and stumbling.

By then, the Butcher has repositioned himself… herself at the end of the lists and it is only there that Tai finally takes the time to observe the Mystery Knight. When she takes a second look, Van’s assumption of the unknown rider’s sex proves likelier than ever. The knight is short in stature – so short that it is obvious even while she is ahorse. The dark blue armor looks haphazardly assembled, with mismatched gray bits and pieces amidst the blue. Upon closer inspection, the bee on her shield looks to have a crown.

“It’s a yellowjacket.” Van explains when she notices Tai’s eyes trained intently on the knight’s device. “A queen too. They are the only ones to survive winter among the colony.”

Winter. And it finally dawns on Tai. She looks at Jackie, who seems to have stood from her seat in the royal dais, hands wringing anxiously. But it is her eyes that Tai sees.

They aren’t looking at the prince’s side of the lists.

The prince finally makes his entrance and a hushed murmur runs through the crowd. Tai hears one of the noble ladies say “Oh, he’s beautiful!”. Prince Jeff is slender as a reed, dressed in a suit of fabulous golden armor, polished to perfection. Across his shoulders, his cloak hangs heavy, as golden as the metal he wears.His courser was as slim as her rider, a beautiful gray mare, built for speed.

In the end though, that did not matter much. He falls off very much in the same fashion as Ser Travis Dayne did, though with a lot less effort from the Butcher and decidedly a lot more humiliation from the prince.

The day, after all, belongs to the Mystery Knight – still unmasked and undefeated. With the prince off his horse, The Butcher takes the victory, the champion’s purse and the love of the commons. They cheer the mystery knight as she circles the field to claim the champion’s crown and cheer even harder when she urges her mare past all the other noble ladies, to lay the queen of love and beauty’s laurel in Lady Jackie Tyrell’s lap.

From where Tai sits, she can see it – a crown of winter roses, blue as frost. And the truth is even clearer than it already is.

She looks at the still cheering Van and wonders as to how she knows.

Everyone expects the mystery knight to present himself to the king next and thereby unmask and reveal himself for all to see. But to everyone’s astonishment, The Butcher ignores the King’s call and his grudging congratulations. With a wordless bow to the crowd, the knight only rides past the royal dais, out of the lists and disappears into the dense forest of the Kingswood.

And so, in the sight of thousands, The Butcher in the Yellowjacket vanishes.

From the shocked silence of the crowd, Tai can hear the king’s wrath. “Find him!” he calls, his voice booming the loudest Tai has ever heard it since meeting him. “Find him! Any man who dares not present himself to the king is an enemy to the crown! The face behind that helm is no friend of mine! A thousand dragons for the man who would bring me this ingrate!”

In the end, it is all in vain. Because even when the king sends all six of his Kingsguard to find the audacious mystery knight, all they would ever find are the painted shield, hanging abandoned in a tree and a riderless horse idling by the banks of Blackwater.

Shauna IV

By the time the king has the sense to call his own knights to locate The Butcher, Shauna has since shed the armor and thrown it out to the Blackwater. She doesn’t linger to watch it sink nor does she look back when she leaves her shield by a tree. Her horse has long since wandered away at her command and Shauna has since abandoned her rusted helm.

And just like that,The Knight of the Yellowjacket is no more.

Don’t keep anything, she remembers Dom’s stern reminder when she finally consented to help Shauna in her plan. The Wandering Crow’s words ring in her ear as she briskly makes her way out of the Kingswood. By then, Shauna has already discarded anything that might betray the identity she took for the tourney. If any of the King’s scouts run into her, they’d only see a peasant boy in a sheepskin tunic.

Nothing but a peasant boy… bearing a lady’s favor. Jackie’s silver necklace remains hung on Shauna’s neck, despite Dom’s warnings. In her defense though, she did almost toss it in the river. But Shauna didn’t.

Shauna couldn’t.

She can hear the loud thunder of hooves in the woods around her. She can hear several men shouting – all knights trying to curry favor with the King, now that they lost the champion’s purse to a runaway. All of them, losers… Dom did warn her this might happen too, especially if it was the prince she unhorses in the final tilt. No self-respecting king would let that pass, she said. Even the famous King Lyonel the Late.

