King's Landing was always a bustling city even in the heart of winter. Now, however, the city was nearly bursting at the seams and the people were in high spirits. The so-called Endless Winter was over, the specter of starvation had been banished, and there were no wars raging that posed any threat to the city. That alone was enough to get the people of the city into a pleasant enough mood, but the true excitement came from more simple pleasures.
For the first time in many decades, King's Landing felt more like a giant festival than a proper city. Queen Roslyn Martell's nameday, her 90th, would have seen some minor festivities by itself, but this year it came close enough to the anniversary of the Martells taking the Iron Throne that the celebrations had been combined. This year marked the 100th year of Martell rule, and the Queen had decided to go all out in making sure the people showed proper excitement for that fact. Some cynically whispered that since she was the last Martell and had no reason to care about what she left behind she simply wished to waste money and beggar the realm before she died, but most simply appreciated the event for the fun and excitement it brought.
Lords and Ladies from all around Westeros had begun flooding the city about two weeks prior, with a handful arriving even earlier than that and some still trickling in, and each of them brought along an assortment of family and servants as well. The Red Keep and the city as a whole was unable to hold so many extra people, so a veritable city of tents and wagons had sprung up around the western walls of the city and for a ways down the sides of the major roads. The tourney grounds to the southwest of the city had more and larger stands built for the audience than had ever been built before. Most could not help but speculate on the grand melee and the joust to come soon, with outlandishly lavish prizes for the winners, and the people had been treated to the sight of watching eager knights practicing in the tourney grounds every day.
All throughout the city, and in those bustling locations outside of it, there was plenty of busy activity during the day, but every night the work was set aside and the festival spirit propelled even the dourest of common man into revelry and celebration. Carts laden with food and barrels of wine and ale circulated through the city and the tents of the visitors, all courtesy of Queen Roselyn, and everyone from hawkers to whores plied their wares through the night. Bards and street performers of all sorts dazzled the people with their art and skills. The nightly parties were new and exciting for everyone involved, and most threw themselves into the fun with gusto and abandon.
As dawn broke over the city two days before the Queen's nameday, the excitement of the morning was of course talk of the melee to take place in the afternoon. The buzz about the mock battles of the previous day (in which the team of knights representing the Lannisters came out triumphant) was giving way to the new talk about which single knight would stand victorious at the end of the day, and the archery competition two days prior was all but forgotten in the minds of the common folk. Much of the excitement around the events came from the fact that in this tourney, unlike most, the entrants were not limited to knights only: instead, anyone who could provide their own gear for each event was allowed to enter, which allowed a much wider array of competitors to join the knights and spurred speculation that a commoner could take a win and earn enough gold to live well until his dying day. Tomorrow the joust would take precedence, and then the Queen's nameday to follow would see the city's nightly festivities take over the day as well, but most folk lived in the moment and talked about the entertainment of the day to come.
The tense anticipation in the city only built up higher as the sky rose higher in the air. Men born both high and low congregated toward the tourney grounds to prepare for the melee or hurry to register at the last minute, Lords and Ladies of houses large and small took their places in the stands set aside so they would not need to rub shoulders with commoners, and those commoners rushed to finish their duties for the day to hurry to be able to watch the event. The hawkers were already milling through the stands mere hours after sunrise, and untold wealth of gold changed hands as enterprising men and women made bets on the outcome. With hours yet to go before the melee began, it seemed half the city had already come out to stake out their place to watch the fun.
It was, all in all, a day of grand excitement for King's Landing. However, not everyone was consumed by the festival spirit. While most people thrived in the light, those with business in the shadows were just as busy. This was the perfect chance for scheming and getting oneself ahead in life, after all, and the snakes of King's Landing took every advantage of that opportunity.
