Jory Cassel nearly breaks his neck twice hurling himself down the edge of the gorge, rushing by any path possible down the steep and jagged cliff. He had heard no scream, but the moment he had heard the wolf, his blood had stopped cold. Lying in the rocks along the river, he sees it now, huge and grey and looming, snarling out at all the world. At the wolf's feet, motionless, lies the water-logged form of Sansa Stark.

"Sansa!" he calls as he rushes forward, but Lady lunges forward with a bark and a snap of fearsome jaws, a fury never before seen in the docile wolf suddenly unleashed. Jory jumps back, slipping in the loose, wet stone along the shore and falling back.

"Lady… Lady, calm down," he lowers his voice, rolling over and slowly rising to a crouch. He cranes his neck to see if his lord's daughter is breathing. He sees blood, her small, pale face wrapped and obscured in tangled, drenched auburn hair, for near all the world looking a corpse save for the slightest hint of movement in her chest – In that sudden moment of relief, it is the most beautiful movement Jory has ever seen.

Crawling forward on his knees, one hand extended in submission to the wolf, he begs it to let him in. And finally, it withdraws, relaxing its stance and drawing back enough to let Jory reach the girl's body. He gently leans over her, brushing aside her hair to reveal an ugly, jagged cut across the top of her scalp that has bloodied her face as red as her hair. Tearing off his glove, he hovers one hand over her mouth, feeling the faintest of breaths push up against his bare hand.

"What's happened?" Ser Aron Santagar calls down from the cliffs above.

"Get help!" Jory shouts back up. As if the Dornishman can't plainly tell…

"Ride back like the wind, boy!" he hears Aron command his apprentice. Suddenly, he is aware of a third pair of eyes watching him. Turning back around, he sees Maris Hightower, her black dress stained with dirt but perfectly dry, sitting still as a statue. Between her legs a large grouse lies askew, skewered by an arrow.

"What happened?" Jory asks.

Maris shrugs. "She fell."

Edward had been mid-leap in Tessarion when a sudden burst of fear stabbed him like a knife. The training was going well, he had made the connection faster than Maester Gaheris had expected. But when he opened his eyes as his direwolf, it had felt different than when he had done it in his dreams. He had been in control. But control did not mean it was easy.

No longer dreaming, Edward had realized he was now all too aware of his own movements as the wolf, clumsily stumbling about on the rocks in the dragonpit, and feeling the pain of falling all too clearly. Slowly, he had adjusted, until suddenly he was back in the dark chamber beneath the Red Keep, looking up at Gaheris.

"What happened?" the maester asks.

"There was…" Edward reaches for words to describe the feeling but comes up short. "Something. Something was wrong. Like I was very afraid all of a sudden, but I didn't know why. It hurt. I lost my focus."

"Hmm…" Gaheris scratches his pointed auburn beard as he thinks, leaning back on his wooden stool. His face is nearly invisible, cast in shadow by the lone torch behind him. "Your wolf is one of a litter, one for each of your siblings?"

"Yes. There were six. And the runt, that went to Jon."

"Interesting. You see, much has been said in the ancient traditions of the First Men about the bond between a pack. They say that they can feel the pain and distress of their brother and sister wolf. And when such a creature is bonded to a man… There are tales of wolves, dogs as well, sensing the death of their master leagues away. Tell me, where are the other wolves now?"

"Well, Ghost would be at the Wall, with Jon. Grey Wind, Summer and Shaggydog at Winterfell. And Nymeria and Lady are in the Dragonpit," Edward finds himself missing his siblings. "Wait, no. Lady is with Sansa. They went hunting today with Ser Aron."

Edward cannot read the look on Gaheris' face in the shade, but the drop and his tone gives away his sudden concern. "I think you should go back now, lad."

