The False Knight?

  It was dark. Dark and wet.

  What was the Greyjoy bitch playing at? He had offered her his sword, a woman, and she rewarded him by binding and gagging him and throwing him in here. If she thought the high-and-mighty Lord Florent would deal with her fairly—

  A larger wave rocked the ship unpleasantly, interrupting his thoughts. Ashter had never been fond of ships, too wet and cramped for his liking, and he liked the thought of perishing in a storm even less.

  He supposed it was the gods' own sense of humor then that he be trussed up like a hare aboard one.

  Though it was the scent of fine Arbor red from the barrel to his right that was the cruelest jape. To be able to smell the vintage for hours on end, but never taste it.

  He didn't rightly know how long he lay there in the darkness, the constant rocking of the bedamned ship and coarseness of the ropes making any attempt at slumber torturous, and so the sound of a latch opening was a welcome one, even if it meant he would soon lose his head.

  A figure soon grabbed him and sat him up, the candle they held driving away some of the darkness and casting shadows. He made out the bloody mummer's face, and would have spat at him if he wasn't gagged.

  "Sorry for making you wait."

  The mummer sat opposite of him, the candle illuminating a mockery of a smile that had him straining at his bindings.

  "Don't take it personally. It wasn't even the tenth lie I've told this month. Then again…" He tapped a finger to his cheek. "Yeah, no, you should probably take it personally. It's exactly because you're such a shitheel that you're here."

  Ashter stared at him, angrily chewing on the cloth gagging him. He was surprised when the mummer reached over and loosened it, allowing him to spit it out.

  "A bit indulgent on my part, but it's been forever since I have been able to speak my mind," he said by way of answer. "Play along and I can give you some small measure of comfort. Or don't. Up to you."

  Ashter swallowed his spite when he saw the mummer produce two cups and a flagon of the same Arbor red that had been taunting him, watching quietly as he filled both cups, sliding one to him.

  It was awkward holding it with his wrists bound, but he managed. He sighed as the rich taste of fermented grapes danced along his tongue.

  "Never been the biggest fan of wine myself. If I ever drank, it was a bit of wiskey or vahdka from time to time, but you won't find either here."

  The words were foreign to his ears, likely some Essosi spirits he didn't care for. He placed the cup back on the black planks after he had drunk his fill.

  "We made a pact," Ashter finally said. "I give you and the Greyjoy bitch my sword, and you would take me from the Reach."

  The mummer's dark eyes smiled at him. "If you want to be particular, we have your sword, and we are well on our way to Dorne now."

  He gave a miserable laugh after a moment. "The jape's on me for trusting a mummer." The mention of Dorne meant nothing to him. He had never been past the Red Mountains.

  "You would have met your end by the headsman's axe if I had not intervened, and not a soul would have protested. They would have probably pissed on your grave instead, not that I would blame them."

  His anger grew again. "Then why, you bedamned mummer? Why Dorne? Why any of this?"

  "Have you heard stories of skinchangers? Wargs, perhaps?"

  The sudden question brought a halt to his temper with how queer it was. "I've heard stories of grumkins and snarks also," he spat.

  "I can't speak on grumkins and snarks, but… hm, I think it best I just show you."

  Ashter did not turn away. Was he trying to frighten him with children's stories? He—

  He—

  —couldn't even describe the sudden pain that blossomed in his head. It tore through his eyes, scratched at his skull. He—

  —heard himself screaming… felt something slimy trying to worm inside his head… gods, it hurt.

  Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it—

  —didn't know how many times he asked until it mercifully stopped.

  His teeth and jaw ached with how hard he had bitten down, and his vision blurred.

  "What a rush! I knew it would be harder, but fuck, that was something else."

  He saw the mummer's breathing was hard and his eyes mad. Had he also felt it? What…

  No, he was smiling. Ashter lunged at him—

  —gods, not again. His skull felt like it was about to split in half.

  When he could next feel again, he felt the floorboards on his cheek and the rush of blood from a broken nose.

