Disclaimer: I do not own A Song of Ice and Fire by George RR Martin, other than my own the original character(s) in this story. This is purely a work of my personal enjoyment so don't expect anything worthy of GRRM. I fully welcome criticism/suggestions/questions. The story will eventually be finished (I hate leaving things unfinished) but I have no real schedule. Please review as I'd love useful thoughts :) feedback goes a long way to encouraging my writing.
Chapter 19: The Kingsroad
"I'll teach you all that and so much more."
– Princess Lyarra Stark
The ground was so far below him he could barely make it out through the grey mists that whirled around him, but he could feel how fast he was falling, and he knew what was waiting for him down there. Even in dreams, you could not fall forever. He would wake up in the instant before he hit the ground, he knew.
You always woke up in the instant before you hit the ground.
"And if you don't?" A voice asked.
The ground was closer now, still far away, a thousand miles away, but closer than it had been. It was cold here in the darkness. There was no sun, no stars, only the ground below coming up to smash him, and the grey mists, and the whispering voice. He wanted to cry.
"Not cry. Fly."
"I can't fly," Bran said. "I can't, I can't… "
"How do you know? Have you ever tried?"
The voice was high and thin. Bran looked around to see where it was coming from.
A crow was spiralling down with him, just out of reach, following him as he fell. "Help me," he said; reaching out to the bird.
"I'm trying," the crow replied. "Say, got any corn?"
Bran reached into his pocket as the darkness spun dizzily around him.
When he pulled his hand out, golden kernels slid from between his fingers into the air. They fell with him.
The crow landed on his hand and began to eat.
"Are you really a crow?" Bran asked.
"Are you really falling?" the crow asked back.
"It's just a dream…"
"Is it?" asked the crow.
"I'll wake up when I hit the ground," Bran told the bird.
"You'll die when you hit the ground," the crow said. It went back to eating corn.
Bran looked down. He could see mountains now, their peaks white with snow, and the silver thread of rivers in dark woods. He closed his eyes and began to cry.
"That won't do any good," the crow said. "I told you, the answer is flying, not crying. How hard can it be? I'm doing it."
The crow took to the air and flapped around Bran's hand.
"You have wings," Bran pointed out.
"Maybe you do too?"
Bran felt along his shoulders, groping for feathers.
"There are different kinds of wings," the crow said.
Bran was staring at his arms, his legs, but could find nothing so out of the ordinary.
A face swam up at him out of the grey mist, shining with light, golden.
"The things I do for love," it said, reeking of arrogance.
The crow took to the air, then cawing. Not at that though, as it shrieked at something else.
"That future is not to pass," Another newer voice spoke, feminine and full of mischief.
"Forget that, you do not need it now, put it aside, put it away!"
It landed on Bran's shoulder, and pecked at him angrily, and the golden light faded.
Bran was falling faster than ever. The grey mists howled around him as he plunged toward the earth below.
"What are you doing to me!?" he asked the crow, tearful; even as the feminine voice chuckled.
"Teaching you how to fly!"
"I can't fly!" Bran protested as the wind flew past his hair.
"You're flying tight now…"
"That's called falling," The feminine voice seemed to read Bran's thoughts.
"Ignore her!" The crow seemed agitated. "Just, look down…"
"I'm afraid…"
"LOOK DOWN!"
Bran looked down, and felt his insides turn to water. The ground was rushing up at him now. The whole world was spread out below him, a tapestry of white and brown and green. He could see everything so clearly that for a moment he forgot to be afraid. He could see the whole realm, and everyone in it.
He saw Winterfell as the eagles see it, the tall towers looking squat and stubby from above, the castle walls just lines in the dirt. He saw Maester Luwin on his balcony, studying the sky through a polished bronze tube and frowning as he made notes in a book. He saw his brother Robb, taller and stronger than he remembered him, practicing swordplay in the yard with real steel in his hand. He saw Hodor, the simple giant from the stables, carrying an anvil to Mikken's forge, hefting it onto his shoulder as easily as another man might heft a bale of hay. At the heart of the godswood, the great white weirwood brooded over its reflection in the black pool, its leaves rustling in a chill wind. When it felt Bran watching, it lifted its eyes from the still waters and stared back at him knowingly.
He looked east and saw a great and impressive ship racing across the waters of the Bite. He saw Prince Willam sitting alone in a cabin drinking from a nearly empty bottle, talking to himself for reasons unknown, while a sickly-looking Jon Snow leaned across a rail, shaking and heaving as waves hit the ship.
A storm was gathering ahead of them, a vast dark roaring lashed by lightning, but somehow, they could not see it.
He looked south then and saw the great blue-green rush of the Trident. He saw his father pleading with the king, his face etched with grief. He saw Sansa crying herself to sleep at night, and he saw Arya watching in silence and holding her secrets hard in her heart. There were shadows all around them.
One shadow was dark as ash, with the terrible face of a hound.
Another was armoured like the sun, golden and beautiful, smirking like a mummer in some grand play.
Over them both loomed a giant in Armor made of stone, but when he opened his visor, there was nothing inside but darkness and thick black blood.
He lifted his eyes and saw clear across the narrow sea, to the Free Cities and the green Dothraki sea and beyond, to Vaes Dothrak under its mountain, to the fabled lands of the JadeSea, to Asshai by the Shadow, where dragons stirred beneath the sunrise. And further still, an old king laid on his deathbed to the howling of wolves.
Finally, he looked north. He saw the Wall shining like blue crystal, and past it, endless forests cloaked in snow, past frozen shore and the great blue-white rivers of ice and the dead plains where nothing grew or lived. North and north and north he looked, to the curtain of light at the end of the world, and then beyond that curtain. He looked deep into the heart of winter, and then he cried out, afraid, and the heat of his tears burned on his cheeks.
"Now you know," the crow whispered. "Now you know why you must live!"