"But I wanted…"

"No. Our lesson today is done. Return to your family." The maester gives no further explanation and he is left to reluctantly stumble his way back up the winding dark tunnels and stairs into the upper levels of the Keep and out into the yard. He is almost back to the tower when he is nearly run down by a crowd of Stark guards rushing up behind him.

"What's wrong?" he calls out, and one stops to turn back.

"Your sister's been hurt."

"I had a dream last night," Joffrey Baratheon hisses across the table at Peremore Hightower. The prince is hunched over on his elbows. By the dark marks under his eyes, it is clear he has not slept well in days. "I saw the stag. It was chasing me!"

"If you want a soothsayer to interpret your dreams, you are asking the wrong person, your grace," Peremore answers, stirring walnuts into his porridge.

"I don't care about that, I know what it means!" Joffrey struggles to keep his voice low, not wanting to attract the attention of the king and his companions at the head of the table. "It's taunting me! We've been following it in circles for days! I want its head and I want it now!"

"It's not that simple." Peremore's emotionless reservation only serves to irritate the prince more and he wrenches his attention back to savagely cutting up a bloody sausage. Meanwhile, Lyman Darry darts by with a fresh loaf of bread, still steaming from the fires. King Robert is in a merry mood this morning, and his appetite swells with his mood. In the chosen seat of honor by his side, Ser Urrigon Hightower remains his constant companion. The two huge men share the same loves of drink, food, fighting and women, making for inseparable companions.

"More wine, boy!" Robert bellows the moment Lyman hands off the bread. The loaf is in Urrigon's hands at once, the huge knight ignoring the piping heat to tear it open, sending flakes of crust flying to land in his bushy black beard. Lyman spins about on his heel to rush back to the table where the wine waits but stops, irritably, to see Tyrek Lannister already rushing up with a fresh goblet.

"I told you, that's not your job," he wrestles away the golden chalice away from the impertinent younger squire, careful not to spill a drop. He takes a quick sniff to ensure it is the proper cask, not the strongstuff Tyrek had tried to pour out for breakfast before. Confident in the scent, he dutifully delivers the drink to the king and has just turned away when Robert's deep voice halts him in his steps:

"Lyman! There is a fly in my wine!"

"A fly, your grace?" He slowly turns back around.

Urrigon guffaws as Lyman's face flushes red. "Best remember to keep the meat in the pudding, lad, not in the goblet!" He inches closer to the table, leaning over to examine the goblet extended in King Robert's hand. Sure enough, a fat, ugly fly floats on the crimson pool. But as he stares in disbelief, his shame begins to turn to anger. The fly is missing a wing.

"Is that how they take their wine in Darry?" Robert chortles. "Tyrek! Run and fetch a new flagon! And be sure there are no more surprises in it!"

Tyrek turns to run off as Lyman remains in place, frozen in silent fury. But the younger boy turns back for a split second as he turns back to offer the slightest, wicked grin of triumph before disappearing beyond.

Sansa awakes to a sudden sting as Septa Mordane changes the bandages on her head. Her vision begins to return slowly, the world a blurry haze around her. How long has she been asleep? She doesn't know. She barely remembers anything since the fall, but she knows that the Grand Maester had been here. He had given her milk of the poppy. And then she had slept. For a day? More? The sun is bright outside the window, that much is clear, and she squints as her vision becomes more clear.

She is alone in the room, save for the septa hovering nervously over the bandages and Lady, waiting patiently on the floor. She tries to rise, but pain shoots through every inch of her body.

"Don't move child, stay still," Septa Mordane chides her, rushing back in with a fresh bandage. Sansa pulls her head away, even that slightest of motions is painful.

"I want to see. I want to see what's wrong!"

"No, no dear," Mordane's weathered old hand pulls Sansa's head back into place, gentle but firm, and she resigns to the application of the bandage. When the septa is done she turns back to the door. "I'll only be gone a moment, dear." As she steps outside, Sansa hears Jory's voice and then… Lord Baelish! Their words are unclear, but when the septa speaks, again, there is no mistaking. "No, my lord, I've made it very clear. The young lady Stark is in no condition to take any visitors, no matter how well your wishes are!"