Dom was right. Because this was the same king who exiled his own cousin for speaking out of turn. Shauna shudders at the thought and the fear of exile only serves her more motivation to not be caught.

She makes her way out of the Kingswood more attentively now, careful to not be seen by the multitude of knights that came hunting for The Butcher. Her caution delays her escape a little longer than she would like but it does pay off when she finally reaches the city without incident. Finally out of the Kingswood, Shauna can blend in with the nameless and faceless citizens of King’s Landing, with all her hunters none the wiser.

She finally allows herself a huge sigh of relief.

It is going according to plan, but Shauna cannot help but feel a pang of disappointment when she so easily escapes their notice. Not even the Kingsguard were able to locate her – the strongest knights in the realm could not find her. . Shauna knows she should be gloating now but all she could manage is a grim huff of disbelief.

These people are supposed to protect the Royal Family.

These people are supposed to protect Jackie.

She takes the long way back to the Red Keep, walking alongside the rest of the spectators coming home for the night– mostly the common folk. The noblemen and women have all hung back in the tourney grounds for the night’s feast but from the sound of drums fading, it seems to be ending too.

Shauna wonders if the king meant for her capture to be the night’s closing ceremony. All his courtiers gawking at the unmasked Butcher. She wonders what kind of punishment King Lyonel would give a runaway mystery knight. A night in the dungeons? Exile? She wonders if he’d be cruel enough to call for her death.

She chuckles to herself when she climbs the steps leading to her chambers in the Tower of the Hand, imagining the King’s red-faced fury when his incompetent hounds eventually return empty-handed. She wonders if she has enough time to dress and present herself to the feast. After all, Lady Shauna Stark is still the heir to a Great House and she has as much right to be there as anyone else.

Ultimately, she decides against it, just as she reaches the floor where her chambers are located. Tomorrow, she and Dom will be riding out of King’s Landing, along with the recruits she chose from the palace dungeons. Shauna could have ridden back much earlier, aboard one of the ships headed to White Harbor. But she has unfinished business in the Capital and she finds that she could only really leave, once that is completely behind her.

Stopping right outside the door, Shauna hopes that none of this is for naught.

She hopes this little stunt has reached Jackie somehow when none of Shauna’s words could. Not for the first time, Shauna considers returning to the tourney grounds and joining the feast as herself. How does Jackie fare, now that she knows her little sniveling prince is nothing but a fraud? Shauna wants to see. Shauna wants to know.

Prince Jeff wasn’t even much of a challenge, in the end – the only one who deserves that distinction was the so-called Sword of the Morning. Did Jackie see Jeff fall at Shauna’s lance? See him roll inelegantly to the ground, his golden armor coated with mud? Did Jackie see how weak he was, how pathetic?

Did Jackie see how much better she deserves?

The thought makes her lips quirk into a satisfied grin that freezes in place as she finds the person she’s been thinking of waiting behind her bedchamber’s door.

“Jackie…” Shauna stutters, unable to process the sight in that single moment. Jackie is still wearing the same dress that she did in the tourney – the light green velvet gown that woke all the color of her eyes.

Even the sneer that crosses her face does not detract from the ethereal beauty that Jackie exuded. “And now, she shows herself.”

Shauna shuts the door behind her and averts her eyes. “Why are you here, Jackie?” She asks, as she crosses to the other side of the room where she can safely avoid Jackie’s judging gaze. “Shouldn’t you be at the feast?”

“And so should you be, Lady Stark. And yet here you are.” Even without looking at her, Shauna can now imagine Jackie crossing her arms, her lips pressed in a thin line. “The night is supposed to be about me, see. The Queen of Love and Beauty. Chosen by the champion of the tourney.” A scoff. “What sort of queen does not have a champion?”

It is easier to feign ignorance when you are facing away from those large, searching, hazel eyes. “The prince did not win?”

“Oh, he did alright. But not for his valor.” Shauna hears steps approaching behind her and the next time Jackie speaks, her voice is much closer. “The King named him victor after the real champion disappeared.”

“He must be the first man to win a tourney in such a fashion then.” Shauna feels her cheeks balloon to a smirk. “A victory that would be in every bards’ song for the next moon or so.”

“Yes, and none of those songs would be about him.”

