[ GOT / ASOIAF : Magic Network ] Chapter 56 - 60

Chapter 56: Hanna

The sun shone with merciless brightness over King's Landing, casting sharp shadows across the Red Keep's towers and courtyards.

From the Crown Prince's chambers—spacious and lofty, with windows that commanded a sweeping view—Hanna leaned against the stone embrasure, her gaze taking in the sprawling expanse of the castle below. The Prince's favor had granted her this privileged vantage point from which to observe the subtle workings of the court.

Four months had passed.

The Red Keep now stood bereft of king, queen, princes, and princesses. The royal family's absence left a void that even the ancient stones seemed to feel.

The four members of the Small Council pursued their individual interests with increasing boldness. Courtiers wandered the halls like lost children, uncertain to whom they should turn for guidance. Petitions in the Throne Room had ceased entirely. The servants simply performed their daily tasks by rote, maintaining a façade of normality that grew thinner with each passing day.

During daylight hours, the Red Keep bustled with activity, seemingly as lively and peaceful as it had always been.

But Hanna's keen eyes had already perceived the treacherous currents that ran beneath this placid surface.

In the shadow of the empty Iron Throne, she watched courtiers feast gluttonously upon unseen delicacies named power and coin.

She observed Petyr Baelish, the Master of Coin called Littlefinger, accelerating both the pace and scale at which he acquired brothels, taverns, and diverse enterprises throughout King's Landing. Courtiers and their lackeys gathered around him like flies to honey, each taking their small share of the profits.

No man or woman could say with certainty what Littlefinger did with the royal treasury and the taxes he collected in the crown's name.

She watched Lord Varys, the Master of Whisperers, spending increasingly long hours sequestered in his dark, modest chamber, even absenting himself from the weekly Small Council meetings that had once been sacrosanct.

The Prince had confided in her that this unassuming room connected to every secret passage within the Red Keep, like the center of an elaborate spider's web.

She noted Grand Maester Pycelle summoning an endless succession of young serving girls to his chambers. His apprentice, Samwell Tarly—installed at the Prince's command—had been reduced to little more than a common servant, fetching and carrying for the lecherous old man.

She observed Lord Renly Baratheon, Master of Laws and the King's youngest brother, addressing legal matters with growing laxity while dedicating his days to dalliances with Ser Loras Tyrell, the Knight of Flowers.

The whispers concerning the "Rose of Highgarden" had almost certainly originated from House Tyrell's machinations.

In recent days, denizens of both the Red Keep and the city beyond had taken to extolling the beauty of Margaery Tyrell, comparing her to the fairest Winter Rose—though most who sang her praises had never laid eyes upon the maid.

Why invoke the Winter Rose? Hanna wondered.

With her finely honed instincts and extensive experience of court life, Hanna quickly connected this reference to Lyanna Stark, the king's former betrothed whose abduction had sparked Robert's Rebellion.

Could Margaery Tyrell truly be plotting to usurp Queen Cersei's place beside the king?

The silent struggle between House Lannister and House Tyrell represented yet another deadly game played within the court's shadowed corners. Countless nameless souls would likely perish in obscurity because of these highborn ambitions.

Hanna no longer concerned herself with such matters.

She understood that once the Prince achieved his objectives, all the Tyrells' careful schemes would crumble to dust.

The Prince had transmitted seven messages through magical means, each more terse than its predecessor. All contained instructions regarding the affairs of the Red Keep and King's Landing, devoid of personal sentiments or explanations.

Yet she could divine his intentions.

If King Robert were expected to reach King's Landing alive, why would the Prince have sent the signal "Action in seven days" the previous evening?

King's Landing would soon descend into chaos, and the King would breathe his last—these events would unfold within the week.

And she would serve as the Prince's eyes, mouth, and strong right arm within the Red Keep—scrutinizing courtiers, conveying commands, and quelling rebellion.

"Steward Hanna, do you require anything of me?"

An unremarkable man of middle years stood respectfully at her back, his voice little more than a murmur.

This fellow represented one of life's fortunate few—first blessed with employment within the Red Keep, then fortuitously noticed by Hanna, the Crown Prince's newly appointed steward. Now he had risen to the position of deputy steward, a remarkable ascension for one of common birth.

Hanna knew him by his code name: "Hidden Stag."

"Has aught of interest transpired of late?" she inquired casually. "The Prince's absence renders life exceedingly tedious."

Hanna gestured for all other servants to withdraw from the chamber.

The attendants departed silently, exchanging knowing glances that spoke volumes about their speculation regarding the relationship between these two. Small wonder this common man had secured appointment as deputy steward.

Hidden Stag produced a tightly furled scroll. "A red-robed priestess with hair like copper flame has recently appeared within the city walls. She calls herself Melisandre and hails from distant Asshai. I am told she serves as an emissary of the Lord of Light, R'hllor."

Hanna unfurled the parchment with deliberate care.

Hidden Stag's mouth twisted in derision. "Her beauty alone has driven many men throughout the city to contemplate abandoning their faith in the Seven, seeking instead the fiery embrace of R'hllor."

"Is that so?" Hanna remarked absently. "I wonder whether the men of King's Landing will bestow their adoration upon the Rose of Highgarden or this foreign priestess. May the gods grant mercy, lest blood be spilled over such matters." All the while, her eyes scanned the words upon the page with practiced efficiency.