"No, Septa, it's alright!" Sansa strains her voice to make herself heard. "Let Lord Baelish in!"

More hushed tones stay muffled in the hall until the door creaks again. Lord Petyr Baelish steps in through the half-open door. He is dressed in a fine, slim tunic of black, trimmed with soft grey fur, the same color of the pale streaks running through his slicked back hair. Crocked carefully in one arm is a small, fragile-looking vase, colored a delicate purple and decorated with a pristine painting of a mockingbird among flowers. In the vase itself is a bouquet of irises and violets. He carefully sets it down on the table beside her bed. The strong aroma wafts over Sansa's face and she smiles. But Lady growls.

"Hush, Lady!" Sansa scolds the wolf. "Lord Baelish has brought us flowers!"

"Please, my dear," Baelish takes a seat on the end of the bed, between the girl and the wolf, lightly crosses his legs and leans in, smiling. "I abhor titles from friendly tongues. I am a friend, am I not? Call me Petyr, or my heart may break."

"Of course, Lord… Petyr," the informality is jarring on Sansa's tongue. "Thank you very much for the flowers. They are very beautiful."

"As befits you."

Suddenly, Sansa is very aware of the wound on her head. Her hand rises cautiously to feel the bandage. She looks up worried at Petyr. "How bad is it?

"It is but a scratch. You shall still be every bit as lovely as your mother, I swear." She is not sure she believes him, but she does not argue. "Have your siblings been in to see you?"

"No," Sansa answers abruptly. "Arya would only make things worse. And Edward… We haven't talked much lately." Though now, for all her effort, she can't remember why.

"Oh, I cannot bear to hear that!" Petyr insists, a look of grave concern darkening his face. He takes her hand in earnest. His own hands, she notes, are near as soft as hers, not at all like Father's. "Your family loves you, my dear. I fear I grew up without one. You must cherish it, it is your greatest gift. I know your dear parents would never want you to quarrel."

"Yes, I suppose so," Sansa nods, begrudgingly. She couldn't bear to think it herself, but somehow Petyr always has a way to make things sound more agreeable.

"Promise me you will waste no time in making amends with them," he points a slim finger at her in mock accusation. She nods as the sound of clumsy, pattering footsteps is heard in the hall. "In fact, I hear one coming now."

Petyr steps aside just as Arya comes barreling, in, slamming open the door and almost tripping over Lady. She eyes Petyr suspiciously as he steps away from the bed. "I'll leave you two alone. Have a lovely day, young ladies." With a bow and a smile he is gone, leaving only Arya to stand, scowling, at the foot of the bed.

"You went hunting and didn't take me." Her lip juts out in a spiteful pout.

"Aren't you going to ask how I am?" Sansa ignores the pain to sit up angrily, immediately forgetting Petyr's advice.

"Well, how are you?" Arya crosses her arms angrily, unmoving.

"I feel fine," Sansa smiles through gritted teeth. She refuses to let her sister think she is any weaker than she already does. "I only took a small tumble."

"Not by the looks of that bandage," Arya laughs harshly. "I bet you won't be pretty at all anymore when they take it off!"

"How dare…" Sansa shouts and lunges forward, but her voice is stopped by a wall of pain. Instead, her shout turns to a strangled gasp and she rolls over onto her side, head hanging over the side of the bed, feeling as if she is about to vomit all over the floor. But with no food to expel, she only feels burning, bitter bile rise up in her throat. Lady rushes to her side at once, rubbing the soft fur of her face and cold, wet nose up against her. Arya remains unimpressed by her sister's pain.

"It's not fair you get to have your wolf in the castle just because you got a stupid cut!"

"Your wolf could never stay in the castle! It's a savage, just like you," Sansa hisses, wrapping her arms around Lady's neck for support. "Lady is good and gentle and would never hurt anyone. She saved my life."

