Episode 1: The Dragon and the Lion
1.1 EXT: ATOP THE WALL - NIGHT
S.E.: howling wind.
Conditions atop the Wall are bleak and punishing at the best of times, but this night the clutch of fur-ensconced sentries gathered about their brazier have especial cause to curse their lot. The snows fall so thick and heavy an army of Wildlings ten-thousand strong may well march slow and brazen upon the northern gate without fear of detection from the black brothers seven-hundred feet skyward. So deafening is the shrieking wind that not a man among them hears the steel cables of the lift grumbling, nor the muttered curses of the two young recruits labouring to complete the winch’s final rotation. CLYDAS steps onto the gravel-strewn walkway, pulling his faded black cloak tighter about his throat as he follows the nearest sentry’s nod away to the east.
S.E: footsteps in snow.
Leaning forward into the ice-sharp gale that bites at his face like leathern lashes, scourging his cheeks red and raw in seconds, CLYDAS forges ahead along the Wall through a world turned utterly white. Pushing through the dense snowfall like a wader through the shallows, he does not discover his purpose for leaving the dry and warm shelter of his cell until he is near ready to walk straight into it: startled at CLYDAS’s sudden materialisation beside him, MAESTER AEMON TARGARYEN gives a little start and reflexively reaches out to feel his steward’s face. Gaunt and grey and past his eightieth name-day, the Maester smiles in recognition.
AEMON
Ah, young master Clydas!
Though they stand only feet apart, CLYDAS struggles to discern AEMON’s greeting.
CLYDAS
Maester Aemon, what are you doing up here?!
AEMON turns away to the north. It has been two decades since his eyes saw their last, and even if he were still equipped of his sight, the unrelenting snows would still deny him a view of the vast unsettled lands stretching away to the mountains that fringed the far horizon. Yet it seems for all the world to CLYDAS that AEMON is not just looking, but somehow seeing, watching…
AEMON
If you don’t mind postponing your supper a little while longer, I should like to dictate a letter.
CLYDAS sighs, afraid the old man’s notoriously rapier-sharp wits may finally be wandering.
CLYDAS
Of course, Maester, but let’s get you inside first, ay?
He takes hold of AEMON’s elbow and gently steers him back towards the west and the waiting lift that will carry them down to Castle Black.
CLYDAS [CONT’D]
What were you thinking? You’ll catch your death up here.
AEMON TARGARYEN smiles once more, patting his young steward’s arm in good-natured correction.
AEMON
Haven’t you heard, Clydas? Spring is almost here.
1.2 INT: FLEA BOTTOM INN - NIGHT
In a busy tavern situated down the dankest of Flea Bottom alleyways, a lonely bard sits upon a stool strumming his ornate silver harp. Draped in a long cloak of rough-spun, the hood pulled low over his head, the bard plays on with neither complaint nor consideration against the raucous hubbub.
A young serving boy, barely as tall as the bar from which he receives a tray of freshly-poured cups of ale, weaves his way with practiced nimbleness through the crowd. DERFEL arrives at his destination, and transposes the cups with their empty predecessors on a table attended by half-a-dozen drinkers dressed in the lion-embossed leathers of House Lannister.
LANNISTER GUARD #1
…had it from Illyn Payne that King Aerys hasn’t set foot outside the Red Keep in a moon’s turn. Payne reckons he looks a right state: he doesn’t eat, doesn’t bathe…more than once the White Cloaks have found him wandering the halls at all hours of the night wearing nothing but his crown, and not on top of his head, if you get my meaning.
LANNISTER GUARD #2
Ilyn Payne? The Gold Cloak Captain?
LANNISTER GUARD 3
Only ever shuts up, except to lick Tywin Lannister’s ball-bag.
LANNISTER GUARD #1
Payne says he caught the king howling at the moon the other night; says he had to be coaxed down from the parapet with a bowl of honeyed locusts and a pair of hairless boys shipped in ‘special from a Lyseni pillowhouse.
LANNISTER GUARD #2
I knew it was just a matter of time before the Targaryen touch took King Scab as well.
LANNISTER GUARD #4
Madness runs in that family’s blood like shit down Rhaenys’ Hill on a rainy day.
LANNISTER GUARD #3
Baelor the Blessed went off his food too; starved himself into an earl grave, he did. And we all remember them stories about King Maekar’s older brother dancing naked through the throne room.
LANNISTER GUARD #2
Aegon the Elder’s sister-wife Helaena threw herself from Maegor’s Holdfast, don’t forgot.
LANNISTER GUARD #1
Do you know why they called the king’s own granduncle “Brightflame”? ‘Cos he thought himself a dragon in human form and drank a cup of wildfire to prove it.
LANNISTER GUARD #3
Then you’ve got Maegor the Cruel, of course, that murdered them what built the Red Keep.
LANNISTER GUARD #2
That’s not madness, that’s just being a cunt.
So preoccupied are the Lannister men in reciting the shameful succession of Targaryen royals, they fail to notice the proximity of an interested eavesdropper. Dissolving away into the dense pack of patrons, the Targaryen guard manoeuvres his way across the room, where the chatter at his companions’ table is no less scurrilous.
TARGARYEN GUARD #1
…just think about it, yeah? Aerys was making his way through the women of court like a Dornishman through a fresh-sheered flock, right? And we know for certain he’s firing bolts; what’s the queen up to now? Seven? Eight?
TARGARYEN GUARD #2
Aye, but only two of ‘em lasted more than a moon’s turn.
TARGARYEN GUARD #1
That’s two more than Tywin ever managed.
TARGARYEN GUARD #3
But he’s got those twins of his.
TARGARYEN GUARD #1
Does he now?
The youngest of the four men wearing Targaryen colours furrows his brow, confused by the inference. The others grin at his naiveté.
TARGARYEN GUARD #4
This is all before your time, but Tywin was married a year without Lady Joanna getting in the family way, then as soon as she does Tywin packs her off to the Rock.
TARGARYEN GUARD #3
So?
TARGARYEN GUARD #1
So…
The loudest and most senior of the four picks out a pair of chicken bones from the remnants of their supper and holds one to each of his temples. The youngster blinks at him, uncomprehending, provoking the officer to roll his eyes in exasperation.
TARGARYEN GUARD #1 [CONT’D]
Seven hells, soft lad, they recruit you right from the bale of hay you were born in?
TARGARYEN GUARD #2
He’s sayin’ Aerys had Tywin fitted for a pair of cuckold’s horns.
TARGARYEN GUARD #3
You mean…
TARGARYEN GUARD #1
I mean that if I were Tywin I’d be counting every golden hair on them twins’ heads, just in case there’s a bit o’ silver hiding somewhere.
Like the Lannister loyalists before them, the party of Targaryen guards are too invested in their calumnies to pay much heed to the crowd pressed close about their table, not least the man garbed in crimson and gold that slips past the arriving eavesdropper.
TARGARYEN GUARD #5
Boys, listen to this: you’ll never believe what I just heard those Lannister bastards saying!
The Lannister captain returns to his friends, the others breaking off their conversation when he remains hovering by the table rather than taking his seat.
LANNISTER GUARD #2
You took your time.
LANNISTER GUARD #1
He had to find it first.
LANNISTER GUARD #4
You would know: small as a newborn’s pinky, I’ve heard.
LANNISTER GUARD #1
Your sister shouldn’t be spreading stories like that.
LANNISTER GUARD #5
On your feet – we’ve got a table of Targaryen bastards over there spittin’ slanders about Lord Tywin.
In the relative quiet of the tavern’s backrooms, DERFEL dutifully dips a series of empty cups into a large barrel of questionably-coloured water, though not before helping himself to the last dregs of ale still resident in each cup.
SFX: Shouting, crowd noises.
Wiping his mouth with the back of his sleeve, DERFEL returns to the tavern proper and follows the disturbance to the far end of the room. He hurries through the crowd of drinkers suddenly transformed into a mob of braying spectators to discover the Targaryen and Lannister guards embroiled in a rapidly-escalating confrontation. The two sides trade insults back and forth, each cursing the others’ house and insisting upon the strength and integrity of their own.
Things turn physical as a Lannister man lunges at the most provocative of the Targaryens, the fracas devolving into a writhing tangle of torsos and clumsy flurry of fists. An errant limb knocks DERFEL to the floor, his efforts to regain his feet frustrated by the buffetings of the panicked crowd scattering for safety from the several short blades now flashing between the two tribes.
The largest of the Targaryens bulls his way towards the wildest of the Lannisters. Barely dodging the lion-hilted knife that passes just inches from opening his throat, the Targaryen barrels the Lannister to the ground, so incensed he fails to register the squirming DERFEL trapped beneath the sprawling Lannister. He raises his sword high above his head, ready to bring down his steel and cleave his opponent in two.
A vice of iron suddenly clamps around the Targaryen’s wrist, staying his hand. The guard’s eyes follow the grip down to a dazzling-white vambrace, along the folds of a grey peasant’s cloak, and up into the steely blue glare of SER BARRISTAN SELMY.
RHAEGAR
Enough!
The entire tavern falls silent at the imperious command that booms from the corner of the room. Every head turns in its direction, but in place of the bard previously sat unassumingly upon his stool they instead find themselves gaping open-mouthed at the full grandness and glory of RHAEGAR TARGARYEN, prince of the Seven Kingdoms and heir to the Iron Throne. His long silver hair cascades about his shoulders, his dark indigo eyes burning with furious authority.
S.E: footsteps.
RHAEGAR [CONT’D]
This boy almost died because of your petty squabble.
Shaking in fear beneath the twin attentions of the crown prince of Westeros and the most famous blade in all Seven Kingdoms, the guard compliantly follows RHAEGAR’s pointing finger down to the floor and realises with a bolt of shock and shame that his Lannister foil has long-since rolled to safety, leaving the terrified DERFEL alone in transfixed horror beneath the shadow of the looming blade. RHAEGAR kneels down and places a calming hand on DERFEL’s arm.
RHAEGAR
Are you hurt?