"Why?" Bran said, not understanding, falling, falling.
"Winter is Coming," The feminine voice answered for the crow.
"And he is needed! BE GONE!"
"No," The woman denied. "He is not."
Bran wondered if it was possible for a voice to smile, for this one surely was.
"And neither are You," Another, deeper, far older voice grumbled in the dark.
Bran looked at the crow on his shoulder, and the crow looked back. It had three eyes, and the third eye was full of a terror.
Looking down there was nothing below him now but snow and cold and death, a frozen wasteland where jagged blue-white spires of ice waited to embrace him. They flew up at him like spears. He saw the bones of a thousand other dreamers impaled upon their points. He was, just like the crow, now desperately afraid.
"Can a man still be brave if he's afraid?" he heard his own voice saying, small and far away.
And his father's voice replied to him. "That is the only time a man can be brave."
"Now, Bran," the crow urged. "Choose. Fly or die!"
Death reached for him, screaming.
"There is a third option," The woman's voice said, her voice sweet as honey.
"Fly or Die!" The crow was adamant, frantic and angry now.
"Live," is all she said. As if it weren't a choice at all. "Live well, Brandon Stark."
The ground grew closer and closer and closer until the whole world simply… stopped…
The terrible needles of ice receded as they melted all around him. The sky opened up above, the sun shined where it had never shined before, the ice meted, and countless fantastical shades of greens and blues and reds entered the palette of the world. The night faded into day and Bran felt warmth as he'd never known it.
"I'm alive!" Bran cried out in delight, standing up on his own two feet.
"So be it," said the crow. If crows could growl, Bran didn't doubt this one would now.
It took to the air, flapping its wings angrily and flying far away into the rays of sunshine.
Black and green vapours twisted around the air before the figure of a woman appeared, in a dress sown with green leaves and white bark.
"Hello little wolf," She greeted him with a mischievous smile.
Bran stood in awe of her, with long raven locks and shining emerald eyes.
"H- Hello?"
Her smile hadn't faltered, almost seeming cocky – like she was proud of some achievement.
"My name is Lyarra," She knelt down to his level and looked into his eyes.
"M- My name is Brandon…"
"Oh, I know," She giggled at that.
This dream was beyond strange, Bran thought.
"Will you teach me how to fly Lady Lyarra?"
"Flying alone is overrated," She answered, a glint in emerald eyes. "I'll teach you all that and so much more."
With those words the world shuddered and swirled around him and ripped away like a veil, and he felt something land lightly on his legs. A pair of yellow eyes looked into his own, shining like the sun. The sun was in the sky, after however long Bran had been kept asleep by the strange dream.
The direwolf started licking his face, making Bran laugh happily.
"Summer," he decided then, the last of the Starks to name his wolf. "Your name is Summer."
Eddard Stark had left before dawn, Septa Mordane informed Sansa as they broke their fast.
"The king sent for him. Another hunt, I do believe. There are still wild aurochs in these lands, I am told."
"I've never seen an aurochs," Sansa said, feeding a piece of bacon to Lady under the table. The direwolf took it from her hand, as delicate as a queen.
"A noble lady does not feed dogs at her table," the Septa said, breaking off another piece of comb and letting the honey drip down onto her bread.
"She's not a dog, she's a direwolf," Sansa pointed out as Lady licked her fingers with a rough tongue. "Anyway, Father said we could keep them with us if we want."
The septa was not amused. "You're a good girl, Sansa, but I do vow when it comes to that creature you're as wilful as your sister Arya!" She scowled at the apparently dreadful thought. "And where is Arya this morning? And young Lord Bran too, at this late hour?"
"She wasn't hungry," Sansa said, knowing full well that her sister had probably stolen down to the kitchen hours ago and wheedled a breakfast out of some cook's boy. "And I think Bran is still abed – he's been having nightmares lately…"
That was the truth. Bran hadn't gotten a decent night's sleep since they'd left Winterfell.
"Do remind her to dress nicely today. The grey velvet, perhaps. We are all invited to ride with the queen and Princess Myrcella in the royal wheelhouse, and we must look our best." The Septa hummed in thought, picturing Arya for a moment before frowning; no doubt foreseeing the girls refusal to dress accordingly.
Sansa already looked her best. She had brushed out her long auburn hair until it shone and picked her nicest blue silks. She had been looking forward to today for more than a week. It was a great honor to ride with the queen, and besides, Prince Joffrey might be there. Her betrothed. Just thinking it made her feel a strange fluttering inside, even though they were not to marry for years and years. Sansa did not really know Joffrey yet, but she was already in love with him.
He was all she ever dreamt her prince should be, tall and handsome and strong, with hair like gold. She treasured every chance to spend time with him, few as they were. The only thing that scared her about today was Arya. She had a way of ruining everything. You never knew what she would do. "I'll tell her," Sansa said uncertainly, "but she'll dress the way she always does." She hoped it wouldn't be too embarrassing. "May I be excused?"
"You may." Septa Mordane said with a weary sigh as Sansa slid from the bench. Lady followed at her heels.
Outside, she stood for a moment amidst the shouts and curses and the creak of wooden wheels as the men broke down the tents and pavilions and loaded the wagons for another day's march. The inn was a sprawling three-story structure of pale stone, the biggest that Sansa had ever seen, but even so, it had accommodations for less than a third of the king's party, which had swollen to more than four hundred with the addition of her father's household and the freeriders who had joined them.
She found Arya and Bran on the banks of the Trident, trying to hold Nymeria still while she brushed dried mud from her fur. The direwolf was not enjoying the process even as Summer watched in silence. Arya was wearing the same riding leathers she had worn yesterday and the day before.
"You better put on something pretty," Sansa told her. "Septa Mordane said so. We're traveling in the queen's wheelhouse with Princess Myrcella today."