Our strength: Thirteen mid-level officers, forty-six junior officers, and two hundred and fifty-eight loyal men within the King's Landing City Watch. More than one thousand committed agents and upward of three thousand peripheral associates. One hundred and fifty-six Lannister guards, more than thirty personal attendants, and in excess of four hundred servants.

The power that the Master of Coin commands: One hundred and fifty sellswords, more than ten officers and fifty men within the City Watch, nearly half of the courtiers in regular attendance, and virtually all stewards of the treasury, mint, harbor, tax collectors, and trade representatives.

The power that the Master of Whisperers commands: More than five hundred "little birds," nearly half of the courtiers with whom he maintains contact, and upward of twenty officers in the City Watch. (The target suspects surveillance. Immediate action recommended.)

The power that the Master of Laws commands: More than twenty Baratheon household guards, more than twenty sellswords, upward of fifty knights in good standing, with potential allies difficult to enumerate with precision.

Hidden Stag's face betrayed regret. "One matter remains. The fleet dispatched to intercept the last scions of the dragon has returned to port. No vessels bearing the pretenders were discovered along the Pentos route. It appears Lord Varys received false intelligence."

"Most unfortunate," Hanna sighed with practiced sincerity. "May the gods in their mercy consign them to the depths of the sea."

She mentally compared these figures with those she had received a fortnight past. Their own strength remained largely unchanged, but the number of identified adversaries had grown considerably. Should the investigation continue, these numbers would likely increase further.

Littlefinger, the Spider, Lord Renly, the City Watch—who in their right mind would willingly confront these four forces simultaneously?

Mere months ago, she could only stand silently behind Queen Cersei and bow respectfully to these powerful figures, who scarcely acknowledged her existence.

She had heard the Queen converse with them, her measured words concealing veiled opportunities, a sentence or two encompassing vast interests that might drive lesser souls to madness. Throughout these deadly games, countless pawns were sacrificed while the principal players remained unscathed.

Now, at last, the blade would taste their own flesh.

"Steward, the decorations you commissioned have been prepared. When shall we arrange for their placement?" Hidden Stag inquired.

Hanna passed him a folded note. "It seems my enthusiasm for them has waned. I shall reconsider the matter."

The elegant handwriting on the parchment read: "Action at dawn in five days. Arrest the former Master of Coin and Master of Whisperers according to His Majesty's will. Eliminate City Watch conspirators.

Discreetly remove Lord Renly Baratheon

Remaining vassals need not be pursued at present.

Seal the city completely—none to enter or depart. Show no mercy to those who resist.

Extend invitation to Lord Tywin to enter the Red Keep for discussion of matters of state."

The plan, while potentially viable, fell considerably short of perfection and entailed substantial risks.

The enemy's strength had not been fully assessed. How much resistance would they encounter?

Neither Hanna nor the Lannister forces possessed sufficient authority to issue commands in the King's name. How would the court respond to such presumption?

And if, against all odds, they succeeded, how would they justify their actions afterward?

Hanna's concern mounted. Why did the Prince place such implicit trust in her abilities? What gave him such confidence in their success?

"Steward, a small token for your consideration. I intend no disrespect." Hidden Stag presented a silver salver upon which words had been inscribed using fruit preserves: The Hound has returned to King's Landing.

What use could a single warrior be, even one of Clegane's formidable reputation?

Hanna remained deeply apprehensive, yet no alternative strategy presented itself.

In any case, five days would reveal all.

"Go," she commanded, turning once more to gaze upon the sprawling castle and the city that lay beyond, unaware of the storm that approached.

Chapter 57: Re-entering Winterfell

"Ugh... retch... urgh..."

Tyrion Lannister clung to the rough bark of a northern pine, his small body convulsing as sour bile spilled onto the frost-hardened ground beneath. His mismatched eyes watered from the effort.

Joffrey patted his uncle's back with uncharacteristic gentleness. "Take heart, Uncle. Only half a day's journey remains. Winterfell lies just ahead, where we can all enjoy proper rest in a proper bed."

"Half a day?!" Tyrion groaned, his face pale as milk. "You might as well slide a blade between my ribs and be done with it!"

He embraced the tree trunk as though it were a lover, refusing to relinquish his hold. "I'll not take another step this day, nephew. Not a single one."

This marked the third day since their departure from Castle Black.

Joffrey, Osha, and the Children of the Forest had been riding upon Rain, the massive lion, while Tyrion, Jon Snow, and Ghost traveled atop Snowball, the enormous snow bear.

The two great beasts had traveled for more than ten hours each day, covering a distance exceeding a thousand leagues. The incessant jolting and swaying had proven too much for Tyrion's diminutive frame.

"Good nephew," Tyrion pleaded, "I acknowledge your magic's potency—enabling these beasts to move faster and with greater endurance than ravens themselves. But tell me truly, why such desperate haste?"

Joffrey regarded him with a slight, enigmatic smile.

"By my calculations, Father has likely entered the Riverlands by now. Would you not agree?"

Tyrion paused, then released his grip on the tree, allowing himself to collapse onto the ground with a soft groan.

He understood the deeper implications of Joffrey's words.

Indeed, a king dying upon the Iron Throne would inevitably precipitate bloodshed throughout the realm. Such an outcome could not be permitted.

The Riverlands were situated at the perfect distance—neither too remote nor too proximate. Just right.

Tyrion recognized that their pace could not be slackened. "At the very least," he bargained, "teach me the magic that grants such speed and endurance to Rain and Snowball."

He began rolling dramatically upon the frozen earth, suggesting he would not surrender until his demand was met.