His eyes wide as serving plates, DERFEL shakes his head and stares with wonder at the other-worldly apparition beside him. He makes no objection when RHAEGAR gently eases him back to his feet, nor when the prince checks him over for sign of injury.
TARGARYEN SOLDIER #5
Forgive me, Prince Rhaegar, but these men were insulting House Targaryen.
In an instant, the tenderness RHAEGAR showed young DERFEL is replaced with something sharp-edged and lethal. Whether through a sudden realisation of proper protocol, or an effort to disguise the suet-like substance his legs have been rendered by RHAEGAR’s death-stare, the guard drops to his knees before his prince. RHAEGAR considers the speaker closely.
RHAEGAR
I am House Targaryen, and it would take more than an ill word spoken in a man’s cups for me to show my steel.
LANNISTER SOLDIER #1
Aye, the words were harmless.
RHAEGAR’s head snaps around to silence the speaker. The Lannister guard retreats inside himself immediately under the prince’s baleful attention, suddenly transfixed with the square of dirt floor directly below his bowed head.
The prince slowly sweeps his eyes about the room in search of any more fools possessed of a sudden madness to speak out of turn. Finding none, he unclenches his jaw and turns to address the barkeep. RHAEGAR waves a hand towards the Targaryen and Lannister guards at his back.
RHAEGAR
Do you know these men?
WICK
Yes, your grace. Both lots.
RHAEGAR
I won’t deny you the business by ordering them barred from this tavern, but if any one of them so much as raises their voice, or spills a drop of ale, you are to report them immediately to my personal guard at the Red Keep.
WICK
As you say, Your Grace.
RHAEGAR casts one last derisive look at the instigators, then nods to BARRISTAN. The Kingsguard places an arm on DERFEL’s shoulder and gently guides him towards the exit.
RHAEGAR
I believe I’m done for the evening. The boy too.
WICK
Of course, Your Grace. Thank you, Your Grace.
As the band of three pass by, RHAEGAR places a small stack of silvers on the bar.
RHAEGAR
Your share of my earnings.
The barkeep stares incredulously at the coins. RHAEGAR is about to move on but stops, reaches into his cloak, and places several more silvers on the pile.
RHAEGAR
And mine, for any damages my father’s men have caused. Please accept my apologies on his behalf.
S.E: footsteps.
INTRO.
1.3 INT: LODGING ROOMS, KING’S LANDING - NIGHT
YNYS, a heavy-set and harried woman in early middle-age, stirs a boiling pot upon the stove, while across the table her husband WYDRYN chops carrots, a cloth patch covering his sightless left eye. Their eldest son, RODRIK, a boy of twelve, sits at the table and studies his father’s work. At the far end of the table, twins of nine, BALAM and his sister BELLA, play contentedly on the floor.
The room is poorly furnished: a sideboard along the wall, the table and benches at which father and son sit, and at the far end of the room their bed, and next to it the pile of straw and furs shared by the four children.
S.E: knocking.
WYDRYN
Is that Derfel?
YNYS
It’s still early, Wick wouldn’t let him leave yet. And no son of mine is good mannered enough to knock before entering a room.
YNYS wipes her hands on her apron and goes to answer the door. Opening onto the wooden walkway that provides access to the second floor, she finds her son DERFEL looking sheepish.
YNYS
What in the seven hells are you doing home? How many times have I told you, I don’t want you walking the streets alone at this time of night. If Wick sends you home before closing you’re to wait there for your brother to come collect you.
RHAEGAR steps forward from the darkness beyond the pool of light cast from the open doorway, his face obscured beneath the folds of his hood.
RHAEGAR
Apologies, my lady, but your boy got caught up in a quarrel at the inn. I thought it best I see him home safe.
YNYS
Oh my days, I swear that place wants shutting down.
WYDRYN
And what would the lad do for work then?
WYDRYN sets aside his carrots and joins his wife at the door.
WYDRYN
Don’t leave the man standing in the cold, Ynys, invite him in.
RHAEGAR
That’s very kind of you, but I must be getting home myself.
WYDRYN
Live local do you?
RHAEGAR
You could say that.
YNYS
Well come in and warm yourself for a minute at least. It’s not spring just yet, you know.
RHAEGAR
I’d hate to impose…
WYDRYN
The boss has spoken, I’m afraid, so there’s no arguing the toss now. In you come.
RHAEGAR waves a hand at BARRISTAN where the knight stands sentry at the end of the walkway. He steps over the threshold, pushing back his hood. While he fusses with the clasp that pins his cloak in place, a gawping YNYS and WYDRYN pass silent expressions of wide-eyed disbelief back and forth behind his back.
YNYS
Here, Your Grace, take a seat by the fire. I only just added a pair of logs, so she’s good and fed.
DERFEL rushes over to his brothers and sister to tell them about his adventure.
WYDRYN
We heard whispers you were back in the city.
YNYS
Though we never expected you to turn up at our door, of course. You go anywhere nice?
WYDRYN
Ynys, love, it’s no business of ours where the prince takes himself.
RHAEGAR waves a hand in amiable dismissal at WYDRYN’s concern.
RHAEGAR
It’s quite alright, I’m flattered by the interest. I was in the Free Cities, my lady. Pentos, Myr, a brief spell in Tyrosh…
YNYS
It must be grand, being able to just sail off somewhere warm and escape the winter.
An awkward silence descends, YNYS suddenly mortified as she realises how her words might be taken as a slight.
WYDRYN [POLITE COUGH]
Well, it’s good to have you home anyhow, Your Grace. Can I take your cloak?
RHAEGAR hands over his roughspun. Spying WYDRYN’s gaze resting on the finely-meshed mail poking above the neckline of his doublet, the prince smiles abashedly.
RHAEGAR
My wife insists.
Put at ease by this glimpse into RHAEGAR’s marital life so casually offered, WYDRYN grins and leans forward to speak in sotto voice.
WYDRYN
Good to know it’s not just us working men that suffer for a quiet life.
YNYS
What’s that, dear?
WYDRYN
Nothing, love, just complimenting the Prince on his cloak.
WYDRYN and RHAEGAR share a conspiratorial smile as YNYS joins them by the hearth.
YNYS
We were just about to sit down to supper. Would you care to join us, Your Grace? Nothing compared to what you’re used to I’m sure, just a broth of chicken and vegetables.
WYDRYN
Well, chicken stock to be honest, and near as thin as water. It’s been a long winter, Your Grace.
RHAEGAR
It smells wonderful. If you’re sure it’s no trouble?
WYDRYN
Speaking of trouble…
Like a litter of kittens scrabbling to reach their dinner bowl, the four children fall over one another as they arrange themselves with a little prompting from their mother into an approximate line before the prince.
WYDRYN
This is my eldest, Rodrik. Derfel you’ve already met. This here’s the twins: Balam and Bella.
RHAEGAR half-bows to the boys, but BELLA shies away, burying her head in her twin’s shoulder and noticeably pulling her arms into her body as though to hide them.
WYDRYN (CONT’D)
Apologies, Your Grace.
WYDRYN bends down to BELLA so she might whisper in his ear. WYDRYN turns apologetically to RHAEGAR.
WYDRYN
She doesn’t mean to be discourteous, only…she’s a little ashamed of you seeing her arms.
WYDRYN holds out his own, as do RODRIK and BALAM. Every arm is stained blue up to the elbow.
WYDRYN
We all work at the draper’s over on River Row. It’s the dyes, you see. After six months on the job, it gets into the skin so deep it won’t wash out no matter how hard you scrub.
RHAEGAR crouches down to the children’s level. He reaches out and takes RODRIK’s hands in his own, turning them over to inspect the palms, then moving his study up the forearms to the elbows and back again.
RHAEGAR
Well isn’t that a sight to see. I was unaware we had magic children living right here in King’s Landing.
BELLA
We’re not magic!
The boys look to one another and smirk. RHAEGAR feigns pique.
RHAEGAR
You can’t fool me, I know magic when I see it. When I was your age, my maester told me about a city very far from here, named Qarth, where the most powerful warlocks in all the world lived. And these warlocks, do you know what colour their lips were? That’s right: blue. So even when the warlocks tried to mix among the common folk, everyone in Qarth knew they were no ordinary men. They saw the blue of their lips, and knew that they were special.
RHAEGAR narrows his eyes at BELLA in mock suspicion.
RHAEGAR [CONT’D]
So, tell me true: be you magic?
BELLA hesitates, but at encouraging nods from her mother and father finally offers her arms for RHAEGAR’s consideration. He takes her small blue hands in his own, smiles at the girl with an expression of delighted confirmation, then tilts his head up to WYDRYN.
RHAEGAR
I knew it! You have magic children here, ser, everyone one of them!
BELLA positively beams at her mother, her shoulders squaring with a new-found pride. YNYS smiles in encouragement, then looks to her husband, her eyes shining with emotion at the sight of her daughter so emboldened.
BALAM
(giggling)
We’re not magic!
RHAEGAR
Oh really? Then how do you explain this?!
RHAEGAR reaches out and pulls a silver coin from behind BALAM’s ear. The boys’ eyes grow wide. He takes the proffered coin and excitedly shows off his prize to his brothers.
RHAEGAR
How could anyone possibly hide a big coin like that behind their ear if they weren’t at least a little magic? Look, this one’s trying to trick me too – and I thought you and I were friends Derfel!
He performs the same trick on DERFEL, this time conjuring two coins.
RHAEGAR
And you were hiding your brother’s savings back there too I see!
As the boys haggle over possession of their treasure, RHAEGAR turns back to BELLA.
RHAEGAR
And this one! She thinks I’m going to be distracted by her beauty, but even a smile as radiant as this one cannot entirely disguise true magic. Now, let me see.
RHAEGAR checks behind one ear, frowning at coming away empty. He checks the other, but again finds nothing. He lifts the girl’s nose and inspects each nostril in turn.
S.E: girl’s giggle.
RHAEGAR rocks back on his heels and strokes his chin, feigning confusion. Suddenly, his eyes brighten and he raises a finger in discovery: he puts his hands in BELLA’s blonde curls and shakes loose a shower of coins. The boys rush to gather the bounty, then pounce upon a giggling, delighted BELLA to run their hands through her hair in search of any lingering wealth.