"I'm not," Arya said, trying to brush a tangle out of Nymeria's matted grey fur. "Bran and I are going to ride upstream and look for rubies at the ford!"
"Rubies," Sansa said, completely lost. "What rubies?"
Arya gave her a look like she was so incredibly stupid.
"Rhaegar's rubies," Bran answered, making no attempt to mask his excitement. "This is where King Robert fought the Dragon Prince and won the crown.""
Sansa regarded her siblings in disbelief. "You can't look for rubies Arya, the princess is expecting us. The queen invited us both!"
"I don't care," Arya said. "The wheelhouse doesn't even have windows; you can't see a thing."
"What could you want to see?" Sansa said, annoyed. She had been thrilled by the invitation, and her stupid sister was going to ruin everything, just as she'd feared. "It's all just fields and farms and holdfasts for as far as the eye can see – and Bran, shouldn't you be with father!?"
"I overslept," Bran admitted nervously, stroking Summer's fur. "Arya said I could come look for rubies and train with-"
"Bran!" Arya glared at her little brother, as if he'd said something wrong.
"What are you hiding now?" Sansa asked, scowling at them both as Bran's eyes darted to his feet.
"Nothing," Arya said stubbornly. "If you came with us sometimes, you'd see."
"I hate riding," Sansa said fervently. "All it does is get you soiled and dusty and sore."
Arya shrugged. "Hold still," she snapped at Nymeria, "I'm not hurting you!" Then to Sansa she said, "When we were crossing the Neck, I counted thirty-six flowers I never saw before, and Mycah showed me a lizard-lion down through the neck too – it was really cool!"
Bran could only nod at that, too wary of his eldest sister's disapproval to speak out.
Sansa shuddered. They had been twelve days crossing the Neck, rumbling down a crooked causeway through an endless black bog, and she had hated every moment of it. The air had been clammy, the causeway so narrow they could not even make proper camp at night. Dense thickets of half-drowned trees pressed close around them, branches dripping with curtains of pale fungus. Huge flowers bloomed in the mud and floated on pools of stagnant water, but if you were stupid enough to leave the causeway to pluck them, there was quicksand waiting to suck you down, and snakes watching from the trees…
The lizard-lions floated half-submerged in the water, like black logs with eyes and teeth. Bran had loved seeing those.
None of which stopped Arya, of course. One day she had come back from an adventure grinning her horsey grin, her hair all tangled and her clothes covered in mud, clutching a raggedy bunch of purple and green flowers for Father. Sansa kept hoping he would tell Arya to behave herself and act like the highborn lady she was supposed to be, but he never did, he only hugged her and thanked her for the flowers. That just made her worse.
Then it turned out the purple flowers were called poison kisses, and Arya got a rash on her arms.
Sansa would have thought that might have taught her a lesson, but Arya laughed about it, and the next day she rubbed mud all over her arms like some ignorant bog woman just because her friend Mycah told her it would stop the itching. She had bruises on her arms and shoulders too, dark purple welts and faded green-and-yellow splotches, Sansa had seen them when her sister undressed for sleep. How she had gotten those only the seven gods knew.
Arya was brushing out Nymeria's tangles and chattering about things she'd seen on the trek south. "Last week we found this haunted watchtower, and the day before we chased a herd of wild horses. You should have seen them run when they caught a scent of Nymeria."
The wolf wriggled in her grasp and Arya scolded her. "Stop that, I have to do the other side, you're all muddy!"
"Told you letting her play in the riverbank wasn't smart," Bran chuckled, scratching Summer's ear.
"Bla bla bla," Arya mocked, frowning as she struggled with Nymeria's coat.
"You're not supposed to leave the column," Sansa reminded her. "Father said so."
Arya shrugged. "I didn't go far. Anyway, Bran was with me the whole time!"
"It's fun just to ride along with the wagons and talk to people," Bran added shyly.
Sansa knew all about the sorts of people they'd talked to: squires and grooms and serving girls, old men and naked children, rough-spoken freeriders of uncertain birth. Arya would make friends with anybody, and Bran was drawn to any freerider that fancied themselves a knight.
Mycah was the worst though; a butcher's boy, thirteen and wild, he slept in the meat wagon and smelled of the slaughtering block.
Sansa was running out of patience now. "You have to come with me," she told her sister firmly. "You can't refuse the queen."
Arya ignored her. She gave a hard yank with the brush. Nymeria growled and spun away, affronted. "Come back here!"
Summer's head darted up as his sister spun, curious – watching like some silent sentinel.
"There's going to be lemon cakes and tea," Sansa went on, all adult and reasonable. Lady brushed against her leg. Sansa scratched her ears the way she liked, and Lady sat beside her on her haunches, watching Arya chase Nymeria just as Summer did, with his tongue hanging out.
"I don't like the queen," Arya said casually. Sansa sucked in her breath, shocked that even Arya would say such a thing, but her sister prattled on, heedless. "She won't even let me bring Nymeria!" She thrust the brush under her belt and stalked her wolf. Nymeria watched her approach warily.
The game was afoot. Arya was hunting her prey…
"A royal wheelhouse is no place for a wolf," Sansa said. "And Princess Myrcella is afraid of them, you know that."
"Myrcella is a little baby." Arya grabbed Nymeria around her neck, but the moment she pulled out the brush again the direwolf wriggled free and bounded off. Frustrated, Arya threw down the brush. "Bad wolf! BAD!" she shouted loudly even as Bran burst into laughter as the show.
Sansa couldn't help but smile a little too. The kennelmaster once told her that an animal takes after its master.
She gave Lady a quick little hug. Lady licked her cheek. Sansa giggled. Arya heard and whirled around, glaring. "I don't care what you say, we're going out riding and you can't stop us!" Her long horsey face got the stubborn look that meant she was going to do something wilful.