Joffrey glared at him with mild annoyance. It seemed these three rune energies could not be conserved after all. "Rise, and I shall grant your request."

Tyrion sprang to his feet with surprising agility, executing a perfect backward somersault that belied his earlier distress.

Joffrey extended his hand and transferred a recovery rune mirror image to his uncle's consciousness.

After a brief respite, the company resumed their journey northward.

Upon the lion’s broad back, Joffrey removed several leaves from a small pouch and channeled his rune energy through them.

These leaves had been taken from the three Children of the Forest whom they had released, enabling him to monitor their movements at will.

Whether Bloodraven truly lacked concern for them or simply possessed insufficient power to intervene, the three Children had safely returned to their tribal home the previous day.

At present, the Children of the Forest were gathering within the cave that housed their leader's weirwood throne.

"Leaf," Joffrey requested, "please translate once more for me."

He shared the visions and sounds from the distant homeland with Leaf, who in turn rendered the conversation into Common Tongue for Joffrey's benefit.

Together they observed the unfolding scene.

Deep within the mountain, dim cave walls stood draped with pale, ancient weirwood roots that resembled white serpents or the limbs of pallid corpses.

The weirwood presence was not alone in that sacred space.

Various beasts lay quietly at the entrances to the numerous passages that connected to the central cavern, while smaller creatures and birds moved freely within, seemingly untroubled by the perpetual gloom.

The assembled Children of the Forest watched them in reverent silence.

A portion of the deceased Children of the Forest continued their existence within these animals—they were both companions and kin: brothers, sisters, fathers, and mothers reborn in different forms.

At length, the Children began to speak, their voices melodious yet solemn.

"Three of our people have departed from our protection."

"We should never have abandoned our final homeland. The South is no longer our rightful dwelling place—it brims with danger and deception."

"Indeed. The oaths of humans hold less substance than morning mist."

"I have no desire to venture forth."

"The last Greenseer resides here with us. Where else might we seek refuge? This represents our final sanctuary."

The assembled voices uniformly expressed resistance and apprehension regarding the South and the prospect of leaving their ancestral territory.

Bloodraven, perched upon his weirwood throne, quietly closed his single red eye.

Leaf observed that all sixty-three singers of the tribe had gathered—something that had not occurred in living memory.

Joffrey displayed no disappointment at the proceedings.

Fewer than half of the singers had voiced their opinions aloud; the remainder either nodded in silent agreement or lowered their gazes to the earthen floor.

He awaited the inevitable dissenting voice.

A female singer with eyes of mingled red and gold rose to her feet. "I must express a different view," she announced.

All eyes turned toward her.

Her tone carried a mournful quality. "My kindred, look around you—observe what remains of our once-great tribe. What weapons do we possess to withstand the cold god of the North?"

Bloodraven slowly opened his eye at her words.

"Only through alliance with humans might our lineage continue," she insisted. "We cannot surrender hope, however faint it may appear. I am prepared to journey southward and attempt to forge bonds with mankind!"

She directed her luminous gaze toward the ancient figure upon the throne. "Greenseer, I implore you to permit my departure from our homeland. Our tribe requires human assistance if we are to endure."

The assembled singers exchanged uncertain glances before seven of their number slowly moved to stand beside her, awaiting the Greenseer's judgment.

Joffrey found himself curious as to how Bloodraven would respond.

Would he suppress this movement? Though born human, Bloodraven now faced more than sixty Children of the Forest. Did he possess sufficient authority to counter their will?

Would he reject their proposal? Such denial would breed discontent or even outright rebellion among the Children, potentially undermining Bloodraven's influence.

Or would he agree? This might preserve his standing temporarily, but would scatter the Children's power, effectively weakening a potential adversary.

Bloodraven closed his eye and maintained his silence.

This non-response constituted an answer in itself.

The female singer offered a leaf in tribute to the Greenseer, then led her seven followers into another, somewhat brighter cave passage—the route that would carry them to the surface world.

Joffrey terminated the magical connection.

Leaf seemed to regard the Greenseer with renewed trust. "Your Highness, the Greenseer appears to have abandoned any designs against you. Perhaps all living creatures might unite to confront the cold god."

Joffrey chuckled softly. "Perhaps."

Privately, he vowed that should this crow dare to interfere with his plans again, he would ensure its destruction even before confronting the White Walkers.

As evening approached, the towers of Winterfell appeared on the horizon.

Tyrion, no longer seeming perturbed by their journey, affected an injured tone. "I believe I comprehend your priorities at last—even the rain holds greater significance than my comfort! Had you imparted this magical knowledge earlier, we need not have wasted time stopping here tonight."

The dwarf had already experienced the remarkable effectiveness of the recovery rune energy.

Could it prove useful when bedding women to relieve subsequent fatigue? he wondered.

He resolved to conduct this experiment before the night was through.

That establishment in Winter Town had housed a particularly pleasing wench with fiery hair. What was her name? Ah yes, he remembered—Ros.

Joffrey urged the company forward once more. "Remember what I have instructed you all to say. We must convey an impression of great anxiety. Winterfell must be made to understand the peril it faces."

He fixed Leaf with a meaningful stare. "The gods have granted me a vision. To amass sufficient strength against the cold god without delay, I must set aside personal considerations and sacrifice for the greater good. Surely you understand this necessity?"

Leaf recognized that humans had a propensity for deception, but had not anticipated such brazen falsehood.

"You represent a crucial element in our design," Joffrey assured her earnestly. "Your performance may determine success or failure in this enterprise, influencing the fate of countless lives. You must prioritize our shared objective above all else."

