The royal carriage, surrounded on all sides by smaller wagons as well as countless servants and knights, crawled slowly along the road toward the capital, constantly stopping for one reason or another. Sometimes the King felt like hunting, sometimes the Queen grew tired of the endless jolting, or the carriage needed another minor repair. On some days, the massive crowd didn't move at all but simply stood in place, and the people entertained themselves as best they could. The King drank and brought servant girls to his tent, minstrels sang, and knights held improvised tournaments, which Sansa and Brann Stark watched with delight. Lord Stark himself had enough other worries, and his younger daughter, Arya, showed no interest in the duels whatsoever.
Moat Cailin and the Neck were left behind, then the Twins and the Trident; the royal escort was slowly approaching Harrenhal—a massive and terrible castle that, in the opinion of many, many people, was considered cursed. In fact, one look at the sinister structure was usually enough to make one believe the darkest stories about Harrenhal.
Queen Cersei Lannister, swirling a glass of wine in her fingers, watched Myrcella Baratheon, but her thoughts were not on her daughter at all. While her beautiful girl was busy embroidering, the woman's mind drifted to her eldest son, from whom there had been no news for a long time. The Queen had nursed a grudge against Joffrey for a long, long time, but as soon as her firstborn left in an unknown direction, all traces of her former dissatisfaction vanished, giving way to maternal concern for her son's health.
What did she see when she looked at the Crown Prince? It was hard to answer that question, for Cersei herself could no longer understand who was more prevalent in her son—a Lannister or a Baratheon, which he could not possibly be? Or could he? Was Joffrey truly Robert's son, having inherited his mother's beauty only by pure chance? Even Jaime had begun to question the Prince's true paternity, looking at the one everyone considered his nephew.
Just thinking about her brother made the Queen's entire being flare with the fire of desire. They had not been together for too long; Cersei had not felt her brother inside her for too long. Her hands trembled with arousal, and the Queen had to set the glass aside to avoid spilling the wine. Cersei and Jaime had wanted to find privacy in Winterfell, but Joffrey's sudden departure had thrown everyone into confusion; stunned by the Prince's stunt, Robert refused to go hunting, and the Lannisters never managed to get away for a long period. Only once did they manage to be alone, but that time was far too short for anything more, and Jaime himself at that moment was preoccupied with a question, which he asked:
"Is Joffrey definitely my son?" the Kingslayer asked quietly, ensuring they weren't being overheard.
"Of course he is, what kind of idiotic question is that?!" Cersei hissed.
"Then why is there so much of Robert in him, sister?" Jaime inquired, and for the first time, the Queen saw suspicion in her brother's eyes and heard unconcealed distrust in his words. It was hurtful, stinging, but a proper explanation was impossible, as Tommen Baratheon burst into the room at that moment.
Shaking herself, Cersei returned to reality, but she still found herself mentally returning to that conversation time and again. Jaime's question had troubled her, sowed doubt in the Queen's soul, and as a result, she began to observe Robert much more closely and recall everything she remembered about the Baratheon. Such attention did not escape those around her, but Cersei didn't care about their opinions; the more she remembered, the more troubled her soul became. Joffrey truly did resemble Robert in his youth very strongly, except he didn't chase every skirt that came into his field of vision. So could it be...
"It cannot be," Cersei whispered. "It cannot be..."
Myrcella Baratheon, hearing the quiet muttering, raised her head, looking at her mother with surprise. She sat staring ahead but saw nothing, completely lost in herself. The Princess sighed quietly. Since the day her older brother ran off further north to see The Wall, the Queen Mother had not been herself. In the first days, she had been livid; only the bravest or the stupidest of knights dared to cross her path. Then the Queen seemed to calm down, but periodic outbursts of rage still occurred, so the entire royal retinue was eagerly awaiting the day Prince Joffrey finally returned. The Princess herself was also waiting for her brother's return, as his mere presence lifted Myrcella's mood, and Tommen didn't dare do anything nasty when Joffrey was around. The youngest Baratheon was afraid of his older brother.
Even now, in Joffrey's absence, Tommen, who was devouring a pastry with both cheeks, was looking around, clearly plotting some mischief for which he again wouldn't be punished. Watching her brother out of the corner of her eye, Myrcella hurried to finish her pattern before Tommen did something. The creak of an opening door was heard; Cersei turned to the person who entered, and the Princess saw out of the corner of her eye how Tommen's chubby hand clenched around the pastry, clearly intending to hurl it at someone. He was already half-standing, having chosen his target, when a royal guardsman reported:
"Your Grace, Prince Joffrey has returned."
Tommen's hand hung in the air, a spark of fear flashing in his eyes. Cersei immediately jumped up from her chair and, disregarding her status, rushed outside, with the Princess following on her heels. Outside, noise and clamor reigned; the camp had suddenly come alive, people were running everywhere, but they all immediately made way for the Queen, who walked confidently toward the main source of the noise—the loud voice of King Robert, who dominated the crowd.