A Forgotten Closet In The Red Keep
Something tickled the woman's ankle for a split of a second, short enough for her to spot nothing but long enough to make her gasp in fright. Just a mouse, she figured. This closet was their meeting spot but she never enjoyed it, despite the occasional good news that the man brought her. The handmaiden's nails were bitten raw, nothing a girl from a proud house should ever present herself with; but it couldn't be helped, could it? Her nerves were pressed tight and with the upcoming events, the queen had been particularly harsh and cruel. The old hag never raised a hand on her of course (that would be too much of a risk, with her frail bones in her old age) but her words often cut deeper than any whip would.
Yet another mouse ran between her feet, this time biting the woman's flesh as she tried to kick it away. Gods she hated this forsaken closet.
Just as she debated if he would even show up, the creaking sound of the closet door echoed in the small dark room, followed by the noise of indoor slippers made of rich fabric brushing the dusty stone floor. The handmaiden imagined him hovering over the ground, touching it just to say he wasn't really floating, and she had to suppress a small giggle. It was the nerves, truly.
"Gwendys, girl?" The man's accented voice was just a whisper, barely louder than his own footsteps. The lord wasn't very old, but he had been cursed with terrible eyesight. His cane was lifted a few inches too high, not touching the ground as it normally would in less secretive circumstances.
"Yes, my lord, just to your right - yes, here." Out of habit more than kindness, the handmaiden took hold of the man's arm and guided him a little further away from the door. The closet was larger than one might have guessed from the outside, but the last time anyone else other than the handmaiden and the lord had used it was during the Green Plague. While Gwendys wasn't particularly superstitious, there was something decidedly creepy that clung to the walls and one could easily imagine all the plague-affected corpses lying around in piles. The queen had closed off this section of the lower staircase, mainly because of the ghastly reminders of her sons and husband. Her handmaiden didn't particularly care about it, though. It made for a strangely safe place to meet in broad daylight.
"Do you have what you promised?"
"Quiet, girl. You may be my sister's niece by marriage, but you do not get to speak to me this way." Drawing his brows together in an effort to make her out in the obscurity, the man shrugged off her hand as his own gripped a small pouch at his waist. "Before that, have you done what you have been asked to do?"
"Yes, of course, my lord. Everything is ready." Gwendys wrung her hands as she spoke, eyeing the pouch like a starved man eyes a stale loaf of bread.
"You must never speak of this to anyone -
anyone, do you understand?" His arm gave a small tug at the pouch, unclapsing it from his belt.
"I understand, my lord." Her voice had gained a distinct edge of neediness and desperation. The handmaiden cleared her throat and forced her arms to her sides.
"As you asked, the dr--"
"
Shush! You foolish girl! Not a single word, do you hear?" The lord thrust his hand holding the pouch right onto her chest, making the woman gasp in surprise. "What are you, a simpleton?"
The handmaiden flushed angrily and caught the pouch before it fell to the ground, the spot on her chest hurting as though he had burned her. Even if he had, the woman would have suffered through it in exchange for the contents of this pouch. The glass vial could be felt through the silk, sending Gwendys's heart into a frenzied pace as the anticipation for its consumption eradicated any other thoughts. It took the lord a few seconds to catch her fleeting attention before leaving.
"We will meet again, girl. I doubt this much of it will last you for long."
The handmaiden barely even noticed the ticklish sensation on her ankle for the third time, her eyes boring into the lord's back as she waited for him to leave. Once the door was closed, she began counting. Her fingers tapped the silk pouch every few seconds, until minutes passed and her knuckles were white and her fingers full of pins and needles until she could finally get out of this infested closet. The melee was to start soon, she knew she had to attend with the queen in just about an hour or two - but lost in thought and in desperate need to make use of her payment, Gwendys slipped out of the closet as silently as possible. It wasn't like there was anyone around to hear, but one was never careful enough, she figured.
The entire section at the bottom of the condemned staircase was off limits, no servants bothered with keeping it lit or even clean. There was no window to tell how much time had passed, and before she disappeared in a dark corridor, Gwendys sent a silent prayer to the Mother, begging her to grant her forgiveness for how weak she had become as of late. It simply could not be helped.
