House Darry, former Targaryen Loyalists during the rebellion no doubt were angered by Robert having taken up residence there on their way back to King's Landing. But there was nothing Raymun Darry could do but bare it and wait for them to leave. Tristan was fully aware that his father disliked the delays probably as much as the Lord of Darry, but the queen's carriage was moving at a snail's pace and she needed her beauty sleep and several hours to ready her hair and dresses. Tristan was beginning to wonder what would take the king longer, getting to Winterfell and back or fighting the rebellion.

Still, Tristan thought as he dumped his sword belt on the bed of his assigned chambers and strode over to the window. It could be much worse. There could be no female companionship.

He turned to the Lannister handmaiden who had followed him in. It had taken very little time to seduce this one. A few compliments, a few touches nearing on the inappropriate, done throughout the weeks since leaving Winterfell, and she had agreed. Then he had simply held off until they reached the south to make her more willing, more wanton. She was a pretty enough thing, with dirty blonde hair and hazel eyes, accentuated by the fine clothes she was wearing. She was unlacing her dress slowly. He could not tell with this one whether she was a maiden or a woman. It made little difference to him, she was wet and willing, and that was all he needed. He approached her slowly and pulled off his tunic, dropping it to the floor. Then he cupped her face softly, leant down and kissed her. Few women expected kisses, he had found, give them one and they were far more likely to have you, they were not the weapons of women alone.

She kissed him back softly, her fingers tracing along his chest. Her dress dropped to the ground, revealing a soft body with small breasts. "Beautiful," he told her. He did not necessarily mean it, but it never hurt to say it.

"Thank you, my lord," she replied breathily. She kissed his chest, her fingers still tracing along it, as though she were searching for something. "You don't bare any scars, my lord?"

Tristan smiled at her, "no, I do not," he said simply, leaning down and kissing her neck. "Should I have?"

"We-" she broke off and gasped when he pushed a finger into her hot and wet sheath. "We heard that the melee at Highgarden was quite a display."

"It was," Tristan agreed. "But I bear no battle scars."

She gasped as he pushed a second finger inside her. "I thought all knights bore scars?" She said, her voice shaking a little as Tristan teased her.

"I am no knight," Tristan replied simply. "Why should I have scars? A scar would mean I had been injured, which means I made a mistake. I never make a mistake, now, no more talking." He was done talking, he lifted her up and sealed his mouth over hers. Then he pushed her against the wall and thrust inside her.

He felt a warmth around his cock that he recognised all too well. He smiled into the kiss as he realised he had deflowered her. He slowed down his thrusts, he did not want to hurt her too much, and rested his forehead against hers. He had thought that she might have been so suggestible because she was a spy for the queen. But she was not spying if she was a maiden, not unless she was truly devoted. He had not been planning to take her to the bed, but a woman should experience that on their first time, so he lay her atop the covers and thrust into her until he was nearly done.

"P-please," she murmured as she neared her release, "not inside me, the queen would never-" He silenced her with a kiss. He knew that the queen would not take kindly to one of her handmaidens bearing a Stark bastard. So, at the moment of his release, he pulled out, spilling over her belly instead of in it.

They were both panting. They both looked down, Tristan smiled when he saw her maiden's blood on his cock. "There is no sight so beautiful as a bloody sword," he muttered to her, and she giggled lightly, still out of breath. Tristan, not wanting to decorate Lord Darry's sheets with her blood, wiped it off him using the inside of his tunic, before he pulled it and his breeches on once more. She was still lying on the bed. "Come back tonight," he whispered in her ear, as he fastened his sword belt across his chest, so the handle was above his right shoulder, "and there will be more for you." She nodded, and got up on shaky legs as Tristan left to go for a walk.

Tristan's wolf, which he had left outside, and still not named, quickly stood up and trotted after him. They made their way outside to the godswood, where Tristan hoped to find Cley. While Daryn and Domeric were unable to come south on such short notice, Lord Medger Cerwyn had permitted Cley to come south and serve as Tristan's squire in the Melee. He was, however, not to compete, despite being more than able, in Tristan's mind. But at fourteen, he was a bit young. He found the young lordling was sitting under the heart tree. It was not a weirwood this far south, and to Tristan it seemed almost false, like the whole bloody garden. Godswoods should be left a little wild at least, left to grow, for the Old Gos to slumber and sleep, but in the south they seemed to love trimming it to the image of ideal human perfection, arrogance. "Cley," he called out, and his friend stood up. His dark brown hair flowing in the southern wind and his eyes, of the same colour, bright and cheerful. "Anything happening?"

"Your sisters have gone off," Cley explained. Patting Tristan's wolf lightly. "Arya went exploring and Sansa went off with the prince."

"That sounds just like both of them," Tristan replied, slinging himself onto the ground beside his friend, closing his eyes and taking a whiff of the sweet breeze in the air. He did not doubt Arya was enjoying her last bit of freedom before the Red Keep and Sansa could hardly stop talking about the prince. It had made Tristan sick when Joff had claimed that the thin white scar across his temple was a battle wound. That was not a battle that he had fought, to all it one was just like calling this godswood a godswood, they shared an appearance, but nothing of the heart of it.