And suddenly, Shauna can feel more than hear Jackie’s voice. Hot breath fans the back of Shauna’s neck as she feels fingers trail through skin. She feels the cold silver of Jackie’s necklace rub against her just as Jackie delicately inspects it from behind.

Jackie’s voice is barely above a whisper when she speaks again. “A whole week of not speaking a word to me. And you return with a mask, asking for my favor.” She tugs the necklace and for a moment, Shauna feared the chain would snap. “Did you think I wouldn’t recognize your voice, Shauna? Did you not think I would know it was you?”

Finally, Shauna turns and grabs Jackie’s wrist just before she successfully pulls the pendant back. Wide hazel eyes meet brown and Shauna gives her an honest answer. “I was hoping that you would.”

Because isn’t that the point of all this? The unbearable silence and the struggle of not seeing her for days? The charade and the pageantry? Shauna had wanted to make a point.

And Shauna wanted Jackie to know that she was the one who made it.

“Why? I don’t understand, Shauna. If you wanted me to know, you didn’t have to be a mystery knight. Lady warriors are allowed to join the lists these days. Seven hells, lady warriors win some of them now! You could have won this tourney as Shauna Stark!”

“I did not join the list for a pointless victory.”

“Then what is the point?”

Shauna releases Jackie’s wrist, a frown creasing her face. “Do you truly not get it, Jackie?”

“Get what?” Even with Shauna breaking their contact, Jackie does not step away. She leans even closer, eyes squinting in confusion – ever the type to not shy from confronting Shauna. “You haven’t spoken to me for a whole week, Shauna. How was I supposed to know what you were thinking?”

“You know perfectly well what I was thinking, Jackie.” She turns her back now, unable to watch Jackie in the throes of utter denial once more. “You know exactly what I was thinking when we last spoke. Has it still not occurred to you?”

You are being married off to someone you don’t love.

Has that not occurred to you?

Shauna whirls back just in time to see Jackie’s shoulders sag in resignation. She takes her turn to avoid Shauna’s gaze this time. I will marry the prince, Shauna, Jackie had said then, right before that weakling of a prince came to spirit her into that damn royal dance.

Whether you like it or not.

“Is your answer still the same, Jackie?” Shauna asks and she is surprised at the softness of her tone when the question bursts forth her lips. “Even after what you saw in that tourney… does your answer remain the same?”

A flicker of realization flashes in Jackie’s eyes. Her voice bristles with anger now. “You did this… All to continue a conversation we finished in that damn throne room a week ago?”

“That’s because you are making the wrong choice!” Shauna retorts. “You saw how he did in that damn tourney, Jackie! Jeff is a fraud, a liar! A weakling! You deserve better than a man like that. You deserve more than that!”

“And what do I deserve, Shauna?”

The answer comes easy to Shauna. “You deserve someone who can protect you! A true knight, like you always said you wanted! For as long as I’ve known you, all you wanted to do is to marry The Dragonknight. Not that pathetic excuse of a jouster that stupid prince pretended to be!”

“And who exactly is this better man, pray tell? The Sword of the Morning, who won all but one of his matches? One of those knights Jeff could not unhorse? Who, Shauna? Who?” Jackie then levels Shauna an inquisitive look, eyes searching. “Is it the Butcher, then? Is that the point you wished to make all along? Do you think I deserve someone like you instead of the prince?”

Jackie may as well have slapped her, with how hard that epiphany hits Shauna.

Because it all boils down to that, doesn’t it? Dom had called her rash, irrational, stupid when Shauna had brought up her grand plans for the tourney. But it all made sense to her at the time. Shauna had wanted nothing more than for Jackie to see how lacking the Prince was. How much of a terrible warrior he was. How he could not protect her. How pathetic he is.

How much better Shauna is, compared to him.

And if dressing as a mystery knight like Aemon did for Naerys is what it takes for Jackie to see that, Shauna was prepared to do it.

Right there and then, looking at Jackie, does everything come together.

Because staring at Jackie’s wide expectant eyes and parted lips now… Shauna cannot help but wonder what it would be like to kiss her. Not lightly on the cheek, as they were wont to do as friends but full on the lips. Jackie’s lips are very full, painted red like the roses on her dresses.

Shauna wonders what it would be like to suckle on her breasts, to lay the Rose of Highgarden on her back and push her legs apart and love her as a man would love her.