"Well, maybe if you weren't so good and gentle you wouldn't have fallen off a cliff!"

"What have you ever hunted before? I killed a grouse!"

"Where is it?"

Where is it? Sansa suddenly realizes she does not know. And in that pause, she smells the scent of the flowers in the vase and remembers Petyr's words. Arya is family. And I should be better than her. She's just a stupid, silly little girl.

"Arya, I'm sorry," she rolls back up onto the pillows. "I am in a great deal of pain and have not slept well. I should not have been so cross. Thank you for coming to see me."

Arya pauses, uncertain of what to say. She remains in place at the foot of the bed, arms crossing tighter and fists clenching. Lady tilts her head, as if waiting for a response. And then Septa Mordane slips in through the open door.

"Girls, is everything alright?"

"Yes, septa," Arya answers abruptly, and marches back out into the hall.

"Are you sure?" Mordane turns to Sansa. "Jory said he heard shouting, but I think he was much too afraid to get between the two of you. You mustn't upset yourself, so. You'll tear your bandages." She moves to the bedside to inspect the wrapping, but is distracted by the vase. He old nose curls up at the smell.

"I know," Sansa says. "I'm trying to be better. But I'm fine now."

"If you insist," the septa leave her be. "And what of Edward?"

"Not now," she shakes her head. One sibling is enough for one day. "Maybe tomorrow."

"Very well." Mordane nods and Sansa cannot tell whether or not she approves. "I'll be back for dinner, and then to say your prayers."

"Thank you, septa." At that, Mordane leaves as silently as she entered, softly closing the door behind her. She catches a fleeting glimpse of Lady as she leaves, the wolf's eyes not leaving her until she is blocked from view. She makes her way back down the hall and down the stairs to the solar, where the three men with which she has been unwillingly forced together in the guarding of the Stark children await – Jory Cassel, Syrio Forel and Yorren, of the Night's Watch.

"Is the wolf still there?" Yorren grumbles.

"Indeed it is," she shudders. "The beast refuses to leave her side."

"It protects its master," Syrio smiles with a twist of his mustache. "What you do with bandages, she does with fangs. I would think you would appreciate such help. It is an awesome creature. Syrio Forel saw many wild beasts in the menagerie of the sea lord, but none like that."

"It is a dark thing that has no place in this city, much less a child's bedroom," Mordane scoffs.

"On that, at least, we can agree," Yorren harrumphs up from folded arms.

"What, scared of a little wolf are we, you old corw?" Jory smirks.

"I've seen what a direwolf can do to a man," the watchman finally looks up at the captain with cold, haunted eyes. "Their place is beyond the wall, with all the other monsters. One killed three of my brothers on a ranging. Would have killed me too, but it got bored. I'll never forget the look in its eyes, the last glance it gave me before it disappeared into the snow. That was the last time I ever went behind the wall. Because I knew if I stepped on its land again, I was next."

A chilling hush falls over the room, as if the wind of the Far North itself has blown in through the window. Even Syrio seems at a loss for words.

"Lady pulled Sansa from the river," Jory finally breaks the silence. "That's all I need to know. She stays here until m'lady is ready for her to leave."

Back in the quiet confines of her bed, Sansa grimaces as she tucks her knees up close to her chest, staring down past the foot of the bed to where Lady lies, basking in the light from the window. She catches the eyes of the wolf and stares deep into the dark pools. And somehow she realizes – she knows what it like to be on the other side of those eyes. A shiver colder than the north wind runs down the length of her spine as slowly… she remembers.

And for the first time since their fight, she wishes Father were here.

For a few brief moments, the rain has finally let up in the Riverlands, but the grey clouds keep the sky as gloomy as ever, a foul mood as Ned Stark sloshes through the deep puddles left in their camp with Lord Raymun Darry at his side. His men Harwyn and Alyn hurry close behind as they march to Lord Beric Dondarrion's tent.