The Grand Maester's Chambers In The Red Keep
Grand Maester Harwyn tossed a vial of powder at the little fieldmouse of a girl standing in the center of the room. She actually squeaked in startlement, further solidifying her already mousy demeanor, but managed to catch it all the same. The girl had spent her time in his study staring around at the shelves of books and ingredients and oddities from around the world as if they were going to jump out and bite her. After she caught the vial she held it out at arm's length and stared at it in the same wide-eyed way.
"What, have you never had moon tea before?" The Grand Maester's gruff words startled her enough that she flinched and almost dropped the little glass container.
"Be careful, fool. I'll charge you extra for the annoyance if you waste that."
"I-I'm sorry, m'lord, I don't-"
"I'm not a lord. I am the Grand Maester. If you're going to use a title, use the correct one. I would have expected even a kitchen servant to learn as much working in the Red Keep."
The girl blushed and ducked her head. "Yes, Grand Maester. I'm sorry. I've never had need to..."
"I see." Harwyn sat in the lone chair in the room, the one behind his desk, and gestured to the vial. He'd given these instructions so many times before that he felt he could easily repeat them in his sleep.
"Prepare it as a tea, two pinches per cup. Putting it in cloth and steeping it would be best in order to avoid consuming a harmful amount. Drink it no more than the day before you lay with a man, or two days after, else it will likely fail to work. Some bleeding outside of your usual time is normal, but if it is excessive and you feel pain you may be suffering the ill effects of consuming too much of the tea. Chew on willow bark for the pain and avoid strenuous activities until it stops. That will be two gold coins for the cost of ingredients used." Harwyn held out his hand and waited.
The girl blinked and nodded quickly, digging into a small pouch hanging from her belt to retrieve the payment. She gave him the coins and backed away bobbing her head in an uncertain almost-bow and thanked him repeatedly until she reached the door, then gave a hasty curtsy and hurried out.
Harwyn settled back in his chair and tossed the coins atop a pile of papers sitting on his desk. It was a small thing, but he was pleased all the same. The kitchen girl would be able to fuck whichever man had caught her fancy, and the both of them would likely be quite happy to be able to do so without worry of creating a bastard. Growing up on the Iron Islands, Harwyn had been taught that people were barely more than animals and that they were happiest when they were able to pursue their baser desires. Most called such urges sin, but the Grand Maester saw them as the natural state of humanity that should be allowed to thrive and flourish, within reason. Life was pointless if one was forced to always repress their desires, he felt, and he was always satisfied when he was able to help others escape their life of tedium and sadness, if even for fleeting moments.
There was little time to reflect and philosophize on the matter, of course. With the servant girl on her way, the Grand Maester pushed himself out of his chair and returned to his previous work preparing more conventional medical supplies for the day. A little bit of everything for pain, as many bandages as he could get his hands on, needle and thread in case of serious injuries, and some milk of the poppy in case tragedy struck and he needed to guide dead men to the grave in comfort. Normal tourney melees were not an excessively bloody affair, and there were usually a high number of maesters present in proportion to fighters, but with commoners allowed to join this time there was certain to be a shortage of both maesters and supplies.
It was not glamorous work, but Grand Maester Harwyn was determined to do what he could for the fools who fell before the knights and lords who actually knew how to fight. It was just another small gesture to see to the wellbeing of the common folk, but one that would hopefully make a difference. Harwyn doubted that any but those he helped would even notice, but maesters were quite used to such thankless work. Today would be just another day of working to better the world despite all the people who would shove everything into the mud just so they could stand highest. Such was the life of any maester, even the Grand Maester, and Harwyn would do his duty without complaint.
Cobbler's Square In King's Landing
The square was quieter than usual as the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard made his way through it, headed for the Gate of the Gods and then to the tourney grounds outside the walls and to the south. Many of the shops were already closed for the day, and it was not hard to see why. There were plenty of people out on the streets, but most of them were headed out of the city as well, all intent on reaching the tourney grounds to watch the melee. It would have been a terrible day for business, but still a few industrious folk could be heard toiling away, using the day to work on making new wares for the days after the Queen's nameday festivities concluded.
