"You should have spoken to me first," Ned Stark shakes his head solemnly at the king. Standing before the lifeless marble eyes of his family, a million thoughts wrack his brain, and a million more imagine what Cat will say when he tells her. But first among them all… the Kingslayer.
"Ned, come now, be reasonable!" Robert jostles his arm. "I know you don't like the man, but he's the greatest knight in the Seven Kingdoms! And he's never taken a squire. Any other lord would fight a war just to hand their son over to him."
"Any common sellsword can have skill. A knight is meant to have honor," Ned answers as coldly as royal deference can allow. "Do you mean to have Ser Jaime teach Edward that as well? Or will he need a second teacher for such matters?"
"Oh, Ned," Robert shakes his head, his old friend watching carefully for any sign of the man he had seen crowned fifteen years ago. "People change." That much is abundantly clear, Ned thinks. The proof is before me.
"Why Edward? You said yourself, Jaime could have any squire he desires."
"To give your son a place in court beside his sister. And beside you." There it is. The greatest offer yet. A betrothal. A squire. And then… "Jaime would take any squire I gave him. I could give him a Frey, and he'd smile. Barristan will probably do all the training in the end. But with Lord Jon dead, there's only one man in these seven damned kingdoms I want to be my Hand."
"You do know what a squire is supposed to do for a knight, don't you?" Jaime looks down at Edward. They stand in the yard, lightly dusted by the last night's snow.
"To tend to your mount and your armor and your arms, to assist you in tournament and battle and in all things," Edward rattles off the list he knows from his lessons. But he leaves the training unspoken, the part that he dreads and anticipates with equal force. He had learned to take up sword and bow here, alongside his brothers, learning from kind but stern old Ser Rodrik Cassel. But where Robb, Jon and Bran had all excelled, Edward had been clumsy at best. Now, Ser Rodrick was busy with Robb and Prince Joffrey, who were sparring at the far end of the yard before a small crowd, their skirmish growing more heated by the minute from the sounds of the watchers, the steel and Robb's curses. Jaime shakes his head at the sight.
"I don't think you'll need worry about battle anytime soon," he chuckles. "King Robert will keep the peace well enough. But my plate grew dusty on the kingsroad. You may see to that."
At first, Edward is surprised to be dismissed so quickly. But a moment's hesitation is already too much, and he is running off to fetch the armor. Errand in hand, he returns to the yard, the crowd dispersing as the sparring ends. He sees that Jaime has found his sister, the queen. Cersei Lannister was said to be the most beautiful woman in the world. And looking at her now, Edward cannot disagree. He watches the siblings meet from the corner of his eye as he begins to polish Jaime's white breastplate. And then his hand stops as he sees the princess walk into view.
Princess Myrcella Baratheon had been there with her family the day before, when the king first arrived. But only now for the first time did Edward see her close and truly notice her. The princess' face was round and pale, flushed with pink from the cold. Her long, meticulously braided yellow hair draped down the back of her elegant red dress that seemed to blaze with color against the white snow and grey stone of Winterfell. Her piercing green eyes glistened clearly even from across the yard. It had not been long since Edward had first started to see girls… differently. The way that Robb and Jon and Theon saw them. And Myrcella was like none he had ever seen. As his pulse quickens, she catches his eye and smiles.
A grotesquely enthused grin breaks Edward's face in reply and, in his rush to wave, he drops the base of the breastplate into the dirt. Frantically, he grasps it firmly once again and rubs it clear. But by the time he looks back up, the queen has passed by, and Myrcella gone with her. As his full attention returns to the polish, Edward remembers that there will be a hunt. And he will not return empty handed for the princess.
The underbrush of the godswood is dark and damp but full of life nonetheless as the Stark hunting party trundles down the path cut by Farlen and his hounds. The king and Lord Eddard ride at the head, Robert already drunk and enamored with the tales of a great elk spotted in the forest. Further back, Tessarrion bounds through the brambles beside the path as Edward determinedly urges his horse onward to keep the pace while tugging and itching at his clothes.