"And you, Brandon?" Sansa looked at her little brother judgingly.
"Lady Ashlyn is coming too," Bran said, smiling nervously as Sansa's face scrunched up at mention of the woman.
Ashlyn Amber is a name that Sansa knew in passing. Much like when Lady Mormont had visited Winterfell before, she'd seen women training in the courtyard as if they were men – as unladylike as you please; it was a scandal to witness. Lady Stark had told her daughters to stay clear of the woman.
"Mother says that woman is-"
"Prettier than you," Arya stuck out her tongue. "And not boring neither!"
Sansa's face turned red. That wasn't true, was it? She wasn't boring and that savage woman wasn't prettier! Arya was just jealous!
"Gods be true, Arya, sometimes you act like such a spoiled child," Sansa said, scoffing at her words; not showing how they'd stung. "Fine, I'll go by myself then! It will be ever so much nicer that way. Lady and I will eat all the lemon cakes and just have the best time without you."
Sansa turned to walk off, but Arya shouted after her, "They won't let you bring Lady either!"
She was gone before Sansa could think of a reply, chasing Nymeria along the river; with Summer and Bran at their heels.
Alone and humiliated, Sansa took the long way back, where she knew Septa Mordane would be waiting. Lady padded quietly by her side. She was almost in tears. All she wanted was for things to be nice and pretty, the way they were in the songs. Why couldn't Arya be sweet and delicate and kind, like Princess Myrcella?
Sansa could never understand how two sisters, born only two years apart, could be so different. It would have been easier if Arya had been a bastard, like their half-brother Jon. She even looked like Jon, with the long face and brown hair of the Starks, and nothing of their lady mother in her face or her colouring. And Jon's mother had been common, or so people whispered. Once, when she was littler, Sansa had even asked Mother if perhaps there hadn't been some mistake.
Perhaps the grumkins had stolen her real sister. But Mother had only laughed and said no, Arya was her daughter and Sansa's trueborn sister, blood of their blood. Sansa could not think why Mother would want to lie about it, so she supposed it had to be true…
A crowd had gathered around the queen's wheelhouse. Sansa heard excited voices buzzing like a hive of bees. The doors had been thrown open, she saw, and the queen stood at the top of the wooden steps, smiling down at someone. She heard her saying, "The council does us great honor, my good lords."
"What's happening?" Sansa asked a squire she knew.
"The council sent riders from King's Landing to escort us the rest of the way," he told her. "An honor guard for the king."
Anxious to see, Sansa let Lady clear a path through the crowd. People moved aside hastily for the direwolf even after all this time; none of them had gotten used to the sight. When she got closer, she saw two knights kneeling before the queen, in armour so fine and gorgeous that it made her blink.
One knight wore an intricate suit of white enamelled scales, brilliant as a field of new-fallen snow, with silver chasings and clasps that glittered in the sun. When he removed his helm, Sansa saw that he was an old man with hair as pale as his armour, yet he seemed strong and graceful for all that.
From his shoulders hung the pure white cloak of the Kingsguard.
His companion was a man near twenty whose armour was steel plate of a deep forest-green. He was the handsomest man Sansa had ever set eyes upon; tall and powerfully made, with jet-black hair that fell to his shoulders and framed a clean-shaven face, and laughing green eyes to match his armor.
Cradled under one arm was an antlered helm, its magnificent rack shimmering in gold.
"The king is gone hunting, but I know he will be pleased to see you when he returns," the queen was saying to the two knights who knelt before her
Her eyes fell onto Sansa then and a smile grew on her ruby lips.
"Sansa dear, the good councillors and I must speak together until the king returns with your father. I fear we shall have to postpone your day with Myrcella. Please give your sweet sister my apologies. Joffrey, perhaps you would be so kind as to entertain our guest today?"
The Crown Prince was never far from his mother, dutiful as he was; he looked every inch the prince as he accepted.
"It would be my pleasure, Mother," Joffrey said very formally. He took her by the arm then and led her away from the wheelhouse, and Sansa's spirits took flight. A whole day with her prince! She gazed at Joffrey worshipfully. He was so gallant, she thought. The touch of his hand on her sleeve made her heart beat faster.
"What would you like to do?" He asked her sweetly.
Be with you, Sansa thought, but she said, "Whatever you'd like to do, my prince."
Joffrey reflected a moment. "We could go riding."
"Oh, I love riding," Sansa said. The lie came so easily she didn't even register it.
Joffrey glanced back at Lady, who was following at their heels. "Your wolf is liable to frighten the horses my lady, and my dog seems to frighten you. Let us leave them both behind and set off on our own, what do you say?"
Sansa hesitated. "If you like. I suppose I could tie Lady up…"
"Good," Joffrey was smiling. "Shall we?"
"Is it safe to go without Ser Sandor?"
Joffrey looked annoyed that she would even ask. "Have no fear, lady. I am almost a man grown, and I don't fight with wood like your brothers. All I need is this." He drew his sword and showed it to her; a longsword adroitly shrunken to suit a boy of twelve, gleaming blue steel, castle-forged and double-edged, with a leather grip and a lion's-head pommel in gold. Sansa exclaimed over it admiringly, and Joffrey looked pleased. "I call it Lion's Tooth," he said.
And so, they left her direwolf and his bodyguard behind, while they ranged east along the north bank of the Trident.
At a clearing overlooking the mighty river known as the Ruby Ford, a boy and a girl were playing at knights. Their swords were wooden sticks, broom handles from the look of them, and they were rushing across the grass, swinging at each other lustily. The boy was years older, a head taller, and much stronger, and he was pressing the attack. The girl, a scrawny thing in soiled leathers, was dodging and managing to get her stick in the way of most of the boy's blows, but not all.
When she tried to lunge at him, he caught her stick with his own, swept it aside, and slid his wood down hard on her fingers.