Leaf silently beseeched the Nameless Gods for forgiveness.

Rain and Snowball carried them directly to Winter Town, which sprawled outside Winterfell's imposing walls.

The settlement served as a haven for smallfolk seeking shelter before winter's onset, capable of housing hundreds of thousands when fully occupied. Currently, less than one-fifth of its dwellings showed signs of habitation.

Tyrion wondered with bemusement what the Northmen considered winter, if the present landscape—blanketed entirely in ice and snow—represented summer in their estimation.

They approached the town's central square.

Following Joffrey's instructions, Leaf and her two companions made no effort to conceal their distinctive forms. This, combined with the terrifying dimensions of the lion and snow bear, ensured that Winter Town rapidly descended into chaos.

Screams and shouts rose like startled birds from a thicket.

"Monsters!"

"Flesh-eating goblins!"

Adults fearfully pulled their children into nearby houses, barring doors and shuttering windows. Only a handful of children, momentarily beyond parental supervision, regarded the strange procession with unconcealed fascination.

Thump, thump, thump.

The gates of Winterfell swung open, and armed men rode forth to confront the disturbance.

Joffrey recognized the elderly knight who led them—Ser Rodrik Cassel, master-at-arms of Winterfell, his great white whiskers unmistakable even at a distance.

Joffrey began to cultivate an expression of deep concern.

"Your Highness," the old knight began, his eyes widening at the sight of the Lannister prince atop a massive lion, "Winterfell welcomes you—"

Joffrey seized the knight's arm, cutting off his formal greeting. "We've no time for pleasantries, Ser Rodrik. A matter of grave urgency demands immediate attention. Take me to Lady Catelyn without delay!"

The aged knight noted the carefully crafted anxiety and panic in the Crown Prince's features.

His gaze shifted to the diminutive figures accompanying the royal visitor.

By the old gods and the new, he thought, the Children of the Forest walk among us once more.

Chapter 58: It's All the Crow's Fault

The charcoal in the brazier burned with unusual quietness, casting eerie shadows that danced along the stone walls of the chamber. The Duke of Winterfell's private solar stood secluded from the castle's bustle, warm and intimate despite the vastness of the ancient stronghold. Only four figures occupied the room: Lady Catelyn, her eldest son Robb, the aged master-at-arms Ser Rodrik Cassel, and Crown Prince Joffrey Baratheon.

And, of course, the three diminutive sprites that had caused such a stir.

Catelyn sat alone beside the great canopied bed, her Tully eyes wide with astonishment as she beheld creatures she had dismissed as children's tales.

"Children of the Forest," Robb murmured, his voice barely above a whisper, as though speaking normally might cause the mythical beings to vanish like morning mist.

Joffrey seized upon the young heir's recognition. "Robb, since you recognize the Children of the Forest, you must also be familiar with skinchangers and greenseers, are you not?"

Catelyn turned to study her son's face.

Robb nodded slowly, his auburn curls catching the firelight. "Maester Luwin educated us about such matters. They are said to possess the ability to control beasts and, in some cases, to perceive events regardless of distance or time."

Could such things truly exist beyond Old Nan's stories? Catelyn wondered, her skeptical nature warring with the evidence of her own eyes.

Joffrey released a carefully measured sigh. "Maester Luwin was a scholar worthy of great respect. It was only beyond the Wall that I discovered the tragic truth—he perished while attempting to protect Bran!"

Catelyn's heart seized at the mention of her broken boy. Panic flashed across her features. "Bran is but a child! Who would seek to harm him?"

"Greenseers!" Joffrey declared with practiced sincerity, his emerald eyes intense. "Perhaps you are unaware, Lady Stark, but your son Bran possesses the innate talent of a greenseer. This rare gift has drawn the attention of a powerful entity known as 'Bloodraven,' who lurks beyond the Wall."

At last, Catelyn heard a name that resonated with her knowledge of history. "Lord Bloodraven? Brynden Rivers?!" Her voice trembled with disbelief.

"The very same," Joffrey confirmed. "The sorcerer who was exiled to the Wall."

"In time, he became a greenseer in service to the Children of the Forest, yet even his considerable magic could not extend his mortal lifespan indefinitely. Therefore..."

Joffrey paused deliberately, assessing the impact of his words upon his audience.

"He turned his covetous gaze upon Bran's youthful body, invading the boy's dreams repeatedly in an effort to consume his very soul. Maester Luwin met his end precisely because he discovered evidence of this intrusion."

Words alone would not suffice. Proof was required.

"These Children of the Forest were pursued relentlessly by Bloodraven's wildling servants and skinchangers, all because they glimpsed his true intentions. My companions and I rescued them from certain death."

Leaf bowed her spotted head with graceful deference. "Indeed, Your Excellencies. The prince speaks truth."

Talking sprites that stood no taller than a child of eight, creatures one could reach out and touch! Even the battle-hardened Ser Rodrik found his certainties shaken, to say nothing of Catelyn's maternal fear or young Robb's bewilderment.

"Bloodraven was attempting to seize control of Bran on the very night Maester Luwin was slain," Joffrey continued. "I intervened within Bran's dream, helping him repel the assault. Bran himself can verify this account."

The wounded boy would serve as the perfect corroboration.

Catelyn shook her head in disbelief. "What mean you, 'defeated Bloodraven in a dream'?!"

Joffrey clasped his hands together piously. "The gods have blessed me with extraordinary powers. I saved your son and subsequently received divine guidance that led me to the Wall, where I discovered the boundless darkness gathering beyond."