All the Stark siblings had clothes to hunt - dark, fine leather lined with fur - but Edward's was tight and pulled and scratched. He did not go out riding or hunting often, and these days was quickly outgrowing even the clothes he did wear regularly. But they served their purpose well enough – to keep him warm and hide him among the earthy tones of the trees.
Ser Jaime, however, stood out like a white raven in the night sky, and he was clearly none too pleased about it. He hadn't wanted to come on the hunt, that much Edward had known from the start, though Jaime tried to disguise his true feelings. Why, Edward couldn't imagine. Shouldn't the Kingsguard ride with the king? That simple question had been enough to jar Jaime free from the queen's side and now Edward rides proudly beside his knight, even as an ever-deepening scowl creases Jaime's face, covered only by the blonde Lannister blown again and again into his eyes by the fierce northern winds.
And so it was no surprise that, when they came upon a babbling brook and the royal leaders rode on with a divergent path, Jaime brought his horse to a halt.
"I need a drink," he declares, and Edward rushes down from his own mount, foot nearly catching in his stirrup. "I think I can fetch my own water, boy," Jaime shakes his head, but his squire is already standing before him. Shrugging, he tosses an empty flask into the boy's hands. As Edward runs off down to the brook, Tessarrion draws nearer, looking up at the knight with his curious orange and blue eyes. Cautiously, Jaime drops one hand down, gently placing it behind the perked ears. The wolf barely flinches as he slowly begins to scratch the scruff of its neck.
"I'm surprised it likes you," Jaime turns to see Theon riding up to them, a full quiver on his back, bow in one hand. "Wolves aren't said to fancy lions."
"You must be the Greyjoy boy."
"Theon. And I'm not a boy any longer. You must be the kingslayer."
"Ser Jaime," he scowls. He had not stopped for want of conversation.
"What was it like?" Theon's horse clops nearer, sending Tessarion running off after his master's path. "Cutting the mad king's throat? Did it feel different? Or was it only like killing any other man?"
"I would mean nothing to you. You've never killed any men at all." With that, Jaime climbs back upon his horse and rides off with a stern kick. If Theon is offended, he does not show it, instead riding down to the bank of the brook to find Edward sealing the now-full flask.
"I think your knight's gone off and forgotten you," Theon laughs. "Perhaps he saw you playing with a sword earlier. You'd be as likely to kill him as any foe, Ed." Edward glares angrily at his father's ward. A half-dozen cruel retorts cross his mind, but he blinks them all away. None would wash off Theon's stupid smile. But then movement on the far bank catches his eye. A pair of rabbits, emerging from the bushes.
"Maybe it's your lucky day after all," Theon notches an arrow to his bow. "It's no elk, but a rabbit or two ought to show you're good for something expected of a man. I won't tell, you can say you killed them yourself."
"No," Edward puts his foot down. Theon is surprised by the resistance, as the boy whistles to his wolf, a hope taking shape. "Tessarrion. The rabbits."
The direwolf had not mangled the rabbits. Well, not mangled them too badly, Edward hopes, such trepidation nary dispersing the pride he feels striding into the great hall, three bloody rabbits tied to a pole in his hand. The rest of the families, Stark and Baratheon, are waiting for them, watching in approval as the returning hunters present their bounty. Finally, it is Edward's turn. Trying to contain his excitement, he marches directly towards the princess, extending the rod.
"Your grace…" he begins.
Face flushing purple, Myrcella gags at the sight of the rabbits, beside her, Tommen shrieks as a stray piece of bloody gristle flies aside to land on his chest. And from behind, a deafening laugh from the king at his children's distress.
"Get those wretched things away!" the queen waves her hand and the Hound lurches forward to clear the rabbits. This only seems to amuse the king more. Edward stumbles back, looking for Jaime, but instead he finds Father. Ned pulls him back into the audience as the disruption quiets down and the king makes a loud jape about rabbit stew.
"You did well, Edward," Ned forces a smile that slowly turns genuine. "You and Tessarion will be quite the hunters one day. But next time, bring your rabbits to me first."