She cried out and lost her weapon, muttering very unladylike curses for one so young.
"And that," Ashlyn Amber found herself laughing. "Is why swords have cross-guards, little lady."
"Well done Mycah!" Bran clapped for the boy, sitting on the grass beside Ashlyn with Summer at his side.
"I'm not a lady!" Arya Stark had huffed at her title, shooting a glare at her little brother too.
"You're left-handed," Ashlyn pointed out, ignoring her huff of annoyance. "That'll throw a lot of people off if you'd only practice Arya."
"Mother says it's unladylike," Arya grumbled in reply.
Now that was perhaps the stupidest thing Ashlyn had heard in a while.
"It's a good thing you're not a lady then, isn't it?"
Arya beamed at that logic, gripping the stick in her left hand.
"Go again, this time; slowly – learn the motions."
"Yes Ash!"
"M'lady!"
Arya and the butcher's boy returned to their 'sparring' with sticks.
Bran watched, stroking Summer's fur while he waited for his turn to play at fighting.
"Argh!" Mycah yelped as Arya landed a smack on his hand, dropping his stick-sword on the ground and sucking on his knuckles to take the sting out.
There was another laugh off to the side that caught Arya's opponent's attention, causing him to go wide-eyed and startled.
Arya glared at the new arrivals, and one of the onlookers were horrified.
"Arya!?" Sansa Stark called out incredulously from beside her Prince.
"Hello sister," Bran said from the side-lines, though Sansa didn't seem to care he was present.
"Go away," Arya shouted back her sister, anger in her eyes. "What are you doing here? Leave us alone!"
Joffrey glanced from Arya to Sansa and back again. "Your sister?" She nodded, blushing. Joffrey examined the boy, an ungainly lad with a coarse freckled face and thick red hair. "And who are you, boy?" he asked in a commanding tone that took no notice of the fact that the other was a year his senior.
"Mycah," the boy muttered. He recognized the prince and averted his eyes. "M'lord."
"He's the butcher's boy," Sansa said, shifting uncomfortably on the spot.
"He's my friend," Arya said sharply corrected. "You leave him alone!"
"Prince Joffrey," Ashlyn was sat cross-legged on a tree stump, eyeing the new arrivals.
Joffrey had, somehow, completely failed to notice the strange women with flowing copper-red hair and bright amber eyes; dressed in riding leathers with dagger on her hip aside a longsword that rested peacefully against the tree-stump – a far cry from southern ladies – more the attire of a common sellsword than a lady.
"And you are?" Prince Joffrey scowled at the stranger.
"Lady Ashlyn Amber," She hopped off the stump and bowed, passively getting in front of Bran.
"She was training us!" Arya added defensively. "I asked her to!"
"She's very good," Bran said with a faltering smile, as Joffrey glared at him.
The prince seemed to huff and ignore the women's existence at that, clearing not believing Bran's words for a second.
"A butcher's boy who wants to be a knight, is it?" Joffrey swung down from his mount, sword in hand. "Pick up your sword, butcher's boy," he said, his eyes bright with amusement and cruelty. "Let us see how good you are fighting against a man eh, butcher's boy."
Mycah stood there, frozen on the spot with fear.
Ashlyn simply glared at the Prince, not straying far from her resting sword.
Joffrey walked toward him. "Go on, pick it up. Or do you only fight little girls and women?"
"She ast me to, m'lord," Mycah said. "She ast me to! M'lady amber said that tis was fine!"
Sansa had only to glance at Arya and see the flush on her sister's face to know the boy was telling the truth, but Joffrey was in no mood to listen.
The wine had made him wild. "Are you going to pick up your sword?"
Mycah shook his head. "It's only a stick, m'lord. It's not no sword, it's only a stick."
"And you're only a butcher's boy, and no knight." Joffrey lifted Lion's Tooth and laid its point on Mycah's cheek below the eye, as the butcher's boy stood trembling. "That was my lady's sister you were hitting; do you know that?" A bright bud of blood blossomed where his sword pressed into Mycah's flesh.
A slow red line trickled down the boy's cheek.
"He's only a boy," Ashlyn protested, having picked up her sword; a fine blade with amber in the pommel.
"Leave him alone!" Arya screamed. She grabbed up her fallen stick and held it out.
Sansa was afraid. "Arya, you stay out of this!"
"I won't hurt him… much," Prince Joffrey told Arya, never taking his eyes off the butcher's boy.
"Prince Joffrey," Ashlyn had stepped forward with a scowl. "This is-"
Arya went for him quicker than anyone could've expected, too quickly for Ash to stop.
"Wait!" Bran shouted, even at his age; he knew the mistake his sister was about to make.
Summer was on his feet now, suddenly taking great interest as the direwolf's golden eyes gleamed with human-like understanding.
Sansa slid off her mare, but she was too slow. Arya swung with both hands. There was a loud CRACK as the wood split against the back of the prince's head, and then everything happened at once before Sansa's horrified eyes. Joffrey staggered and whirled around, roaring curses.
Mycah ran for the trees as fast as his legs would take him, not looking back.
Arya swung at the prince again, but this time Joffrey caught the blow on Lion's Tooth and sent her broken stick flying from her hands.
It was a blade proportioned to fit a twelve-year-old boy, made of gleaming blue steel, castle-forged and double-edged, with a leather grip and a gold lion's-head pommel.
The back of Joffrey's head was all bloody and his eyes were on fire. Sansa was shrieking, "No, no, stop it, stop it, both of you, you're spoiling it," but no one was listening. Arya scooped up a rock and hurled it at Joffrey's head only to hit his horse instead, and the blood bay reared and went galloping off after Mycah. "Stop it, don't, stop it!"
Joffrey slashed at Arya with his sword, screaming obscenities, terrible words, filthy words.