1.4 INT: CHAMBERS AT RIVERRUN – DAWN
In the yard of Riverrun, a lord’s escort waits armed and saddled while HOSTER TULLY bids his farewells to his eldest daughter. Not yet past her teenage years, CATELYN TULLY is undeniably beautiful, the hair she wears almost to her waist closer to the rich auburn of her late mother than the mousey brown of the Tullys, though her eyes shine the same piercing blue as her father’s.
CATELYN
Hurry back, won’t you?
HOSTER
Always, my darling girl. Only this time, I’ll be bringing home a gift far sweeter than lemons from Fairmarket.
CATELYN
Lemons are sour, father.
HOSTER
When I see how your face lights up at the sight of them, nothing could be sweeter.
CATELYN
Won’t you wait for Lysa?
HOSTER
If I wait until your sister is done sulking, my love, you’re like to die an old maid before I ever set out. Now give your father a kiss for the long cold road ahead.
CATELYN pecks her father’s whiskered cheek and wraps her arms about his portly middle.
HOSTER [CONT’D]
Watch for me, little Cat.
From the window of her chambers, LYSA TULLY watches as her father climbs into his saddle. Although two years CATELYN’s junior, LYSA has always looked the older of the pair. Plain of face and weak of chin, LYSA is squat where her sister is willowy, delicate and wan where her sister is hale and hearty, suspicious of mind and small of spirit where her sister is slow to anger and quick to forgive.
LYSA
I only wish he’d stay away for another moon’s turn. Maybe then I wouldn’t be dragged off to this inane tourney at Harrenhal.
PETYR
If only wishing something made it so, sweetling.
LYSA turns away from the window, but PETYR BAELISH remains with his forehead pressed against the glass. A year LYSA’s junior, HOSTER TULLY’s ward watches CATELYN closely as she waves her father and his escort through the gates of Riverrun, running a finger across the feeble smudge of hair carefully cultivated along his top lip.
LYSA
If I cannot stay here with you, then perhaps you could come to Harrenhal with us?
PETYR
And suffer all those rich and handsome young lords preening and strutting like overproud peacocks? I struggle to imagine anything less appealing. Besides, your father would never allow it.
LYSA moves closer, her voice solicitous, practically quivering at the prospect of romantic subterfuge.
LYSA
He doesn’t need to know. You could hide in the baggage train, camp with the servants.
Now CATELYN has left the yard and passed beyond his view, PETYR finally shifts his attention to LYSA with a look of derision, his pride pricked at the suggestion he spend time among the help.
PETYR
Will Brandon Stark be there?
LYSA
I imagine so. Father intends for Brandon to accompany him back from Winterfell and guest here until the tournament, so he and Cat might spend some time together.
PETYR
I’d have thought your father would want Cat to experience as little of the Wild Wolf as possible before the wedding. I’ve heard stories of his exploits that are like to send a genteel lady like your sister running for the safety of a setpta’s robe.
LYSA
You don’t see her how she really is. You never have. She’s heard those same stories, and they don’t scare here. They excite her. They say Brandon is tall and lean and quick to anger. They say his temper is hot, but everything else about him belongs to the cold hard North.
PETYR
How poetic, these gossips of yours. I’ve no doubt the prose is rather less romantic: an ignorant, blood-thirsty sot, most likely, just like all Northmen.
LYSA
Don’t talk like that, Petyr, please. Not everyone at Riverrun cares about you the way I do, and if this Wild Wolf should get word of your insults…Oh, I couldn’t go on if something happened to you, Petyr! I just couldn’t!
Her delicate constitution overcome with emotion, LYSA buries her face in PETYR’s chest. He delicately eases her off to arms’ length.
PETYR
As you say, there are those in this castle that resent my even being here, and if someone should see your arms wrapped about your father’s ward and whisper their tale to Lord Hoster…
LYSA
You’re right. Of course you’re right. You always know what’s best. Forgive me, Petyr.
PETYR
There’s nothing to forgive, sweet Lysa. If you’ll excuse me, I believe your brother is expecting me in the yard.
PETYR turns to depart.
LYSA
The yard? You’re not actually going to train at swords with Edmure, are you?
PETYR prickles once again. He draws up straight his five-foot-three frame and once again reflexively runs a thumb over the sparse brown fuzz beneath his nose.
PETYR
Is that truly so surprising?
LYSA
That’s not you, Petyr. You’re too smart for all that ridiculous posturing. Leave such foolishness to the older boys, the stronger boys.
PETYR lets this latest insult sink in, savouring the taste of resentment it brings to his tongue, then swallows it down as he has a thousand times since first coming to Riverrun as a child.
PETYR
I really must go, my lady. Before these walls hear me say something most discourteous for a man of my…stature…to speak to a lady of Riverrun.
1.5 INT: LODGING ROOMS, KING’S LANDING – NIGHT
RHAEGAR sits on one side of the table, his hosts on the other, the children tucked up together in their bed of straw and furs. RHAEGAR sits back from his empty bowl and rests two hands upon his middle, patting his stomach in satisfaction. YNYS reaches to the pot and ladle in the middle of the table.
YNYS
Another bowl, Your Grace?
RHAEGAR
Thank you, Ynys, but I couldn’t possibly find the room, I’m sorry to say. That was a delight. The equal of anything served at the Red Keep’s high table.
A beaming YNYS takes up a jug and refills their cups. RHAEGAR takes the moment to look about the room, his features warming in frank admiration.
RHAEGAR
You’ve made a very happy home, here.
WYDRYN and YNYS consider one another lovingly. WYDRYN reaches out a hand to retrieve his wife’s own and kisses it with easy affection.
WYDRYN
So long as there’s harvest enough to fill our bellies and work enough to put a roof over our heads, we’ll consider ourselves blessed.
YNYS
It can be tough, especially before Wydryn was able to get the children taken on at the dye shop, but we get by as well as the next I suppose.
WYDRYN
We’ve had nothing but peace for near on twenty years now, since the War of the Ninepenny Kings, and I pray to the Gods every day that the children never know anything different.
RHAEGAR
Is that where you lost your eye, might I ask?
WYDRYN nods with satisfaction, delighted at the opportunity to tell his war stories, but YNYS pre-empts him.
YNYS
Don’t you go telling untruths to the Prince! He got an infection wrestling in pig-muck outside a tavern on his way back from the Stepstones.
WYDRYN
Aye, on my way back from the war, so when I tell people it’s a war-wound I’m speaking no word of a lie.
RHAEGAR
Whatever the circumstances, on behalf of my grandfather and father both, I thank you for your service.
WYDRYN
A toast, then, to your grandfather, old King Jaehaerys, may the Gods bless his dear departed soul, and to good King Aerys and all he’s given us! May his reign never know an end!
They all three drink, but RHAEGAR studies his hosts over the brim of his cups as he does so.
RHAEGAR
Thank you for your kind words, Wydryn, and you, Yyns, for your hospitality.
YNYS
Of course, Your Grace. It’s not every day we have royalty to supper.
RHAEGAR
I wonder, though, if I might ask one thing more of you both.
WYDRYN
Anything, Your Grace.
RHAEGAR
The quarrel in the tavern tonight…young Derfel tells me a group of my father’s guards took offence to some admittedly scurrilous words overheard at the table of some Lannister men.
YNYS and WYDRYN look at one another, immediately wary, their contentedness suddenly punctured.
RHAEGAR [CONT’D]
I can see from your expressions this does not come as a surprise.
YNYS and WYDRYN again share a loaded glance, as though hoping to somehow convey their thoughts to one another without betraying anything to RHAEGAR.
RHAEGAR [CONT’D]
You can speak freely, my friends. I promise I will not be angry, whatever you might say. I only ask for the truth.
Studying his prince’s face, and finding nought there but earnest interest, WYDRYN sighs in begrudging acquiescence.
WYDRYN
Your Grace, we spoke truly when we said we counted ourselves blessed. This winter has been hard, to be sure, but we just about managed to keep the children fed, more days than not. We’ve done well for ourselves these past twenty years, and for that we’ve got your father to thank. But that’s not how everyone sees things.
RHAEGAR
How so?
WYDRYN
Lord Tywin has a presence here in the city, Your Grace. These days, every other gold cloak is a Westerman, it seems like. The other half may as well be, the way they sing the Old Lion’s praises.
Often times, the City Watch will come into the taverns and throw Lannister gold around, buying drinks for anyone that will listen to them explain how Lord Tywin’s the one really responsible for all the country’s blessings.
RHAEGAR
“The King reigns, but the Hand rules.”
WYDRYN
You’ve heard it before then?
RHAEGAR
I recognise the sentiment.
WYDRYN
After two decades of Lannister tales, there’s some in King’s Landing that will credit Lord Tywin with pinning the sun in the sky, and find King Aerys at fault if their porridge is burned of a morning.
YNYS
A couple moons back, I was walking the children home when all of a sudden two-dozen gold cloaks came rushing into the street, pushing everyone aside. They were making way for a great big carriage, the biggest I ever seen, all covered in gold.
All the little foundlings and street-sleepers were chasing after it, calling for pennies, and when the carriage went by we seen who was sitting in back. It was as though a picture of a king from the storybooks the Septas used to read to us from had come to life and was right there in Flea Bottom. Yandry told me how handsome they thought he was, how they thought it right that a king should have such beautiful golden hair, just like the gold of his carriage, and how big and strong the king looked. Her brothers ran off to tell all their little friends that the King of Westeros had looked right at them, close enough to touch.
(pause)
I didn’t have the heart to tell them. They’ll learn soon enough, all children do: Targaryen’s have silver hair, like your own, there. Not blonde. Golden hair and green eyes belong to the Lannisters. It was Lord Tywin the children took for the king.
WYDRYN gives his wife a subtle squeeze on the arm, reassuring her in the face of the prince’s inscrutable silence. Finally, RHAEGAR nods, seemingly to himself and in acknowledgment of some internal resolution, and smiles warmly at his hosts.
RHAEGAR
Thank you both for your candour, truly.
RHAGAER stands and gives the pair an appreciative bow.