Cley looked at him side on. "What about you?" He asked. Tristan raised his eyebrows. "The woman," Cley clarified, blushing a little.

Tristan grinned and clapped Cley on the back, what it was to be so innocent. "We'll find you a woman at some point Cley, don't you worry?" Cley blushed a deeper red. "She was alright, I've had better and much worse."

Suddenly, his wolf growled, his muzzle close to the ground and fangs bared. Tristan moved his hand slowly to his sword, but it was only the younger Prince Tommen, Princess Myrcella and one of the Kingsguard. His wolf stopped growling and Tristan dropped his hand when he saw who it was. They were no threat.

He turned back to Cley. "Are we to stay here long, do you know?" Cley shrugged his shoulders. Tristan sighed and stretched his arms, deciding to climb the heart tree of the Godswood. He stood and took several paces back, then ran to it speeding up rapidly as he did so, and leapt, seizing the lower branch and hauling himself up. Cley was following more slowly. He climbed trees as many children did but was not as adept as Tristan was. Tristan pulled himself up swiftly, from branch to branch until he was near the top of the tree. He poked his head out of the green leaves and looked around outside the castle. There was a small camp set up so that the menials did not overrun Lord Darry's castle. He could see the trident from here, even the Ruby Ford, where Rhaegar had fallen to the current King. He didn't like the look of the south, it was too tame, too... ordered, there was no wildness or ferocity. The North would always be his home.

Just after Cley came up to join him. They heard voices from the bottom of the tree. "It's a wolf," one of them said.

"You should stay away from it prince," a far older one said.

Tristan sighed. He supposed that he should not leave them with his wolf for long. So he dropped down through the branches until he was hanging from a low enough branch that he would not harm himself on the fall. The two royals jumped when he landed not far from them. "He is harmless," Tristan said when he stood up, "unless I say otherwise." He whistled and the wolf bounded over to him. The royals looked intrigued, the knight of the Kingsguard, less so. He stroked the head. "Do you want to touch him?" He asked.

They both nodded, the girl faster, surprisingly. They came tentatively over and the knight put his hand on his sword, ready to draw it. Tristan knew he was waiting for his wolf to attack the royals, but Tristan would kill him if he lay so much as a finger on his wolf. The girl stretched out her hand and Tristan scratched his wolf behind the ear, making him walk gently up to her and nuzzle her hand softly.

She laughed and withdrew her hand. "He feels strange" she said.

"He is a bit," Tristan conceded, as Cley joined them from the tree. "But he is tame."

The princess beckoned her brother forward. He was more tentative than his sister, but he was also cute in a fat, wobbly kind of way.

It felt like they spent a couple of hours having fun in the godswood. The royals got along well with him and Cley, but they were interrupted by Lady Shireen. "Lord Tristan" she called out. Tristan, who was lazing under the tree, looked over to her. "Your father is looking for you," she looked a little flustered and out of breath, her chest heaving and her hair a little wild from running.

"Why?" He asked, vaguely curious about whether or not his father, or the Queen, had found out he had bedded her handmaiden?

"It is your sister," she said, and Tristan sat up quickly. "Lady Arya attacked Prince Joffrey and ran off."

Tristan bolted out of the Godswood like an arrow from a bow.

They spent three days looking for Arya and they weren't alone Lannister, Baratheon and Stark men with hounds combed the woods in packs, looking for the lone wolf and it's child, but none could find sight or scent of his little sister. Tristan was all but praying that his wolf would be able to find her, the wolves were litter mates, just as he and Arya were, perhaps the bond between the wolves would lead Tristan to Nymeria and with her, Arya.

"Come on Arya," he muttered to himself. "Where are you?" His wolf was sniffing the ground, moving fast through the undergrowth. "ARYA!" He yelled. He had been looking for hours, but it was getting dark, and soon they'd have to call it enough for the third day in a row.

Something burst from the undergrowth and slammed into him, he spun and slammed whatever it was against the tree, his other hand going to his dagger. But this was no danger. "Arya," he gasped, letting go of her shirt and wrapping his arms around her. "You little devil, don't rush at me like that."

"I'm sorry," she whispered again and again. "It's been so long I... I..."

Tristan leant down and kissed her on the top of her head, she looked so hungry, and bleary eyes, like she hadn't slept. "Hush now," he said. "I'm sorry for snapping, and for the tree, I'm just glad you're safe." Behind his sister, his wolf was still sniffling at the ground, looking for Nymeria."

"I'm glad you are well Arya," Cley said, and Arya hugged him too, Cley returning it awkwardly.

"Arya, where's Nymeria?"

She shook her head, her eyes welling up with tears and turning to avoid his gaze. "I had to get her away. She wouldn't go, so I had to throw stones at her. The Prince he... he was going to have her hurt."

