The stench of King's Landing hit him before the wind changed.
Ser Donnel Locke stood at the prow of The Mermaid's Tears, arms crossed over his mail-clad chest, squinting toward the hazy brown smear of the capital on the horizon. "Smells like someone shat in a cookpot, set it on fire, and called it a city," he muttered.
Behind him, sailors bustled along the deck of the White Harbor flagship, canvas flapping and ropes creaking. Gull cries echoed overhead. Somewhere below, the soldiers of his company joked, diced, and sparred. Donnel had long grown used to their noise; they were young, eager, and loyal. And they were Arthur's. That made all the difference. Donnel's eye flicked back to the figure beside the helm, tall as a tower, wind-tossed silver-blond hair streaming like a banner. He stood at the prow, tall and straight as a banner pole, clad in a flowing mantle of sea-green and silver-blue, his doublet gleaming with pearl-white buttons. The boy—no, the man now—had his father's jaw, his mother's grace, and the North in his bones. Ser Arthur Manderly, heir to White Harbor, the Knight of Winter. Fifteen namedays, though you'd not believe it to look at him. Bigger than most boys had been at that age, sharper than learned maesters, and far more dangerous than he'd yet learned to be. The gods had carved him with care, but Donnel had seen how quickly the world dulled beauty and broke valor.
"You know you are in King's landing when the air starts to smell like shit." Arthur asked, voice rich and warm with amusement. "Aye," Donnel said. "And worse once you pass the gates."
Arthur grinned. "It's good to be back." Back. As if he belonged here. Donnel knew the rot of this place would try to swallow him whole and it would be his duty to protect the boy lord.
"Let's hope the tourney is over soon," Donnel muttered, scratching at his jaw. The salt air made his beard itch. "I've got a bad feeling in my gut."
Arthur turned to him, eyes as sea-bright as his banner. "You worry too much, Donnel."
"And you don't worry enough. One of us has to balance the other."
That earned a chuckle. Donnel liked that sound. Reminded him of William. It haunted him, too.
He looked past the boy to the shore beyond. Dockworkers scurried like ants. Farther up the hill rose the Red Keep, blood-red and brooding, as though it too remembered the last time a Manderly walked its halls. Donnel had ridden behind Ser William Manderly at the gates of King's Landing, had watched him keep Robert Baratheon and Eddard Stark from tearing each other apart with little more than a word. The man had been a giant. And yet, like all giants, he'd fallen. Arthur was the last thing he'd left behind.
Donnel's fingers brushed the worn leather of his sword belt. His vows spoken in a sept didn't mean much to him, but the ones he had spoken in the cold dawn after Helena Dustin bled out in a birthing bed meant everything to him. He had failed them both the father and the mother. He would not fail the son. Not while there was still breath in his lungs. Below, his sergeant—grizzled old Tristyn Woolfield—called the men to formation. Their boots thundered on the deck, discipline sharp, weapons gleaming. Donnel had drilled them like hounds, and they were loyal, ready. Not just for pageantry, but for blood if it came to that.
"Time to play the gallant lordling," Donnel said as Arthur turned toward the gangplank, now lowered to the busy docks of the capital.
"Not a lordling," Arthur said. "A knight of the North. A scion of the Manderly." He descended the plank like he was born to it—straight-backed, sword at his side, white cloak trailing behind like winter's first snow. Donnel followed, hand on hilt, senses alert. King's Landing was a gilded viper's nest, and no place for the likes of them. But if the snakes struck, they'd find this wolf's teeth were sharp.
The cobbled streets of the city baked under the noon sun, slick with horse piss and sweat and something fouler. Ser Donnel Locke rode beside Arthur, a light breeze tugging at his cloak, the smell of fish and fried grease clinging to the air. Their small procession—Arthur, his guards, and a handful of servants—wound its way through the capital's bustling lower streets toward the manse the boy had bought some years past. That still struck Donnel as strange. Most northern lords would sooner waste silver on summer snow than spend coin on a house in King's Landing. But Arthur had his own ideas, as always.
The boy had fallen in love with the capital's stink and splendor when he first visited it at nine, during a brief visit with Lord Wyman. He spoke of the Red Keep the way some boys spoke of castles in songs—full of glory and menace and promise. Where Donnel saw corruption in the alleyways and blood in the shadows, Arthur saw a game to be won, a place to be tamed. Even now, he wore his excitement like armor.
"You should've been born a southron," Donnel said, guiding his gelding over a pothole wide enough to swallow a wheel, "Only a southron could love such a wretched place."
Arthur replied, smiling. "She has her charms, if you know where to look."
"She's a whorehouse in a crown, that's what she is."