With a flourish, he separated his palms to reveal a string of scorching flame between them, paper-thin and eerily beautiful, suspended in the air as though it were a physical thing.

The light and heat radiated palpably, the flame responding to subtle movements of his fingers with docile precision. No sleight of hand could accomplish such a feat.

"But this is not why I've come with such urgency." Joffrey swallowed the flame as though it were nothing more dangerous than a ribbon, drawing the stunned gazes of all present.

"Lady Catelyn, Robb—I must ask that you steel yourselves for what I am about to reveal."

The atmosphere within the chamber grew taut as a drawn bowstring.

Joffrey stared at mother and son without blinking, waiting until both nodded their solemn acknowledgment before continuing.

"The Children of the Forest have uncovered Bloodraven's true conspiracy. The man remains obsessively loyal to House Targaryen, harboring particular hatred for my father and Lord Eddard. He is poised to strike, and all those traveling in the southward convoy may perish at his command!"

Nearly the entire Stark family traveled with that retinue.

Catelyn surged to her feet with a strangled cry—"No!"—only for a violent wave of dizziness to overcome her. She collapsed weakly against her son's sturdy frame.

Robb's face drained of color. "Father and the others face imminent danger?!"

The ever-faithful Ser Rodrik grew agitated, his magnificent white whiskers quivering with emotion. "If this be true, I must depart at once to safeguard Lord Eddard!"

Joffrey nodded gravely. "Bloodraven possesses powers beyond our comprehension. I journeyed here specifically to entreat Winterfell's assistance. Why else would I tarry even a moment when time is so precious?"

"The threat could materialize at any hour. Each passing heartbeat brings greater peril."

"I can remain here but a single night before I must resume my journey southward."

He leaned forward, his voice urgent. "I swear upon the honor of Joffrey Baratheon that everything I have revealed is absolute truth. I implore you to reach a decision without delay. Any hesitation may prove fatal!"

Catelyn clutched Robb's arm with desperate intensity, silently beseeching her firstborn to take decisive action.

In that moment, she had transformed entirely from the dignified Lady of Winterfell into a terrified mother fearing for her family's safety. She seemed to forget that her son had not yet seen his fifteenth nameday.

Robb bit his lower lip unconsciously, turning his troubled gaze toward his half-brother, Jon Snow.

Sensing Robb's implicit trust, Jon recalled the more than ten years he had spent at Winterfell, from earliest childhood to the cusp of manhood.

A stern yet just father, a loyal brother in Robb, mischievous younger siblings, the contemptuous glances of Lady Catelyn, Theon's cruel japes, and the peculiar status that had defined his existence.

For a bastard, Jon Snow had fared remarkably well.

He had never coveted Winterfell or Robb's position; he had simply yearned to live honorably, maintain bonds with his siblings, and perhaps one day earn his father's pride.

He had thought the Night's Watch represented glory and noble sacrifice, the shield that guarded the realms of men. Yet Winterfell had never revealed the bitter truth of what that ancient order had become.

Was the Night's Watch truly as I witnessed?

Uncle Benjen surely knew its true nature, as Lord Eddard must have as well. Small wonder Lady Catelyn had never objected to the notion of Jon taking the black.

Yet, despite this realization, Jon wondered: Am I betraying them all?

Prince Joffrey's earlier persuasion seemed to echo in his mind:

"This is the will of the gods—I cannot refuse, nor can you. Lord Eddard and his family will remain unharmed. Is the guilt of a few well-intentioned falsehoods not outweighed by the preservation of countless lives? Consider what answer your conscience provides."

Jon vividly recalled the horrific scene beyond the Wall—hundreds of wildlings and their beasts obliterated in the span of a heartbeat. How many such assaults could Winterfell withstand?

The memory of King Robert's arrival at Winterfell flashed unbidden before his eyes. The wine-sodden, lustful monarch bore so little resemblance to his golden son that they might have been strangers rather than father and child.

A thousand thoughts raced through Jon's mind like autumn leaves caught in a gale, yet all this inner turmoil transpired in but a moment.

"Bloodraven is dangerous and cunning," Jon said at last, his voice steady despite the storm within. "He commands numerous Children of the Forest and wildling vassals. He can deploy beasts to launch attacks from vast distances. I fear Lord Stark and his companions would struggle to defend against such tactics."

Jon met Robb's eyes directly, willing him to believe.

"Even Lord Stannis Baratheon's death may be attributed to his machinations. King's Landing harbors his agents—no sanctuary can be found there either."

Jon clasped Robb in a fierce embrace.

"Robb," he said, silently adding, may the gods forgive me, "Father requires additional strength at his side. I beseech you as a brother—act without delay."

Robb remained rigid for several heartbeats, only his eyes betraying his inner conflict. Then he returned Jon's embrace with crushing force.

The course was set.

Joffrey produced a sealed parchment and presented it to Lady Catelyn. "I have drafted a message explaining the danger. Please dispatch ravens immediately to warn Lord Eddard and his party."

Catelyn accepted the parchment with unsteady hands. "The royal procession travels constantly. How might ravens locate them?"

Faced with his mother's distress, Robb intervened gently. "The King's company has reached the Riverlands by now. We should send word to Riverrun—Grandfather will know how best to proceed."

"Yes, of course." Catelyn's mind cleared somewhat. "I must alert Father and Edmure at once. Father will devise a solution—he always does."