RHAEGAR [CONT’D]
It’s past time I was in my bed, and beyond forgiveness that I’ve kept an honest man and his good wife from their own until such an hour.
WYDRYN
I’ll not hear a word of it, if I may be so bold, Your Grace. It’s been our honour.
YNYS
My husband has the right of it, Your Grace. When we’re old and grey we’ll be telling our grandchildren about the night the Prince of the Seven Kingdoms came to supper. Or king, as I suppose you’ll be by then.
Gathering his cloak, RHAEGAR places a hand on the door to depart, then turns back.
RHAEGAR
If Derfel ever wants somewhere a little less lively to work, or if the other children would prefer something outside the dye shop, bring them to the Red Keep and ask to speak with Ledden, the chief steward. He’ll see that they’re given comfortable posts in my household.
YNYS puts her hands to her mouth, stifling a happy sob.
WYDRYN
Thank you, Your Grace.
RHAEGAR bows once more, winks to a pair of pale blue eyes peering mischievously from beneath the pile of blankets at the rear of the room, and exits. He finds BARRISTAN waiting patiently outside and grins at having caught the famous knight in the middle of a mighty yawn.
RHAEGAR
I thought we might stop in at the Nag’s Head on our way up the hill. I believe I still have a couple songs left to sing tonight.
BARRISTAN
As you wish, Your Grace.
BARRISTAN tries his best to disguise his disappointment, but RHAEGAR knows his escort too well to miss the weariness behind his dutiful nod.
RHAEGAR
Is it Barristan the Bold or Barristan the Old? You’re still young enough for the occasional late night, however much those white hairs in your beard might suggest otherwise.
RHAEGAR pats his friend on the shoulder and strolls away. BARRISTAN scowls and runs a panicked hand over his chin.
BARRISTAN
White hairs? What white hairs? Your Grace? Your Grace?!
1.6 INT: BRANDON STARK’S BEDCHAMBER, WINTERFELL - MORNING
BRANDON STARK lies asleep on his bed, sprawled naked atop the covers, somehow still clutching an overturned tankard of ale. His little brother BENJEN enters and shakes BRANDON’s shoulder.
BENJEN
Bran. Bran. Brandon!
BRANDON slaps BENJEN’s hand away. He peers at his brother through bleary, bloodshot eyes.
BRANDON
Benjen? What’s the matter? What time is it?
BENJEN
Father’s looking for you. You didn’t come to break your fast and Lord Tully will be arriving soon.
BRANDON turns over and sits bolt upright, brushing away the night-black hair that hangs in tangled curls down to his shoulders. He reaches over and shakes the bundle of furs beside him.
BRANDON
Go tell father I overslept but I’m on my way.
BENJEN is deaf to BRANDON’s instruction, his eyes wide as he stares, slack-jawed, at the naked woman stirring beneath the covers at BRANDON’s prompting. This may be only the latest salaciousness the youngest Stark boy has been exposed to in BRANDON’s company, but no less shocking for it.
BRANDON [CONT’D]
Benjen! Go tell father I won’t be long. In fact, no, stay right there. I’ve got a job for you first.
1.7 EXT: COURTYARD OF WINTERFELL – MORNING
BRANDON emerges from the tower still fastening his breeches and squints against the bright morning sun. Preoccupied and hungover, only an instinctive two-step saves him being barrelled to the ground by a pair of sparring swordsmen.
BRANDON
Lyanna!
BRANDON’s little sister pauses for all of two seconds before shrugging off his presence and resuming an offensive stance. JORY CASSEL, by comparison, looks genuinely abashed, lowering his tourney sword and hanging his head in contrition. With his eyes downcast, he does not register his uncle RODRIK’s arrival until Winterfell’s Master at Arms snatches away his wooden tourney sword with one hand and clips him a blow across the ear with the other.
RODRIK
How many bloody times?! What have I told you about raising your sword to a lady?
JORY
It doesn’t even have a point, uncle.
RODRIK
I don’t care if it’s made of mushrooms, it’s just not on, lad.
RODRIK turns to LYANNA, his umbrage somewhat tempered in deference to both her sex and her station.
LYANNA
It’s true, Ser Rodrik. I insisted. It’s my fault.
RODRIK holds out his palm, and after a moment’s hesitation LYANNA reluctantly surrenders her sword. He looks apologetically to BRANDON.
RODRIK
I’ll see that the boy is properly punished, my lord.
BRANDON
No need, Ser Rodrik, it’s clear where the fault lies.
As RODRIK drags his squirming nephew away, BRANDON wheels on his sister. Not yet out of her teens, LYANNA shares her eldest brother’s long black hair and soulful brown eyes, as well as the angular jawline she now puts to good use, jutting it out in a well-practiced posture of defiance.
BRANDON [CONT’D]
What has father told you about fighting?
LYANNA
That I do it better than you?
BRANDON ignores the riposte. He steps closer to LYANNA and speaks only for her hearing.
BRANDON
Your Lord father and Lord brother have already commanded you to stop this nonsense, but still you persist. Think what kind of example you’re setting for Benjen.
Satisfied that both his point and his authority have been sufficiently stated, BRANDON walks past LYANNA and continues on towards the castle.
LYANNA
My brother forgets himself. He’s not Lord of Winterfell yet, however much he might play at being father. And I hardly think he’s in any position to lecture me on setting a good example for Benjen.
They both turn to look as BENJEN fusses behind BRANDON’s sleeping companion, pushing her gently towards the postern gate while swivelling his head about to confirm their departure remains undetected.
LYANNA [CONT’D]
I’ve seen you prowling the battlements, barking out orders. And I’ve seen you cleaning your sword in the Godswood. If you really want to be like father, hadn’t you first learn how to fight?
LYANNA walks over to the bundle of cold weather clothing she set aside before sparring and conjures a second pair of tourney swords. She tosses one to BRANDON, who catches it instinctively.
LYANNA [CONT’D]
I’ll teach you, if you like.
BRANDON
I’m the best sword north of the Neck, and you bloody well know it.
In support of his assertion, BRANDON twirls the sword expertly in his hand.
LYANNA
Whoever scores the first point wins. You win, I’ll never raid Ser Rodrik’s stores again.
BRANDON
And if you win?
LYANNA
No more incentive needed, dear brother.
LYANNA mirrors BRANDON’s deft swordplay, then switches hands and repeats the manoeuvre.
BRANDON looks tempted until he makes quick count of how many pairs of intrigued and expectant eyes are following their quarrel. LYANNA smirks at her brother’s indecision.
LYANNA [CONT’D]
What’s wrong? Is the little Lord afraid of losing to a girl in front of his people?
BRANDON glares at her. He assumes fighting stance and begins to circle. LYANNA, smiling at the success of her baiting, does the same. BRANDON raises his sword and rushes at his sister.
RICKARD
Brandon!
At the sound of his father’s bark, BRANDON immediately pulls up and lowers his sword, assuming a chastened manner not dissimilar from young JORY’s a moment ago. Flanked on either side by a guard arrayed in black and grey, RICKARD STARK, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, strides across the yard and glowers at his children, each in turn.
RICKARD
Enough of this foolishness, both of you!
RICKARD looks about the yard, and finds every man there has suddenly rediscovered their interest in whatever chore they set aside to spectate. RICKARD snatches the swords from LYANNA’s and BRANDON’s hands.
RICKARD
Maester Walys is waiting for you in the solar. You will go there immediately and apologise profusely for your lateness. We will talk about this later. Now go.
LYANNA mutters consent and stomps off, but not without shooting BRANDON a look that could strip leather. RICKARD passes the two tourney swords to his guards.
RICKARD
See that my daughter actually makes it to her lessons today, would you?
The guards obey and walk off after LYANNA. When the two Stark men are alone, BRANDON attempts in vain to pre-empt his father’s anger.
BRANDON
Father, I didn’t mean –
RICKARD
Lord Tully is making his approach. Am I to explain to the Lord of Riverrun that he must wait on my son and heir while he plays at soldiers with his little sister?
BRANDON
I was only trying to enforce your commands, and then she challenged my authority in front of everyone. I had to –
RICKARD
You had to defend your honour. From your sister. A child.
BRANDON has no answer, and simply lowers his head. RICKARD looks at his son, and slowly his anger dissolves into something more temperate. He steps closer and rests a hand on BRANDON’s shoulder.
RICKARD
There will be a great many people that try and provoke you to anger in your life, Brandon. Someday soon you will have dozens of houses and thousands of swords sworn to you as Lord of Winterfell. What consequences then if you rush into battle at the slightest cause? Children can afford to act without thinking, but men cannot, and lords even less.
BRANDON
Yes, father. I know.
RICKARD
Winter is coming, Brandon, and it’s past time you became the man I’ve been raising you to be, the man I need you to be. Not next moon, not in a dozen moons: now. Today.
RICKARD waits until his son raises his eyes to meet his own.
BRANDON
I’m sorry, father.
RICKARD considers a moment, more words balancing precariously on the tip of his tongue, then decides against further censure and smiles in truce instead.
RICKARD
Good. Now. I’ve no doubt your sister will take no little taming when I have a talk with her later, so let’s at least you and I say no more on this matter. Besides, we have more pressing concerns, and they’ll arrive at our gate even sooner than winter.
1.8 INT: RED KEEP, KING’S LANDING - DAWN
The first light of dawn is just now creeping its way up the city-facing walls of the Red Keep. In the chambers she formerly shared with her husband lies ELIA MARTELL, Princess of Dorne, wife to RHAEGAR and mother to Aegon and Rhaenys, stretched out upon a chaise-lounge beneath the open balcony windows.
S.E.: door opens.
RHAEGAR enters, closing the door as quietly as he can. ELIA tips back her head.
ELIA
My traveling minstrel returns.
Surprised to find his wife awake, RHAEGAR walks over to the chaise-lounge and kisses his wife on the top of her head, stroking her silk-soft hair. She closes her eyes and smiles like a petted housecat.
RHAEGAR
You should be in bed. It’s still early.
RHAEGAR takes the heavy fur blanket from about ELIA’s feet and stretches it over the entirety of her body, then crosses to shut the windows.
