EDDARD

"Do you remember the lad's father?" Robert asked, belching at the end of the question. Drunk, he waved his hands a lot during conversations. The wine in the skin in his hand sloshed and spilled on the lap of one of the Lannister squires. The sellsword grinned at the growing stain. Smiling. Ever smiling.

"He sang in your bloody feast for me!" Robert chuckled. "The lad sang when Tommen had his nameday. And I think he's been in some other tourneys. Now he's traded his woodharp for a bow!"

The idea amused Robert. On cue, the Lannister squires tittered, albeit warily. The sellsword's smile grew and now his eyes gleamed with something that unsettled Ned. All sellswords looked unworthy but something about the youth made Ned touch the hilt of his dagger. The boy caught him in the act. He did not look frightened. In fact he seemed to find it hilarious.

"He's surprisingly skilled for a whoreson," Robert continued, his words even more slurred. The king let out a hiccup that shook his jowls and caused him to spill more wine on Lancel Lannister. The poor lad tried to look like he did not mind, but the stain had spread to his crotch. The red was a stark contrast against his white breeches, and it gave him the appearance that he was a boy who had moon's blood. The sellsword's shoulders shook slightly from holding in laughter. "He's better than any of my bowmen." Robert clapped the boy's back with a meaty hand. "And all of them are much older than the lad."

The bow in his hand, Ned guessed, was his own. It was painted gold and so slim it looked like it could snap at the squeeze of a hand. But appearances were deceiving. Ned had seen the boy in the practice yard before Robert summoned him in. It was either the bow was cleverly made or its master was just incredibly skilled in archery. Each arrow he'd notched and loosed found its target. His prowess in the art had even drawn a small crowd, most of them women who'd doted on the comely lad as soon as he'd stepped foot in King's Landing.

Even his own daughter had feelings for the boy. Ned had overheard Sansa and her friend Jeyne arguing about the sellsword's age. He had not even been a day in King's Landing and yet both girls had thought of marrying him. They were only childish whims to Ned's relief. Comely he might be but the boy was just a common sellsword and was probably only the product of a whore and a hedge knight. Sansa could not be so blind as to not see how lowborn he was.

But even commoners had names. "Theon," the boy responded as soon as the question left Ned's lips. His turquoise eyes flashed with something akin to malice. "My name's Theon, m'lord."

Theon. Something nagged at him, telling him that the name was important and so was its owner. But the answer seemed to be trapped behind a wall of glass. There but out of his reach.

There were things more important than the identity of a common sellsword, he decided. He turned to the king. "Robert, I have to talk to you." He made sure that alone was underneath the words. With a wave of one of his plump hands, the squires and Theon left the room. But Ned doubted they were truly alone. Varys and his little birds were always near at hand. Well, what he had to say Varys undoubtedly knew already. And had Littlefinger and the others not gone out, Ned would have told them what was troubling him.

"I wish Joffrey could be more like that boy," Robert said. He shook his head sadly. "My son's a stranger to me, Ned. The lad's father's lucky to have him. That's why I hired the boy to keep an eye on Joff, maybe teach him a thing or two. He's a good sword as well, you know."

Joffrey Baratheon was a brat but Ned doubted he could be as dangerous as Theon. "I don't trust him. And once he's paid by someone richer, he'll leave your service. He's still a sellsword, after all."

"Ned, you never trust anyone. You Starks and your cautious arses." He offered Ned some wine which he politely refused. "I've gotten to know the boy at Tommen's nameday and I find him trustworthy. And what would Tywin Lannister do with a lad like him? He's already got Gregor Clegane for defense."

He downed the last of his wine. "So what is it that you have to say?" the king asked, wiping his mouth with a sleeve. "I bloody hope it's not about your daughter's wolf."

Lady. Ned had had her buried in Winterfell. Even now, Sansa would not look at him. He wanted to tell her that it was not his wish, that it was the queen's command and the queen had Robert wrapped around her little finger. But Ned knew that Sansa wouldn't listen to him. She was only a little girl who wanted to marry a boy who would someday be king. Love blinded all.

"It's not about Lady," Ned replied. "I hear Victarion Greyjoy's having some trouble. The Silence was seen near the Iron Islands."

Robert snorted. Ned had expected that. "Leave the Greyjoys be, Ned. It's been years and none of the squids have raised their arms against us. Even now they're still repairing their rock."