The way a husband would love a wife.

The way Shauna realizes, she’s wanted to love Jackie ever since she’d set eyes on her.

Something in the way Jackie is looking at her makes Shauna think that she has reached the same conclusion too. She opens her mouth and closes it and then opens it again. “Shauna–”

Jackie’s desperate, breathy voice is what breaks the spell.

When the kiss happens, it is because they both crossed the distance. There is no tenderness when their lips meet, only hunger and the desire to devour. Jackie’s mouth opens for Shauna’s tongue even as she repeatedly mutters: “No…”

“Shauna… no…” is her weak protest, when Shauna’s eager lips slide towards her neck. “No… this is… Shauna… No….” Jackie keeps saying, right before she draws Shauna in for another kiss, even as her hands fly to unbutton Shauna’s mud-stained tunic.

“No… I am betrothed… The Prince…Please… f*ck…Yes...”

“The Others can take the Prince!” And so Shauna kisses her again. And again. And again. Kisses her silently. Kisses her until she moans. And then she lifts Jackie towards the bed, pushes up her skirt and shift and reaches beneath and touches her until Jackie shudders and screams Shauna’s name and not the prince’s.

Years later, songs would be made of this night.

After all, it is how the Butcher is finally found, abed with her Queen of Love and Beauty, the silver heart necklace the only thing she’s wearing.

Misty III

Misty only had to open one door for her to find the doorway to thousands.

She has the Red Keep’s High Steward to thank for her good fortune, she supposes. And mayhaps, her father’s lust for her peasant mother. The Griffin’s Bastard, the steward had mockingly called her – a distant Tyrell cousin in the employ of the Hand of the King. He had looked at Misty with such disdain that it was no surprise when he decided to room her away from her trueborn sisters.

Be assured that we have just the perfect chamber for bastards, my ladies. He had been so gallant when he said that, so hospitable, so dreamy. Bella and Cassandra couldn’t stop giggling when he escorted Misty away from the lush quarters they were given. They couldn’t stop laughing at Misty…

A lot of good those fine apartments did them…

Because only a few weeks later, both her trueborn sisters were on their way back to the Stormlands, their names shrouded in nothing but shame. Who is laughing now? She wanted to ask them. She did not need to. She made sure to show them her smile when the king’s men ushered them away from the palace.

Meanwhile, Misty lingers because apparently, the so-called perfect chamber for bastards, may just be the best thing to have ever happened to her.

The chamber The High Steward had assigned her to, was nothing but a windowless room with a stone bed in the middle. Its walls were bare and dirty, looking shabbier than even her own servant chambers in Griffin’s Roost. Misty had been disheartened, bitter and resentful until two nights of fitful, uncomfortable sleep caused her to lash out and kick the stone bed.

And then it floated.

It turns out, the Bastard’s Chamber is not one for bastards after all. And the stone bed is but a secret slab of a stone door that leads to a hidden staircase. The steps itself lead to the fabled network of tunnels and passages that Maegor the Cruel killed hundreds of men to keep a secret – a secret that no one else in the palace seems to be privy to.

Some of the tunnels are made of stone. Several others are merely earth supported by centuries-old timbre. There have been talks of treasure troves of gold hidden behind the Red Keep’s walls for as long as the castle stood in Aegon’s Hill. Misty found no evidence of it, no matter how long she ventured into the passages.

But she did find a different sort of treasure.

She discovered trap doors and false walls leading to every single room in the castle. She discovered how thin those walls are. She discovered how easy it is to eavesdrop on conversations between all the noblemen and women invited to the Maiden’s Ball. She discovered how valuable it is to know how much it is to know everything about everyone.

Because knowledge is power.

By the tail end of the week, Misty knows which lordling is secretly f*cking which lady, which lord has some resentments against the Crown and which of the Kingsguard broke their vows on the regular. None of which she deemed particularly useful to her half-baked plans of making it in the Capital until that night…

Misty did not find Van Greyjoy’s chambers particularly interesting until that night she and the Lannister Heir decided to scale the Red Keep’s Walls on their way to a night’s adventure to the city. She didn’t think anything would come out of following them afterwards until she saw them wrapped around each other in the Street of Silk. She didn’t think the Hand of the King would take an interest in that information.