Only a small part of the Lord Commander's mind focused on these things. He strode down the street at a quick pace and the people made way for the white armor and cloak, and as much as he knew he should be focused on what was in front of him he could not help but think of the past. Some of it was about tourneys of years gone by, but mostly his thoughts kept returning to the recent past. For all his talk of honor and the like, and for all the the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard ought to epitomize those virtues, Ser Borros Connington had broken his vows this day.
It was far from the first time, of course. When he'd sworn the vows to remain chaste to keep his mind on only his duty to the Iron Throne, Borros had thought it would be quite easy to live without the sensual pleasures of life. He'd gone years without knowing the touch of a woman before, and he'd figured it would be no challenge to go back to that way of life. For all his strength and endurance on the battlefield, his spirit had proved weak and his body had followed its lead. A woman had stolen his attention from his duty to the Queen years ago, and today Borros hadn't been able to resist the temptation. After giving a speech to knights gathered in the courtyard of the Red Keep, hypocritically espousing the virtues of living up to one's knightly vows, he'd met with his lover in secret.
As Borros walked through the city he thought he could still smell the scent of her perfume on him, but he supposed that was just idle imagination being fueled by the longing that had crept up mere minutes after he'd left her. It seemed as each day passed, it grew harder and harder to think of things other than his secret lover. That was a worrying thought, but then he'd gotten used to disregarding worrying thoughts in his time serving the Queen. Sometimes his service required less than honorable things be done in the name of doing as he was ordered, and he supposed that had conditioned him to be flexible with his honor in other ways as well.
The Lord Commander tried, and failed, to shake those thoughts from his head as he neared the gate out of the city. He needed to be clearheaded to represent his Queen in the melee this afternoon, for more reason than just his desire to win: Queen Roslyn had made it very clear she expected her Kingsguard to perform admirably to make up for their unsatisfactory performance in representing House Martell in the mock battles of the day before. It was set to be a challenging enough day even without thoughts of supple curves and sullied honor plaguing him, but it seemed he would have no choice but to struggle through them.
Troublesome though it was in so many ways, Ser Borros Connington gave no serious consideration to ending his illicit romance. It was dishonorable and dangerous and would bring great shame to his name and his house if he was caught, to say nothing of the lady's reputation, but as long as the sin was sweeter than the salvation he would continue to drag his honor through the dirt without hesitation.
The Queen's Chambers In The Red Keep
"Where's the Tarly girl?" The old woman's voice was croaking due to age, but the absolute commanding tone never faltered.
"This girl is always out and about with her head in the clouds!" The other maids in the queen's room shuffled about silently, none of them daring to speak of the handmaiden's whereabouts. Roslyn Martell noticed a few had envious looks on their faces, though she wasn't sure if it was envy for the Tarly girl's position, or that she was not here. Her mood had particularly been sour in the last few days. She had insisted Grand Maester Harwyn send an invitation to the Dornish nobility as well, and she had received a few letters full of excuses as to why they would not show up, or send a bastard in their stead. Such disregard for their Queen made her furious, and had she been a few decades younger she would have sent her personal army to execute them all. But with her nameday coming close and the unveiling of the chosen heir... Sometimes she simply did not have the energy to fight.
"Your grace, the Tarly girl already prepared your gown for the day." Roslyn eyed the young girl, a bold one at that with a proud face, and she let a small smile creep on her face. The expression was almost foreign on her face, dragging her wrinkles in the wrong direction, and she knew it almost looked frightening. Still the girl remained in place holding the golden gown. It was a beautiful thing, truth be told; the sleeves were embroidered with a thousand small suns, not unlike those represented in the sigil of her house, and a red trim had been worked intricately along them. It was an audacious dress for someone her age.
Roslyn took a few steps and reached out to caress the fabric, a small hum of appreciation punctuating the touch. It had been purchased from a merchant in Pentos at an exorbitant price and it was possibly the most beautiful gown she had ever owned.
