Sansa finds Edward in the glass garden. Wiping fresh tears from her eyes onto the cuffs of her dress, she treads lightly down the dirt path, breathing heavily from the sudden wave of warm air. For as much time as she spends here, she never grew used to the shock of walking in from the cold into the shelter of the great glass-paneled, brick-walled gardens that let the servants tend crops all year long. There was a lemon tree here, where Gage plucked the fruit for her favorite lemon cakes. But no amount of lemon cakes could ease this pain and fear.
The night Bran fell, there must certainly have been a great commotion, but Sansa had slept right through it. When she awoke the next morning, she was told that her brother had fallen from the Broken Tower in the dead of night, that he was in a deep sleep. And she was told by Father's eyes, if not his words, that he may never wake up. Later she had learned that Edward had run for help, that he had seen Bran fall. What Edward had been doing on the roofs at night, she can't imagine. He wasn't Bran or Arya. She was shocked that he hadn't been the one to slip off the tile.
She had seen little of Edward since that night. No one had. He always kept more to himself than her other siblings, but this was different. She knew that he blamed himself for whatever had happened. How could he not? He was Father's little lord, full of all the grace and reverence of manhood even while two years her younger. She had to admit that she had been angry with him at first, when the news came. How could he have let Bran climb at night like that? But she could never say such things to his face. And now she finds him, bare feet in a steaming spring at the far end of the garden.
"Ed!" He looks up at her, eyes red from tears and darkened by exhaustion, his clothes uncharacteristically rumpled and wrinkled. Gone is the peaceful serenity, the joyful spirit she knows. He looks as brooding as Arya now.
"I want to be alone," he answers, but his voice is barely a whisper, a lack of conviction that she knows to show his dismissal is untrue. And so she sits beside him, carefully laying out her dress to recline as a proper lady should. Septa Mordane might scold her if the dress is dirtied, but for once she does not care. Struggling to find the right words to say, she plants a single comforting hand on his shoulder, and they look down into each other's reflections in the pool.
We couldn't be more different, Sansa thinks, her the image of her Tully mother, Edward the perfect bearer of Father's Northern Stark features. And yet they are the most alike of their siblings. The fabled wolfblood that made Robb and Arya and the rest so fierce had, it seemed, left them behind.
"Have you seen him?" Edward asks softly.
"No," Mother had barely let anyone in to see Bran. "But they say he is at peace."
"I don't want him to be at peace, I want him to be awake!" He kicks at their reflections, the faces vanishing into a thousand glistening ripples. The tears begin to seep out from the corners of his eyes once more, slowly and painfully, as if their salty reserves had been run dry over the past days and it had become a chore to release. "It's my fault. I should have stopped him."
"No, don't say that!" Sansa pulls him to her and he collapses limply against her body, letting her wrap around him. "Don't ever say that!"
"But it's true!" Edward pulls his head away from her chest to look up again with his bloodshot grey eyes. "Isn't it?"
Sansa tries to open her mouth to deny it, but no words come out. What can she say? Yes, yes he should have stopped Bran. But what good does that do now? "If father and mother couldn't stop Bran from climbing, you never could." She runs her fingers through his hair, praying to the old gods and the new to stop his tears. "Septon Chayle says that the past can be a trap. We cannot dwell forever on what mistakes we may have made. We have to move forward. And soon we will be in a whole new world, together, Edward. The capital! The capital with the king!"
"I'm very sorry Ned, but the boy fell," the king shakes his head, eyes intently watching the wine in his goblet as he sloshes it back in forth, as if half-expecting some great leviathan to rise from the crimson depths to devour him and free him from this conversation. "We can stay no longer. Let the women and the maesters tend to what is left of him. We have men's work to do. Ha! King's work."
But Lord Eddard Stark will not let this go. "Bran doesn't fall. Catelyn worried so after him, we warned him not to climb, but it never stopped him. He was like a squirrel on the walls and the roofs…"
"Even squirrels fall, especially at night," Robert takes another long drink, eyes rolling back.
"He is not a squirrel he is my son!" Ned slams his fists down on the table, and immediately regrets it. No matter how close they may be, this is no way to speak to a king. But it seems to have at last grasped his old friend's attention.