RHAEGAR [CONT’D]
And these should be closed.
ELIA
The fresh air will do me good.
RHAEGAR
You’re not at Sunspear now. You should know well enough there’s nothing fresh about King’s Landing air, even at this elevation.
ELIA
It’s almost Spring; I like to smell the seasons turning.
RHAEGAR
Almost, but not nearly, which means it’s still winter, and cold winds bring naught but stiff bones and fever chills.
ELIA watches as RHAEGAR turns his attentions to the bureau and begins to mix her morning medicine from the various bottles of potions and tinctures.
RHAEGAR [CONT’D]
It has only been a few weeks, Elia, you need to recover your strength. Once Grandmaester Pycelle says it’s safe for you to go outside -
ELIA [INTERRUPTING]
I am as strong as I will ever be, Rhaegar. No amount of lying around or glasses of Pycelle’s vile concoctions will make me any stronger.
RHAEGAR brings her the cup and sits on the edge of the chaise-lounge while she drinks. ELIA tries to hand it back but he refuses. She scowls and drinks what is left, puckering her lips in disgust.
ELIA [CONT’D]
So strict. You’d fit right in among my squawking gaggle of scolding septas.
RHAEGAR
Minstrel to Septa in a matter of moments? With a rise so precipitous, perhaps I truly do deserve my seat upon the Small Council.
ELIA
What news of Lord Steffon’s arrival?
RHAEGAR
Imminent, is my understanding.
ELIA
It will do your father good to have a true friend about the place.
RHAEGAR
My father summoned Steffon Baratheon from Storm’s End for the same reason he called me home and recruited his eunuch from across the Narrow Sea: to redress the imbalance in Council and wage this interminable war with Lord Tywin on his behalf.
ELIA
Then I for one shall hope this conflict never ends: wars typically take a woman’s husband away from her, not bring him back.
RHAEGAR
I cannot speak for Lords Steffon and Varys, but I for one came home to be with my wife and children, not to fight my father’s battles for him.
RHAEGAR delivers a chaste kiss to ELIA’s forehead. He sighs and leans back beside her, resting his eyes as ELIA runs her fingers idly through his silver hair.
Besides, I have my own battles to worry about.
ELIA
Perhaps Steffon could help convince your father on these plans of yours for the Night’s Watch.
RHAEGAR
And succeed where his own son has so thoroughly failed?
ELIA
Sometimes home truths must come from abroad to be properly heard.
RHAEGAR considers this, his eyes drifting to the windows to follow the sun’s slow progress into the sky above King’s Landing.
ELIA
My brother courted a eunuch once.
RHAEGAR
Which brother?
ELIA rolls her eyes in exaggerated incredulity.
ELIA
Which do you think?
RHAEGAR
How…? I mean, practically speaking, how would they…?
His quizzical frown draws a smile from ELIA and she pokes his side in playful rebuke.
ELIA
You disappoint me, sweet summer child: I’ve never known you to lack for imagination.
RHAEGAR defends himself, batting her prods away and landing a few of his own about his wife’s ticklish midriff.
ELIA [CONT’D]
Oberyn even brought him to supper a few times. Such a beautiful boy; bald as an egg but he had these deep, soulful eyes, and his voice! Gods, his voice…
RHAEGAR
You’ll make your husband jealous.
ELIA
He needn’t be. He knows I prefer my men with all their parts still intact.
ELIA snakes a hand between RHAEGAR’s thighs. He grasps it with his own and halts its progress.
RHAEGAR
Elia, please…you know we can’t…
ELIA ceases her explorations and crosses her arms like a petulant adolescent, her expression a mixture of wounded pride and bitter frustration.
ELIA
I’m not made of glass, Rhaegar! I’m not going to shatter to the touch!
RHAEGAR stands wearily.
RHAEGAR
You’ve heard what Pycelle has to say. It’s not safe –
ELIA [CONT’D]
I’m sick and tired of that grasping old stoat deciding what I can and cannot do! It’s your touch I want to feel, not some sour-faced maester’s. I want to share a bed with you again, Rhaegar! I want to walk through the gardens and swim in the sea again! I want to be with our children!
ELIA throws her furs aside and rises to confront her husband. The fires of her Dornish blood are well-stoked, and the deep brown pools of her eyes shimmer with furious tears.
ELIA [CONT’D]
RHAEGAR
I’ve already instructed Una to bring the children to visit for –
ELIA [INTERRUPTING]
They are my children! They should not be fed by wet nurses and bathed by servant girls while their mother listens to their laughter from her sickbed across the hall! I only just had one child snatched away from me, I will not allow you to take the others!
ELIA raises a shaking hand to her brow, her face suddenly flushed and her legs unsteady. She staggers back towards the chaise-lounge.
RHAEGAR
Elia!
RHAEGAR rushes to her side, taking her arm as delicately as though it were a baby bird’s wing, and helps lower her down onto the seat.
ELIA
I’m alright! I’m alright, just a little light-headed.
RHAEGAR studies his wife’s face, pushes her hair back from a forehead upon which half-a-hundred tiny beads of sweat have suddenly sprouted. He eases her into a reclining position and kneels beside her, taking her hand in his.
RHAEGAR
Elia, please listen to me. When Rhaenys was born it took half a year for you to recover, and birthing Aegon almost killed you. When you lost this baby…do you know how scared I was that I had lost you as well? How do you imagine I could live with myself, knowing that I was the reason our children grew up without their mother?
ELIA
You cannot blame yourself, Rhaegar. It was what I wanted too. It’s what I still want.
ELIA pulls his lips down to meet hers and kisses him, her fingers tracing the line of his cheek. RHAEGAR returns the kiss, and when they finally part he looks back into his wife’s desperate, imploring gaze.
ELIA [CONT’D]
Please, Rhaegar. Let’s make another child. Let me give you another son.
ELIA kisses RHAEGAR again, feels his passions begin to stir despite the stiffness in his shoulders, the idleness of his hands. He permits her fingers to drift down from his face, over his chest, down to his waist…then RHAEGAR pulls away. He springs to his feet and turns his back, whether to regain his composure, or to spare himself the look of hurt upon ELIA’s face, it’s impossible to say. He crosses to the door, but stops with a palm upon the handle. ELIA watches him through teary eyes, waiting, hoping, expecting he will return to her.
RHAEGAR
You must rest. We will talk more on this later, I promise.
Without a backwards glance, RHAEGAR leaves his wife alone once more. ELIA turns away from the door and curls herself up on the chaise-lounge. She hugs her knees, weeping softly, the sun’s first rays falling across her feet, her interest in its ascent entirely forgotten.
1.9 INT: RED KEEP, KING’S LANDING – DAWN
RHAEGAR gently opens the door to his children’s bedchamber. He checks first on PRINCE AEGON, still in swaddling clothes, asleep in his crib. PRINCESS RHAENYS, now a toddler, sits up in bed and rubs her indigo eyes.
RHAEGAR
Rhaenys, my sweet, what are you doing awake?
RHAENYS
Aegon [Ay-gone] woke me up, and now I can’t find Balerion. [Ba-lair-eon]
At the sound of his name, a battle-scarred tom cat the colour of ink springs from the shadows and into RHAEGAR’s arms.
RHAEGAR
Here he is, the great black beast.
RHAEGAR kneads the fur between a pliant Balerion’s ears and deposits him beside his daughter’s pillow. The princess hugs him close.
RHAEGAR
Now, back to sleep, both of you.
RHAENYS
Will you tell me a story?
Halfway to the door, RHAEGAR sighs indulgently and returns to sit on the bed.
RHAEGAR
What story would my little princess like to hear?
RHAENYS
Something with dragons.
RHAEGAR
I think you’ve heard every dragon story I know, sweetling. How about a tale of Spotted Pate the pig boy? You like those.
RHAENYS
Dragons!
RHAEGAR
Alright, I surrender. Let’s see…Oh, I know a story with a dragon, but only one. Will one dragon suffice?
RHAENYS considers her father’s proposal for a moment, then nods her approval.
RHAEGAR [CONT’D]
A long time ago, in the Age of Heroes, there lived a mean old dragon named Urrax. He lived in a big, dark cave high up on the mountain. The smallfolk that lived in the nearby village learned to stay away from the mountain, lest they end up among the piles of bones that littered the floor of the dragon’s cave. This isn’t too scary is it?
RHAENYS [UNCONVINCING]
No. I’m not scared.
Despite her protest, the young girl shuffles in closer to her father.
RHAEGAR
My brave little princess. Well, as the years passed, Urrax grew tired of feeding on the wild sheep and goats he found on the mountain, and decided he wanted to feast on men instead. Every night, he would swoop down and snatch up some unwary villager in his enormous jaws and carry them back to his cave to eat. When the villagers tried to hide in their houses, Urrax would breathe his terrible breath and burn their homes to the ground. Some of the villagers tried to fight back against Urrax, but they were simple farmers, and their pitchforks and shovels were no match for the mighty dragon. Others simply ran away, more afraid of Urrax’s terrible hunger than they were the hardship of starting over in some strange new land. Then one day, a band of hedge knights happened to pass along the road, and hearing of the villager’s plight agreed to rid them of their dragon in exchange for whatever gold and silver they could gather together. The villagers gave the knights everything they had, and one by one the knights rode their steeds up the mountain to the dragon’s lair, and one by one Urrax picked his teeth with their bones, then ate their horses for dessert. Finally, there was just one knight left, a brave, handsome young hero named -
RHAENYS [EXCITEDLY]
Grandmother!
RHAEGAR turns to discover QUEEN RHAELLA TARGARYEN, sister-wife to the king and mother to the dragon prince, standing in the doorway wrapped in a long crimson robe.
RHAELLA
I thought I heard my son’s voice.
RHAELLA stalks into the room, stealing on the tips of her toes towards the bed.
RHAELLA [CONT’D]
Little Princes and Princesses should be tucked up asleep in their beds. Only monsters roam the halls at this hour.
RHAEGAR
And what might that make you, mother?