"Leave her alone!" Bran had picked up a stick and made to rush over, despite being far younger than the prince.
"Enough!" Ashlyn stepped between the prince and Arya as she darted back, frightened beyond measure as Bran darted to her side.
Sansa didn't know what to do. She watched helplessly, almost blind from her tears.
"I'll kill you, bitch!" Joffrey hacked and slashed clumsily as Ashlyn parried and dodged the amateur swings with her steel, not wishing to hurt the foolish boy.
A grey blur appeared behind them then and suddenly Nymeria was there, leaping out of the woods, fangs bared and snarling at the Prince alongside Summer as the pair of wolves slowly circled the young prince. Ashlyn stood frozen as the wolves approached, she lowered her sword and barked at Joffrey.
"Drop your sword boy!" She snarled, not making any sudden movements. The wolves wouldn't hurt her but lowered her blade all the same.
"Get back," he screamed, dropping his sword out of fear alone and falling backwards onto the ground. "Get back! STOP IT!"
Arya's voice cracked like a whip. "Nymeria!"
"Summer," Bran didn't have to yell. "Come!"
The direwolves halted their advance, having stalked past Ashlyn with hungry eyes locked onto Joffrey.
Summer was back at his master's side in a heartbeat, calm and collected; though watching dutifully – as Nymeria continued to bare her fangs.
The lion prince lay in the grass, whimpering, cradling himself in terror. His trousers were damp and his cheeks wet were with tears.
Arya said, "She didn't even hurt you" as she picked up Lion's Tooth from where it had fallen, and stood over him, holding the sword with both hands.
Joffrey made a scared whimpery sound as he looked up at her. "No," he said, "don't hurt me. I'll tell my mother!"
"Arya!" Ashlyn quickly grabbed the sword from the girl and tossed it aside. "You can't hurt the fool, he's a damn Prince!"
"He tried to hurt her!" Bran argued, clearly upset; glaring at the Prince with all the righteous intent a child his age could muster.
"You leave him alone!" Sansa screamed at her sister, having mustered the courage to run over to her perfect prince and defend his honor.
Joffrey moaned. Arya and Bran ran off then with Ashlyn to their horses, direwolves loping at their heels.
After they had gone, Joffrey's eyes were closed, his breath ragged. Sansa knelt beside him. "Joffrey," she sobbed. "Oh, look what they did, look what they did. My poor prince. Don't be afraid. I'll ride to the holdfast and bring help for you!" Tenderly she reached out and brushed back his soft blond hair.
His eyes snapped open and looked at her, and there was nothing but loathing. "Then go," he spit at her. "And don't touch me!"
The castle was a modest holding a half day's ride south of the Trident. The royal party had made themselves the uninvited guests of its lord, Ser Raymun Darry, while the hunt for Arya and the butcher's boy was conducted on both sides of the river. They were not welcome visitors. Ser Raymun lived under the king's peace, but his family had fought beneath Rhaegar's dragon banners at the Trident, and his three older brothers had died there, a truth neither Robert nor Ser Raymun had forgotten. With king's men, Darry men, Lannister men, and Stark men all crammed into a castle far too small for them, tensions burned hot and heavy.
The king had appropriated Ser Raymun's audience chamber, and that was where Ned found them. The room was crowded when he burst in. Too crowded, he thought; left alone, he and Robert might have been able to settle the matter amicably – but things had escalated too far for that.
Robert was slumped in Darry's high seat at the far end of the room, his face closed and sullen.
Cersei Lannister and her son stood beside him. The queen had her hand on Joffrey's shoulder.
Arya and Bran Stark stood in the centre of the room, alone but for Ashlyn Amber, every eye upon her.
"Arya, Bran!" Ned called loudly as he went to them, his boots ringing on the stone floor. When Arya saw him, she cried out and began to sob.
"I'm sorry," she sobbed and shook, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry."
"I know," he said. She felt so tiny in his arms. "Are you hurt?"
"No." Her face was dirty, and her tears left pink tracks down her cheeks.
"I'm fine father," Bran replied bravely, though his eyes were sore – the boy was putting on a brave face. Knights didn't cry after all.
"We rode back to the camp without delay," Ashlyn said with a sigh. "I tried to reach you Lord Stark, but the Lannister guards were insistent…"
"Thank you, Lady Amber," Ned rose to face the king. "What is the meaning of this Robert?"
His eyes swept the room, searching for friendly faces. Prince Suko watched like a hawk from the crowd, alongside a man he knew to be Qrow Ryder.
Ser Raymun Darry guarded his look well. Lord Renly wore a half smile that might mean anything, and old Ser Barristan was grave. Jaime Lannister and Sandor Clegane were missing, leading searches north of the Trident. "Why was I not told that my daughter had been found?" Ned demanded, his voice ringing.
He spoke to Robert, but it was Cersei Lannister who answered. "How dare you speak to your king in that manner!"
At that, the king stirred. "Quiet, woman," he snapped. "I am sorry, Ned. I never meant to frighten the girl. It seemed best to bring her here and get the business done."
"And what business is that?" Ned put ice in his voice, as cold and sharp as winter.
The queen stepped forward. "You know full well, Stark. These children of yours attacked my son."
"That's not true," Arya said loudly. "He was hurting Mycah!"
"We didn't!" Bran seemed confused by that, eyes darting up to his father.
"Joff told us what happened," the queen said. "You two and that butchers boy beat him with clubs while you set your wolves on him."
"That's not how it was," Arya said, close to tears again. Ned put a hand on her shoulder.
"Father?" Bran, despite his efforts to appear brave; was wholly lost now.
"Yes it is!" Prince Joffrey insisted. "They all attacked me, and she set that beast on me!"
"Liar!" Arya yelled, fearlessly stepping forward.
"Shut up!" the prince yelled back.
"For gods sake," Ashlyn grumbled under her breath, a hand resting on the pommel of her sword.