  He barely heard a sigh. "I had been given a gift, you see. Something small. It was a Herkyuleean task just bringing a bird to heel, but I'm a stubborn sort."

  Ashter hissed when he was pulled up to sit again by his hair.

  "Shall we continue?" the mad mummer asked. "I think I'll get the hang of it eventually."

  "No, please. Plea—"

  —heard himself screaming, his throat raw.

  "Stop? How many times did they ask you to stop?"

  The memories returned to him unbidden, his head like a leaking sieve.

  He had brought her and her sister to the fields. They looked so beautiful. He had touched his sword and said a few words…

  "Please," he pleaded still.

  "I'm not going to stop."

  Again it happened. Again. Again. That slimy thing slithered and crawled around his skull, almost like it was looking for something. He felt sick.

  "Fuck you!" Ashter howled when he could.

  "Finally some fire!" He felt fingers gripping his jaw, forcing him to meet his dark eyes. Though they weren't as dark as he remembered. They looked almost green. "You asked why. This is why. It would have been a waste for your blood to feed the earth."

  He had bit his tongue earlier, and he spat his blood at the mummer spitefully.

  "You got me. Spit. My only weakness."

  The hand left his jaw and—

  —

  —

  —

  —

  —shivered like a man in the full breath of winter, his throat a red ruin. How many times?

  It… gods, it hurt to think.

  His tormentor sat opposite him again, and Asher mustered some spiteful satisfaction at seeing him tired also. He had swore he would not become the mummer's puppet. He had swore.

  "It's good that you're determined. We will continue again in the morning, but first…"

  Ashter's blood ran cold as the mummer retrieved a dagger bound in unblemished yellow cloth. He saw himself losing his tongue or his cock when his hand was grasped instead.

  He noticed scars on the mummer's hands, some fresher than others. The mummer had retrieved something else as well, a small but ornate looking glass, the kind you might see a lady with. He hissed as the dagger soon ran across his palm, spilling blood that was caught upon the glass.

  Ashter watched with weary eyes as his blood seeped into it like fabric. Sorcery.

  "I promise you that not a piece of you will go to waste," he heard, and soon the darkness returned.

  The flagon of wine remained, and he shambled to it, grasping it and drinking deeply of the Arbor red. He did not want to remember any of this horror.

  He drank until he had drunk it dry, and then he fell on his back and thought no more.

  Eddard?

  Ned gave a weary look at the silver hand that denoted his new station. He had refused Robert for near a moon and in the end a few words from Cersei Lannister were all it took.

  If only it were actually so simple. Outside the walls of the city, Littlefinger had revealed to him why the queen might have poisoned the Hand, how Jon Arryn and Stannis Baratheon had been speaking about how none of the royal children looked a thing like Robert, and gods, now he saw it as well.

  That alone was not enough, Ned's own children were proof of that, but that Jon would die as soon as he began looking into the matter? It all made a terrible sense.

  Jaime Lannister had already killed the king he swore to protect, and who could say that he would not cuckold another? Duty bid Ned to tell Robert what he now suspected, but he knew how it would end. Robert had looked at the butchered Targaryen children and called them dragonspawn… he would do the same with Cersei's children, born and unborn.

  Gods, he might as well be slitting their throats himself for something that only might be true, all on the word of a whoremonger and a woman bereaved.

  And that would only be the start of it, he knew. Tywin Lannister would never accept it, and the realm would bleed. The crown was deeply in debt as it was, and when no more gold was forthcoming from Casterly Rock, the payments to the Iron Bank would end as well.

  How long would it be then until Balon Greyjoy smelled blood in the water and crowned himself again? What would the Martells do, who have loathed Robert ever since he turned a blind eye to the brutality that befell Elia Martell and her babes?

  No, this all needed a delicate hand. He could not have just told Robert and fled to Winterfell… it would have haunted him until the end of his days.

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  Standing, he clasped the silver hand to his cloak again and left the room, Harwin and Heward shadowing his steps.

