The stale air of the Small Council chamber was mixed with the scent of old parchments and wine. A mask of pride, scorn, calculation and treachery worn by the men and women gathered around the long table. At its head sat Lord Tywin Lannister, the great golden lion of his house and Lord Hand of the King. His pale green eyes, as cold and unblinking, surveyed the silent room.
He broke the hush with his sharp voice that demanded truth. "Varys, have you found the whereabouts of Eddard Stark and the girl?"
The eunuch's hands rested placidly upon the tabletop. "Alas, my lord, they have vanished as if in the waters of the Blackwater Bay. My birds whisper nothing of them in King's Landing, nor in the river ports. It may be they took ship, though to North, Riverlands, Vale…" He allowed the words to drift away, a harsh truth more damning for its lack of certainty.
A sneer twisted Cersei's lip. "We should have killed the man when he was in our grasp," she said, her voice laced with venom. Her green eyes were fixed on her father, daring him to dispute her. "This was folly, to keep him breathing. Robert's old pet, a Stark of Winterfell… mercy was wasted on him."
Littlefinger, leaning back with a practiced casualness, gave a small, agreeable nod. "Her Grace is not wrong. Dead men trouble no one, but live ones do tend to stir the pot. And with Lord Stark, a traitor and usurper now alive, certain… House of Vale may bring trouble to crown." His sly glance told its own tale of ambitions and desires.
Tywin's only response was a subtle glare from his eyes, a clear sign of displeasure more potent than any words and actions.
Before the silence could grow too sharp, Varys leaned forward. His next words were a chill that crept through the chamber. "There are…rumors, my lords. Whispers from the Riverlands. Whispers that the son of Prince Rhaegar himself struck down Ser Gregor Clegane and his men."
The room reacted like it deeply struck a chord. Lady Olenna coughed sharply, wine staining the lace at her throat as her sharp eyes darted across the table. Cersei choked on her goblet, sputtering and her glare hardening again almost instantly. Lord Gulian Swann, at the far end of the table instantly paled to the color of milk, as though the Stranger had already touched his shoulder.
Tywin's eyes cut to Varys, his voice now steel that he usually kept sheathed. "Do not mock the small council with mummer's tales. There is no Targaryen heir left in Westeros, Ser Gregor and Ser Amory made certain of that."
The eunuch simply bowed his head, his silence a more eloquent admission to his mistake than any words could've been.
Olenna grimaced, her thin mouth tight. "Sloppy work, it would be, if dead men keep turning up where they shouldn't."
Tywin ignored her. His gaze shifted, briefly touching on his dwarf son Tyrion with stunted legs, stubby fingers, and a jutting forehead, watching the exchange with his heterochromatic eyes before settling on Grand Maester Pycelle, who sat ready with quill and parchment.
"Write," Lord Tywin commanded, his voice flat and hard.
Pycelle dipped his quill, his hand trembling faintly.
"To House Martell of Dorne. Prince Doran your daughter, Princess Arianne Nymeros Martell, is to come to Kings Landing and wed Tyrion Lannister within two moons. Should you refuse…" He let the words hang, then continued as if made a decision, "…Prince Oberyn and his brood will be dealt with, as traitors deserve."
The scratching of the quill on parchment filled the chamber, the words brutal enough to make Martell's remember what happened to their blood last time when they were caught by Lannister's.
In the Riverlands, in the old stones of Castle Darry, the clang of steel echoed in the yard. Ser Barristan Selmy circled Ser Raymun Darry, their blades crossing in a spar. The old knight moved in a way, like a lifetime of swordplay etched into his muscles, his arms sure and swift, but his thoughts drifted far.
He had come to this place because of a whisper he had heard at crossroad at the inn, that the son of his prince still lived, Rhaegar's son. House Darry had suffered much for the dragon's cause. Lord Darry lost his three sons, had half of his lands seized, most of the wealth taken away and cousins slain or scattered. If any house still kept faith in an almost extinct Targaryen line, it was this one. Barristan had thought perhaps, just perhaps, the prince would come here soon.
Ten days had passed since he had arrived here. Ten days of anxiously waiting for a call, a summon, yet they were just days of silence.
Raymun pressed forward, his sword coming fast but he caught the strike and continued with a effortless and fluid counter, a practiced parry-and-riposte and was on the cusp of disarming him when a voice from the yard's edge broke the rhythm.
"Ser Raymun, Ser Barristan."
Both knights froze mid-blow. A servant stood at the yard's edge, his face tight with urgency. "Lord Darry bids you come to his solar. At once."
Raymun lowered his blade, panting, sweat streaking his brow. He exchanged a glance with Selmy, who gave the faintest nod. Together, they sheathed their swords and followed.
The solar was a small room, its walls hung with faded banners, its windows letting in the light. Lord Darry sat behind his desk, a parchment unfurled before him. He looked up as they entered, his face old and worn but his eyes alight that Barristan had not seen when he had arrived.
He lifted the parchment and smiled faintly at the two knights. "The prince calls for you, Ser Barristan, at Dragonstone" he said, his voice steady despite the weight of the words. "And he asks that we make ready."
The old knight stood very still, at last, after so many ghosts and so many days of wait, there was a call for him, which proved the undeniable truth before him.
The Targaryen's had returned and the conquest will begin soon.