"It was highly irregular for Beric to bring them to his own tent," Lord Darry grumbles, his bowl-cut hair unruly, as if he had just rolled out of bed, which he had. The word had come with the call for breaking fast that Beric's outriders had rescued three Tully men and taken prisoner several reavers from the Mountain's band.

"Lord Beric may take them wherever he pleases," Ned insists, "so long as we are there to question them."

Two men-at-arms in Dondarrion colors are waiting for them at the tent, and swing open the flaps so they might enter. Ned quickly takes stock of those present, it appears the rest of his captains have already arrived – Lord Mallery, scowling as always, Ser Gladden Wylde, Ser Karyl Vance, Ser Marq Piper, Thoros of Myr and Lord Beric himself. Young Edric Dayne stands at attention in the corner of the room.

There are five strangers present – three free - guardsmen in Tully colors - and two badly beaten, hanging with their hands tied to the strong crossbeam of the tent. They are dressed in rags, with no means of loyalty clear.

"These men attacked you?" Ned turns to the emissaries of Riverrun. The oldest, a tall, gaunt, sour-looking man steps forward to answer.

"They and five others, my lord, the rest all are dead. We killed two ourselves, the rest were done in by Lord Beric's riders." The old man grasps Ned's forearm with a grip beyond his age. "Utherdyes Wayn, Steward of Riverrun. We lost two of our own good men."

"And you are sure they are with the Mountain's band?" Ned turns back to the prisoners.

"That should be easy enough to determine," Karyl Vance steps forward, pulling a dagger from his belt.

"For truth!" Marq Piper follows. "They don't look so tough!"

"No," Ned holds up a hand to stop them both and instead walks closer to the prisoners himself. One of them is unconscious, but the other, a young man with long, sandy hair in a heavy, dripping coat glares at him defiantly. Ned pulls away at the dark cloak, revealing a yellow surcoat with three black dogs underneath. He had not expected even the Mountain's men to be so brazen. "I don't expect you shall deny this?"

"Why should I?" the prisoner smiles, revealing white but blood-stained teeth. His voice is soft, like a singer's, but cruel. "You can call me Raff, good lord. My merry brothers and I are only seeking justice for the poor son of our dearly beloved Lord of Lannister."

"Do you know to whom you speak, fool?" Harwyn lurches forward, but Ned stops him from striking Raff. "This is Lord Eddard Stark, the Hand of the King!"

For a moment, Raff pauses and finally sees the iron pin on Ned's collar. His smile widens and he begins to laugh. "By the gods it's you! You came yourself! What, did you not trust any lowly knight to save your lovely wife from the Mountain's lance?"

That time, Ned does not stop fast enough, and Harwyn's fist crushes Raff's nose, splattering blood. "Bastard!"

"Harwyn! Stand down!" Ned commands. His guard retreats and Ned reaches out to raise the prisoner's slouched head, praying he is still awake. He is, and he chuckles under his breath. Ned recoils at the scent of mint mixed with blood.

"If this is what your master believes to be justice, he will be sorely disappointed." Ned turns away, anger beginning to boil up inside. "He has nothing to avenge. Tyrion Lannister is already released from Riverrun. This bloody game of yours is over, and you and the rest will hang for it!"

But as he stalks back out of the tent, Utherdyes pulls him aside.

"My lord," the old man whispers, "the Imp was never at Riverrun."

So Leyla Hightower was truthful after all. "Very well then. I trust my letter explained the matter?"

"Letter?" a confused look crosses the steward's face. "We received no letter from you, my lord."

Ned stops for a moment. Perhaps it is only a coincidence. But he remembers the warnings, warnings from Littlefinger, Barristan, Leyla, even Robert – No one at court can be trusted.