An immensely pleased Robert was found next to the Crown Prince and, to Cersei's deep surprise, today her husband was absolutely sober. Perhaps because Lord Eddard Stark, who was also present, had begun besieging the King with state affairs since morning, which Robert so loathed. Seeing the Baratheon sober was very unusual, but right now Cersei didn't care—Prince Joffrey, whose face was adorned with a rare smile, was telling the King something that clearly delighted him.
"Joffrey!" Cersei exclaimed, a moment later finding herself beside her son and hugging him tightly. All grudges and anxieties vanished as if they had never been. Moreover, they now seemed foolish, even meaningless.
"I'm glad to see you too, Mother," the Prince's quiet voice said. Joffrey hugged the woman and kissed her on the cheek. The ice in their relationship was finally broken.
"How could you do such a thing?!" the Queen cried, pulling back from her son. "I almost went mad with worry! Just you wait, I'll wring your ears!"
Instead of answering, the Prince dropped to one knee and stretched his neck forward, surrendering to his mother's mercy. The knights surrounding them on all sides watched the free show with smirks. Cersei herself pulled her son's ear, squeezing her fingers a bit harder, but everything happening was essentially just a game now. The Queen rejoiced at her son's return.
"Myrcella," Joffrey said after his reddened ear was set free. The Princess kissed her brother on the cheek, feeling peace in her soul once more. Joffrey was back; she no longer had to fear the antics of Tommen, who hadn't even come out of the carriage.
"Alright, enough greetings!" Robert announced. "I want to know everything that happened to you!"
"Oh yes, Father," Joffrey turned to the King. "I have much to tell you."
Three weeks ago.
"So, where are they?" the captain asked, directing his question to Nigel.
"See those trees?" the robber, pressed belly-down to the ground, pointed to the thickets located along the road. "There are sentries there; they watch the road and are supposed to give a sign as soon as travelers appear."
"How many of them?"
"Two, Your Highness. When you pass, they're supposed to strike you in the back."
"Theon, they're yours," Arthas whispered to Greyjoy. "Kill them quietly, so they don't even have time to squeak."
"Got it," Theon drew his bow and quickly vanished into the thickets.
"Is he definitely ironborn?" Arthas asked, looking after the vanished Greyjoy.
"In what sense?" Robb asked quietly.
"Well, Father just told me that the islanders are masters of axes, and here's Theon running around with a bow."
"He's an exception to the rule," Stark replied with a chuckle.
Silence hung for a while, only the wind carried a strange sound to the warriors, resembling a death rattle, but since the robbers' sentry post was quite far, everyone decided it was the wind playing tricks on their ears. After a while, fallen leaves rustled. Theon returned.
"Done," Greyjoy reported. "Didn't even have time to squeak."
"Are you sure?" Menethil asked.
"Go and see for yourself," Theon suggested with that already tiresome smirk.
"I'll do just that," Arthas promised him, then turned to Nigel. "Lead the way."
The robber slipped forward without another word, and the others followed. Reaching the spot, Menethil was convinced of Greyjoy's skills—two long-unwashed bodies lay in the thickets, each having taken an arrow to the throat. Slowly, trying not to make noise, the warriors crept deep into the woods, traveling about fifty yards when voices and the smell of cooking food reached them.
"No sentries," Theon noted. "Completely brazen, afraid of nothing."
"Captain, leave two guardsmen with us. Take the rest and encircle the camp; the south and west are yours," Arthas ordered. "Wait for the signal. None of them must escape. No one."
"As you command, Your Highness," the captain began giving orders to his men.
"Robb, Theon—you go in from the east; two guardsmen and Nigel will go with you," Menethil continued to direct. "Do nothing until I give the sign. No games of honor and nobility; strike to kill. Go."
"Understood," Stark nodded.
"No problem," Greyjoy notched an arrow to his string.
"Well, and what will we do?" Cleaver's face became even more terrifying from a crooked smirk. The Hound drew his long sword from its scabbard, awaiting further instructions.
"We kill them all," Arthas replied, resting his hammer on his shoulder.
"As you say, Your Highness."
Menethil and Cleaver burst into the robber camp simultaneously, calling the others to join the attack with a fierce cry. The Hound's sword immediately plunged into the throat of the bandit closest to him; the man didn't even have time to understand anything, merely staring dully at the fountain of blood gushing from the wound. Arthas's hammer slammed into the head of a scrawny fellow with a twisted face, sending shards of skull mixed with brains flying in all directions. A clamor arose; cries of panic filled the camp as arrows began raining down on them from the east. Theon didn't miss. The robbers, caught off guard, tried to offer some resistance, but they could provide nothing substantial against trained fighters. The Lannister guardsmen burst into the camp like a lion pride, ruthlessly cutting down everyone in their path. Some fellow grabbed for a bow, but a well-thrown spear pierced his chest and came out his back. The entire fight took only a few minutes, and soon the guardsmen were walking through the camp finishing off the wounded, while Arthas tore a piece of some cloth and began wiping the bits of someone's brains off his hammer.
