The Lord of Gulltown?

  He stared out from the window over the breadth of the city and the Bay of Crabs beyond, the air sharp against his lungs. It would not be long now that winter followed autumn, and the snows with it.

  His eyes turned on the other in the room. "You seem unbothered for a man having received setback after setback," Gerold noted coolly. The scratch of a quill had all the pleasant quality of a rat gnawing at the wainscot.

  "Setback? You would needs refresh my memory, my lord Grafton."

  His lips thinned. "Do not play the fool, Baelish. Months wasted for a mist from the seven hells. And now your game with the Freys has yielded the same fruit."

  The mockingbird's smile never met his grey-green eyes. "What is it the smallfolk say? To miss the forest for the trees?"

  The pithy quote only soured his humors further.

  "Anya Waynwood shall find it harder to turn her cloak a second time, my lord. As for the Freys…" Baelish cast a womanly glance at his nails. "Selwyn's daughter will tell all the realm the story when she reaches Winterfell. That stock of weasels will swiftly find the price of their crossing too much to bear."

  His sigh produced a mist of its own. "That might draw five thousand away if we are lucky."

  "You misunderstand me, my lord. I would not see the Redfort spared a single hungry belly."

  It did not take him long to find his meaning. "The Eyrie," he breathed.

  Another treacherous smile took the smaller man. "Lady Lysa still has a part to play."

  Gerold had poured a cup of wine when one of his guard entered. "News from Runestone, my lord."

  He read it humorlessly. "Corbray writes that the mist's returned."

  The mockingbird's eyes hid much, but they could not hide the shadow that passed over them. "I have no mind for such military matters."

  A snort left him. "Corbray suggests we take advantage of it, though tells me not how. Templeton would sooner flee from it. Witchery, he names it."

  "The Father above likes no man less than the blackheart. He who builds upon a cloud—"

  "—shall find no floor beneath his feet," he finished dully. "If I wanted the Seven-Pointed Star quoted to me, I would seek out Septon Barthram."

  "Another castle of hungry mouths and grasping hands. These more than most. Let Runestone beggar their granaries."

  The thought of retreat irked him, though he saw the sense. But a few moons more and Runestone would have been his…

  "So be it," Gerold muttered.

  The mist reached them by nightfall, his city vanishing under it.

  For all it was a mist cast from the seven hells, he could not deny that the way moonlight caught on the vapors was a sight of the Maiden herself. And in the sky he spied the forge-hot sword of the Smith. It pointed at King's Landing as if to tell him his course.

  The morn met him with some forty thousand men.

  "We flee like scorned hounds," Corbray complained, his eyes as restless as Lady Forlorn on his hip. "Are we so easily unmanned by a mist? Will the rains make cravens of us next?"

  "No mere mist," Ser Symond Templeton followed, his armor adorned with the nine black stars of Templeton. His beak of a nose frowned at Corbray as much as his cold blue eyes did. "At its heart you could not even see the man in front of you."

  There were others gathered around his hall, knights, lords, sellsword captains…

  "You have all seen it," he cut in, "and now all the realm sees it also. Renly Baratheon and his queen are in a sorcerer's thrall. It is no coincidence a mist appears in the same breath as Renly sends his lickspittles to the Vale."

  The sellsword captains cared not but the knights of the Vale did not stay quiet, scorning the same Baratheons who had slain his lord father. It brought a satisfaction to him, the same as seeing Jon Arryn laid low for his hubris.

  "And now we hear that Bronze Yohn has made common cause with the hill tribes!" he boomed over the din, heady with emotion. "Small surprise when they come from that same stock!"

  The hall drowned in shouts and jeers, for there were none the knights of the Vale liked less.

  "Our protests have fallen on deaf ears. Rather than heed the Seven-Pointed Star, this new High Septon has revealed himself as much lickspittle than the last." He paused for his next words, his eyes raking over the banners of Melcolm and Hersy, Waxley and Wydman. "Perhaps it time the Swords and Stars were returned to us. Too long have we allowed the Father's own laws to be spat upon by devils and their lickspittles."

  His lord father would have been proud to hear the thunder that echoed his words. He hoped it was loud enough for even Robert Baratheon to hear it in the seven hells.

  The mist died on the third day, and Anya Waynwood had found herself besieged at Ironoaks in the same breath by some ten thousand men. There had also been fighting in the Fingers in their favor, though not decisively. Strongsong and Grey Glen had seen Coldwater Burn reinforced, now besieged by Lord Lyonel Corbray and Ser Morton Waynwood.

  Already five thousand of those gathered at Gulltown, knight and sellsword both, had set sail for Heart's Home. Another five thousand had sailed to Old Anchor. He did not need more than thirty thousand to keep Gulltown safe from the siege that was to come.