"And yet, a crown all the same," Arthur said, his gaze fixed on the red keep. "Where the realm is ruled, where the fate of a thousand lords is decided. If you want to change the world, ser, you begin here."
Donnel said nothing. He'd heard this speech before—over dinner, on the road, half-asleep in a tent at Moat Cailin. Arthur's dreams were big enough to fill the Narrow Sea. And the worst part was, the boy just might do it. He had the mind, the charm, the sword arm, and—Seven help them—the gold.
The sun was high and cruel, casting long shadows behind the black cloaks of Arthur's guard. Donnel marched beside him, flanked by his own men—his sergeant, two archers from Oldcastle, a pair of pikemen from White Knife Vale, and three footmen from the city on retainer by the manderlys. They wear the coats of house Manderly and serve as their guards. Modest, but sharp, and loyal.
They rode through the Street of Sisters, past septs and silk houses, to the manse nestled in the shadow of Visenya's Hill. It was as Arthur had left it: high-walled, sea-stone, and stately, its roof glazed in tiles the color of moonstone and pale jade. The crest of the white merman gleamed above the gates. As they passed through, the doors swung wide to reveal a gardened courtyard with marble benches, and fountains shaped like dolphins spitting water into a silver basin. Servants lined the path, all in Manderly colors. One bowed low enough for his forehead to brush the paving stones.
Arthur dismounted with ease, then turned to Donnel. "What do you think?"
"I think you've built yourself a proper little palace 'Merchant Prince' Arthur Manderly," Donnel replied mockingly. Arthur laughed.
A covered litter awaited them at the manse, flanked by two golden-haired grooms in seafoam livery. At their approach, a cloaked man stepped forth—tall, pale, and scented faintly of oranges and clove.
"Issaro Danté," the Lyseni said, bowing low. "Humble servant of the house of Manderly. The city trembles with joy at your return, my lord."
Donnel eyed him with mistrust. He didn't like the Essosi, especially the Lyseni.
"I trust everything is in order?" Arthur asked, clasping the man's hand in a gesture both lordly and familiar.
"Better than ever. The Manse's floors have been scrubbed with Myrish vinegar, the fountains re-carved by a master from Volantis, and the summer roses bloom with a blush only the Dornish could dream of." Issaro's smile was polished marble. "Your vault remains secure. As does your influence."
Donnel snorted. "Is there anything in this city that doesn't have a price?"
"Not dreams, ser," the Lyseni replied smoothly. "Dreams and debts. Those are always free… until they're not."
They went inside, the air was cool with the scent of lemons and cedar oil. Colored glass cast blue and green shadows across the floor as they entered the main hall, where the banners of House Manderly fluttered high above. The manse was both northern and foreign—wolf pelts layered over Qartheen carpets, ironwood chairs beside braziers carved in Braavos. Arthur paused beneath the largest window and looked up, as if seeing his reflection in the colored panes. "Do you know anything about Lord Torrhen Manderly?" he asked softly.
Donnel nodded. "Aye, one of your ancestors right? He was hand to the dragonbane and thought he could shape a southern court with northern sense. Bring honor and truth to a den of liars. It broke him."
"It didn't break him," Arthur said. "It only broke his pride." "He was the lord regent and hand of the king to the Targaryen king Aegon III who dismissed Lord Torrhen when he came of age, typical ingrate Targaryens, mad bastards, all of them." replied Donnel angrily. "Aye, he was, but he was ambitious and proud too. He forgot it was the king he served, not the other way round. If I was in king Aegon's place I too would have dismissed a regent who was reluctant to leave his powers." replied Arthur calmly.
Donnel studied him for a long moment. "So you think you'll be a better hand?"
Arthur paused and answered, "I think I'll serve where he served. And maybe… one day, serve better."
There it was again—that hidden ambition in the boy's words. Donnel had seen it many times before, in his eyes that ambition was dangerous.
"Then we'll need a damned good dinner," Donnel muttered. "Nothing like stuffing your gut before walking into the lion's maw."
Arthur laughed. "Halder—see to it. Have the arbor gold opened. We dine tonight."
"As you command," the steward diligently bowed and left.
Donnel scrubbed the stink of the city from his skin with hot water and northern soap, pine-scented and sharp. His chamber was smaller than he'd known at White Harbor, but still finer than anything his forebears had built in Oldcastle. The stone was pale Dornish, the bed too soft, the rugs too bright. He didn't trust any of it. He washed quickly, dried faster, and dressed in a clean tunic and boiled leather surcoat, sword belted low at his hip. Arthur had asked for him to dine. That alone was enough to keep him from slouching into his usual scowl. But the southern strangeness of the day clung to his bones like mist off the White Knife.