"I changed my mind. I will keep this one for the feast." The queen's eyes looked over the gown one last time before taking a step away. The maids looked at each other nervously but they went into movement at once, packing away the jewellery and other accessories that had been selected for this golden outfit.
"You," Roslyn pointed at the young girl who had spoken up a few moments ago,
"Find my crimson gown. The one with the metal bodice."
This time, every maid looked over her shoulder at the queen. Their looks were easy to read.
They probably all think I've gone mad. Let them. Roslyn chuckled and turned around towards the jewellery table. The armour-like outfit would be quite fitting with the events of the day, she decided. She sat down on the velvet cushion and ushered a girl away before she started preparing her hair. It could wait.
The old woman ran her fingers along her oldest jewellery box. It was hand-carved, with waves and fish jumping out of the water. On the top was a larger fish, jumping into a sun with a spear in its mouth. It had been a wedding gift from the Tullys, perhaps the only one that had survived to this day. In it was every jewelry piece her late husband had gifted her. She avoided wearing any of them as she felt it made her look weak, like a widow still living in the past and surrounding herself with sentimental reminders of a lost love. Perhaps today she could allow herself a small weakness. She selected a pair of ruby earrings, and from another box she took out the heavy metal necklace that was a perfect fit for the dress.
The earrings were discreet but the maid who fixed her hair made it so they were nicely in view. Her grey hair fell in soft curls around her face, and Roslyn knew the girl had unintentionally attempted to soften her face. It was a difficult task, but the outcome was rather satisfying. The most demanding part however was to put on the damned gown. It had to be fitted rather tightly at the waist to accommodate the metal bodice that would be on top, and she definitely did not have the same figure as a few years ago. The maids had the decency to avoid whispering about it, but she knew just from their tight smiles that they pitied her. Ten years ago, she would have had them whipped for their insolence. But not today. It appeared everyone was unknowingly taking advantage of her benevolence today.
"Girl, what's your name?" The queen looked at the young girl again.
When others would have hesitated or tripped over their words in an effort to make a good impression, this one stood straight and spoke clearly. "Amber of house Bolton, your grace."
"Alright, Amber of house Bolton. I want you ready and properly dressed by the end of the hour. The Tarly girl can rot in her hiding hole. You will be coming with me to the melee." Leaving no place for discussion, Queen Roslyn smiled once again and turned away, heading for the small balcony for a breath of fresh air. King's Landing had never smelled so foul, she thought.
Somewhere In The Underbelly Of The Red Keep
The silence of the dark and cavernous room was slowly beaten back by the clink of metal on metal. A man stood patiently in the shadows, waiting for the noisy knight to arrive. He had been waiting for an hour or more, hard to say without the movement of the sun to gauge the time, but it felt like a small eternity. Such was the price that secrecy demanded, Sam supposed. The sound of footsteps soon joined the clank of moving armor, and Sam called out to the other man to give him some guidance in the lightless area. The steps slowed to a shuffle accompanied now and then by soft thuds and then the soft scrape of hands moving over stone, the sounds alone telling the tale of the knight carefully feeling his way through the darkness.
Sam cleared his throat before the other man could blunder into him, and the clanking armor fell silent nearby. "You are late, ser. A shame punctuality never made it into the knightly vows."
"Yeah, go on, make your jokes, see if I don't bloody your nose for it." The gruff retort earned only a sigh from Sam, which the knight seemed not to notice. "The Lord Commander of the Cuntsguard wouldn't shut his fucking mouth. You know how the fool likes to go on and on about honor and respect and the like whenever he's got a bunch of idiots around him who look at him like the Warrior incarnate. Couldn't very well go fucking leaving before he was done without causing trouble, could I?"
"Very well, I suppose your lateness was justified." Sam politely ignored the self-righteous grumbling that followed the admission. "How goes your effort to earn a spot amongst the... Cuntsguard, I believe you called them?"