Soon after that, Misty becomes Lord Tyrell’s closest source of whispers, as he called them. She brings him whispers of which lord is besmirching the King’s name. She brings him whispers of anyone who might hinder his plans of making Jackie queen. She brings him whispers of her own sisters so no one could laugh at Misty anymore.

She tells him of the Prince of Dorne’s plans to unseat him as Hand…

She tells him of his own daughter’s adventure in the city with Lady Stark…

She even tells him of Laura Lee Hightower’s strange conversation with the Princess of Dorne just before the latter almost drowned in the Blackwater…

And she tells him of Jackie’s own doubts about being queen and how Lady Stark is chiefly the one to influence these useless thoughts…

But how does a seat in the small council sound to you? Misty thinks of his promise every time she brings a whisper to him. She thinks of becoming the Master of Whisperers once he gets rid of the treacherous Bastard of Dreadfort. She thinks of getting the highest honor a Connington ever had since Lord Jon failed at being a Hand during Robert’s Rebellion.

The highest honor a Storm ever had.

Misty only needs to bring him a whisper and Lord Tyrell immediately acts on it. The Hand of the King is a man of action – he has to be, if he wants to get anything done for the realm. The King is weak-willed and slow to act. King Lyonel the Late, as the commons called him. But his Hand always takes up the slack for him.

How does the saying go? The King eats and the Hand takes the sh*t. Or was that more about the king sh*tting and the hand wiping? Regardless, Lord Hobert should be called Hobert the Haste with how quick he cleans after the mess the people around him have made.

And Misty watches such a mess unfold now, behind the false wall in Lady Shauna Stark’s chambers. The Butcher. She was The Butcher all along.

“The Others can take the Prince!” she hears Shauna say between hungry kisses and loud moans. Bodies slip out of clothes while Jackie dives into the moment with as much enthusiasm, her words of protest a contrast to her hurried, desperate actions.

Misty watches, entranced and quite baffled.

Because Jackie is to be the queen! Jackie was supposed to be the perfect daughter! Beautiful and perfect. And yet, Jackie happily chooses to sully herself like this, in the arms of this vile pretender. There is no dignity in the way Jackie pants and writhes under Shauna. Nothing queenly at all about how she screams another woman’s name in the throes of pleasure.

If I had been his daughter…

Misty would have been dutiful. Misty would have been perfect. Misty would have been queen! Lord Tyrell is doing everything he can to give his daughter the best life she can have and here is Jackie, doing everything she can to squander it.

Misty cannot take it anymore. So she runs.

She runs deeper to more tunnels – some of which forced her to crawl. She climbs the two hundred metal rungs that lead to the tower’s top floor and emerges into the Hand’s solar where she finds Lord Tyrell sealing and signing parchments.

She only needs to say her whisper once before he springs into action.

And so Misty watches with grim satisfaction as the Hand himself breaks into Shauna’s chambers. She hears him raise his voice for the very first time. And she sees him drag Shauna, who is naked as her name day, off his daughter’s form.

“Father, no!” She hears Jackie scream, so raw and pained and so, so stupid. For a moment, Misty hopes that Lord Tyrell would just shut her up with more than just a sharp, admonishing look.

As all this is happening, Misty remains unseen in her own space from within the thin walls. Three of Lord Tyrell’s most loyal men move to restrain Shauna while one of them throws her a cloak. Jackie herself is being dragged away back to her own chambers, her desperate shrieks fading into the night as Lord Tyrell glowers in rage.

From behind the walls, Misty then follows them in their long procession to the Royal Apartments.

By then, they had already forced Shauna back to decency. “I won’t have you be seen by the King as naked as your name-day.” Lord Tyrell had said, his tone heated. “I could have you killed now. But you are still the heir of a Great House and I wouldn’t risk war with The North to punish you for what you did to my daughter..”

“You would bring me to the King?” The incorrigible Stark girl spat. “You would sully your own daughter’s name to the Crown just to punish me for what we did?”

“Oh, but you wouldn’t be punished for that, make no mistake Stark.” He leaned closer to meet Shauna’s eyes. His voice was ice cold and his face hardened. “What you forced Jackie to do… That’s treason.”