"Euron Greyjoy is a dangerous man, Robert," Ned argued. It was not about the children. Yet even as he talked the scene of the battle flew to his mind. Maron and Rodrik had not been killed by Ice yet Ned felt as if he had done the job. And the little ones. Ned had learned that Asha Greyjoy was alive and well at Harlaw with their mother. Victarion would keep her safe and give the Seastone Chair to her sons, seeing as he had none of his own. It was the boy Ned felt guilty for. Had the tower not burned, Ned would have made the child his ward. Alannys had gone mad after the deaths of her three sons and shortly after the rebellion, Balon threw himself off one of the bridges connecting the towers—a death that Ned was sure had something to do with the Crow's Eye. Robert felt no guilt, of course. The bodies of Rhaenys and Aegon Targaryen had been laid at his feet and Robert had only shown indifference whereas Ned could not tear his eyes away from the bloody pulp that was the prince's head. What was another dead child to a man who'd been killing before his time?

"Victarion isn't daft enough to let his brother seat their chair," Robert answered. There was finality to his voice. "Their problem isn't ours."

"By rights Euron should be on it because he's older. But I agree that you'd be stupid to let that man near any throne. Since Balon sent him away, Euron's been plundering in the Free Cities in his ship of mutes and mongrels. Some of Victarion's men are beginning to grumble that Euron might be a better king than him. They're hungry. Most of the Iron Islands haven't recovered from the battle—"

"It isn't our problem, Ned!" Robert growled. "They can join their Drowned God for all I care."

Ned sighed. Robert had a point, though. There were more pressing matters, the debt to the Iron Bank for example. He pushed the Greyjoys out of his mind and settled for coin.

MANCE'S

King's Landing had not changed. The smell of the city was familiar and Theon was able to adjust to the summer heat without difficulty. The streets were busy with oxcarts and gold cloaks, most of whom swore at the little children that ran amok. He passed by a brothel that was alive with the laughter of whores and customers. A woman with straw-colored hair leaned out a window, her bodice unlaced and revealing her heavy breasts. She sang down to Theon, offering company and the heat between her legs. Theon smiled and blew her a kiss. But he would do no more. Not yet, anyway.

He sat on a barrel and waited. Soon enough, he heard the sound of men shouting orders. The crowd parted and Joffrey Baratheon rode past him. The prince's brows furrowed and there was a scowl on his pouty lips. His hand was wrapped in silk cloth; a bite from a direwolf, Theon had learned. The prince's sworn shield, the dog Sandor Clegane, rode behind him, his helm under one arm. The blackened flesh of one side of his face fascinated and disgusted Theon at the same time. A burned man was not a mystery to him. In the wild, their dead were burned to prevent them from coming back to life. But it was the first time Theon had ever seen a living man sporting burned flesh.

"Your Grace?" Theon had approached him when Joffrey dismounted. The prince stared at him suspiciously. He looks like the Kingslayer. The boy was golden-haired and green-eyed, his build as sinewy as his uncle's. Or father's. Incest is not an uncommon thing. Craster himself had proved that.

The Hound moved in front of Joffrey. "What is it?" he muttered gruffly. His eyes narrowed at the bow that was slung across his back and at the dirk at his belt. Robert had instructed him to watch out for the two princes, an ironic thing, really. The younger of the two was in the library with Grand Maester Pycelle. He was of no interest to Theon. This one however was the one who's throat he would slit while under the guise as his protector. Him and his father, then Lord Stark and his son.

"I have my dog," the prince scorned. "I don't need you."

"The king has commanded it."

Stupid king, Theon thought. Killing him was easy. The boy, too, even though he had his sworn shield. It was Lord Stark Theon was wary of. Both Baratheons had soft heads, but the Starks were a cunning folk and constantly vigilant.

"I'll tell my mother—"

"The queen is a busy woman and would be pleased to see how many men are concerned for the safety of her child."

Joffrey muttered something about already being near a man grown, but Theon paid no attention to it. He trailed after the prince, a little behind Sandor Clegane who growled at him menacingly. It made him remember Rattleshirt and he sniggered, earning glares from the two. "Shut up or I'll have Ser Ilyn cut your tongue," the prince threatened. When Theon refused to drop his smile, Joffrey ordered the Hound to knock his teeth in.

"Do it and you're dead," Theon told the man. The Hound was taller and broader of build but Theon had learned strength from the wildings and speed from Braavos, where Mance had made him stay for a year. A wise Braavosi had trained him how to learn of a man's fears with a glance. The Hound's was easy to figure out—anyone with a burn like that would fear fire for life. Theon stared at him until Clegane lowered his fist. "Apologies, Your Grace, but the King Robert hired me as a sworn sword, not a whipping boy."

Joffrey gritted his teeth but said nothing. He's afraid of me. The Hound continued to scowl. The Hound isn't, but at least he sees I'm not a weakling.

They reached the Red Keep. Joffrey turned to him. "I'm in the castle and I have my dog. Go bother someone else. I'll have need of you when I leave these gates."

"As you command, Your Grace." Theon walked away, his hand on his dagger. He could feel their eyes on him, even when they were out of sight. He would keep close watch on Joffrey. And when the time was right he could arrange an accident.