"Harwyn! Hurry back and have my wax prepared. Ser Marq, Ser Karyl, I will need riders to the nearest castle! I need four letters sent at once." Something is wrong, very wrong. Ned can feel it in his bones. But he can fix it, he knows. Four letters – To Catelyn in the Eyrie, to Robb in Winterfell, to Lord Tywin in Castlery Rock and the last to the Red Keep, with a prayer that King Robert has returned from the hunt.

White cape hanging limply upon his shoulders, Lord Commander Barristan Selmy limps to his seat at the Small Council chamber. In the past, he had been first to arrive to such meetings. Now, his slowly healing wounds hobbling his every step, he finds the rest of the counsellors already comfortable in their seats, four pairs of eyes turning to greet him in turn – Varys, Pycelle, Littlefinger and Renly.

They think me a weak old man, he reads on their faces. And maybe they're right. Maybe the Kingslayer has killed me after all. What good am I as a crippled knight? How can I protect the king if I cannot walk? These last days he has felt as a ghost whenever he walks about the castle. And yet, as he settles into his seat with a grunt, Barristan forces a smile across his weathered face and remembers his vows, both to the king and to Ned Stark.

"Lord Commander, it is good to see you are healing well," Littlefinger purrs.

"Thank you, Lord Baelish," Barristan begrudgingly returns the greeting. He has never cared for the Master of Coin, and has little need for his patronizing feigned sincerity. Had it gone his way, the Kingslayer would have left me gutted in the street, he thinks.

"Your wounds seem to be healing well," Grand Maester Pycelle nods, unsurprisingly determined to take credit for the recovery.

"Enough well-wishes," Barristan waves away any more formalities. "Let us begin."

The seats belonging to the King and the Hand are both conspicuously empty once more, as they had been during King Robert's long journey to Winterfell and back. But the realm had been at peace then. Now? The gods had not blessed them quite so well.

"The birds are twittering quite gravely in the West, ser," Varys is the first to speak, as always. "The Lannister banners are gathering. It appears that the Mountain's reaving was only a warning. Lord Tywin means to take his son back by force. And in the North, the Stark banners are said to be summoned as well. Young Robb seems prepared to sound the drums of war."

"Has Lord Eddard anything to do with this?" Barristan asks.

"He has been on the march. I doubt he has sent any word to his son."

"He is the king's Hand," Barristan muses. Surely this cannot be truly happening. But bloody wars have been fought for less. He himself has been sent to kill for less. "He acts with his grace's authority in apprehending Ser Gregor and his men. If Lord Tywin interferes with that task, it would be an act of war against the throne."

"It is absurd to suggest that Lord Tywin would take up arms against his king!" Grand Maester Pycelle blusters, the chains rattling around his neck.

"And yet what then do you propose he is doing with his men, Grand Maester?" Littlefinger smirks. "Taking them for a waltz?"

"Well, then, what of Robb Stark?" Pycelle coughs. "He too is preparing for war. Will you call him rebel as well?"

"Enough bickering," Barristan commands. "There will be no war!"

For a moment, there is silence, until Varys' mouth opens again. "I dare not speak it into truth, but if Lord Tywin does rise in rebellion against the crown…" his eyes flit across the table as if judging the reaction of each member. "The grand bulk of the castle guards are Lannister men. The City Watch paid with Lannister gold. Who will these men fight for? The Iron Throne or Castlery Rock?"

"I have thought that same question," Renly speaks, to Barristan's surprise. "I believe we should request retainer troops from Lord Tyrell. His loyalty is unquestioned."

"Why not summon your own men from Storm's End?" Pycelle asks. "Or your brother's from Dragonstone?"

"Do you plan to swim to Dragonstone yourself to summon Stannis?" Littlefinger smirks. "I concur with Lord Renly. Baratheon men would be seen as a sign of aggression. But House Tyrell would ensure legitimacy to our authority."

"Legitimacy?" Barristan recoils indignantly. "The throne's authority is absolute! Lord Stark speaks for the king, and the king does not need Mace Tyrell to make him right!"