She rushed toward the door, only belatedly recalling courtesy when her hand touched the latch. Hastily offering awkward farewells to Joffrey and the others, she hurried toward the rookery as though the Others themselves pursued her.

Robb turned to the Crown Prince with an apologetic expression. After a moment of visible internal struggle, he reached his decision.

"Forgive me, Your Highness. Father charged me to remain at Winterfell, and I cannot forsake that command. However, I shall send Theon Greyjoy with one hundred of our finest men to accompany you southward."

He glanced toward the weathered master-at-arms who had trained him since childhood.

Ser Rodrik Cassel spoke without hesitation, his fingers already brushing the hilt of his sword. "I humbly request permission to join this company, my lord."

Chapter 59: Whispers Before the Throne

Dawn broke cold and gray over Winterfell's ancient stones.

The East Gate teemed with armored knights astride destriers, their lances adorned with the direwolf banners of House Stark that snapped and fluttered in the morning breeze. Rain and Snowball—massive beasts bearing their riders—plodded deliberately to the vanguard of the knightly procession.

Theon Greyjoy led the column, resplendent in gleaming black plate. His helm was a masterwork of the armorer's craft, with the kraken of his house subtly etched into the center of his breastplate. Yet it was the silver-gray cloak upon his shoulders—embroidered with the fierce direwolf of House Stark—that drew the eye. Joffrey could sense the turmoil in the ironborn's heart, caught between the house of his birth and the house that had raised him.

"Rain won't slow his pace," Joffrey called out. "Theon, do your utmost to keep up. With luck, we'll reach our destination before the Bloodraven makes his move." He raised his hand in farewell. "I'll take the lead!"

Rain tossed his thick mane and bolted through the city gate like a quarrel loosed from a crossbow. Snowball rumbled a discontented sound from deep in his throat before following close behind.

Theon watched silently as the enormous creatures swiftly vanished from sight. He turned to survey the hundred knights in their burnished armor, unable to quell the stirring of excitement and pride that rose within him. Then he lifted his gaze toward the battlements.

Robb Stark stood upon the city gate tower, offering a firm, emphatic nod, while Lady Catelyn fixed Theon with a stare laden with expectation.

Theon raised his right arm and swept it forward with conviction. "We ride!"

The iron-clad knights filed out in disciplined formation, the thunder of hooves gradually fading until Winterfell lapsed into silence.

But for a castle in the daylight hours, the silence hung too heavy in the air.

Winterfell had witnessed much through the ages. Since the end of Robert's Rebellion, never had the ancient stronghold seen those who dwelled within its walls so quiet, so fraught with unease.

Gods willing, the old stones seemed to whisper, no ill shall befall them.

More than two days had passed since they departed Winterfell.

Tyrion Lannister's thoughts still lingered on the slippery Ros, marveling that a person's body could produce such abundant wetness.

Praise the gods, he mused. To create women with pure water—what divine inspiration! Absolute genius!

He found himself increasingly enamored with that wondrous power known as "recovery magic." What man of flesh and blood could possibly resist its allure?

With each passing hour, his curiosity deepened regarding the extent of Joffrey's arcane abilities. Surely they far exceeded what had already been revealed. Small wonder the boy acted with such aggression and recklessness.

"Good nephew," Tyrion ventured, "will His Grace see the contents of that letter?"

Joffrey's lips curved into an inscrutable smile.

He knew precisely what he was doing.

A raven's long-distance flight averaged merely four to five hundred kilometers per day. The missive would take four or five days to arrive—just after the King's Landing operation, when Robert and his entourage would remain utterly oblivious to the unfolding events.

This afforded ample room to maneuver.

After conducting a routine reconnaissance of the king's convoy and confirming that all proceeded normally, Joffrey bent his full attention toward the Red Keep.

Remotely orchestrating affairs in King's Landing proved no simple task and demanded constant vigilance.

He activated the runes, and his "eyes" darted between the countless chambers and corridors within the Red Keep where he had once trod, searching for valuable targets.

Ha! Joffrey's eyes narrowed as his lips curled upward. Fortune favored him today.

He had caught the rat.

Within the sealed Throne Room, the Spider and the Mockingbird whispered their secrets before the Iron Throne.

Petyr Baelish toyed idly with a silver mockingbird pin, his shrewd gray-green eyes fixed upon the somber, imposing seat of kings.

"Varys, after dancing around matters for so long, perhaps the time has come for plain speaking between us."

The Spider followed the Mockingbird's gaze. In the dimness, the cold throne seemed to transform into a crouching beast, poised to devour the flesh and blood of all those who coveted its barbed embrace.

"Power," the Spider sighed, "so alluring, yet forever fraught with peril. It truly inspires both devotion and dread in equal measure."

The Mockingbird's laugh was soft as silk. "My dear Lord Varys, what cause have you for fear? In the great game, you have long proven indomitable."

The Spider remained humble. "No matter how intricately the web is spun, it shall crumble at the touch of a lion's paw or a dragon's flame."

"Speaking of dragons," the Mockingbird said with a shake of his head, "it seems Lord Varys's intelligence proved false. The male and female dragons are nowhere to be found. Everyone's anticipation was for naught."

The Spider shifted his weight, at last approaching the true matter at hand. "Was this not your doing, my lord?"

The Mockingbird's eyes widened in feigned shock. "How could you suggest such a thing? This is the most absurd allegation! I cannot abide it!"

It was entirely reasonable to suspect Littlefinger.

The Spider exhaled slowly. "If truly it was not your hand at work, then I fear we all stand in grave danger."