"Ned… I'm sorry, I… I do not like to dwell on such matters, my words are clumsy and no help to the mourning. But you gave me my word, to return with me as my Hand, and Sansa and the twins, too. We can delay no longer. All of this… horridness, Cersei says it upsets the children."
"It upsets your children?" Ned grits his teeth, breathing deep to hold back another outburst.
"The wolves, Ned! The damned wolves! Will they never be silenced?" Robert hurls his empty goblet at the shuttered window, which even through the thick panes the muffled howls can be heard. "I swear, if they whinge like this on the Kingsroad, I'll gift Cersei a direwolf cloak!"
He's drunk, Ned grimaces and tells himself. He doesn't know his own words. But the king is always drunk, it seems, and even the drunken words of a king hold the weight of death.
"Edward said there was a light in the Broken Tower. Someone was there when Bran fell."
"One of my guards, no doubt. They are here to protect me, they know not which towers are and are not patrolled at your command. And we have no time for you to question them all."
"Why have none come forward then, if they have done nothing wrong?"
"Would you reveal yourself, if the son of the Lord of Winterfell died trying to climb to you?" Robert turns to see Ned's icy grey glare resting coldly on him. "Of course you would. Your damned honor. Were that any two other men in the kingdom were so honest."
"My son is alive, your grace." Ned answers, without emotion in his voice. "You said he had died."
"He might as well be," Robert scoffs. "He'd be better off! What kind of life is it, to lie in a bed, unmoving, washed and bathed by a maester and shitting yourself every night?" The thought seems to rouse anger in him. Or perhaps fear? "Tell me this Ned, if I ever come to be like that boy, don't you dare call me alive. Slip a sword between my ribs and let me die a real death." Ned has no answer for that, standing still as the king slumps drunkenly towards the door. "Make your peace. We leave tomorrow morn."
Ned is still standing still as the door slams heavily behind Robert and his heavy footsteps thud further and further away down the hall. For a moment, he considers changing his mind. Rejecting the offer, throwing the Hand back down at the feet of the drunken man in the crown. But no. If this is truly what Robert has been brought to, Ned knows more than ever that he must accept. For if he is not Hand, if his council is not kept, who will the king turn to?
Edward looks up longingly at the window behind which Bran is hidden away. Mother would not let him in to say good-bye. And he knew that, no matter what Sansa said, that it was because he had let his brother fall from the tower.
"I'm sorry, Edward." He turns to see Maester Luwin shuffling forward. He had been so lost in thought he hadn't even heard the old man's rattling chain. But now he gives his full attention, hoping that some good news of Bran has sent Luwin down to him. It is not to be. "Perhaps it is for the best. You should try to remember Bran as he was. It would not do to see him now."
He means Bran will never wake up, Edward thinks, but instead he only thanks the kindly maester who had taught him so much over the years, awakening his love for the wild things of the world and of taking them to art. "I wish you were coming with us."
"Ah, Edward, I can't say I wish the same. The Kingsroad is long and hard, far too much for these old bones. And I am the maester to Winterfell, my place is here until, I hope, the day I leave this world. There will be new maesters to teach you in the capital. Do my teaching well when you meet them."
"Like Grand Maester Pycelle?"
Luwin hesitates for only a moment. I don't think he likes the Grand Maester, Edward realizes. "I'm afraid Pycelle will be busy with matters of the Council, Edward. But there are many maesters in the city, many whom I know well. They will serve well. Now run along, you won't want to make the king late."
Edward turns and obediently begins to run for the yard, leaving his faithful teacher behind. But then he stops. The yard holds Princess Myrcella and then the capital, new sights and music and food and people. But the yard also means leaving Winterfell. Leaving home. Leaving Bran. He doesn't know if he wants that anymore. If he deserves it. He should go see Arya instead, he thinks.
When he reaches her room, he finds Jon is already there, and he has brought his sister a gift. She holds in her hand the thinnest sword that Edward has ever seen, light and deadly looking. Just what Arya has ever wanted. She turns to him, sword presented proudly in front of her, beaming with joy.
