The afternoon sun poured molten gold through the tall, arched windows of Lord Renly Baratheon's solar, its warmth glancing off the marble and silk and polished glass of the Red Keep. The chamber smelled faintly of myrrh and cedar oil, the sort of scent that clung to lords who spent too long among courtiers and fine cloth.
Marie sat quietly by the window, the light painting her hair with fire, hands folded in her lap as she listened. She was not here for the pleasures men usually sought at Chataya's. Lord Renly's coin paid for silence, company, and the illusion. Someone who would keep his secrets and protect his image.
Renly stood before the mirror now, turning this way and that, admiring the fall of an ocean blue doublet embroidered with silver stags. "Look at this, Marie," he said with a smile, "A gift from young Arthur Manderly. Dyed and woven in White Harbor, he said. The boy has taste."
Marie inclined her head, "It suits you, my lord. The color brings out your eyes."
Renly laughed softly. "Flatterer. You say that about every color I wear."
"Only when it's true," she replied, setting her cup aside.
He twirled once, almost childish in his delight. "Truly, though, the craftsmanship is remarkable. Arthur wrote that it was inspired by the playhouses of his city. Can you imagine? A northern port with grand theaters?"
"I can," Marie said, her voice soft, "White Harbor is not so cold as people think. Nor are its men."
Renly's laughter filled the chamber again, bright and thoughtless. "You speak as though you've met one."
Marie smiled. "Perhaps I have, my lord."
Renly was too vain to hear the tremor beneath her calm. That was well enough. He had paid for company, not confession. "Loras has been in one of his tempers again," he said at last, sighing. "Ever since the tourney."
"The tourney?" she asked lightly. "He was unhorsed by Ser Arthur, was he not?"
"Unhorsed, unmade, and unmanned, if you ask him. Gods, you should've seen his face." Renly made a sound between amusement and exasperation. "He believes I favor Arthur more than him, which is nonsense. I only admire the boy, clever, even-tempered, everything Loras refuses to be when he's angry. Arthur reminds me of... well, what a man ought to be. The court certainly could use more of that."
"Men who bleed together in sport may yet learn respect," she said softly, as her heart gave a traitorous beat. She sipped her wine to hide it. "Perhaps you should make them friends, my lord. They'd both be the better for it."
Renly sighed, leaning back, his smile fading. "I tried. Told Loras they have much in common, both handsome and young, both beloved knights the songs will remember." He shook his head. "But Loras will not hear it. He says Arthur plays the part of virtue too well, that no man can be so good without deceit beneath it."
She said mockingly, "Perhaps Ser Loras sees a mirror and mistakes it for a rival."
Renly laughed again, delighted by the turn of phrase. "You have a poet's tongue, Marie. You always know just what to say."
"There must be some other reason why Ser Loras hates him so?" she asked.
Renly sighed, toying with the silver clasp of his new cloak. "Hate is a strong word. Loras doesn't hate Arthur, not in particular. He simply…" His lips pursed as he searched for the right word. "He doesn't like the Manderlys. None of them do."
"And who are they, my lord?" she asked softly.
"The Reachmen," he said, "They've long memories and longer grudges. To them, House Manderly were usurpers who once tried to seize Highgarden itself."
Marie opened her mouth to ask more, but a soft click echoed from behind the bookshelves. A panel swung inward, and a shadow stepped into the room.
Ser Loras Tyrell.
He wore no armor, only a tunic of emerald and gold, and even in the half-light he looked every inch the knight from the songs, brown curls tousled, skin flushed from the yard. His eyes, however, were sharp as polished glass.
"They are," he said, finishing Renly's sentence with quiet venom. "Both the Manderlys and the Peakes. Power-hungry upstarts, every one of them. Always grasping for more than the gods intended them to have."
Renly gave a start, then smiled. "Seven hells, Loras, I thought you were training in the yard."