"How so?"

"My dear Lord Petyr, consider this. Who requested that you dispatch men to Pentos to acquire dragon eggs? Who sent a servant to accompany them, only for both servant and eggs to vanish along with two fire dragons? Who left a paramour in the Red Keep, inexplicably causing the Hound to return to King's Landing ahead of schedule?"

The Spider added, voice soft as a summer breeze, "Surely you are not unaware of who currently holds the title of Prince of Dragonstone?"

The Mockingbird fell silent.

Joffrey Baratheon. Had the boy grown cunning? Was it he who intercepted Lysa's secret missive? Had he uncovered my schemes?

The Spider appeared distinctly uneasy. "If he can accomplish these feats, how much do you suppose he knows? How much power has he amassed? And how might he regard us, two such... diligent public servants beneath the throne?"

The Mockingbird murmured, "Could those unfamiliar faces recently active throughout the city be his agents?"

He had assumed it was Tyrion's handiwork, a clandestine gambit by House Lannister, but the architect behind it all was actually Joffrey?

The Spider's tone grew urgent. "More than that, many of my little birds have already sensed the gathering storm. Those people are poised to take decisive action."

Who else in King's Landing might they move against? Both men understood without need for elaboration.

Silence descended between them.

The Spider and the Mockingbird each calculated their positions and resources, attempting to convince themselves to place trust in the serpent beside them.

Trust—who would have imagined such a day would come? Yet the looming threat compelled them to endure one another, to weather the risks inherent in this fragile alliance.

The Mockingbird spoke first. "He is not a true prince."

The Spider smiled thinly. He knew Petyr believed his warnings, which confirmed his suspicions. The events in Pentos likely bore no connection to Petyr's schemes.

"He is no prince," the Spider whispered. "We have a duty. The king should learn the truth within a sennight."

The Mockingbird, born and bred for the pursuit of power, calmly shook his head.

"It is too late."

Having identified the enemy, Littlefinger grasped the primary threads of the plot within mere moments.

To dare execute a member of the Small Council in King's Landing—could the prince's true nature withstand such scrutiny? The king would likely never live long enough to learn the truth.

The Mockingbird could not help but admire the stratagem. "A meticulous design. An attack in King's Landing, followed by a tragic accident befalling His Grace while he remains far in the North. According to His Majesty's itinerary, it shall occur within these next two days!"

The Spider appeared incredulous. "So soon?"

The Mockingbird affected an air of calm. "There remains sufficient time to prepare. If you and I combine our resources, what threat could these naive upstarts in the city truly pose?"

"As for what follows," the Mockingbird sighed, "we shall navigate those waters when we reach them."

The king was beyond salvation, but Baelish felt confident he could exploit the ensuing chaos, using it as yet another rung in his inexorable climb.

The Mockingbird cast a covetous gaze toward the throne that loomed before them, seemingly within his grasp at last.

The Spider frowned. "There remain the Lannister guards. Not all of the gold cloaks are amenable to our cause."

The Mockingbird ascended the steps of the Iron Throne. One step. Two.

He halted before the seat of power at the summit, turned, and gazed down upon the Spider. "Little birds may lack skill in combat, but I possess certain... valiant friends."

The Spider smiled obsequiously. "That would be most fortuitous."

Neither player showed any sign of yielding.

What could Joffrey say as he observed this exchange? Indeed, ignorance is bliss—for them.

Chapter 60: Lava Hound

Amidst the heavy breathing of Rain and Snowball, Sandor Clegane opened his eyes in the darkness.

The moment of truth had arrived.

"Begin the operation," he heard Prince Joffrey say, the words cutting through the stillness like Valyrian steel.

Silently, Clegane rose from his bedroll, donned his armor with practiced hands, strapped on his sword, and—reeking of strongwine—pushed open the creaking wooden door of the inn chamber.

The narrow corridor was black as pitch, where a man couldn't see his own hand before his face. It stank of sour wine and vomit, the fetid air punctuated by sudden, meaningless roars and shouts from the rooms—the desperate cries of hopeless drunkards driven to oblivion by whatever demons haunted them.

Thump... Clack... Creak...

Clegane had made every effort to tread lightly, but the staircase leading to the tavern below was more fragile than the spine of a dying crone. With each step, he couldn't help but wonder how much longer the ancient wood might hold.

Fortune favored him, and he reached the bottom without incident.

"Hey!" He shoved the young pot-boy sprawled out asleep behind the bar, limp as a slaughtered pig. "I'm going out on business, so get that damned door open! Is this how you're meant to be guarding the place?!"

The lad mustered what little strength remained to him and barely managed to part his eyelids.

This squalid tavern wasn't prosperous enough to keep its doors open throughout the night; like most of King's Landing, it lay dormant in the darkness.

Click. The iron lock on the door yielded to the key's persuasion.

"Safe travels, m'lord," the boy mumbled, "just try not to get caught by the gold cloaks on patrol."

Torn from whatever pleasant dream had occupied his slumber, the lad dared not curse the scarred giant directly, and could only vent his grievances in such oblique fashion.

By the king's decree, no man was permitted to walk the streets of King's Landing after nightfall. Though the city watch patrols were few and oft neglected their duties, if those greedy curs caught you abroad after dark, a flaying would be the least of your concerns.

Clegane didn't waste breath arguing with the whelp and strode into the cool night air. Still smells like living people, damn it all.

He identified his direction and made straight for the Dragon Gate, near which stood a gold cloak barracks.