"Enough!" the king roared, rising from his seat, his voice thick with irritation. Silence fell. He glowered at Arya through his thick beard. "Now, child, you will tell me what happened. Tell it all and tell it true. It is a great crime to lie to a king." Then he looked over at his son. "When she is done, you will have your turn."
The door opened behind him as Arya began the story, all while Bran stood in a stupor; nodding agreements with his sister to back her up.
Ned glanced back and saw Sansa enter with Jeyne Poole and some of the Greycloaks that had come south with them. They stood quietly at the back of the hall as Arya spoke. When she got to the part where Lady Ashlyn held the prince back, Renly Baratheon began to laugh.
"He was held back by a girl and a woman!" Renly's laugher was hearty and, oddly enough, it reminded Ned of Robert's laugh growing up.
The king bristled. "Ser Barristan, escort my brother from the hall before he chokes…"
Lord Renly stifled his laughter. "My brother is too kind. I can find the door myself." He bowed to Joffrey. "Perchance later you'll tell me how a nine-year-old girl the size of a wet rat managed to disarm your Lion's Tooth with a broom handle?" As the door swung shut behind him, Ned heard him say, "Lion's Tooth," and guffaw once more.
Prince Joffrey was pale as he began quite a different version of events, of how Arya and Bran had attacked him; and how the wolves had mangled his arm.
When his son was done talking, the king rose heavily from his seat, looking like a man who wanted to be anywhere but here. "What in all the seven hells am I supposed to make of all this? He says one thing, she says another, what's to be made of this nonsense damn it!?"
"They were not the only one's present," Ned said. "Sansa, come here. Tell us what happened."
"I don't know," she said tearfully, looking as though she wanted to bolt. "I don't remember. Everything happened so fast, I didn't see…"
"You rotten!" Arya shrieked, looking ready to claw out her sister's eyes.
"I was present too," Ashlyn said rather pointedly. "Or is this kingdom beholden more to the testimony of children?"
"Your name?" King Robert eyed her, the man looking as tired as he was annoyed.
"Ashlyn Amber, Your Grace."
She'd made no attempt to so much as curtsy. Ned eyed her hopefully, as did his children.
"I was training the young Stark's to swing a stick," She continued without waiting for permission to do so. "I'm unaware where this tale of clubs came from – but the young Prince came upon us, reeking of wine; I might add – threatening to butcher the butcher's boy. He was cutting the boy when-"
"You lie with every breath!" Cersei interrupted, red with fury even as her son diverted his eyes.
"Arya was quick to defend her friend, striking the young prince with a wooden stick."
"You see!" The Queen looked furious, but there was a smile behind her mask. "She admits the little beast hit my-"
Robert raised his voice and shouted, "Shut up and let the damn woman SPEAK FOR GOD'S SAKE!"
Cersei balked away, as the hall fell silent except for Ashlyn.
"The Prince began swinging his Lion's Tooth at Arya-"
The hall was all gasps and whispering at that, even though Arya had said much the same; it seemed they hadn't been listening.
-"and I was forced to intervene, or the boy would've certainly killed the girl."
"Where we come from," Qrow added from the crowd, rather loudly, "to strike a Stark is death..."
"Or at least the loss of the hand," Prince Suko remarked with a smirk, speaking common for once.
Ashlyn ignored the Queen's shouts for Ryder and Suko's arrest at those spokes.
"And the wolf?" King Robert asked, raising a hand to silence his wives protects; hearing none of it.
"Check the boys bandages," Ashlyn said with an unamused scoff. "Show us the damn teeth marks or bruising from the clubs he was supposedly attacked with – you'll find none; for god's sake, if he were bitten then you'd bloody know it. Instead, the wolves merely made the boy piss himself…"
The hall erupted into laugher at that, from all except the Lannisters.
"My son," Robert was practically growling from his seat. "Disarmed by a girl. Bested by a woman. Scared by some fucking overgrown DOGS!"
Ned cringed somewhat at the description of his houses sigil, but held his tongue.
"You can't believe this savage woman over your own son and heir!"
"That little shit," Robert pointed at his heir furiously. "Should consider himself lucky he's still my heir after this madness!"
"You-" Cersei had gone wide-eyed at that. "You cannot-"
"I'm the bloody king!" Robert snapped. "He attacks Ned's daughter and could've killed her if not for this woman you call a savage!"
Ashlyn thought that sounded like a compliment? Maybe?
"Ned!" The King barked, looking tired of this whole afraid and wholly embarrassed by his son.
"Your Grace?" Eddard held a hand on his daughter's shoulder while Bran stood close.
"See to it that your daughter is disciplined for striking the boy. I will see to disciplining my son for his part in this…"
"Gladly, Your Grace," Ned said with vast relief.
Robert started to walk away, but the queen was not done. "And what of the direwolves?"
The king stopped, turned back, frowned. "Seven hells woman, forget about the damned wolves!"
The queen raised her voice. "A hundred golden dragons to the man who brings me their skin!"
"What!?" Bran said aghast.
"No!" Arya screamed. "You can't!"
"A costly pelt," Robert grumbled. "I want no part of this, woman. Nobody will harm the damn wolves – that's the end of it."
The queen regarded him coolly. "The king I'd thought to wed would have laid a wolfskin across my bed before the sun went down…"
Robert's face darkened with anger. "That would be a fine trick, but this over, Cersei."
The Queen stormed away at that, taking her son with her; his arm bandaged, and his head hung low.
"She won't hurt Lady, will she?" Sansa begged her father suddenly. "Lady didn't scare anybody, she's good!"
"Lady wasn't there," Arya agreed with her sister, reluctantly.
"She won't hurt Summer, will she?" Bran was visibly shook by events.