  His eyes turned over the thriving harbor. With the Braavosi starved of trade with slavers and King's Landing, they had descended upon Gulltown. More than a score trading cogs and galleys he spied flying Braavosi purple.

  It was good that Stannis had not cared to test them. For all he was proud of the sight of his twenty dromonds arrayed across the harbor, they would have been outnumbered five to one.

  He was surveying the skeletons of three more dromonds when one of Baelish's men approached, a silver mockingbird pinned to a gilded sleeve. Baelish himself he soon found with some manner of puzzle box in his hands, a hundred grooves carved into it. When one turned, others turned with it.

  "A curious thing, isn't it? The priests of the Blind God in Lorath claimed that the world could fit on the point of a thimble. They saw nothing and yet built mazes one could lose themselves in for moons. Sometimes one might even return grey of hair and sallow of skin seventy years hence, whispering of cities and wonders none had ever heard of."

  His brows furrowed. "Is there a point to this Essosi madness?"

  The mockingbird's smile was as false as ever. "See for yourself, my lord."

  The puzzle box locked in place with a sound like steel against stone. A man in tattered finery entered the room after, his eyes dead, and Gerold stirred in surprise as Baelish slit his throat as if he were a lamb and not a man.

  His lifeblood drained into the thing from the seven hells, for not a drop of red touched the stones beneath them. It was set into a recess in the stone archway brought from Lorath.

  He had near found his tongue again when another of Baelish's men passed beneath it. Except he never came out the other side…

  It was another man that passed beneath the archway again instead, a household knight with a falcon upon his breast. It was madness what was in front of him, but how could he doubt his own eyes?

  "Sorcery," he whispered.

  The mockingbird tutted. "None such. It is the Crone who lights our way."

  His hand still touched the hilt of his sword. "Where?"

  "As high as honor, my lord of Grafton. The Eyrie awaits."

  Margaery?

  If there was one grace she missed of late, it was the songs of birds. They spurned her garden now, though she could not say why.

  Her grandmother was no warmer as they broke their fast in the carcass of the godswood.

  "If you would blame me for the folly at the Sept of Baelor…"

  A snort left the Queen of Thorns as she chewed her mulberry jam and soft breads. "I blame your fool brother more. Not every challenge need be answered with steel."

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  "These sparrows held the High Septon hostage," Margaery argued softly.

  "And now they fly across the kingdoms to spread the same folly to every sept and septry."

  A sigh left her lips, a petal tickling her tongue.

  The High Septon had been quick to announce Renly and herself as having been blessed by the Seven. They were her words, carefully plucked from the Seven-Pointed Star. Yet one septon had taken affront and named it heresy. The begging brothers had been the first to take up his fiery words, for they still remembered when Renly had ridden out to crush them beneath hoof and lance.

  "I shouldn't have spared you a septa's nagging," her grandmother scorned, though it only brought a smile soft as rain upon her lips.

  "You shouldn't have," she agreed. "Though I thought him as much mummer as you at the time."

  A sniff left her grandmother this time. "Had I not said that kindness is but another weapon to a man as that?"

  "My heart holds no regret," she returned. Nor could she deny that a part of her enjoyed her grandmother's uncertainty like it was a cup of fine Arbor gold.

  "I would hope not, Your Grace." A sudden wind had tugged at her hair as much as the vines and petals around them.

  Her heart quickened at the sight of another, the yellow of him more regal than any king's finery. His black hair was a crown and cloak both, and all three of his eyes smiled at her, two green as summer leaves and one red as fresh-spilt blood.

  In that moment he felt more real than he ever had in the flesh.

  Then she beheld her grandmother, and it wasn't uncertainty she saw. It was a naked terror.

  "Peace, my lady," he seemed to soothe. "I would not harm a hair on your head. I would sooner retire to a septry than pluck so fine a jewel as you from this world."

  A pout stole Margaery's lips. He had a beauty such as her before him yet would speak such words to a crone instead. And a more familiar scowl had already found her grandmother, prickly with a pinched nose.

  "I knew your like as soon as the first words left your lips."

  "Did you?" Her heart quickened again when he took her hand. "I hold no debts and seek no favor. Your granddaughter had not lied."

  "She thinks it not a lie, you mean."

  He smiled in spite of her stubbornness. Soon he stood and stared at the sky. "Her Grace has already seen what I would do."

  For a breath she saw it again, the same sky opening to stare down at her. It whispered not in her ear, but to her heart of hearts, that place she thought more lost to her with every name day…

  "But words are wind," she heard him speak again, the sight banished. He held out his hand. "Take my hand and see for yourself, my lady."

  It seemed that she would spurn him when he spoke again.