Tonight's task weighed heavy, but he knew that he had grown much, much stronger of late. The city watchmen might excel at terrorizing smallfolk, but in true sword-to-sword combat? The Mountain himself could send them all crying for their mothers.

Why did I think of that one again? Clegane shook his head irritably, yet still couldn't master his restless thoughts.

Is he even my match anymore?

Clegane turned down an alley.

A small figure in the shadows trailed him from several dozen paces back, never noticing when the tall target halted.

Shing~

The short, dark figure blinked in confusion, belatedly clutching at his spurting throat. Unable to move, he could only watch as his quarry grew smaller and smaller in his vision, darker and darker as the blood drained from his body...

Clegane reckoned this might be one of Varys's "little birds." The Spider was skilled at finding fearless orphans to do his bidding. Damn it all.

A few moons past, Clegane couldn't have guaranteed he would detect the rat behind him, but now matters stood differently. He possessed the power of fire and light, the wondrous gift of magic, and a mental strength that transcended his physical form.

He felt as though he could slay all seven hundred gold cloaks stationed at the Dragon Gate.

It merely depended on whether these wretched souls possessed sufficient wisdom.

Ahead, a rail-thin man and seven sellswords with gleaming blades blocked his path. Clegane halted.

Again?

He wasted little more time than before.

Clegane continued forward, his boots treading upon steaming, half-dried bloodstains and charred limbs. Seven hells, there's a bit of a meaty smell. An even more revolting stench, reminiscent of that day when he was but a child.

He resolved to use fire more sparingly hereafter.

After dispatching several more waves of vermin, when the sky overhead had already lightened to a faint blue, Clegane finally arrived at the gate of the gold cloak barracks.

The still-burning bonfire allowed him to see the world for dozens of yards with his naked eye.

But Clegane possessed better "eyes."

As expected, the gate was sealed tight. The solid, towering stone wall offered no weakness, and the battlements—wide enough for two destriers to pass abreast—were dotted with guard posts, a dozen ballistae, and countless arrow slits.

An unassuming man materialized silently at Clegane's side.

Mere heartbeats later.

Seven gold cloaks emerged from the guard post, descending the wall along the steps without exchanging a word, drawing ever closer to the gate.

The scheme appeared to be unfolding without complication.

But through the stone barrier, Clegane observed the three gold cloaks at the rear draw their daggers.

"Damn it all to seven hells!"

Clegane cursed, swiftly produced two short knives and drove them into the stone wall, hauling himself upward one blade at a time.

The instant he reached the top, he leapt forward without hesitation, landing squarely in a fresh pool of blood.

The three traitors had already finished their companions.

Clegane unsheathed his longsword.

The trio trembled as one. "Enemy attack! Someone—"

His head had already taken flight from his shoulders.

"Brothers, awaken! To arms—"

"Have mercy—"

The gate fell silent, but throughout the barracks, the din of alarm gradually swelled.

Clegane wrenched the gate open with brutal strength.

The man rushed in immediately. "Don't be rash—guard the gate and let none escape. I'll help you distinguish between foe and ally."

Clegane's scarred face twisted into a mirthless grin. "Bloody nonsense! You think I can't tell?"

The barracks had erupted into chaos.

This was the smaller of the two gold cloak barracks, housing some seven hundred men.

The barracks commander bore responsibility for logistics alone, while the seven centurions operated independently of one another. Beneath them served eighty-one squad leaders and more than six hundred men-at-arms—a motley assortment where corruption flourished like weeds after a spring rain.

The atmosphere within the barracks had grown tense and peculiar of late. The clever ones had long dared not succumb to deep slumber, fearing death might find them in their dreams.

Now those fears proved prophetic.

The officers and soldiers loyal to the royal family and House Lannister took the initiative, but those who had been coerced or tempted by the agents of Varys and Littlefinger stood equally prepared.

The two factions erupted almost simultaneously, and those caught unawares suffered the heaviest losses.

The clash of steel upon steel and agonized howls rose and fell in a macabre symphony. Bonfires toppled and flames spread, while shadowy figures darted to and fro, creating the impression of a battlefield where two great hosts contended for supremacy.

Clegane heard the man beside him grow frantic with worry.

"This cannot be right—we command far greater numbers than the rebels. Five of the seven centurions stand with us, and one bears no enmity. How could matters have gone awry?"

Clegane snorted derisively.

"What else could it be? You've been outplayed! By my reckoning, show these greedy bastards the glint of steel, and they'll bend the knee soon enough!"

Clegane remained undaunted.

The barracks offered no alternative egress. So long as they secured the gate and slew enough men to establish their authority, what threat could these gold cloaks truly pose?

He knew not how much time had passed, but at last, throughout the vast compound, only the crackling of burning timbers could be heard.

Military officers, their black breastplates adorned with four golden discs, approached. In their wake followed hundreds of black-armored, gold-cloaked soldiers wielding spears.

"Clegane, clear the way at once! Trouble brews in the Red Keep—we must provide support without delay!"

The officer at their head wore an expression of righteous fervor, as though justice itself stood at his shoulder. Yet in the midst of rebellion, where could true justice be found?

Clegane sighed deeply. It seemed he must employ fire after all.

"Long live the King!" Clegane raised his longsword high, channeling rich, blinding light magic that scorched the eyes of all who beheld it. "Fight for the King!"

He charged toward the assembled host, their eyes streaming as they wailed in agony.

Flames erupted with savage intensity.

Like the seven hells themselves made manifest—a realm of molten fire and torment.