RHAELLA
Oh, I’m the worst monster of them all, and I’ve come looking for a pretty little girl…so I can gobble her all up!
RHAELLA pounces on her granddaughter, tickling her tummy to the delight of RHAENYS. A displaced Balerion slinks resentfully to the end of the bed.
RHAENYS
Father was telling me the story of Urrax [Uh-rux] the dragon.
RHAELLA
So I heard. Do you know, I used to tell your father that same story when he was your age? Why don’t I take over and your father can go and get some sleep. He looks like he could use it, don’t you think?
RHAEGAR kisses RHAENYS on the brow and departs for the door.
RHAENYS
Father?
RHAEGAR
Yes, my love?
RHAENYS [SADLY]
You’re not going away again, are you?
RHAEGAR is struck for words; he looks to RHAELLA, and something sad and remorseful passes between them in the silent language of mothers and sons.
RHAELLA
No, sweet girl. Your father is staying right here with us, where he belongs.
RHAEGAR moves to return to his daughter’s bedside, but RHAELLA gives the slightest shake of her head and halts his steps. The Queen joins RHAENYS beneath the covers, drawing her granddaughter close to cuddle into the crook of her arm.
RHAELLA
Now, where shall we begin?
1.10 EXT: COURTYARD OF CASTERLY ROCK – DAY
In the yard of Casterly Rock, a modest assembly of servants, stable boys, and washer-women watch with polite disinterest as a pair of household guards draw in ever-tighter circles about their quarry. Lithe and swaggering in the full bloom of glorious youth, JAIME LANNISTER smirks insouciantly and pushes back his long golden hair, his sparkling green eyes following his opponents with impertinent invitation.
S.E: fighting.
JAIME blocks, parries, ducks, and dodges every strike with ease, leaving himself open only to dance away at the last second and leave the guards stumbling and flailing in embarrassing failure.
Sitting on a cushioned bench atop the castle walls overlooking the yard, CERSEI LANNISTER yawns and picks at the stitching of her crimson and gold gown. Nineteen years old and breath-takingly beautiful, CERSEI smiles indulgently at a nudge from LORD REGENARD ESTREN, her father’s bannerman and latest suitor, endeavouring to curry favour by his display of obsequious admiration for the swordsmanship of CERSEI’s strutting twin.
Disarming the first guard with a derisive downward stroke, JAIME spins beneath the second’s blindside lunge and kicks his feet out from under him. With the point of JAIME’s blade at his throat, the guard raises his hands in submission.
S.E: applause.
JAIME bows to all four sides of the yard in appreciation of his applause. This is a performance to which the attendants of Casterly Rock have oft been summoned to witness, and even the most astonishing of exhibitions loses its intrigue after the hundredth recital. LORD ESTREN exhibits no such fatigue, however, and leaps to his feet to hail the conquering champion.
JAIME
You flatter me, Lord Estren.
ESTREN
A wonderful display, my Lord, simply wonderful!
JAIME
Perhaps you’d like to come down and try your hand? My father has often spoken of your skill with the blade.
JAIME glances at CERSEI and she cannot supress a cruel smirk, knowing as well as JAIME that her father has never spoken any such thing. ESTREN’s exuberance dampens a little, but he does his best to laugh off JAIME’s invite.
ESTREN
I’m afraid I did not think to bring my sword. Perhaps another day!
TYRION
Here, my lord, you may use mine own!
From among the spectators standing about the stables strolls TYRION LANNISTER. Still to see his eleventh name day, TYRION nonetheless comports himself in the confident manner of a much older boy. He takes his sword from the rack set against the castle wall and brandishes it towards ESTREN.
TYRION [CONT’D]
I’m far too small for it anyway; I can only attribute its absurd proportions to our smith catching sight of me in the bathhouse.
ESTREN smiles to CERSEI to make clear his good-natured forbearance of her brother’s jest, but his eyes betray his gathering discomfort
ESTREN
I thank you, Lord Tyrion, but…it’s my back, you see. A slight mishap while hunting…I won’t bore you with the details.
JAIME
How unfortunate. Well, how about this…
JAIME tosses his sword from hand to the other, holding aloft the open palm of his swordhand then folding it away behind his back.
JAIME [CONT’D]
Now we’ll both be fighting with a handicap. What do you say?
Feeling every pair of eyes upon him, most especially the object of his intended affections at his elbow, ESTREN can only smile stupidly as he desperately searches for a courteous yet expedient escape.
1.11 INT: CERSEI LANNISTER’S CHAMBERS, CASTERLY ROCK - NIGHT
Their golden bodies glistening with sweat, JAIME and CERSEI lie wrapped in one other’s arms amid a tangle of bedsheets.
CERSEI
You mustn’t make so much noise. Tyrion’s only across the hall.
Completely comfortable in her nakedness, CERSEI crosses to the table and pours herself a glass of water. She sits before her mirror and begins to comb the dishevelment from her hair. JAIME remains where he lies, head propped on his crossed arms, the sheets a tangle about his feet.
JAIME
You can’t really believe he’d tell anyone? Least of all father.
CERSEI
Who can know which would win out: his love for you or his loathing for me.
JAIME
Tyrion doesn’t loathe you, Cersei.
CERSEI
Oh no? What about that business in the yard today? Or did you put him up to humiliating Lord Estren like that?
JAIME
Lord Estren humiliated himself, the fat old fool. A man shouldn’t come courting if he’s not prepared to fight for his prize.
CERSEI
You wanted to prove you were his better, as you do with every man that tries to install himself in my affections.
JAIME leaps to his feet, his energy already recovered. Standing behind the seated CERSEI, he takes the hairbrush from her hands and assumes the duty for himself, drawing out her golden mane in long, languorous strokes. She studies him in the mirror, a teasing smile at the corner of her lips.
CERSEI [CONT’D]
Or perhaps you simply enjoy preening before a crowd. Hearing the people coo like pigeons at the Young Lion and his skills with a sword.
JAIME leans down and kisses his sister’s neck. CERSEI closes her eyes and nuzzles his in return.
JAIME
Practice yard, tourney grounds, the bedchamber…it makes no difference to me where my sword skills are appreciated.
CERSEI
Brother, I know you better than anyone else alive, so spare me your false indifference. You love to perform for an audience. You love to be adored.
JAIME
The lion does not concern himself with the opinions of the sheep, sweet sister. Let alone the motley procession of limp-cocked old lechers and chinless milksops that come sniffing about your skirts.
CERSEI rotates around in her seat. Her face level with his sweat-glistened middle, she looks up at him with playful eyes, practically purring.
CERSEI
And what audience would be equal to your ambition, dear brother?
S.E: knocking.
CERSEI quickly retrieves her robe from the floor and slips it about her shoulders. JAIME snatches up and laces his britches, ducks his head into his nightshirt, and assumes an affected slouch of nonchalance against the dresser.
CERSEI
Come.
MAESTER CREYLEN steps into the room and bows in greeting.
CREYLEN
Apologies for the intrusion my lady, my lord. A raven has arrived from the capitol.
CERSEI
Well, hand it over.
CREYLEN hesitates at CERSEI’s outstretched hand, and looks to JAIME.
MAESTER
Forgive me, but the scroll was addressed to your brother only. It bears your father’s seal.
JAIME smirks at his sister’s scowl and accepts the proffered scroll. Salvaging a little face, CERSEI dismisses the Maester with a flick of her wrist.
S.E: opening scroll.
CERSEI
Well?
JAIME
Father instructs me to come to the capitol at once. He says its past time I learned the art of governance.
JAIME’s drops onto the edge of the bed, his shoulders slumped.
CERSEI
A prospect that fills you with no little excitement, I see.
CERSEI takes the parchment from JAIME’s hand. A small smile plays at the corners of her lips as she looks from her father’s words to her brother’s face and back again.
CERSEI [CONT’D]
Very well. I’ll need to settle some accounts in town first, but we can be on the road by midday at the latest.
JAIME
We? Father says nothing of your coming to King’s Landing.
CERSEI
I couldn’t possibly permit my only brother to travel half-way across the country all by his lonesome.
CERSEI stands and stalks slowly towards JAIME, her passions suddenly and curiously reignited.
JAIME
Nor would father. Didn’t you see he suggests I select a dozen of the household guard to accompany me?
CERSEI
I’m sure he means them for protection more than company.
JAIME
I’d learned everything the guard had to teach me before I turned ten. If anything should happen, my sword would prove the equal of two-dozen guard.
CERSEI reaches her brother and kneels between his legs.
CERSEI
Only two-dozen?
She begins to slowly unlace his britches.
JAIME
Three, perhaps, if I’ve had a good night’s rest.
JAIME’s head lolls back in pleasure as his sister lowers her head.
JAIME
Two it is, then.
1.12 EXT: THE VALE – MORNING
The Knights of the Vale wait patiently atop their mounts in four ranks of ten along the crest of a frost-slick hillside, their comingled breath misting in the crisp cold air. The snows of winter have receded from the valley floor below, but closer to the heavens a dirty brown-black coating still clings on tenaciously against the coming thaw. Arranged at the party’s head sit ROBERT BARATHEON, heir to Storm’s End; EDDARD “NED” STARK, second son to RICKARD STARK, Lord of Winterfell; and between them the man to whom ROBERT and NED are warded, Lord JON ARRYN, Keeper of the Vale and Warden of the East.
Tall and barrel-chested, with shoulders like rounded rocks, ROBERT raises a hand to his thick black beard and stifles a yawn.
ROBERT
Seven hells, where is he?
JON
Patience, lad.
JON studies the distant treeline through pale blue eyes. Approaching seventy and never the ruddiest of men even in his youth, JON has wrapped himself in extra layers of fur to insulate his creaking bones against the icy winds blowing briskly across the hilltops.
ROBERT
Patience? I’ve sat in the reserve so often I deserve a maester’s link in bloody patience.
NED
Stop whining, you sound like a bloody child.
Lean where ROBERT is broad, wiry where ROBERT is muscled, NED STARK keeps his eyes trained on the valley below in a studied imitation his foster father.
ROBERT
I hate the waiting. It’s the worst part of battle.