  "Before you refuse me, I would ask that you remember the words you spoke to the sea each time you stole away from your father." He smiled down at her. "There is no sunset here or in Highgarden that is even half as beautiful as one in the Arbor."

  Grandmother stared up into his three eyes when a look she had only seen in a mirror took her. And when her frail hand touched his, the years seemed to melt from her skin like wax before a flame. Her silver hair deepened into a rich ginger gold, and the stoop of her back vanished. Even her gown had seen a change.

  A sigh left lips as pouty as her own. "It must be a dream," she whispered as she touched her cheeks.

  "What is a sorcery but a dream given life?"

  A weak chuckle escaped her grandmother as she watched. "And how long until I turn into a horror?"

  "A horror?" He swept behind herself. His hands touched her shoulders, where her yellow petals fell more like a cloak now. "A horror to the blind, the deaf, and the dumb, perhaps. I see beauty. Daring. A yearning to be something more than a name in a book only a maester would care to read."

  A flush took her cheeks in spite of her.

  "I only see a lovestruck girl."

  Margaery threw her a glare for her callous words. Maybe she liked the crone more.

  Her grandmother only stretched like a cat. Then she took a deep drink of the wine. "I had forgotten how sweet it could taste. The years dull even that." Her fingers pulled at her changed gown, a thing threaded in blues and purples. "Perhaps you might also find a stout beast for a lady to mount."

  "Grandmother," she protested.

  "I am not a septa, dear. Luthor was a fool's fool, but he knew how to use the gifts the Seven gave him."

  "I fear I am not long for King's Landing," Solomon whispered behind her, his hands feeling more faint.

  "Not for your Targaryen bride?"

  Margaery caught her grandmother's eyes, then turned her head. He did not deny it.

  "Not by my choice. But much is said of spilt wine."

  Her stare turned heavy with intent, her garden shivering as the color returned to him. A smile curved her lips.

  "But if Her Grace insists…" He took a seat seemingly upon thin air. He also stole her grandmother's mulberry jam.

  "I say you are a mummer still," she accused, her eyes prickly despite the years lifted from her.

  He seemed amused by it. "Mummers seek to tell a story, no?" He poured a cup of wine for himself as well. "A crown, a kingdom, these are things that must be won, not given."

  "A wildling mummer as well as a sorcerer. I have seen it all now."

  "You must forgive me for not thinking much of birthright, my lady. I come from small origins."

  She stared as she bit into a plum. It had never crossed her thoughts that he could have come from the smallfolk.

  Grandmother stood with another sniff. "I think I shall go and give my fool son a fright."

  Margaery watched her skip away like she were a girl.

  "The hour is almost upon us now." He took her hand again, though his three eyes had turned on the sky. "A sennight and our red stranger will find its peak."

  Her eyes found the sky also, the sun no longer overshadowing its red twin. She fought a frown. She still knew not what the dream meant.

  "Where would be the fun if you skipped to the end of the story?" he asked as if he plucked the thought from her head. Perhaps he had.

  She caught his three eyes as the color of him slowly turned dead and dull again. "You had named me a beauty."

  "And rightly so." His eyes trailed down across her petals. "Though perhaps beauty is too pale a word. The world has seen a thousand beauties, but few wonders."

  Her belly squirmed at his words in more ways than one. "I would have a dance," she spoke as she found her feet.

  "As Your Grace commands." He stood as gracefully as any tumbler and tugged her close, his arm low around her waist. "We have all the music we need, hmm?"

  Margaery returned a smile. Her garden sang to her from the Sept of Baelor and the Dragonpit. From the Street of Steel and the Street of Silk. And far away in Highgarden and in Oldtown were the faintest stirrings of a new bloom.

  They danced under the sun and stranger, even as he turned fainter and fainter. At the end of it she stole a kiss, keeping him there by her will alone. "I would see you take my maidenhead," she whispered braver than she felt.

  He toyed with her petals. "I am wed, Your Grace."

  "As am I. You will find a garden softer than any dragon." She might have dared to do more if he were a man and not a shade..

  He leaned in to whisper in her ear. "I might soon see if that is true."

  That was the last she heard and saw before the wind stole the rest of him away. Her heart smothered in petals beat like the wings of a hummingbird still, and a sigh left her lips.

  Ser Morwyn met her as she passed from the godswood, the sun catching on the rainbow of his cloak and the orange of his armor.

  She saw a score of roses twining around his arms within, their song his as much as hers. He was a knight from a story now.

  That night she would find the dream again, or it would find her. Above the city that had become her garden, she saw the sky yawn once more. But the longer she looked, the more she saw the truth.

  It was not the sky that cast a yellow light upon the world. It was the red. And upon it was a sign.