The silence in his solar was a fragile thing, broken only by the soft crackle of the hearth. Lyonel Baratheon, Crown Prince of the Seven Kingdoms, felt the weight of it press down on him. Across from him, Margaery Tyrell sat, her hands folded neatly in her lap, her expression a masterpiece of composed hurt.
"I sincerely apologize, Margaery, for causing you distress," Lyonel said, the words feeling inadequate.
"Such actions are unwise, my prince," Margaery replied, her voice calm but firm. "To dismiss both the Master of Coin and the Master of Whisperers in a matter of weeks... even for a king, it would be imprudent. And you are still only the crown prince."
Lyonel sighed, running a hand through his dark hair. "I find myself with no other choice. Joffrey is beyond redemption." He paused, studying her. "Dear Margaery, if you truly wish to be free of this... of me... I would understand."
Margaery's eyes widened slightly before her composure returned. "That is not what I said."
"All right. All right. I was only jesting. My apologies." He offered a weary smile. "Sandor," he called out to the Hound standing guard by the door. "Please escort Lady Margaery back to her chambers. Henceforth, if I send for her, it will only be you or Ser Barristan who does so."
Once they were alone, Lyonel let his mask of reassurance fall. The fatigue was a constant companion now. He made his way to the council chamber, steeling himself for the confrontation ahead.
To his surprise, the atmosphere was not one of accusation, but of grim approval. His father, King Robert, clapped him on the shoulder, his voice a booming echo in the stone room. "Son, you have a keen eye! You've got a bit of me in you after all! You've averted a war between Highgarden and Casterly Rock."
Even Stannis offered a nod, a rare gesture. "You acted correctly, Lyonel. I feared you might blame me for having Joffrey watched."
Lyonel sank into his chair, relief washing over him. "Father, this is your duty. I nearly found myself in a compromising position."
"Not I!" Robert bellowed with laughter. "Cersei, though... she nearly lost her mind. Never thought that little monster returned to King's Landing out of filial piety."
Lord Mace Tyrell, however, was not so easily placated. He huffed, his face flushed. "My Margaery was nearly sullied by that boy! I demand an explanation."
"You shall have it," Robert grumbled, all mirth gone. "He will rot in the dungeons until he learns some remorse."
As the lords began to debate the implications, Grand Maester Pycelle shuffled forward, a sealed scroll in his trembling hand. "My lords, a raven from Winterfell. From Lord Eddard."
The room fell silent. Robert took the scroll, his brow furrowing as he read. The color drained from his face. "Ned writes... men from a ranging party... afflicted. Their eyes turned blue, their skin cold and unrotting. He calls them White Walkers. He begs for food, equipment... and Valyrian steel."
A chill that had nothing to do with the drafty room swept through the council. Robert looked up, his gaze finding Lyonel. "It seems my son's foresight extends further than we knew."
Lancel Lannister, newly appointed to the council, smiled thinly. "White Walkers. A story from a thousand years ago."
"And how many lords will willingly part with their family's Valyrian steel?" Tyrion countered from his seat. "There are other ways to fight them. Fire... and of course, dragons."
"The dragons of House Targaryen are long dead," Lyonel stated calmly, a fact none could dispute.
Maester Luwin, who had accompanied the Stark party, averted his gaze. It was clear that the southern lords viewed the northern threat as a distant problem.
"The legacy of the Night's Watch is broken," Luwin added quietly. "My uncle, Lord Commander Mormont, sees potential in the boy, Gendry. He wishes to groom him as his successor."
Robert's brow furrowed again. "And who, by the Seven, is Gendry?"
Tyrion broke the tense silence that followed. "One of your bastards, Your Grace. Best ensure my sister doesn't hear of it."
"It matters not," Lyonel interjected, steering the conversation back from the brink. "The Night's Watch does not partake in the wars of the realm. If this Gendry has promise, let him serve." His eyes scanned the other letters on the table, settling on one with the sun-and-spear seal of Dorne. "It seems we have troubles closer to home. Dorne professes loyalty, yet their words taste like vinegar."
Across the Narrow Sea, in Pentos
In the dim light of Illyrio Mopatis's manse, the air was thick with the scent of spiced wine and unspoken tensions. Daenerys Targaryen watched her brother, Viserys, pace like a caged animal.
"My dear princess," Illyrio said gently, drawing her attention to the window. "Behold. It is Khal Drogo himself."
Daenerys averted her gaze, her heart a frantic drum in her chest. Beside her, Jonna Stark studied the approaching khalasar with a warrior's eye. "He appears skilled. Robust," Jonna commented softly. Then, sensing Dany's fear, she added, "Do not worry. You are a princess, sweet and lovely. He will bear you no ill will."
"Will you stay once I wed him?" Dany asked, her voice small. From the moment she had met Jonna, a fellow outsider with a spine of steel, she had felt a kinship she shared with no one, not even her own brother.
Jonna offered a conflicted smile. "Truthfully, I do not know. If you wish, my company, I will ride with you into the Dothraki Sea. But I feel our paths will diverge eventually."
"You are a Stark," Viserys gruffly said, turning his venomous gaze on Jonna. "Save your breath. You are a spy sent by the Usurper to watch my sister."
"A spy?" Jonna's voice was ice. "Have I ever sent a secret message to your 'Usurper'? Or did I not lend my sword when that wineseller tried to poison you? If you wish to pledge your loyalty to King Robert, do so. But do not stare so at Daenerys while you do it."
The two women stood at an impasse, the unspoken truth of Jonna's parentage and loyalties hanging between them, until a servant arrived to announce that the Khal was ready to receive his bride. Daenerys fidgeted with her skirt, her apprehension a palpable force.
Jonna gave her hand a reassuring squeeze. "You will be fine, Daenerys. You are stronger than you know."
As Daenerys was led away, a raven landed on the windowsill, a scroll tied to its leg. It was for Jonna. She unrolled it, her eyes scanning the contents. The message was from King's Landing. Lyonel Baratheon was to be wed. To Margaery Tyrell.
She crumpled the parchment in her fist, the brief message feeling like a sentence. Her path was clear now. It would not lead back to Westeros. Not yet.