"And yet, good ser, the stag is not alone on the royal banner," Varys adds. "There is a lion there as well. If, and I pray to the gods it will not come to it, the lords are called to choose between the two, it would be wise to already have the roses on our side."

"And what of the Hightowers? Where do they stand? There are enough of them in the city already."

"Unless Lord Leyton descends from his tower, they will take no sides," Varys maintains.

Barristan sighs heavily and pauses to rub his brow, a headache beginning to form along the ridge of his temple. But he stops himself, he must not look weak. "Very well. Lord Renly, discreetly contact Lord Tyrell about this matter. But do not tell him why. I will not have us birth a war by trying to prevent one."

And so they move on, with talk of crime and coin and trade and crops. Barristan knows he should heed it all, but the pain in his head grows as his thoughts wonder and turn to worry. Not again, he tells himself. Not another war. It cannot be allowed.

Before long the meeting is over, and one by one the councilors file out, as if it is an ordinary summer afternoon, as if the threat of bloodshed and destruction has not been lowered over their heads. All save the Lord Commander, in his white armor, still sitting alone when all others are gone. I will not see another war, he vows. No matter what it takes to stop it.

Edward's brush spins in tones of pale pink and white as the light blob on the canvas before him. He sits perched atop a wooden stool on a balcony overlooking the godswood, soaking up the precious sunlight as he tends to his work. Most portrait painters he knew had to have their subjects stand in front of him for days. But from the moment he's picked up a brush, Edward had been able to paint nearly perfectly from memory. And that is how he would paint his sister.

He has hovered close by Sansa since the accident, but never dared go in. She was angry with him. The first day she had said she did not want to see him. And part of him feels he deserves it. He should have been with her, he thinks. She had asked him to help her hunt and he had ignored her. And now, he heard the whispers, she would be scarred like him.

Pushing those feelings deep down, a habit he has become all too skilled at, he focuses on his painting. When at last his sister does summon him, he wants it to be ready. Lost in his work, he does not hear two light sets of feet approach the balcony.

"Is that your sister?" Princess Myrcella asks, and Edward almost falls off his stool. Flailing to catch balance, a thick glob of red paint flicks back off his brush and onto his face. Turning to face the princess, he frantically attempts to rub it clean with the back of his hand, but only managed to smear it.

"Yes," he nods, seeing that Rosamund Lannister is with her. "Sansa."

"I should hope so," Myrcella laughs. "Arya certainly doesn't have red hair! We were going to see her, I thought you might like to come along."

"I…" Edward doesn't know if he is ready. "Do you think it's good?"

Myrcella glances again at the canvas. "Well, it certainly isn't finished."

"I could paint one of you, if you'd like!"

"Oh… I don't know," Myrcella shrugs. "Mother has forced me to pose for so many…"

"I think I will go with you!" Edward blurts out in a brash decision. He follows the girls back out into the hall, but despite all of the things he wants to say to the princess, they make their passage for the most part in silence. He is terrified of being the first to speak, and any thoughts Myrcella has she is content to keep to herself. Rosamund, of course, rarely talks at all. Edward kicks himself all the way for not opening his mouth, but fear of making a fool keeps his tongue locked in a vise.

When they reach Sansa's room in the Tower of the Hand, they find Septa Mordane blocking the door, her stern old eyes looking down skeptically. She peaks her head back into the room.

"Lady Sansa, the princess and young Rosamund are here to see you. And your brother."

First a pause, then… "Send them in, septa."

The three children enter slowly, unsure of what to expect. Lady is curled at the foot of the bed and Jeyne Poole sits by the side, her eyes red and swollen from a fount of tears, curled in on herself to seem even smaller than usual. Sansa seems to be asleep, and Edward almost gasps when he sees the heavy bandages covering half of her face.