The Stark witch spouted more lies. “Jackie wanted it as much as I did–”

“But for all the evil you caused, you love my daughter. So you would shut your mouth about what happened here tonight, keep my daughter’s name out of it and face your punishment for your other crime.” He levels a look at her. “You wouldn’t want the king to execute you both, would you? You wouldn’t want Jackie dead for what you did?”

The look of fear in Shauna’s face was almost convincing.

And so he and his men marched the now dressed Lady Stark towards the Royal Apartments, through the top floor where the King resided and towards the doors that led to His Grace’s bedchambers. Lord Tyrell heeds none of the stationed Kingsguard’s protests and goes through the doors.

The King’s Quarters is one of the few rooms where the walls were built in such a way that it is easy for Misty to see everything. It is the perfect stage for what is about to unfold. Once more, Misty has uncovered a traitor in their midst…

“Hobert!” The King was already in his nightclothes when Lord Tyrell and his men barged in. Without the rich velvets of his day clothes and his crown, King Lyonel Baratheon looks feeble and sickly, seeming like a man well-advanced beyond his true age.

He only looks at the still restrained Shauna in confusion. “A prisoner? At this time of the night? What could this woman have possibly done that couldn’t wait until morning, Hobert?”

“My knights have found her for you, my king.” Lord Tyrell intones, stepping aside so his men could push Shauna forward. Chained and bound, Shauna gracelessly falls to a heap before the King while the Hand of the King presents her. “I give you the Butcher.”

For a moment, the King only looks on, mouth open wide in shock. “This woman… this girl… He… She unhorsed my Jeffrey? She is the Butcher?” His tone is marred with disbelief. He directs his scoff at his Hand. “I do not believe this, Hobert.”

“This woman is not just some peasant woman, Your Grace.” Lord Tyrell signals his men to bring Shauna upright, so the King could see her face. Shauna’s eyes are defiant as she stares back.

“It pains me to present Lady Shauna Stark to the King, daughter of Lady Deborah Stark of Winterfell. The Mystery Knight who refused your order to unmask.”

A flash of recognition lights up the King’s eyes before once again being clouded in confusion. “The same lady who fought Jeff in the streets? Why… you are of noble birth, Lady Stark! Why shroud yourself in mystery? Why involve yourself in this? Why dishonor yourself by not unmasking yourself when I commanded?”

Before Shauna could open her lying mouth to respond, Lord Tyrell cuts in. “Because she meant to shame the prince, Your Grace. She meant to shame the noblest child ever birthed in these lands. She meant to shame your son.”

Misty sees Shauna wince, as though she is in pain. Her arms remained bound and held by the biggest of Lord Tyrell’s men – a knight from House Tarly . Misty sees his gloved fingers curl into Shauna’s limb as Lord Tyrell glances at her, face contorted into practiced disdain. “Isn’t that so, Lady Stark?”

The soldier tightens his grip and Misty is amazed that Shauna did not cry out. She sees Shauna grit her teeth before she slowly nods.

“We need to hear you say so, Stark!” Lord Tyrell barks angrily. “We need to hear you confess!”

“Yes.” Shauna lets out, her face visibly in pain now. “Yes. I did it to shame the prince. To show the city that he isn’t half the knight that he pretends to be. That he does not deserve to be King.”

The contrast between the satisfaction in Lord Tyrell’s face and the King’s more horrified countenance is jarring. It is as if Shauna’s confession took the wind out of him because he takes a step back and falls into the seat beside his bed.

“Your Grace, this is an admission of guilt. This is treason!” With only two steps, Lord Hobert is right beside the King, helping him sit more comfortably. “You must understand the urgency and the need for this traitor to be met with the King’s Justice.”

“What would you have me do, Hobert?” The exhaustion in his voice surprises Misty. The King’s eyes are drooped and downcast now.

“I would have preferred not to disturb my King in his rest but punishing an act of treason must be handled with some urgency.”

The King’s brows crease. “But she wasn’t wrong, Hobert. My son is not half the knight he pretends to be. My son is nowhere near the king I want him to be. Must I punish this girl for telling the truth?”

The frustration that Misty feels at the King’s response does not seem to be shared by the Hand. Or else, he is practiced in not showing it. Instead, he kneels closer to the King’s seated form. When he speaks again, his voice sounds the kindest it has ever been tonight.