There were guards everywhere but none of them seemed to be at their stations. A squire, one of those who'd watched him at the targets, waved at him. His stableboy friend grinned at Theon. The smile faded into amazement. Theon craned his head to the sky where people where pointing at a grey eagle. It could have been any eagle but these were not common in King's Landing. Theon whistled and the eagle spun in a circle. Orell is watching me. Theon grimaced, hating Mance for it. Does he think I will fail him?

An arrow flew, all of a sudden, missing the eagle by an inch. The bird cried furiously before disappearing behind the turrets.

"Seven hells." A boy. No, a girl. Theon saw how the hips curved and noticed how the features were softer. She could be no more than ten but she already held a bow and had a quiver of arrows across her back. A slim sword that appeared to be a miniature of the Braavosi ones was at her belt.

Stark, Theon thought. The child had the long face, wary grey eyes, and dark brown hair of her father. Lord Stark had brought along his two daughters. She was undoubtedly one of them.

"You shouldn't have done that, my lady." The title was all wrong. Theon had been raised by wildings and fostered by Braavosi, but he knew that high born ladies didn't wear dirty riding leathers. Nor were they barefoot and had unkempt hair.

The child stared at him defiantly, but her eyes widened when she saw his bow. "That's a different kind of bow." She grinned. "Are you the one they're talking about? The really good archer?"

"Yes. And you're Lord Stark's eldest daughter."

"I'm Arya." She lifted her foot and scratched it. "And I'm the younger one. That's Sansa." She pointed her finger at a group of girls gathered around a singer less talented than Theon. One of them had the same coloring as Arya but her finger was pointed at the girl next to the brunette. The sister was a girl of eleven, tall for her age with fair skin and long auburn hair. Theon nearly dropped his bow when she turned her head, revealing her face to him.

"My lady?" Theon swallowed. "Who are your siblings?"

"There's six of us. I'm nine, Sansa's eleven. Bran's seven, Rickon's four, and Robb and Jon are fourteen. Shouldn't you know that? Even peasants know that."

Seven hells. Theon pinched the bridge of his nose. Sansa Stark was a female version of Robb Stark. The same Robb Theon had slept with outside the Last Hearth. The same Robb Theon had become a little fond of. Robb who was kissed by fire was the boy Theon was planning to kill.

Arya tugged at his sleeve. "What's wrong?" she asked. "Do you need a maester?"

"I'm fine," he lied. I fucked a fucking Stark. The thought would not leave him.

"Can you teach me how to shoot an arrow? Syrio's already teaching me the water dance but I want to learn long range."

"Not now." He brushed her off. "I have a lot of things to deal with."

He didn't know where he was going. He pushed men aside, ignoring their angry calls and jests. His dirk seemed to dig into his hip, reminding him of its presence. Robb. Theon thought of his face, of the way he bit his lip when he was nervous. He remembered how much fun he'd had that night, how it felt like he wasn't just a quick fuck. And he remembered cutting off a bit of Robb's hair. Theon had held on to it for weeks until the pouch got lost on one of their hunts.

I can't kill him. I can kill everyone else but not him.

He stopped walking. He found himself back inside the castle, facing a tapestry that bore the sigil of House Baratheon. Someone was walking toward him. Theon froze at the flowery scent that permeated his nose.

"They say 'what is dead may never die' in the Iron Islands."

The man was still bald and smelling of lilacs. He smiled at Theon, his powdered hands clasped over his stomach. Theon's fingers twitched and moved to the hilt of his dirk.

"My little birds were correct in saying we had a guest. You look like your Uncle Euron, my lord, but because he's been gone for so long no one can find out who you are. I'm so glad I have sources everywhere. The Silence dropped by Pentos a hundred times already."

Theon licked his lips. "You took me from the tower. Who are you?"

The man giggled. "My name is Vary and I am but a mere spider, Theon Greyjoy." His eyes widened at the dirk. "Careful, my lord. My little birds are always watching and one word of your arrival can spoil all your plans.

"I'm so happy you're alive. Balon's only living son. I curse the man who failed to take you away but praise the man who raised you as his pawn. You're…father is a good man. You've grown up handsome, talented, and skilled at arms. But you're still a pawn."

"Where did you plan to take me?" Theon grabbed the front of his silken robes. Varys stared at him nervously. "All those years ago…Where?"

Varys giggled again, his voice sounding not unlike a girl's. "To your sister."

"My sister is dead."

"And you were, too. But krakens are harder to kill than lions, stags, and direwolves."

NOTE: Ugh, too short for my liking but I'm so tired (just finished with my third day of college). I won't be writing Willas and Aegon until the middle which is kind of a bum because I like writing Jon and Aegon's POVS.