"Was. Then I grew bored of humiliating men twice older than me," Loras said, brushing a lock of hair from his brow. His gaze slid briefly to Marie, softened, then steadied again. "My lady."
"Ser Loras," Marie said, tilting her head. He knew her well enough and the arrangement she kept with his lord. If he disapproved, he was wise enough never to say so. She had kept his secrets as she did Renly's, and for that, he had once thanked her with all the shy gravity of a knight too young to understand what secrets cost.
Renly chuckled, "I've heard another telling of that tale."
Marie asked, "What tale, my lord?"
"The one of how the Manderlys lost their lands," Renly said, setting his cup aside. "The Peakes wanted their castle, the one that sits at the mouth of the Mander. What was it called again, Duttonbury?"
"Dustonbury," Loras corrected.
Renly snapped his fingers, smiling. "Aye, Dustonbury. A fine name for a stolen seat. The Gardeners wanted it too, if the songs speak true. Couldn't abide an overmighty vassal in their midst, so they conspired to rid themselves of the Manderlys."
"Rumors," Loras said curtly. "The truth is plainer, Manderlys tried to set themselves upon the Oakenseat when Greybeard was dying. They'd married one of his daughters and thought that gave them claim to the crown."
"As had the Peakes," Renly countered, eyes glinting with amusement. "And so began the anarchy."
Loras gave a small, humorless smile. "Aye. The war raged for years, until my ancestor, Ser Osmund Tyrell, broke their hosts and restored peace. He placed a distant cousin upon the Oakenseat, and so the Tyrells proved their loyalty to House Gardener."
Marie folded her hands. "And after that," she asked quietly, "the Manderlys were driven away?"
Loras nodded, his mouth tightening. "Aye. Cast out, their lands burned, their name disgraced. They fled north to beg the wolves for shelter, and the Starks, in their mercy, took them in."
"Mercy, or wisdom? A rich southern house turned exile. I daresay the Starks saw use in them." Renly gave a lopsided grin. "Nevertheless, it was a war that benefitted only the Peakes. They got the castle in the end, Dumtonbary, was it not?"
"Dustonbury, and they have it no more than the Manderlys do." Loras corrected with a faint frown and stepped forward, folding his arms. "You're still trying on those ridiculous dresses?"
Renly smiled, that bright, careless smile that could charm a septa into sin. "Of course. Look at this one, Loras." He spread his arms wide, letting the silk catch the light. "Don't I look handsome?"
The young knight's cheeks flushed despite himself. "You do," he muttered. "But that's beside the point. You cannot wear such frivolous things, Renly. You are Lord of Storm's End, Master of Laws. You should command respect, not ask for it."
Renly turned, admiring himself in the mirror once more. "And the most fashionable man in the Seven Kingdoms," he said lightly. "I can wear whatever I please. They'll love me for it."
"They ought to fear you, too." Loras said sharply.
Renly turned to Marie. "Tell me, Marie," he said with a sly grin, "is it better to be feared or loved?"
The question hung between them like a blade. Both men looked to her, one expectant, one cautious. Marie took her time before answering, lowering her gaze as though considering her reflection in the wine before her.
"Both, my lord," she said at last. Her voice was calm, steady, yet something cold flickered beneath. "Both. If one can manage it. But if one cannot…" She met Renly's eyes. "Then fear. For love is a fleeting folly."
Loras's mouth curved in satisfaction. "See?" he said, glancing at Renly. "Even she understands."
Renly sighed, "Oh, very well. If even my lady companion agrees with you, perhaps I'll leave the green silk for another day." From the table beside him, he took up a small pouch of gold and placed it in her hands. "I'll require your services again soon," he added. "The king arrives at the Trident within a fortnight, and I'll lead his honor guard. Until then, rest your wit, you'll need it when I return."
Marie bowed her head, graceful as a curtsey. "As you wish, my lord."
She stepped out into the Red Keep's corridor, her steps echoing faintly down the hall. A pair of guards near the corner turned their heads as she passed, a flicker of surprise, then recognition, then knowing smiles.