Whether or not Edward's bounty was used in that night's feast, he could not say. Instead, he dutifully picks at his food, seated by Jaime's side, trying to ignore the deafening noise of the crowds or the sound of Theon repeating the king's 'rabbit stew' joke again and again.
"That was quite the gift you brought my niece," a voice appears suddenly very close to his ear, turning, he gasps to see Tyrion Lannister, the Imp, standing at his side. "It can't hurt the children to see what their fancy dinner looked like before it stumbled into the pot."
Edward at first fumbles over what to say as he takes in the stunted man.
"Ah, I'm afraid I've gone and forgotten again," Tyrion swipes a goblet of wine from the table. "I'm a far more frightening sight for children than any dead rabbit."
"N…n…no m'lord," Edward stammers.
"Oh, don't let my father hear you say that. I'm no lord. No knight either. My darling brother is enough knight for the two of us." He raises a toast to Jaime, quite drunk, Edward suspects. But he is not nearly as ugly as he had expected from the stories. His looks are queer, no doubt, but they seem to Edward soft and good-natured. He decides in that moment that he likes the Imp, but as soon as he had arrived, Tyrion is walking away, and Jaime rises to follow. When Edward moves as well, however, Jaime shakes his head.
"It's time for you to get your rest, Edward. There are no enemies here, you do not need to guard my chamber doors." Reluctantly, Edward watches the Lannister brothers leave and stifles a yawn. Turning back, he sees Myrcella at the front of the hall and his embarrassment creeps back in. Unable to bear the clamor any longer, he hurries the long way down the lines of tables until he is at last outside, in the yard to take shelter in the quiet cool of night.
At least someone, however, has noticed his departure. Sansa steps out through the doors in a dark green dress to find her younger brother bent over on the frosted steps.
"I'm sorry the queen yelled at you, Ed. But I don't particularly care for dead things either," she smiles sympathetically, gingerly taking a seat beside him. "You wanted to give Myrcella a gift, didn't you? Do you think she's pretty?" Edward nods, sheepishly, and his sister stifles a laugh, like a twittering bird. "If she was Robb, then yes, she'd like a rabbit. But she's a princess. You need to get her what she likes."
"What does she like?"
"We've only known her for a day, Ed. I'm sure we'll get to know her. We'll all be living in the Red Keep soon enough. And Joffrey and I…" her voice trails off as her thoughts follow her prince down a trail in her mind. Edward wants to stop and ask what sort of things a girl, no, a princess likes. After all, Sansa is a princess now too, or will be soon. But they hear Mother's voice calling for Sansa and, ever the obedient daughter, she kisses Edward on the top of his head and leaves him to answer the summons.
Edward stays on the steps for a while longer, how long he cannot say. The next thing he remembers is the voice of the queen, who no longer seems quite so beautiful to him. The sound of her only makes him hear her shrill commands and feel the force of The Hound seizing his rabbits. But his view of Myrcella was unwavered. And she was there too, atop the battlements, close enough that he can hear the faintest fragments of their words.
"I've never seen so many stars," Myrcella tells her mother. "They're beautiful."
Edward cannot be certain of Cersei's reply, but it sounds impatiently disinterested. The queen keeps walking, having to drag along her daughter who still cranes her neck to look up until they are out of sight. Edward follows her eyes up to take in the view. He has lived beneath these skies all his life, but they still held fresh wonder for him anew each night. A wonder he now knows Myrcella shares. In his mind, a new gift begins to form, one that would not make Tommen cry or the king laugh. And one that The Hound could never take away.
Even in the darkest hour of night, Edward knows every inch of the room he shares with his younger brothers. His eyes may be blind as his bare feet silently slip out from beneath the covers and onto the cold stone floor, but in his mind he can see it all, preserved in his memory like one of his own paintings. Like the one he is about to paint. He quickly finds the supplies, tucking brush, ink and canvas tight beneath his left arm before his free hand lands on the window latch in the dark.
