Mid August, 298 AC
Eddard rubbed his forehead, suppressing a groan of frustration. His headache had been building all day, and his temper grew shorter with each pulse of pain. He stared unseeing at the ribs on his plate.
"Father?" Sansa said, her sweet voice concerned.
Ned looked up to see four faces looking at him. Septa Mordane's lips were pursed, as they often were. Sansa and Jeyne's eyes were wide, and even Arya, who sat between the two older girls, looked curious.
"Is what Jory said true? There's to be a tourney?" Sansa asked, nearly glowing with excitement. The pain in his head pulsed again.
"Yes, there will be a tourney to honor the new Hand, despite the Hand's distaste for the entire business," Ned told his daughters.
"May we go? Please?" Sansa begged, her sweet face glowing with excitement.
Eddard paused. Sometimes he forgot how young Sansa was. Despite her delicate manners and queenly bearing, she was just 11. She knew nothing of young men killed in their first joust, of old men slaughtered by opponents who took advantage of their weaknesses with no regard for honor. And all for the sake of glory, of prize money, of the cheers of the crowds. A bloody folly.
"Please, father?" Arya said, interrupting his thoughts.
Eddard turned to look at her sharply. His daughters' behavior since Darry had been strange. They had often ridden near each other in the column, speaking quietly. Though Sansa and Arya still bickered fairly constantly at meals, there was less intensity in their little quarrels.
Moreover, odd things kept happening. He had walked into a meal very late the previous week to find Sansa and Arya leaving together, whispering. Jeyne had still been at the table with Septa Mordane, looking confused and abandoned. Septa Mordane reported that while Arya was still sullen during needlework, ever since her bandages had come off Sansa had taken to helping Arya fix her stitches.
A small part of him wished he had asked Catelyn to stay. She had been young once, she surely understood the peculiarities of young girls far better than he did.
"Lord Hand?" Septa Mordane prompted.
Sansa looked at him, her blue eyes hopeful. She hadn't looked this excited about anything since Lady's death. Arya didn't look excited, but her stare was determined. Eddard sighed. If both girls were united on something, perhaps he best encourage it.
"You may attend," Eddard said gravely. "But I expect you to be on your best behavior."
"Fine. It'll be boring anyway," Arya grumbled. Jeyne rolled her eyes.
"The finest knights and squires from all the realm will be there. Maybe you could learn something by watching them, since you're so eager to make trouble playing with swords."
Sansa and Arya froze, then turned and looked at Jeyne. Eddard could nearly feel the rage pouring from both of his girls. Arya stood up, her fists clenched, but Sansa rose gracefully from her seat and stood between Arya and Jeyne.
"How dare you?" Sansa growled quietly. Eddard blinked. Since when did his ladylike daughter use such a tone of voice?
"Sansa!" Septa Mordane chided.
"You will apologize to my sister for your lack of courtesy."
Jeyne stared in disbelief.
"I... apologize for my discourtesy," Jeyne stammered at last, curtsying. She glanced up at Sansa, looking hurt.
"He was my friend," Arya mumbled, her eyes filling with tears as she fled the hall.
Sansa looked at Jeyne, then the doorway through which Arya had fled, then at her father. She seemed torn. Yet another oddity. Had he ever seen Sansa take Arya's side against Jeyne before?
"I'll go after Arya," Eddard said, sighing.
Unsurprisingly, Arya had fled to her room. Very surprisingly, she had a sword. What was going on in his household?
After a long conversation with Arya, and a quick moment with Jory to instruct him to find a Braavosi instructor, Eddard finally made his way back to his chambers, completely exhausted. He had just started taking off his clothes when someone rapped at his door.
"Gods be good," Eddard groaned, making himself decent before opening the door.
Septa Mordane stood there, as proper as ever in her grey septa's garb.
"My Lord Hand," she said, curtsying. Eddard waved impatiently for her to stand up.
"I've handled Arya. Is something wrong?"
"My lord, when Sansa and Arya came to dinner today, Sansa's finger was bleeding. She denies that Arya had anything to do with it- Sansa claimed she cut her finger on a thorn in the godswood. Last week, Sansa bled on her afternoon needlework, and said she'd pricked her finger on the needle."
Eddard stared, tired and bewildered.
"Please get to the point, Septa Mordane. It has been a long and trying day," Eddard said, trying to ignore the pain in his temples.
"Sansa hasn't pricked herself while sewing since she was practically a babe," Septa Mordane said sternly. "I find it very odd that she keeps injuring her finger, and I suspect Arya is to blame."
"If she was, Sansa would have immediately thrown a fit about it, not made excuses for her," Eddard replied, exasperated. He just wanted to sleep, Gods help him. "Unless you have some urgent matter, kindly leave me to my rest."
Ned's mind wandered as he floated between the headache's dull throb and the beginnings of sleep. Had Sansa done anything unusual recently, other than tolerate her sister? She tried to speak with me last week, after dinner in the solar. Something about a strange dream, and Bran. Then Robert summoned me and I had to go. I should ask Sansa about it.
When Ned awoke in the morning, the sun shining through the windows, his headache was gone. He had an odd feeling that he had forgotten to do something.