Good. Let them see. Renly Baratheon's consort leaving his chambers at dusk. It was part of the service Chataya sold. The illusion of intimacy more potent than the act itself. She made it look as though she was hiding, a glance over the shoulder here, a quickened step there, enough for rumor to take root and grow.
Marie slipped from the Red Keep's outer courtyard as twilight deepened over the city. Cloaked in plain brown wool, her hair hidden beneath a kerchief, she was no longer the jeweled courtesan. Blending came easily after years of practice. The trick was to be the crowd, to move when they moved, to look where they looked, to become a shadow among shadows.
In one street, she was a washerwoman carrying linens; in the next, a cook's helper fetching bread from the ovens. By the time she reached the outer gates of the rookery tower within the Red Keep, even the guards' eyes slid past her without thought. Vanishing in plain sight, Chataya had called it.
From Daenara of Volantis, once an actress, later a courtesan, now the quiet matron of Arthur's establishment across the Narrow Sea. Marie learned how to wear a thousand faces, a maid, a midwife, a silent sister, even a man when the task demanded. 'Act until you believe it,' she said. 'Only then will they believe it too.'
Tonight, she was a maid in roughspun linen, one of the countless girls who came and went unseen.
The grand maester's chambers smelled of dust, vinegar, and the faint sickly sweetness of honeyed milk. Books and scrolls cluttered every surface, stacked in precarious towers beside stoppered jars of powder and preserved herbs.
Marie moved carefully, steady as a cat, her eyes tracing the directions Tilly had given her, the third cabinet, left of the hearth, beneath the old raven skull.
Tilly had been their eyes here for months now. A Dornish girl, small and beautiful, deaf and mute, chosen precisely because of it. Many lords preferred a silent bedfellow, and Grand Maester Pycelle was foremost among them. Yet Tilly was no fool. She read lips like a court whisperer, could sign and write, and remembered every word spoken before her.
Marie found the cabinet and pulled open the drawer. Her fingers brushed vellum and leather, and there, a heavy tome bound in cracked black hide: Lineages and Histories of the Great Houses of the Seven Kingdoms.
She laid it aside and searched for the smaller one Tilly had described, Pycelle's private journal. It took longer; the room was full of false drawers, hidden latches, and dust thick enough to choke on.
Suddenly, the door creaked open.
Marie froze.
Pycelle shuffled in, beard trailing over his robes, the soft rustle of parchment following him. Behind him came another man, lighter of step and sharper of presence.
Lord Petyr Baelish of the Fingers, Master of coins and smiles. Marie's stomach clenched. Of all the men in the Red Keep, he was the one she least wished to cross paths with.
"I still believe it was that eunuch who made this mess," Pycelle was saying, his voice slow, wheezing with age.
Baelish's laugh was light as silk. "Be that as it may, we have no proof against him. And with the new Hand arriving, who knows what game the Spider will play?"
Marie had turned, cloth in hand, pretending to dust the edge of a shelf. Her back straight, her face lowered, her movements dull and servile, the picture of an obedient servant.
Pycelle's rheumy eyes flicked to her. "Girl," he croaked, "bring us some refreshment."
Baelish added, "Only water for me."
Marie dipped her head, murmuring a soft, practiced "Yes, my lords," before retreating to the adjoining antechamber. Her heart thudded beneath the rough linen as she poured their drinks. For Baelish, water from the silver ewer; for Pycelle, iced milk laced with honey, she'd learned that much from Tilly's careful notes. When she returned, the two men were deep in talk.
"Leave us," Pycelle said, already reaching for his milk.
She set down their cups, bowed once more, and began to withdraw. She slipped behind the inner screen where the servants kept the linens, crouched low, and listened.
"I know Lord Eddard," Pycelle said, his voice muffled by his beard and cup. "An honorable man. Knew his father too."
Baelish's tone turned sly. "And his brother, I'd wager. You saw them roasted, didn't you?"