"Where's the leader?" Menethil asked, turning to Nigel.
"Lying right there," the man pointed with the tip of his knife at a lifeless body that had an arm hacked off and a wide wound gaping in its chest. The Prince immediately recognized The Hound's handiwork.
"Your Highness, we've found something," the captain of the guards reported.
"Show me," Arthas ordered. The captain led the Prince and the others to a small dugout, where three bound women with dirty faces and tangled hair were found. Clad in roughly treated skins, they looked like pure savages even compared to the dirty robbers.
"Free Folk," Robb spat. "Evidently, they crossed The Wall and then ran into the robbers. You didn't tell us about them."
Nigel, to whom Stark's last words were addressed, looked at the women with surprise, not knowing what to say. Looking at him, Arthas guessed that the man was seeing them for the first time himself and knew nothing about them, which was quite strange.
"That's not all," the captain reported and pointed to a roughly made door where a guardsman stood. "Look here."
Arthas stepped closer and raised his eyebrows in surprise. In a pathetic excuse for a room, sitting on moth-eaten skins, was a grey-eyed girl whose long blonde hair was braided. The girl was very beautiful, and even the skins of the Free Folk did nothing to spoil her appearance.
"Quite a catch," Theon smirked, devouring the girl with his eyes.
"And what shall we do with them?" Cleaver asked in a raspy voice.
"We'll take them to Winterfell," Arthas ordered, and Robb nodded in agreement. "If they truly came from beyond The Wall, then I have questions for them."
Present.
Prince Joffrey's story was listened to attentively; cries of approval were heard constantly, which the Prince largely ignored. Robert roared with delight when Joffrey finished his story of the skirmish with the robbers and told of the unexpected trophies. The women were brought to Winterfell and thoroughly questioned about everything happening beyond The Wall. They spoke willingly about everything they were asked, which seemed strange—the Free Folk loathed everyone on this side of The Wall.
"When I left Winterfell, Robb had just put them to work in the castle," the Prince reported. "Only one of them presented a question, but I settled it."
"You see, Ned, how our sons have become friends!" Robert exclaimed. "Just like us in our youth!"
Lord Stark smiled thinly, listening intently to the Prince. He felt that the young Baratheon had by no means told everything; he was clearly saving the most important information for later. Sansa Stark, sitting beside her father, was little worried about some robbers. Naturally, they were incapable of causing even the slightest harm to her fiancé, who could disperse any gang alone, without any help from Robb or Theon. Surely, it was Joffrey who had planned everything, and the others merely did what they were told; there was no doubt about it. Only one thing saddened the girl—her fiancé was paying her no attention, but surely it was just exhaustion. Soon he would rest and freshen up, and then they could go on a romantic walk together, which Sansa had dreamed of since the day she saw Joffrey in Winterfell.
"And where is Sandor Clegane, Joffrey?" Renly Baratheon, the King's younger brother and the Prince's uncle, asked suddenly.
"Carrying out a small errand, Uncle," Joffrey replied. "He'll catch up with us soon."
"And what is this errand?"
"All in good time," came the reply.
"I shall wait, dear nephew," Lord Renly laughed.
"Alright, everyone shut up!" Robert declared. "We need to properly celebrate my son's return and his first victory! I'm sure he'll have many more, but this first victory—it's like a girl! You never forget your first girl!"
"No matter what happens, you bring everything back to women, brother," Renly smirked, while Cersei burned her husband with a glare.
"Bring wine and meat!" the King ordered, paying no attention to anyone. At that moment, Joffrey approached him and said quietly:
"I don't mind a feast, Father, but I ask you not to get drunk. I have important news that will greatly interest and please you. As soon as Clegane arrives, you'll learn many interesting things."
Baratheon looked intently at his son, then slowly nodded.
***
"What do you see in the fire, priestess?" asked Lady Selyse Baratheon, Lord Stannis's wife.
"I see your husband on the Iron Throne, a crown shining on his brow," Melisandre declared. "I see him, illuminated by the light of the Lord, clutching a flaming sword in his hands. He shall cast down The Darkness and bring the Eternal Summer, the great gift of R'hllor."
"So it shall be," Lady Selyse said with absolute faith in her words, mentally imagining the days the priestess of the Lord of Light spoke of.
But the Red Woman herself was not so sure of her own words. The only thing she had seen in the fire lately was green eyes.
***
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