NED
This won’t be a battle. It’s a skirmish, at best.
ROBERT
Whatever you call it, it’ll be fucking dull from all the way up here.
JON
Why must I always repeat myself? You and Ned were trusted into my care; how would your fathers react if a raven should arrive with news that the heir to Storm’s End and the second son of Winterfell had been killed in a battle with the damned hill tribes over stolen livestock?
ROBERT
Lord Stark calls it a skirmish, Jon.
JON
Aye, and you don’t hear Lord Stark complaining of boredom.
ROBERT
He’s from the north, being bored out your fucking skull comes naturally. A good time up there is a hot bowl of broth and a compliant goat to warm your bed.
NED
If you kept your mouth shut and actually listened and watched what was going on you might learn something about strategy. Whatever sigil your shield might bear, you can’t just go charging like a startled stag into every battle.
ROBERT
Skirmish. And I’m built for charging in. Me and this big bastard Warhammer.
NED
You know what they say about men that need big weapons.
ROBERT
Aye, they’re good at using them because every time they take a piss they get practice swinging their massive cock.
NED smirks despite himself. JON looks back over his shoulder at the ranks of armed and armoured knights.
JON
Quiet, both of you. You might have to lead these men one day; best they don’t think of you as a pair of bickering children.
NED at least has the good sense to appear suitably apologetic, but barely a moment passes before ROBERT forgets his reprimand entirely and sets to squirming irritably in his saddle.
ROBERT
I need to piss.
(pause)
Do you think I have time to piss before the skirmish?
NED
You only learned that word a moment ago and I’m already wishing you hadn’t.
ROBERT
I shouldn’t have had so much wine with breakfast.
NED
You shouldn’t have had any wine at breakfast.
ROBERT
If you know of a better cure for a hangover, I’d be happy to hear it.
NED
You didn’t need to drink last night either.
ROBERT
It was a special occasion. Yohn Royce was twenty-two yesterday.
NED
Yohn Royce had his name-day eight months ago.
ROBERT
Aye, and he’s been twenty-two every day since.
ROBERT grins at NED, daring him not to smile, but JON suddenly sits upright in his saddle and hushes them both.
JON
That’s enough, both of you. They’re here.
In the valley below, a lone rider bedecked in the colours of House Arryn bursts from the woods edging the open expanse of the valley floor. Pursuing on foot, four-score warriors of the hill tribes pour between the trees in his wake, brandishing their motley arsenal of stolen farming tools and scavenged swords coated in rust.
NED
You were right, Jon. They followed your man right to us.
JON
And disordered and ill-disciplined as a pack of mindless beasts. Ned, keep Robert on his reins.
JON circles his horse, drawing his sword and raising it aloft.
JON [CONT’D]
Knights of the Vale! With me!
Lances levelled, the four lines of mounted soldiers follow JON down the slope of the hill and into the valley. Even riding at top speed, they assume formation with the elegant fluidity of flowing water, the ranks elegantly organising themselves into successive arrowheads before even half the incline has fallen away beneath their mounts’ pounding hooves. NED leans forward in his saddle, watching the ambush unfold with rapt admiration.
NED
See, that’s the value of forethought and patience. The hill tribes know that forest better than we ever could: if we’d abandoned the horses and gone mindlessly hunting through the trees they’d have picked us off a man at a time without ever once breaking from cover.
Recognising the truth of NED’s words, ROBERT harrumphs petulantly.
ROBERT
We shouldn’t have to play at deception to defeat a bunch of inbred half-wits. There’d have been far more glory in meeting them head-on.
NED
And how many of our own men would this glory have cost us? By risking a single scout Jon was able to lure the enemy onto ground of his choosing, where we can best utilise our strengths and exploit the enemy’s weaknesses.
ROBERT has no answer. They sit in silence and watch the fighting below. Down in the valley, the Knights of the Vale have completed their first charge through the hilltribe’s centre, scattering the enemy in every direction; the phalanx breaks apart now as the mounted knights strike out in twos and threes to run down their fleeing quarry.
ROBERT
Any word from your father?
Irked though he is at ROBERT’s distraction from the action unfolding below, NED’s compassion is pricked at the anxiety so obvious beneath his friend’s guileless attempt at appearing non-plussed.
NED
Not yet.
ROBERT
When do you expect he will talk to your sister?
NED
Soon, I’m sure.
ROBERT
Perhaps by the time we get back to the Eyrie, there’ll be –
NED
Look!
ROBERT follows NED’s pointing finger to the thick of the action. JON has somehow found himself isolated, his horse penned in on either side by a small band of tribesmen, the chaos of battle too compacted for JON to turn his horse about and ride to safety.
ROBERT
We need to do something!
NED
Jon said to wait here!
Below, JON cuts down one, then a second, the remaining tribesmen reaching for his horses’ reins, clawing at JON’s legs in a combined effort to haul him from his saddle.
ROBERT
Ned!
The second son of Winterfell hears his name, recognises the immediacy of the moment, but makes no move to action. ROBERT reads his indecision, the tension in NED’s muscles, the compulsion to act colliding with the inertia of obedience.
ROBERT
Ned!
NED
We have our orders, Robert! Soldiers follow orders!
They watch from their impotent remove as JON neglects his blindside a moment too long and a tribesman thrusts his sword into the muscled haunch of his mount. The horse stumbles then falls, crushing JON’s leg beneath its weight and pinning him to the ground. Still, NED remains rooted in place, watching in frozen equivocation. ROBERT pulls his Warhammer from across his back.
ROBERT
Fuck our orders!
Kicking his heels into the flanks of his mount, ROBERT rushes headlong down the hill.
NED [shouting]
Robert! Come back here! Robert!
(muttering)
Damned fat-headed fool!
NED draws his sword, his instincts suddenly spurred to overtake his indecision at the sight of ROBERT’s heedless charge into the breech. He kicks his horse to a gallop and follows after his friend.
1.13 INT: TAVERN, THE VALE – NIGHT
The hour is late in the evening – or, rather, early the following morning – but the celebrations are still in full-flow. The tavern is packed with soldiers drinking toasts to their Lord and his victory over the hill tribes.
ROBERT sits at a table laden down with cups, two more clutched in either hand, ale sloshing over the brims as he gesticulates in emphasis and onto the ample bosoms of BESSIE and BERYL, the two young women around which ROBERT’s arms are wrapped.
ROBERT
…And then this mad bastard here says “fuck our orders” and goes charging off down the hill, waving his sword in the air and screaming bloody murder! You should have seen the sheep-fuckers scatter, girls! Just the sight of him had them running like the Seven Hells were snapping at their heels!
NED sips at his ale with an expression of strained forbearance as ROBERT extolls his heroics. BERYL places a hand on NED’s thigh.
BERYL
So courageous!
ROBERT
Courageous? Downright bloody fearless is what it was! One minute Lord Jon looks like to have his head smashed in, and the next Ned’s standing over him cutting down Stone Crows like a man possessed!
NED physically winces at this, but ROBERT is too invested in his telling to pay any heed.
ROBERT [CONT’D]
If it weren’t for this man right here Jon Arryn would be supping with his ancestors tonight. Every man and woman in the Vale should be on their knees kissing his pert northern backside!
NED
I’m not sure Jon will be kissing either of our backsides anytime soon, Robert. That horse near crushed his leck to powder. The maester says he’s lucky he didn’t have to amputate
ROBERT
Bollocks to that! Jon would have a lot more to worrying about than a broken bloody leg if it weren’t for us, Ned, and he’ll see that himself once the milk of the poppy wears off, you mark my words!
BERYL
I don’t believe a word you’ve been telling us! He looks too shy to pet a lap cat, never mind swing a sword.
ROBERT
Haven’t you ever heard of the strong silent type?! Loud or quiet, pull on a wolf’s tail and it’ll savage you all the same.
BESSIE
I’ve always wanted a nice warm wolf fur. Why don’t you wrap yourself around me, keep me warm?
ROBERT
Go on, Ned. You wouldn’t want the nice young lady to catch a cold, would you?
NED begins to protest, but just then he spies pair of Arryn guards entering the tavern. They catch his eye across the crowd and beckon him over. NED nods his head and stands.
NED
Excuse me a moment.
ROBERT chugs both of his cups and waves them aloft to the overworked barmaid, too preoccupied with his revelries to notice the grim expression that settles on NED’s face as he confers with the Arryn guards. Dismissing the pair, NED returns to the table to discover ROBERT’s face buried to the ears in BESSIE’s pendulous cleavage.
NED
Robert, a moment if I may.
ROBERT
I’m sorry Ned, I had to step in. She looked likely to catch her death.
BERYL
What about me, my lord? I’m starting to feel a little chilly myself.
Ever the gentleman, ROBERT pulls BERYL closer.
ROBERT
I’ll not stand for any jealousy, my lovelies! There’s plenty of me to go around!
NED
Robert, I need to speak to you. Now.
The sharpened edge to NED’s tone finally cuts through ROBERT’s ale-addled hearing and he assumes an affected air of contrition.
ROBERT
I don’t think Lord Stark approves, girls. You’d better get me up to bed and save me from another scolding.
NED
Robert, stop.
ROBERT
Gods be good, Ned, word could arrive at any moment that I’m to be a married man! Can’t you let me have one last night to sow some oats?!
BESSIE grabs exploratorily at ROBERT’s crotch.
BESSIE
Feels more like conkers to me.
BERYL follows suit, feeling for herself.
BERYL
Crab apples, I’d say!
ROBERT
Why don’t we find one of your friends to help us settle the argument? Barkeep! Another round for the staircase if you’d be so kind!
NED
Damn it, Robert!
The two women jump with fright at NED’s sudden flash of impatience. Startled at his friend’s uncharacteristic emotiveness, ROBERT finally grants NED his undivided attention.
NED [CONT’D]
A raven arrived while we were coming down the mountain.
ROBERT disentangles himself from his admirers and stands, somehow suddenly as sober as a septon.
ROBERT
A raven? Your…your father has finally sent word?
NED
It didn’t come from Winterfell. It came from Storm’s End.