"Sansa…" Myrcella is the first to speak. "Sansa, how are you feeling? We brought you flowers from the godswood." Rosamund silently holds up a thin clay vase with a sparse, freshly-picked bouquet. Jeyne hastily snatches it to place on the table, dwarfed by Petyr Baelish's gift.

"Thank you," Sansa leans up in bed to see them. She smiles, forced, Edward can tell. "You're too kind. I hope you have not worried too much for me."

"Only enough worry and prayer to bring you healing," Myrcella moves close to the side of the bed. Edward loves the way she uses words, everything she says is like a poem to him. "We've all heard how brave you were. The Warrior must have watched over you in the river."

"No, it was Lady!" Sansa answers, quickly. "And… and The Warrior too, I suppose."

"Of course. The old gods and the new. That is what your lord father says, isn't it?"

Sansa nods and then coughs, sending Jeyne rushing to fetch her a cup of water.

"Were you hurt very badly?" Rosamund asks, her eyes unable to pull away from the bandage. Jeyne brusquely pushes the small girl aside as she returns with the water.

"No, no, it's just a scratch," Sansa gently lifts the cup to her lips and swallows the cold water. "Thank you for coming. We must talk more later but I'm afraid I'm still very tired."

"Of course," Myrcella backs away and curtsies. "Come along, Rosamund." The younger girl flinches as they walk past Lady. Edward turns to follow them back, but Sansa stops him.

"Jeyne, you can go as well. But Edward, I want you to stay."

Jeyne reluctantly sulks out of the room, lurching around a shocked Edward where he has stopped in the doorway. He turns back to see Sansa fully sit up and carefully place the cup on the table beside the flowers. She beckons him nearer.

"Ed… You remember what you told me about you and Tessarrion? The dreams that you were having?"

Why does she want to talk about this now, he thinks, slowly stepping to the bed. Does she know that I've been training with Maester Gaheris?

"Has it happened since then?" she asks. He nods. "Do you really think it's real? Do you think you're a warg?"

"I… Maybe? I don't know." What does she want? Gaheris had made him swear not to tell anyone. He knew that the septons of old had burned wargs for sorcery.

"What does it feel like?" She asks, motioning him to come closer and closer still until he finds himself sitting on the edge of the bed. "When you're in Tessarion, what do you feel?"

"It's hard to explain…" He's never put it to words before. "Why?"

"Because… Because I think I'm one too. I'm a warg, Edward." This time, Edward's jaw does drop. Sansa continues, her voice both excited and quivering with fear. "When I fell in the river, I don't know how but my mind… I was inside of Lady. I saw myself, floating in the river, bleeding and drowning. It was the most horrible thing in the world! But somehow I knew what to do. I, well, Lady jumped into the water, and pulled me free. I pulled myself free! And when I woke up I was myself again and I don't know how and I don't know why and I don't understand. I need you to help me understand!"

"I don't think I understand myself," Edward turns away but Sansa leans forward and wraps her arms around him, pulling him close. Her long auburn hair falls over his face.

"Please, Edward. There's no one else I can tell. I'm afraid. What if someone finds out?"

"The lone wolf dies but the pack survives." The words return to him all at once.

"I wish Father were here. He would know what to do."

I wish so too, Edward thinks, but his wishes will help nothing. "I have a book."

"A book?"

"Yes. I… It's about wargs and the ways of the First Men. Maester Gaheris gave it to me, he's studied it a lot, he…" Edward pauses. Should he tell? He must. She has to know. Maybe the maester would even train Sansa, too! It could be their own secret, together.

"Oh, Edward," she pulls him tighter, and he realizes she is beginning to cry. "I never should have been so cross with you. It was silly, and stupid and…"

"No, no," he hugs her back and suddenly he is beginning to cry as well. "I should have helped. I shouldn't have let you go."

"Oh, Ed, what are we going to do?" Sansa sighs. "We can never be cross again, swear it! Not now. We're special. We have to stick together."

"I love you."

"I know. I love you too, Ed. Just stay right here. I'll never let you go."