The knight snorted a laugh. "The effort goes like a fish trying to fly. I'm not fit for it, you know that. Not honorable and respectful and all that shit." The knight spat to show what he thought of those ideas, and Sam was glad the fellow at least had the courtesy to spit off to the side rather than in his direction. "Some of the others though, yeah, they've caught the old Mourner's eye. They do well in the joust and they might earn his blessing. The hag's likely to pick whoever he says is fit for the job, so we just gotta count on those ones not being shit riders."
Sam nodded, although he was well aware the knight could not see the motion. "And I trust you and your friends will do everything in your collective powers to assure the right men make it through the tourney."
"That's what you're paying us for, isn't it? Long as your gold's good, you'll get what you want. Can't promise a win, but one of 'em will get to the top four at least."
"Hm." Sam crossed his arms and leaned back against the rough stone wall as he considered it. The top four would perhaps be good enough, but the Lord Commander was enough of a simpleton that he'd probably just ask the winner of the joust if he would join the Kingsguard. That could be worked around, of course, but it would be irritating. "And how much gold would it take to ensure a victory for one of our dear friends? There will be unfortunate consequences if this plan does not work, you see."
Sam could hear the sneer in the knight's voice, though he could not see the expression itself. "Your consequences can suck my cock, little man. Gold isn't enough. Some men won't be bought off. Short of killing some important fuckers or sabotaging their equipment, and those are both damned risky ideas, there's no way to be sure of a win with all these cocksuckers flooding in from all around Westeros to compete."
"I see." Sam reached into a pocket and pulled out a pouch full of gold, letting the coins jostle together inside so the knight would be able to grab it in the darkness. "This should be enough to see things through, then. You ought to be careful with what you say, though. You know I am not the one whose displeasure you need to fear."
The knight only got a quiet syllable of a word out before he thought better of it and clamped his mouth shut. He reached out in silence and grabbed the gold, then took a few steps away before speaking up again. "It'll be done. You tell him that, aye? No need for any trouble."
"Of course. Do your job and you and your family shall go unharmed." Sam spoke in the kind and comforting tone he always took with injured and dying men. "Oh, and do remember to say nothing of this arrangement to anyone. It would be quite unfortunate if we started hearing rumors of certain things best left unsaid, and I assure you we
will hear of it if you breathe a single word of it. Do we have an understanding, ser?"
"Aye." The knight's voice was tight with restrained anger.
Sam wasn't exactly happy about needing to resort to threats, but it was necessary at times. "Good. You may go." He remained as he was, waiting in the dark and listening to the knight slowly leave the way he came, the clink of armor now joined by the jingle of a pouch heavy with gold.
He did not move until the sounds had faded away entirely. Once he was sure he was alone, Sam took four measured steps to his left and carefully felt a section of the stone wall. It took him a minute to find the hidden latch and open the door that would have been all but invisible even if the room had been well lit. Dim light from a guttering torch filled the corridor beyond the wall and flooded out into the room before Sam slipped inside and pulled the stone slab in behind him. He lit a new torch from the remains of the old and hurried along the hidden corridor, walking at a half crouch to fit into the small space. There was so much more to do before the Queen's nameday arrived, and only so many men like himself working to see it all done. It was tough work indeed, but Sam kept himself motivated with a simple thought: it would be a glorious day indeed when all of these plans came to fruition, and he would quite enjoy seeing the looks on the faces of the lords and ladies of Westeros when they finally saw the fruits of this grand labor.
Black sails emblazoned with yellow herald the fleet's approach, a motley, ragtag group of vessels formed of wood claimed from dozens of different nations. Pale oak beams from Westeros sailing alongside tanned wood claimed from ficus trees of the Summer Isles: the only common element is their design and their sails. They sit low to the water with their bowed hulls, gliding across it rather than crashing through like other vessels of Westerosi origin. What they might lack in height they regain in length, each of them stretching far enough to seat sixty sailors who man the oars and sails.