  There had been some good news at least. Renly Baratheon had returned to King's Landing with hundreds of men-at-arms and knights from the stormlands and the Reach, and with the master of laws back in the city, the gold cloaks could be put to rights.

  Descending from the Tower of the Hand, he made for Renly's apartments, where the gregarious and well-dressed man met him alongside his new Tyrell wife and her knightly brother. If not for their dress, they would have almost looked alike with their soft brown eyes and curling hair that touched their shoulders.

  "Lord Stark," the Baratheon lord greeted him, standing almost as tall as Robert. "Or Lord Hand I should say now. Truly, it soothed my worries to hear that you had taken the position, for there are few men more just and honorable and many less."

  "You are kind, Lord Renly," he quietly replied. He turned to the Tyrells. "Lady Margaery, Ser Loras. I am sorry if I have interrupted."

  Margaery smiled at him, and unlike the many smiles the queen has given him of late, it reached her eyes. "It is no trouble, Lord Hand. We all serve at your pleasure."

  "In fact," Renly interrupted, "I believe my lady wife has wanted to speak to you on behalf of her eldest brother, but I fear your Northern sensibilities have made her hesitate."

  She threw him a beleaguered look, but the small smile on her lips betrayed her good cheer. "It can wait. I shall not keep you from matters of the realm."

  Ned wondered a moment what matter would concern the heir to Highgarden. From what he remembered, Willas Tyrell was still unmarried.

  He still nodded at her curtsy, and when she had gone he turned to Renly again. "There are two matters I wished to bring forth to you, my lord. Your brother has sailed to Dragonstone, but has left no answer as to why, his seat on the small council empty."

  "Ah, I do not think I can help you there. Stannis does not keep council with me. You would have more luck with his smuggler turned knight or the Lady Melisandre."

  "Lady Melisandre?" he asked as if he didn't know.

  "A red priestess. Though she is much unlike Thoros of Myr from what I have heard. She speaks much of prophecies and mysteries, and I fear my brother listens closely."

  Ned could not help a frown. It felt as if there was some fresh intrigue under every stone.

  "I see." Perhaps he would send Ser Wendel to Dragonstone to find out more. Surely its lord would not begrudge that much. "Then the matter of the gold cloaks."

  Renly gave a curious look. "The gold cloaks?"

  "I shall be frank, my lord. They are corrupt. Two thousand men, and all I can be certain of is that their true master is coin. As master of laws, I did not wish to act without speaking with you."

  The Baratheon lord stared a moment before nodding along. "You are right. In these uncertain times, it would not do to allow the rot to spread more than it already has. Ser Loras."

  "My lord?" the knight asked.

  "I am naming you Commander of the City Watch. See that the gold cloaks are worth the name again."

  Ned watched quietly at the words. He did not know if it was truly wise to assign someone so young to the position, but if what he had heard about Janos Slynt were true, then it was hard to do worse. He could also trust that a son of high nobility would care nothing for coin.

  The Tyrell knight still seemed queasy a moment, but then he held his hand to his heart. "I will see it done."

  Saying that, he left the room much like a cat on the prowl.

  "I will of course have some of my stormlords assist as well. Lords Bryce Caron and Beric Dondarrion, perhaps? Fine knights both."

  Ned inclined his head. "As you say, my lord."

  It would at least blunt the risks of the Tyrells holding too much sway when he was not yet certain of their intentions. He would have to find the time to speak to the two lords.

  "There is another matter you might shed some light on," he continued thoughtfully. "I have heard much talk of this Solomon the Magnificent of late." Ser Wendel had told him that even the common folk whispered of him now. "Is it true that he accompanied you to Highgarden?"

  Renly met the question with a smile. "It is, though I would not put much stock in these rumors you hear. The smallfolk are well known for being taken by such. Solomon might be a stranger to the Seven Kingdoms, it is true, but he is kind and thoughtful. I am not shy to call him a friend."

