The courtyard of the Red Keep looked like a tapestry woven of silk and flowers, dressed like a bride itself for the union of the lion and the flower. Silk banners in colours of scarlet and gold, cascaded from the balconies, while the air seemed heavy with the scent of a thousand roses hanging from the pillars. Tables groaned beneath a king's ransom in sugared oranges, candied almonds, and casks of the sweet and heady Arbor gold. Servants, small and frantic, moved beneath the red and gold drapery, hanging the last garlands of golden roses for today Margaery Tyrell would become their queen.
Olenna Tyrell, the Queen of Thorns, sat at the table in the yard, watching it all with a familiar twist to her mouth, a look that suggested none of the things here impressed her in the slightest. At her left sat her son, Lord Mace Tyrell, fat and flushed, basking in the reflected importance of his daughter's triumph. Beside him sat, Lady Alerie Tyrell keeping her hands folded primly over her lap, a thin action of being calm shadowed by the nervous darting of her eyes.
At Olenna's back stood Ser Loras Tyrell, stiff in silver armour, the cloak of forget-me-nots of Highgarden sewn to his heavy woollen cape. His bright brown eyes fixed on the Lannisters across the yard, Tywin, standing like a statue cast from cold iron while Cersei looked glittering beside him as if it was her own wedding.
"Renly would've been a better choice of a husband for Margaery," Loras murmured, the bitterness creeping beneath his tone like poison.
Olenna did not bother to look back at him. "For Margaery," she said, her voice as dryly as Dornish sand, "or for you?"
Alerie inhaled her wine and immediately choked. Mace remained oblivious, humming along to a song only he could hear. Loras flushed red and looked away.
"Margaery is to be Queen, boy," Olenna went on sharply. "She will raise our House higher than any of us have dreamed. She knows her duty so do not sour the taste of it with longing for pretty men."
Lady Alerie, kind hearted as she was, gathered herself. "Do you think His Grace will be…kind to her? I've heard how he treated the Stark girl, and—"
"Sansa Stark," Olenna cut in with a dismissive wave of her wrist. "A sweet little bird from the North who thought love would tame lions. Foolish. Our Margaery knows better. She will smile when needed, flatter when useful, and strike when it profits."
Her gaze snapped back to Loras, boring into his spine. "And you are one of the finest swordsman in Westeros. Look after your sister. You'll be joining the Kingsguard soon enough. Time to prove it."
Loras straightened, pride and resolve showing in his features. "I will."
At the far end of the table, his brother Garlan leaned closer. "Grandmother, is it true that the Martells would be coming today?"
Olenna made a face as if she'd just bitten into a lemon. "Such is what Lord Tywin hopes to accomplish. He means to buy Dorne's loyalty by demanding marriage from them, pit them against Stark and Tully."
"And Stannis," Loras murmured from behind.
Olenna nodded. "And Stannis."
She would not say it aloud, but of all the men playing with the crown right now, Stannis worried her most. His type of men do not bluff.
The trumpets blared then, high and shrill, cutting through the chatter. Every neck craned as King Joffrey Baratheon strutted in arm-in-arm with Lady Margaery both crowned in flowers and gold, like a child happy to get a new toy. The plaza erupted in claps and cheers, the sound a wave that washed over the Tyrell party. The queen-to-be smiled with flawless grace throughout all of that, though her shoulders never quite relaxed.
But before the pair could take their seats beneath the Sept's shadow, a commotion spilled from the outside the courtyard. A rush of Lannister guards poured in, one of the gold cloaks, Janos Slynt whispering urgently to Lord Tywin at his post.
Tywin's face did not change, it never did but he ordered three of the Kingsguard and many of the Gold Cloaks to a direction.
Mace blinked in confusion. "Have they forgotten the flowers?"
Olenna ignored him, Loras did not.
His sword was already half-drawn as he stepped away from his family.
"Loras," Alerie hissed, grabbing her son's sleeve, her eyes wide with fear. "Don't."
But he was already unsheathing his sword. "I am to be a kingsguard," he said, his voice firm, echoing at the table. "How can I shrink from danger in front of the realm?"
He broke into a run toward the marching Kingsguard and gold cloaks toward some unseen threat rising from the cellars below.
Olenna watched him go, lips pursed. "Foolish child. Well atleast he looks handsome doing something stupid."
Far below on the hill Red Keep was situated, Meleys struck the base of Aegon's Hill silently, her claws scraping the ground. Aemon slid down from her side before she had even stilled, his boots hitting the cobblestone, Shiera leaping after him.
"Up," Aemon ordered as soon as he touched the ground, and the dragon launched skyward again with single beat of her wings turning into streak of crimson in the pale sky.
"Come," Shiera said, already drawing Dark Sister.
They slipped through the shadowed entry of the Black Cells.
A gaoler stood at the gate of the Black Cells, looking confused by the heavy sound he had just heard. Shiera halted only long enough to level Dark Sister at his throat.
"Which cell is Oberyn Martell in?"
The man stammered, eyes darting to Aemon, to her mask, back to the steel at his throat. "Bl-Black Cells, three level down—fourth on the left."
"Thank you," Shiera said. Then she cut his head off his neck and plucked the ring of keys from his twitching hand without breaking stride.
They descended further, boots splashing through stagnant puddles, the corridors full of pungent smell of rot, piss, torch smoke, the stench of dead bodies.
Just as the corridor to third level opened wide, Aemon halted, hearing distant footsteps and shouts of soldiers mobilizing above.
Shiera turned to him but before she could speak, Aemon placed a firm hand on her shoulders.
"Go," he said quietly, his earlier soft voice turned to an absolute command. "Free Oberyn and his kin. Take them through the hidden passageways to the Royal Harbor, a ship from Dorne will be arriving there soon, you'll leave with them."
"This was not the plan, my king" she hissed, her voice sharp frustrated with losing control over the rescue.
A ghost of a fleeting smile, touched his lips. "Plans rarely survive meeting reality, Aunt. Trust me, I will manage."
She stared at him through the slits of her mask feeling something like anger, or pride, perhaps both towards him and then nodded sharply and vanished in the corridor of cells, the keys in hand clinking in the silence.
Aemon stepped forward, drawing Blackfyre in one smooth motion. The ancestral sword, almost black in colour looked impressive in his hand, a blade made for a King.
Moments later, men appeared. Three Kingsguard wearing white cloaks and intricate armour of white enameled scales, their fastenings for breastplate made of silver and gold and behind them a knight around his age with golden cloak sewn with flower patterns, their face half-shadowed beneath the helm.
"Who in the fuck are you supposed to be boy, forcing your way inside the Black Cells?"
Aemon rested Blackfyre's sharp point against the ground.
"Does it matter," he said calmly, "now that I've broken into your queen's dungeons?"
Recognition flickered in his eye hearing the voice just now, it was Sandor Clegane, The Hound, behind the helm.
Sandor's lips peeled back in a ugly grin, the look of a dog looking at fresh piece of bone. "You've got a sharp tongue, boy. Let's see if your sword's as sharp."
The four men spread out, blades drawn and charged at one together.