The lord's chamber was upstairs, tucked behind a carved wooden door marked only with the sigil of House Manderly in fine silver filigree. A footman opened it wordlessly, revealing a long, narrow chamber bathed in candlelight, thick with the smell of lemon, ink, and wine.
Arthur was already seated at the table, dressed now in a lighter doublet of deep blue and white, his hair combed and damp from a bath. He smiled when Donnel entered. "You're late, ser."
"You're southern now," Donnel replied. "You ought to expect it."
Arthur laughed. "Come, sit. The lemon-roast duck is still hot. I saved you a leg."
Donnel made his way to the table, boots thudding on a rug that likely cost more than his father's keep. That was when he saw the woman seated across from Arthur. She wore violet silk, her dark skin gleaming in the candlelight, with rubies at her throat and a smile too knowing by half. Beautiful, yes. Too beautiful. Too poised.
Donnel froze mid-step. "This is Chataya," Arthur said lightly. "A friend and business partner."
Chataya rose and dipped her head with regal grace. "A pleasure, ser." Donnel gave her a tight nod but didn't smile. His hand brushed the hilt of his sword as he sat. "Didn't expect a… guest."
"You expected some grim old lord, aye?" Chataya said, not unkindly, her eyes narrowing with mirth. "Worry not, ser. I'm not here to bed our young lord or stain his honor. We're partners, not paramours."
"A damned whore that's what you are," Donnel muttered under his breath.
Chataya smiled. "Yes, Ser, A whore and a brothel owner. But I'm also a shipowner. A wine merchant. A patron of the Arts. And, thanks to Lord Arthur's vision, I have establishments in Lannisport, Oldtown, Lys, Braavos, and White Harbor itself. His coin bought me freedom. My coin buys him information."
"I apologize my lady," said Donnel but he was interrupted by Chataya,
She coldly said, "Worry not Ser. I'm not offended, I'm no lady. Not to honorable noblemen like you. Just know that we serve the same master, that's all I require from you."
Arthur sipped from his goblet, eyes watching them both. "I've found the brothels know more truths than the septs or the courts, Donnel."
"That says more about the realm than it does about you," Donnel grunted, but he did take the duck's leg.
They dined by candlelight, in Arthur's office, the room shielded from the city's noise by high glass windows and thick curtains. Donnel ate with one eye on the woman the entire time, but she neither made a pass nor overstepped her bounds. Instead, she cut her duck with dainty precision and spoke with clarity and weight, like a lady at court who'd worn silks long before her skirts ever lifted for coin.
"The city is restless," she told Arthur between bites. "There are whispers of fire and gold, singing songs of steel and crowns."
Arthur leaned back. "Tell me."
Chataya set her goblet down. "Robert Baratheon in all his swollen glory hosts a tourney for his first son and heir Prince Joffrey Baratheon, honoring the prince on his twelfth nameday."
Donnell said with a grunt, "Officially reaching manhood, so the boy is ready to be a squire now."
Arthur asked, "Is the king planning on sending the prince to foster somewhere, The Rock or Storm's End?"
Chataya replied with a chuckle looking at Donnell, "That's unlikely my lord, to be a squire one must become a page first. And the queen would rather burn all the castles of Westeros than send her children away."
Donnell frowned at her way of speaking, yet Chataya continued in her silky voice, "The hand of the king, Lord Arryn is in attendance, as is his frail southern wife Lysa Tully and their sickly child Robert Arryn. Lord Stannis is back from Dragonstone, sour as spoiled vinegar likely after seeing his ugly daughter and uglier wife."
Donnell interrupted and asked Arthur, "How are you letting her speak so callously about these high lords Arthur?"
Arthur looked at Donnell with a look of amusement and before he could say anything Chataya asked, "Am I offending you, noble ser?"
Donnell replied in anger, "You are speaking ill about people who are born better than you."
Chataya laughed mockingly and said, "Is that so? If the ugly fish and ugly fox is born better than me then your gods are truly cruel Ser Donnell."
Arthur interrupted them and said, "That's enough, both of you, Chataya, cease provoking Ser Donnell and don't insult the children." and then he looked at Donnell and said, "Don't take it personally Donnell, if you wish you can wait in your room I'll call you after this meeting."
Donnell grumbled and said, "I'll stay, I don't trust her intentions."
Chataya smiled flirtatiously at Donnell and said, "Oh, please stay Ser, I do enjoy a brooding rugged handsome man." Donnell became flustered. Thankfully Arthur saved him and told Chataya to continue and she obeyed.
"Lord Renly plays the court darling with his darling Loras Tyrell. Littlefinger flits like a richly dressed raven around with a large coinpurse and is very angry with extra competition thanks to us." Chataya said and smiled victorious then her voice dropped to a purr, smooth as the Lyseni silks she wore. "And Lord Tywin is here too. He brings with him a large retinue from the Rock."