The window lets loose the slightest creek he hopes will only be heard by him and lets the night breeze waft in over his face. He breathes the cold air deeply and pulls himself through. His toes feel the familiar slick tile as he drops down into the light of the heavens. The vast sky above, marked with every familiar constellation – The Ice Dragon, The Stallion, the Sword of the Morning and the Crone's Lanten – some he knew from Maester Luwin, others from Septon Chayle, and still others from Father. Those were the most special. He knew their stories and the directions that they charted in the dark. He could share all of them with Myrcella. And when he took paint to the canvas he would sketch tonight, he would give her stars she could take back to King's Landing.
Foot over careful foot, he arcs over the roof, careful to avoid stray light from the scattered torches that could reveal him to the sentries. At last satisfied, he sits beneath the abandoned hulk of the Broken Tower and begins to work. But where to begin? There were so many scenes, stretching above in every direction. And then one sparkling light drops down and vanishes in the corner of his eye. He stops, knowing he should make a wish….
"Ed!" Edward stifles a gasp and nearly starts to slide on the incline. His quill drops and hand darts to grab it as he turns to see Bran, silhouetted by the stars, perched precariously behind him. As he steadies himself, Bran hops forward, one foot to the next, never even looking down. Edward was a good climber, but Bran, Bran it seemed was half-goat, effortlessly sure-footed, climbing anything and everything with a feckless ease that tormented Mother with worry. "What are you doing?"
"Drawing," Edward answers, simple and to the point. But why should he be embarrassed? Bran isn't Theon. Or Arya. They might mock him, Bran would probably think it was all just a dream when he woke up. "I'm painting the stars for the princess."
"The princess is boring," Bran shrugs, wondering past him, closer to the edge. "You're lucky. You get to be a squire to Ser Jaime. I bet he'll knight you."
Edward hadn't thought of that. Did he want to be a knight? "Not for a long time."
"I want to be a knight. But they want me to play with Tommen instead. He can't fight, and the queen gets angry when I beat him."
"You'll both be knights one day," Edward half-heartedly assures him. It was at least half-true. Bran showed great promise in the yard, all the men said. Far more than Edward ever had. As for Tommen, well, stranger things have happened in the legends.
"I could be in the Kingsguard!" Bran shouts, excitedly distracted by the thought, he jabs and parries at the air with an invisible sword. "And guard Sansa, like the Dragonknight!"
Sansa, as a queen…. That was another thought Edward had not left much time to think. He had been so enamored with serving Ser Jaime and chasing Myrcella's affection that he had barely dwelt on the changes his family stood on the cusp of.
"What's that?" Before he can think more, Bran is pointing his sword of air up to the highest window of the Broken Tower. A flickering candle light darts through the night, there and then gone again. "Someone's up there."
"Only one of the king's guards," Edward shrugs. "They don't know we don't go up there."
"But what if it's not?" He can see Bran's pale, round face grinning as it glows in the moonlight. "What if it's a spy? What if it's a killer?"
If it's a killer, we should stay far away, Edward thinks. But that would not be knightly. And of course there was nothing to worry about. There were no enemies in Winterfell. If not a lost sentry, it was most likely Theon, stealing away with some girl to do things that Edward understood little himself, and certainly wasn't about to pass on to Bran.
"I'm going to catch them," Bran is off before Edward can say another word. A few hops and swings send him up along the Broken Tower, a pride come over him so grand that one can almost see the white cloak he no doubt imagines already hangs from his shoulder. And then he is on the wall, hand over hand, slipping out of view into shadow.
Edward squints, trying to track his brother's path. His painting slides off his knees as he begins to picture another image – Father as the Hand to the King, standing beside the Iron Throne; Sansa in a royal gown of black, crimson and gold, Joffrey at her side, a tiny heir to the throne cradled in her arms; Bran in the white scale and cloak, Father's great Vlayrian sword Ice in hand. So happy, a place for everyone. But where was he? What was his place? He remembers the falling star. He is still owed a wish….
And then there is a call like the world's loneliest bird, lost in the dark of night, and a small black shape falls flailing out and away from the tower window to the ground below.
A/N: Poor Bran. Even when Jaime does go on the hunt, destiny still conspires to send him flying from the window of the Broken Tower. Some things, it seems, were meant to happen. Thanks for reading, as always, all feedback is greatly appreciated.