"Look what Jon got me! I'm going to call it Needle!"
"It… It looks very sharp," is all he can offer in reply. He has never been comfortable around swords. But the happiness in Arya does brighten his mood.
"Now I can be a real warrior, like Nymeria!" she turns back to hug Jon who smiles as he moves to leave. He looks back at Edward, offering a final good-bye as he leaves for the Wall, but it is clear he has no gift for his brother. They have never had much in common, nor has Jon understood his interests. But Edward would like to visit his half-brother again one day, he thinks as Jon leaves. He would like to see the Wall.
"Does father know about that?" He turns back to Arya and Needle. She shakes her head. "Are you taking it with us?"
"I can hide it," she vows. "And when no one is watching, I'll train!"
"With who?"
"With anyone who will teach me!" she waves the point of the new sword in front of his face, and he takes a nervous step back. "You're a squire. Find knights to teach me."
Only if Ser Jaime still wants me… Edward frets. Little good it would do either way. He could not much see the likes of Ser Borros sparring with a little girl in the yards of the Red Keep. But before he can dissuade his sister of that particular idea, he hears their father's voice approaching in the halls. Arya hurries to hide the sword within her trunk just in time as Ned ducks down to enter the room.
"Both hidden away in the same place, as ever," he smiles. "You ought to have been done packing by now, Arya. Finish your things and come to the yard. Ed, walk with me."
Edward hurries to match his father's pace, following him back out the door. They go for some ways without saying a single word, only pacing side by side, steps matching in pattern as much as the son's short, young legs will allow. They do not speak until they are almost at the yard.
"We all need you to be strong now, Edward," Father tightens his fur-lined coat as they step outside, heavy clumps of stray snow blowing down from the roofs above their heads. "The road ahead is long, and I will not always be able to be at your side. Ser Jaime will need you to serve him well. And your sisters will need you as well, I think."
"I don't want to go," Edward blurts out. "I want to stay. I should be guarding Bran. Mother s… It's my fault. I let him climb the tower. I let him fall." This time, no tears come. Only the icy Stark resolve. He stares up at his father for a long time, unsure what it is he hopes to hear – a denial or a confirmation.
"You made your choices. And Bran made his," Father places both hands firmly on his shoulders. "And now your paths must diverge. You cannot let what happened to Bran define you. Only the gods know his future. But yours is there. I trust you will make us all proud."
He points to wear the three knight of the Kingsguard wait, white cloaks standing out among the bustling crowd of servants and men-at-arms preparing the horses and wagons to depart. Edward stops to embrace his father, warm against the cold air, and forces a smile across his face as they walk together across the yard. Ser Jaime is the first to notice their approach.
"Is this what passes for good riding weather in the North, Lord Stark?" Jaime smirks. "Or should I say Lord Hand? It is ever so hard to keep track of all these titles."
Ned answers with only a curt nod of acknowledgement, and then he is away, to tend to the king, and Edward is alone with the Kingsguard. Is this my new family? Bran wanted to wear a white cloak, will I one day don one in his place? Looking at the knights assembled before him, he was not so sure he wanted that. Ser Meryn's lips part, beginning to form a cruel word, no doubt, but Ser Jaime silences him with a green glare.
"Edward, it is good to have you with us again," he smiles down at his squire. Edward notices something in the eyes he did not see before. "We all are very sorry about your brother." His lip quivers on the last word. Odd, Edward thinks. He barely knew Bran. A knight like Ser Jaime is not easily moved.
"I am sorry I have not served you well," he kicks nervously at the dirt.
"No, no, you yet have duties to your family. And now your duty rises to me," Jaime swings up gallantly onto his majestic horse, any previous hesitation vanished, white cloak flapping in the harsh north wind. "And to the king. Fetch my sword. We ride by his side today."
A/N: My apologies for this chapter being so late, especially for a shorter one, my job got very busy and held up my time to write. But I hope it was worth the wait, and now our story has (literally) gotten on the road. As always, any commentary is greatly appreciated. Next week we'll have more developments with Edward and Myrcella and see if this time all the direwolves can make it down the Kingsroad unscathed!