Arthur's brow lifted. "Lord Tywin is here?"
"He arrived two days past," she said. "With half Casterly Rock behind him. Gold, guards, and gossip, all wrapped in crimson and roar. He's taken up residence in the Red Keep. Lord Tyrion's come too. They say he's brought a dozen books and wine caskets for each one."
Donnel set down his goblet with a quiet thump. "And what does the lion want?"
Chataya sipped her wine. "The same thing he always wants. Power. Position. Triumph."
"Ser Jaime?" Arthur asked.
She inclined her head. "He's to joust and Lord Tywin hopes he'd win. The Lannisters will do everything to ensure his victory. If he falls, they'll roar about trickery and treachery. If he wins, they'll call it destiny."
Donnel frowned and said with venom, "As expected of the Lannisters. Bunch of snakes claiming to be lions."
Arthur said calmly, his fingers steepled beneath his chin. "Lord Tywin never does anything without a purpose. His golden son winning the tourney before the court and the realm?"
Chataya added, "A well-timed reminder of Lannister strength."
Arthur's expression grew thoughtful, distant. Donnel had seen that look before—a storm brewing behind those handsome blue-green eyes. A thousand calculations dancing through the boy's head. Not a boy, Donnel corrected himself. A lord now. Maybe more, gods help me.
"You said Tywin's brought a full retinue?" Arthur asked.
Chataya nodded. "Knights and lords sworn to the Rock. Lord Brax, Ser Addam Marbrand, Lord Lefford, even old Kevan Lannister, dragging his younger sons behind him like pups on a leash."
Donnell asked, "Perhaps lord Tywin want to remind the king of his power and take the prince as his ward. After all Prince Joffrey is his grandson."
Arthur's jaw flexed, "And Jaime Lannister is his heir."
Donnell frowned deeply, "Ser Jaime is a sworn knight of the Kingsguard. He cannot inherit lands or marry. He cannot break his oath."
Arthur replied coldly, "He has already broken it once before. Breaking it another time won't matter much."
Chataya chuckled and Donnell frowned but couldn't argue with Arthur. Ser Jaime Lannister was the Kingslayer, the most famous oath breaker of the seven kingdoms.
Arthur continued, "I think Lord Tywin wants to prove the undeniable prowess of Ser Jaime and ensure the Prince becomes his squire. Instead of Ser Barristan's whom the King and Lord Tywin distrusts. Lannisters are further consolidating their hold over the crown every passing hour."
Donnel couldn't help but agree. "If this goes on soon every lord of the realm would have to lick the lion's paw for favors."
Chataya's face turned serious. "That the king is dying. Slowly, but surely. Drinks and whores have done what his enemies swords could not. His grace has boils beneath his beard and sleeps through half his councils. His Kingsguard is a sham except for Ser Barristan. His councilors are false save for Lord Stannis whom he can't stand."
Donnell frowned, "What about the Lord Hand? Jon Arryn is an honorable man. Surely he can improve the situation."
Chataya answered, "Lord Arryn may be an honorable man, but he is not a smart man. He relies to much on Littlefinger and that will be his undoing."
Arthur said nothing for a long moment. Then, with a careful grace that belied his youth, he rose and poured himself a fresh cup of wine. "Then it's all the more important we keep our footing. The tourney may be a show, but every lance thrown carries weight."
He looked at Donnel then, the flicker of candlelight dancing across the silver thread in his collar. "We'll need to keep our eyes open. And our hands close to steel."
Donnel nodded, his fingers brushing his sword hilt again. "You've mine, my lord. Always."
"And you have my eyes," Chataya said, with quiet pride. "The pleasure houses, the cellars, the blacksmiths, even the kitchens of the Red Keep. At your service, my lord."
Arthur smiled. "Thank you both."
Chataya stood, setting aside her goblet. "I'll see myself out. Thank you for the wonderful dinner my lord," She turned to Donnell and said with a smile, "A pleasure to finally meet you, Ser and you're always welcome to our fine establishment."
She bowed, and Arthur returned it with courtly grace. As she swept from the room like a shadow, Donnel watched her go, his frown deepening. "You trust her too much."
Arthur turned back to him. "I trust what she gives me. And I know what it costs."
"She's a whore," Donnel said gruffly.
"Yes," Arthur agreed. "And a spymaster. You'll see her uses one day Donnell for now go to sleep."
Outside, bells rang from the Great Sept of Baelor, distant and slow. A warning, a call, or perhaps just the passing of time, Donnel wasn't sure which. Arthur had gone back to his parchments and ink. Donnell stood up and bid his lord goodnight.