“No, Your Grace. But you must punish her for shaming you and the prince.” His tone is soft now, cajoling. He meets the King’s eyes. “She shamed the prince for all to see. The men sworn to you saw her beat the prince, saw her humiliate him. They laughed at him. They mocked him. And they would remember that once it is his turn to sit the Iron Throne.”

He is right. The Crown is facing the worst gossip train it has had in recent years. Prince Jeff’s easy defeat against a mystery knight called into question all his other victories in all his other tourneys and a crown that rigs the competition might inspire some unrest from all the lords and knights that are still in the Capital. No, the king was right the first time.

The man who hid behind the Butcher’s helm is no friend to the Crown.

“What would you have me do then?” The King repeats, suddenly resigned.

Seeing that the King is now in a better mood to listen to his counsel, Lord Tyrell plows on. There’s a glint of triumph in his face. “I must ask Your Grace to consider sending Lady Stark to the Night’s Watch as punishment for her crimes of treason.”

“And Winterfell?”

“I shall have a hundred of my men escort her to Eastwatch by the Sea to ensure she gets there without retaliation from Winterfell. With your leave, I can assemble my host now.”

The King hums thoughtfully, considering that single option. “The Night’s Watch, hm?” He cranes his head, face solemn in contemplation. “One of the crows tried talking to me today at the feast, demanding an audience.”

“The Wall is always in need of men, Your Grace. I gave that woman a choice of prisoners in the dungeons. I can give the Black Brothers this traitor–”

“She beat some of my Kingsguards, Hobert.” The King cuts in, eyes now focused on Shauna. “She beat my son.”

Misty sees Lord Tyrell frown. “A skill that would surely be useful against the Wildlings, Your Grace.”

“If you say so… ” He moves to stand now, shrugging off his Hand’s hold on his shoulder and fully faces Shauna. “Did you say my son would make a poor king? Did you? Tell me true.”

Shauna only responds back with a questioning look, glancing between the expectant king and the now visibly panicking Lord Hand.

“Your Grace, I–”

“She wasn’t wrong, Hobert.” The King interrupts once more, eyes steely and determined. His aged face looks grim. “My son.. When I found out I was dying, I tried so hard. But he would never be the king I wanted him to be. I realize that now. Not with lickspittles in his own Kingsguard. Not if he continues to believe his own delusions. They held back! The Kingsguard! They held back in that farce of a joust and happily lost to him!”

For the first time, Misty sees all words desert Lord Tyrell. He looks like a man whose plan is not going according to what he imagined.

“Unhand her.” The King commands the Tyrell men, with more steel and authority in his voice than Misty ever heard from him. The knights follow, after the King repeats the order with: “Now!”

Suddenly free, Shauna looks to be in a daze. Once more, she looks between Lord Tyrell and the King, clearly unsure about what exactly is happening now.

“Kneel, Lady Stark. Kneel before your King.”

Shauna seems too stunned by the order to think of objecting.

The King continues, his words directed to Lord Tyrell. “I told you when we first started all this, Hobert. I mean to do right by my son. I meant to have him choose his wife and I meant to prepare him for the throne when I pass. It wasn’t as easy as I thought it would be. My son still could not decide beyond his own co*ck and I have enemies at court who would feast over my remains if we dare show weakness. So I couldn’t have him choose. Although, I now see what he saw in you, Lady Shauna…”

Both Shauna and Lord Tyrell blanch at the King’s words.

The King does not seem to have noticed. “And yet, the truth remains. Jeff shall be king when I die. And if I cannot mold him into the king I want him to be, I must surround him with people who can. People who would tell him no. People who would tell him the truth. People who would unhorse him at first tilt, just to make him realize how much of who he is is merely an accident of birth.”

For the first time since she’s known him, Misty sees a flicker of fear in Lord Tyrell’s eyes. “My king, you can’t possibly–”

King Lyonel holds out one hand to silence him. “With your daughter as his queen. You as his Hand.” He turns to the kneeling Shauna. “And you, Shauna Stark as part of his Kingsguard. To protect him and to humble him. To be one of the seven sworn to protect my family.” He is smiling now. “I think that is a better use of your skills for the lance than the Wall, don’t you think?”

(TBC)