His rage boiled in him. Their wolves were part of them, they belonged together. But even so. Arya had made the right choice. Jaime Lannister had sided with his family before, and if he did again, Tristan wouldn't be able to stop him from killing Nymeria. He wasn't good enough. Perhaps this way, Nymeria would have a chance. Perhaps they all would. They could always find her later... "If she's anything like you, she'll be fine," he said. "We're survivors, us wolves, and they are as well."

She sniffed, but nodded, her grey eyes iron where before they had been water.

"Tristan," Cley warned, and they spun. Five Lannister guardsmen came rushing towards them.

"Lord Tristan," the first of them said. "Give us the Lady Arya, we are to deliver her to the Queen."

Tristan drew his sword from his back, twisting it in his grip effortlessly, the spike on the pommel glinting in the light of the setting sun, burning a bright red with the blood that would wet it before long, Cley drew his own and joined him. "I am taking her to my father, you will let us pass."

"We have orders," he said firmly.

"I am giving you new ones," Tristan said. "Return to the Queen and tell her that she will be with my father."

The Lannister men drew their swords. Tristan smiled. "Go on then," he told them. "Arya, Cley, get back."

"But-"

"Now Cley, stay behind me, watch my sister." Cley moved back carefully as he stepped forwards.

They charged, Tristan knocked the sword of the first one aside, punching him in the jaw to stagger him and then drove his sword into his side. The next two came at him together, one attacked high the other low. In a flash, his sword deflected both attacks, stopping the guardsmen in their tracks. Tristan spun and cut low, his blade scything deep into the leg of one guardsman, his leg shooting out in a kick that sent him spawling. He plunged his sword quickly into the ground and slammed into the guardsman, driving a fist into his jaw, two teeth flying from his mouth, before he took the man's sword wrist in his hands and gave a deft twist. With a crack like a whip and a cry of pain the sword clattered useless to the ground. A quick look told him that the toothless lion was getting to his feet again and the other two were advancing, swords raised. He seized the knife of the man he was grappling and drove it into his throat, ripping outwards with a shower of blood, a spurt of it hitting him in the face, the taste warm and wet on his tongue, the heat of it invigorating him, fuelling his flames. He flipped the knife deftly and hurled it at one of the advancing men, the handle of the knife singing a song off his helmet before it spun uselessly off into the ground. The other broke into a charge. He pushed the lion with the pulsing, bloody throat aside and reached back for his blade. Without the time or space to turn the blade on him, he drove forwards, catching the lion's sword arm with his left hand while driving the spike on the pommel of his sword into his face with the other, the sound of cartiliage beneath the metal singing a sickeningly beautiful song to his ears. He pulled back and spun the sword, charging forwards towards the lion with the singing helm and with a single great slash, cut clean through his throat so fast that barely a flicker of blood was left on his blade. He spun like a dancer, sending a fountain of blood through the air before falling face first, one arm flung out above his head like he was trying to swing the grassy sea.

Behind him, his sister screamed.

Tristan spun to see the toothless lion was rushing for her, Cley between them, looking brave but too busy watching him to notice in time. But then it was the lion screaming. Tristan's wolf slammed into him in a grey ball of fury and flesh, fangs ripping at the man's face until all that was left was a gory canvass of blood and bone. Some of his bites had torn the flesh away all the way to the skull underneath.

Only the hamstringed lion was left, clutching at his leg and whimpering pathetically. Tristan knelt behind the man. "You made many crucial mistakes today," he whispered in his ear, relishing in the sounds of pain coming from the man. "First, you thought that the lion on your breast gave you power in the wild, and strength in battle;" he pulled the helm back until it slid off the man's head, leaving his hair a brown messy mop on his head, the helm hanging around his neck like a cape. "Second, you tried to battle the wolves, and third and most importantly," h grabbed the helm and began twisting it, watching the leather strap dig into his neck, tighter and tighter with every twist. He gasped for breath and turned first red, then purple, scratching at him with his pathetic lion claws. "You forgot that wolves protect their own." With a sudden crack the man spasmed, his fingers twitching like a child eager to get at a new toy, his eyes wide and bulging, nearly popping from his skull, then he fell to the ground, still and silent.

Tristan let the lion fall to the dirt and called his wolf to him and stroked him softly. "What a shield you are," he said softly. He had stood between those he loved and those who would harm them. A perfect shield.

That was it, Shield. "You are Shield," he said firmly. The wolf did not object. "I am the sword, and you are the Shield. I like it."

"Tristan," Cley said, sheathing his sword, a little unnerved at the strangled lion. "We should get back before we are found by more."

Tristan nodded and told Arya to move. He looked down at his shirt. There were splashes of blood on it. At least questions won't be asked about the maiden's blood on it. He thought. Now he just had to get his sister to his father and hope he wasn't found by more Lannisters. The Queen would not be happy if he killed all her guardsmen on the way back to Castle Darry.