"You heard the king," Ned assured them even as Sansa began to cry. "Nobody will harm them…"
The reality of the situation wasn't lost on him. Cersei Lannister didn't seem like the kind of women to let go of a grudge.
"Word of advice Lord Stark," Prince Suko offered as he walked up to the lord and his cubs. "I've seen women like this Queen before – reminds me of my own sister in fact – so let me tell you, best send those wolves of yours far from her or they'll end up being accidently skinned before we reach the capital…"
Suko had cared nothing for how that sounded to the children as he walked away.
"No!" Sansa went wide-eyed.
Bran looked worried. "They can't do that, the King said so!"
"Nymeria can look after herself," Arya was scowling.
"No," Ned shook his head. "They won't – but we might need to send them home for a time…"
"B- But-" Sansa didn't like that. "Lady is good, father; I swear! I'll train her extra I promise!"
He hated to see his daughters so hurt. Arya was angry while Bran seemed quieter than normal.
"I'm sorry darling, but the capital may not be safe for them…"
Jory Cassel stood silently, awaiting the order; whatever it may be.
"Choose four men and have them escort the wolves home."
"All that way my Lord?" Jory said, astonished.
"All that way," Ned affirmed. "The Lannister woman shall never have their skins."
"Lord Stark," Ashlyn spoke, with Qrow Ryder at her side looking forlorn.
"Lady Amber, you have my thanks for today…"
"It was nothing," She waved away the praise.
"Keep the wolves," Qrow suggested absently.
"Would that we could," Ned said as his children's eyes lit up with hope.
"Qrow isn't wrong," Ashlyn reluctantly agreed. "Unless you've a sizeable force to escort them back…"
What was she suggesting? "You don't think the Queen would send men after them, surely?"
"She's a prideful woman," Qrow shrugged.
"Going north with a guard, they're easy pickings; no?"
Ned scowled. Would the women go so far? Gods, now that he thought on it…
"The imperial Princeling has the right of it," Qrow referred to Suko in a less than shining light. "He's wrong in part though, sending them out with only a handful of men; they'd be likely to get set upon by 'bandits' before they reached Winterfell – and the lion queen would have her pelts soon enough."
"She wouldn't!" Sansa protested, clearly shocked at the idea of a queen being so very cruel.
"What do you suggest?" Ned knew better, thinking on it; they weren't wrong.
"Prince Willam sent how many Greycloaks with you south? Fifth?"
Ned could only nod at that as thoughts plagued him. Willam had left none at Winterfell, as most of his people were resting now at White Harbour; with only a handful going with him to the Wall and those left had been ordered to protect men like Suko Lóng and Qrow Ryder on their way to the capital.
"The Greycloaks are used to wolves," Ashlyn explained simply. "Task some to guard the direwolves and they'll do so gladly."
"Please father!" Sansa was the first to beg, hope in her tully eyes. "Lady will be good, I swear it!"
"Yeah," Arya nodded franticly. "I'll keep training Nymeria too!"
Bran simply asked "Father?"
"So be it," Ned gave in with a sigh.
"Your orders Lord Stark?" Jory asked.
"Can you see to this?" Ned looked to Ashlyn and Ryder.
"Easily," Ashlyn nodded in reply.
"Consider it done Lord Stark," Qrow was smiling.
Ned prayed that he'd made the right decision here.
He was walking back outside moments later when Sandor Clegane and his riders came pounding through the castle gate, back from their hunt.
There was something slung over the back of his destrier, a heavy shape wrapped in a bloody cloak. "No sign of your daughter, Hand," the Hound rasped down, "but the day was not wholly wasted. We got her little pet." He reached back and shoved the burden off, and it fell with a thump in front of Ned.
Bending, Ned pulled back the cloak, dreading the words he would have to find for Arya. It was her friend the butcher's boy, Mycah, his body twisted and covered in dried blood. He had been cut almost in half from shoulder to waist by some terrible blow struck from above.
"You rode him down," Ned said aghast.
"He ran." Sandor laughed. "But not very fast."
Gods, he hated the South. Ned prayed once more that he was making the right decisions.
Note(s): Another chapter I hadn't originally planned but it flushes out the PoV of Ned's group around the time Willam is still in the north. Bran's dreams are being influenced by Lyarra – effectively showing up and called dibs on teaching Bran much to Bloodravens annoyance. Ashlyn's presence teaching Arya/Bran also means Nymeria doesn't quite jump in and bite Joffrey (though he happily spins his usual nonsense story to the contrary) so without that, Lady survives to see the capital.
That said, it's Cersei, so Ned considered not allowing the wolves to stay as the odds were good that she'd have tried having them killed; but then it became apparent how if Ned sent them with say even 10-ish men (he only took 100 or so with him to KL) that Cersei would have a MUCH easier time ordering them killed in the middle of nowhere by some 'bandits' than she would in the Red Keep under everyone's noses; especially if guards are kept on the wolves and Robert has rather publicly said they aren't to be harmed. In the books Nymeria only jumps Joffrey once he has Arya pinned against a tree – so having an 'adult' present narrowly avoids Joff getting bit. Narrowly.
My original intent was to simply hear about these events from Will's PoV later upon his arrival to the capital, but I figured fuck it; better to flush it out.
George Cristian810: Language differences may account for it as I said, happy to listen if its polite; just suggest you double check or you'll come across as aggressive and/or confusing :) this review was much better so happy to address your points. Your last review(s) seem to argue many points that are already established.
I'll PM you answering your previous questions again as the subject has been heavily addressed in my responses/notes already :)
N7withpride: Ezio should pop up once or twice but he's very much a side-character we're not likely to see much of outside of Braavos. I do actually have pre-set plans to have him show up much much much later on in the story; but spoilers - we'll get there eventually - it's towards the very end haha
Tertius711: Yeah, dinosaurs, the urge to write up a nonsense excuse to have someone warg it is strong; but probably best not :P