Pycelle gave weary sigh. "Terrible business. Mad Aerys. But now we must convince Lord Eddard not to trust the Spider. If we could have him dismissed, exiled, even—"
Baelish laughed softly, the sound sharp as a knife. "Oh, no one will do that, not unless they have cause. Varys is too valuable to them, and too dangerous to cross without reason."
"But we know what he is," Pycelle insisted, thumping the table weakly. "An enemy of the realm. A foreign charlatan who whispers poison into every ear that will listen."
Marie's heart quickened.
"Perhaps," Baelish said. A pause, and then his voice turned low, almost pleasant, "Whatever he may be, he is more powerful than you know, Grand Maester. And for that, I need your help."
The scrape of chair legs followed, and Marie imagined Baelish leaning closer, "Alone," he continued, "we can't spring free of his webs. But together… we might."
Pycelle made a noise halfway between a scoff and a cough. "What do you suggest, Lord Baelish?"
"You and I," Baelish said softly, "must convince Lord Eddard that Varys was the one who killed Lord Arryn."
The words struck like a bell. Marie's fingers tightened around the folds of her apron.
"Varys? Killed Jon Arryn? Lord Eddard would think it preposterous." Pycelle wheezed. "What purpose would the eunuch have?"
"Why does a wolf hunt a stag? It's in their nature." Baelish's voice dropped to a murmur, so low that Marie had to strain to catch it. "When Lord Eddard asks why, you must tell him… because someone wanted him to become Hand. Someone ambitious. Someone eager. Someone who seeks to raise his family higher than the Starks."
A silence stretched, thick and uneasy.
Then Pycelle's voice, hesitant, disbelieving, "And who would that be, my lord?"
"Arthur Manderly."
Marie's heart stopped. She felt the words strike her like a blow to the ribs, leaving her breathless. For a heartbeat, all she could hear was the rush of her own pulse in her ears.
Pycelle let out a wet, wheezing laugh. "Manderly? The Northern lordling?"
"Aye," Baelish replied, "The clever one, who writes letters to half the realm, who buys ships, spies, and silk in equal measure. The same boy who counts the king and the hand, his friends and patrons. Have you never wondered, Grand Maester, why such a youth draws so near to power, yet keeps his hands clean of it?"
Pycelle snorted. "He is an upstart of the North. A scorner of custom, nothing else."
"Is he?" Baelish asked, and without waiting for an answer, he laughed and added, "See, so clean that even a man such as you cannot see his reach. He has his agents everywhere. He has the nobles and the merchants in his purse, the soldiers and the septons, even some of the brothel-keepers. Jon Arryn spoke with one of them before his death. And now, the Handship falls to Lord Stark, a Northerner. Convenient, wouldn't you say?"
Marie pressed a hand to her lips, forcing herself to silence. Her mind raced.
Baelish was weaving lies, but lies were dangerous things. Once whispered, they took root like weeds, choking the truth beneath their bloom.
"Arthur Manderly is no fool," Baelish continued softly. "He would never poison a man himself. But men die easily in this city, and a word in the wrong ear can kill as swiftly as venom. Perhaps Varys knows this. Or perhaps he served the boy's purpose without ever knowing it."
Pycelle shifted, robes rustling. "If this is true—"
"It need not be true," Baelish said smoothly. "It need only sound true."
Marie felt cold to her bones. She had heard enough. Too much. With slow, deliberate movements, she drew back from the screen and crept toward the servants' door, every step silent. Her mind burned with the words she had heard, the venom behind them. Arthur, accused of treachery, of ambition, of murder.
By morning, this whisper could reach a dozen ears. By the morrow after, a hundred. And each time it would grow, sharpened, twisted, until even the king might hear it and wonder.
As she slipped into the corridor, heart pounding, she caught a last fragment of their voices behind her.
"Plant the seed, Grand Maester, that's all I ask. Let it grow and the seed will grow strong."