  He digested the words carefully. Why would such a man also be close with Cersei Lannister? There were many words he could use to describe Robert's queen, but kind was not one of them.

  "Do you know where he has gone?"

  "To Oldtown. He had been so taken with Highgarden that he decided he would also see the Hightower and the Citadel."

  He bit back a sigh. What pattern was he meant to follow here? He could not see it for the life of him.

  "My lady wife will return soon if you would wait," Renly continued. "It would seem I have a few lords to speak to now."

  Ned gave a nod, and the Baratheon lord had guessed correctly, as Lady Margaery returned only some minutes later.

  "I hope I have not kept you long, Lord Hand."

  "You haven't." He suspected he already had some idea of what she was going to say.

  Margaery toyed with her hair a moment as she thought. "There was a thought for Willas to marry Arianne Martell at one time, but Prince Doran was not much taken with the idea. My eldest brother is still unmarried, and so he has invited Sansa Stark and the Lady Catelyn to Highgarden."

  He could understand something of the game they were playing at. Through Sansa they would have ties to the North and the riverlands both, and to some degree the Vale as well. In return, the North would have an easier time finding grain in the winters to come.

  Ned found himself tempted to agree on those merits alone, though he saw her soon making a pained expression, pulling at her curls again. He also noticed small cuts on her fingers that reminded him of Lyanna's hands after she had been tending to the winter roses in Winterfell's glass gardens.

  "It is true that he will never be a knight with how he struggles with his leg, but he makes up for it in mind and character."

  "Sansa is still young," he softly said instead.

  "They would of course not be wed for many years even if Highgarden were to agree with her," she answered, and he nodded.

  There was also the thought that it would mean Cat would only be two hundred leagues from him, and she was still a southron lady at heart, he knew.

  "I shall write to my lady wife, Lady Margaery. I do not think she will be against the idea."

  She smiled again. "Then I shall wait for news gladly."

  He had left Renly's apartments soon after, his burdens feeling lighter by a hair.

  Walking into the godswood, he breathed in deeply of the air there as the songs of the birds filled his ears. It was not Winterfell, and it might not have a true heart tree, but the godswood was the only place in this viper's pit of a city that did not stink of a dozen perfumes or worse.

  It was good that he had the Blackfish take Bran far from it as well. His mind was not as set with worry now, and if trouble were to befall him, it would befall only him.

  He returned to the Tower of the Hand after a time, the days passing uneventfully. It was one morning that Jory entered his solar and informed him that Brienne of Tarth had a message for him.

  It surprised him, but he nodded after a moment, matting his newly trimmed beard.

  Ned expected a southron lady to enter, but instead it was a woman armed and armored and near as tall as the Greatjon. She carried herself well as she stepped forward, offering him a letter to read silently.

  Breaking its starkly yellow seal, he began to read, his brows furrowing deeper with every word. Then finally the name at the end, admitting what he was already beginning to suspect.

  "It is truly from him?"

  "It is." There was not a hint of doubt about her.

  He returned his eyes to the letter, reading it again to remember every detail. It read that it had been Lysa that poisoned her husband with Tears of Lys, but not on her own. At the bidding of another.

  It even told him where to look if he wanted proof.

  Ned never believed that Littlefinger had forgiven Brandon, but to set fire to the realm simply to avenge himself upon House Stark? If it was true, then his brother had made a mistake when he had shown him mercy. If it was true… gods, how could his foster father have been so blind?

  The whoremonger had been enriching himself at the crown's expense for years, and no one was the wiser. It beggared belief.

  And that Cat's own sister would be the hand that poisoned her husband, it set his stomach with a chill and his head with fury. For a moment he had even taken the Baratheon words to heart.

  He let out a deep breath. "Thank you. You must have traveled swiftly if you have come from Oldtown. Jory will find you accommodations."

  Lady Brienne nodded, departing from his solar. He soon stood himself, retrieving Ice. He would first investigate, quietly so as not to arouse suspicion, and if it were true…

  Then he would take Littlefinger's head himself.