1.14 INT: RED KEEP HALLWAY – NIGHT
The Red Keep is naught but silence and shadows. At this late hour, little stirs about the castle save the hourly sweep of the Targaryen household guard and an occasional servant sloping bone-tired to their bed.
S.E: bare footsteps.
KING AERYS TARGARYEN, second of his name, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, pads on naked feet across a floor that still retains the ice-cold bite of winter within its burnished stones. A thick crimson bedrobe flaps open, trailing behind him like a bridal train, exposing the thin silks of his sleeping attire that billow loose about his undernourished frame. Moving with the same laboured gait as a fisherman wading from the shallows, AERYS trudges from one hallway to the next but paying little mind to his where his goose-fleshed legs might carry him.
Passing a window overlooking the central courtyard, something bright and unexpected penetrates the muggy fog that clouds the king’s mind and summons his attention like a lighthouse beacon. Across the yard, the soft white glow of candlelight fills the wrought-iron frame of the topmost windows in the Tower of the Hand.
S.E: bare footsteps [fade out].
S.E: bare footsteps [fade in]; door opening.
TYWIN
Your Grace.
TYWIN LANNISTER, Lord of Casterly Rock, Warden of the West and Hand of the King for near on twenty years, puts down his quill and sets aside the parchment upon which he was writing. AERYS waves a hand at the ornately-carved chair upon which TYWIN remains pointedly rooted in contravention of royal protocol.
AERYS
Would the couch not be more comfortable?
TYWIN
I find a stiff-backed chair helps keep a tired mind alert, Your Grace.
AERYS
I have several of them in my chambers. Perhaps if I had them removed I could finally find some rest.
AERYS shuffles across the room and drops into a chair of his own across the desk from his Hand. TYWIN casts a critical eye over the king’s appearance: the pale and puffy skin, the great black bags that hang like canopies below the blood-shot eyes, the greasy silver-grey hair that hangs matted and tangled about his shoulders.
TYWIN
It’s happening again.
The king nods wearily.
TYWIN [CONT’D]
The same dreams as before?
AERYS hesitates, then nods again.
AERYS
Every night, now. Whether I retire before the sun has set or I’m wandering the hall until the dawn; whether I gorge myself until I’m like to burst or starve until my stomach cramps; whether I drink myself insensible or abstain entirely…whatever the prelude, the moment I close my eyes the same dreams are there…waiting for me.
TYWIN
Tywin Pycelle’s tinctures have done nothing to quiet them? There is no measure more certain to induce lassitude than a consistent course of sweetsleep, the Grandmaester tells me.
AERYS shakes his head despondently.
AERYS
Any stronger dosage is like to kill me, he says. Rhaella insists on searching further afield for less conventional solutions, but…
He shrugs in resignation.
AERYS waves a dismissive hand at the notion and yawns, rubbing at his watery eyes.
TYWIN
Do you remember what I told, when you’d just come into your throne and these dreams first began?
AERYS
You said that only lesser men have anything to fear from their dreams, because all the wonders that visit squires and stable boys in their sleep remind them in waking how small their lives truly are.
TYWIN
While great men can always sleep easy, because great men wake and make their dreams manifest.
AERYS
“What the king dreams, the hand builds,“ is that your meaning? Strange to think there was a time I took your flattery at face value.
TYWIN
Stranger still to think there was a time it mattered to me one way or the other.
The two men look at one another in complacent animosity. TYWIN considers a moment, then opens his desk drawer and retrieves a rolled parchment.
TYWIN
I was going to wait until morning to break the news, but as you’re feeling so sentimental…A raven arrived in the night. From Storm’s End.
AERYS
And not before time. A king does not expect to be kept waiting, even by his oldest friend. Is Steffon finally on his way?
TYWIN
I think it best you read the tidings for yourself, Your Grace.
AERYS unrolls the parchment and does as TYWIN suggests. He reads it again, then raises uncomprehending eyes towards his Hand.
TYWIN
My sincerest condolences, Your Grace.
AERYS
He wrote me from Pentos not a fortnight past. I wanted him to sail straight home and assume his new position, but he begged leave to finish their tour first. Cassana was quite insistent, I understand.
TYWIN
I know this must come as a shock.
AERYS only blinks, returning to the scroll to read its words a third time. TYWIN studies him all the while with something approximating sympathy.
TYWIN
Can I fetch you a cup of wine, Your Grace?
AERYS nods weakly and TYWIN stands and crosses to the table. AERYS speaks without turning in his chair.
AERYS
When did you see him last?
Likewise, TYWIN speaks into the shadows as he fills their cups.
TYWIN
I’m not sure I recall, Your Grace.
AERYS
I think…I think the last time I saw him was Joanna’s funeral.
TYWIN’s jaw tightens, and he takes a few seconds for himself before returning to the desk.
TYWIN
I believe that was the last time for me also, Your Grace.
AERYS
What was that? Five years ago? Six?
TYWIN
Eight.
AERYS
Gods. Has she really been gone eight years? A wonderful woman, your wife.
The king’s words hang in the quiet of the Hand’s chambers like tendrils of smoke from a guttering candle. A long swallow brings AERYS to the dregs of his cup already, and TYWIN surreptitiously places his own as-yet untouched cup on AERYS’ side of the desk, just within the King’s reach.
AERYS [CONT’D]
I asked him to be Hand, you know. Before I offered it to you.
TYWIN
I know. Steffon came to me that same day and asked me if I thought he should accept.
AERYS
I believed there was an auspicious symmetry to it: Steffon could serve me as Hand just as his father had served mine. But he refused me.
AERYS narrows suspicious eyes at TYWIN.
AERYS [CONT’D]
Was that your doing?
TYWIN
No. Steffon and Cassana had already decided to start a family. She felt very strongly that King’s Landing was no place to raise children. Steffon agreed. Cassana was quite insistent, I understand.
AERYS
What the gods withheld from her in beauty they more than compensated her in wisdom.
TYWIN
We three grew up here in the capital, to no evident ill-effect.
The king raises his cup to drink, but finds to his surprise the cup is empty. He swaps it for TYWIN’s, the circumstances of its convenient proximity passing entirely without his notice.
AERYS
Eight years. How is it even possible? How can three boys be as close as brothers, yet the men they became as distant as strangers?
TYWIN
Life comes easier to children. A man soon finds himself divided…by duty to his family, his house, his office. The war changed all our lives.
AERYS
The war brought us even closer. It was what came next that did the damage. When you’re king, you don’t…
AERYS stops himself, as though suddenly recollecting in whose company he sits. After a moment’s pause, whether his tongue is loosened by the wine or the shock of Steffon’s unexpected demise, he continues.
AERYS
I remember the day of my coronation. Just before I climbed the steps to claim the Iron Throne, Steffon whispered in my ear “careful you keep your head steady, Aerys, or you’ll forever be remembered in the history books as “the king that lost his crown”. When I came back down those same steps not ten minutes later, he kneeled and addressed me as “Your Grace.”
The sad smile that danced at the edges of AERYS’ mouth while recounting his old friend’s advice slides away, and he stares mournfully into the wine he swirls distractedly about its cup.
AERYS [CONT’D]
That was the last time anybody but my wife called me by my name.
In the silence that settles once more upon the scene, AERYS’ eyes flit to TYWIN’s face then quickly away again, until finally some internal conflict is decided and he elects to speaks up.
AERYS
You know I have to ask.
TYWIN returns his king’s gaze from afar, as though regarding him across a tundra of ice, the space between them frozen and vast.
TYWIN
I had no hand in Steffon’s death.
AERYS tries to hold TYWIN’s eye, but falters quickly and studies the bottom of his second cup.
AERYS
Aren’t you going to ask me the same about Symond Staunton?
AERYS does not raise his head, and so misses the look of amused disdain with which TYWIN greets the wounded peevishness of AERYS’ tone.
TYWIN
I think it would greater benefit the realm for us settle the matter of Lord Staunton’s replacement, now that Lord Steffon will no longer be available to fill his vacant seat as Master of Laws.
As though physically prodded by a red-hot poker, AERYS’ whole demeanour shifts towards antagonism at his Hand’s casual disregard for his question and its consequent implication. Despite his dishevelled appearance, AERYS’ manner transforms as he summons the haughty authoritativeness of a king.
AERYS
I’ll see that you’re notified once I’ve made my decision.
TYWIN
A seat on the Small Council is a rare reward, best reserved for men of proven fealty. I could name half-a-hundred leal lords ripe for the picking.
AERYS
I don’t doubt you could, but every fruit in this kingdom is already spoiled. For an honest man, unbruised by old emnities, uncoloured by existing interests, he must be picked directly from the branch.
TYWIN
In my experience, there’s no such thing as a disinterested party. That's why the expression sounds so foreign to the ear.
AERYS
How fortunate I chose a foreigner for our new Master of Whispers, then. I trust Lord Varys has been proving his worth these past months?
TYWIN’s nostrils flare in anger at the sardonic smirk with which AERYS accompanies mention of his recent appointment to the Small Council.
TYWIN
Might I ask where precisely you found our new Master of Whispers?
AERYS
I forget precisely how he first came to my attention, though he comes very highly recommended, I can assure you of that much. I may even seek his counsel on a suitable candidate to take Steffon’s seat…
TYWIN
If you mean to consult your Small Council on the matter, I’m certain Lords Chelsted and Velaryon would welcome the opportunity to present their own -
AERYS [INTERRUPTING]
There’ll be opportunity enough later for you and your creatures to chew over my selection like cows on cud, but that time is not now. Now, it’s time for me to like awake and think about our oldest friend.
AERYS stands to leave, but makes no move to depart, deciding this time to instead wait in place with an expression of expectant command. Slowly, TYWIN rises to his feet. AERYS holds his gaze a moment longer, then walks to the door. Here, he hesitates, peering into the inky-blackness beyond the threshold.
AERYS
Goodnight, Tywin.
TYWIN
Goodnight…
[pause]
…Your Grace.
Half-a-dozen beats of a steady heart pass in silence before AERYS resumes his exit. TYWIN watches his back as it passes through the shadows of the corridor and dissolves away into the darkness beyond.
OUTRO.