The ride down the Kingsroad has been long and largely uneventful. Edward has taken Sansa and Father's words to heart. As the last glimpse of Winterfell's walls faded back over the horizon, he drew a line in the frosty dirt - His home and the family left behind will always hold a place in his heart. But the past will stay in the past, on the other side of that line. The future is ahead, to the south, as a squire and then as a knight.

And so he throws himself into his duties. There scarce comes a moment that he is not at Ser Jaime's side, the golden-haired knight seemingly torn at all times before sympathy for the grief-struck brother and annoyance at the eager boy who now follows him like a stray pup. But whatever his feelings towards his squire personally, Edward can tell one thing for sure - Jaime, at least while they are here on the road, has no intention of training him, a slight Edward cannot protest, for every day he goes without training marks another day his knight will not discover how hopeless he truly is at arms.

He does wish he could see more of Father. The king would call his new Hand in to discuss matters from time to time, sometimes even to dine. But for most of the long days, the Northern men kept to themselves, and Edward was surrounded by strangers. And those that he did come to know, he was very quickly discovering he did not like.

Among the Kingsguard, Ser Boros was lazy, crass and had a mind duller than a training sword. Ser Meryn was worse, a man who acted every bit as cruel and spiteful as he looked. But worse of all, Edward was fearful and ashamed to admit, was the king. For knights could be cruel, Father had made that clear. But King Robert was Father's friend. They were practically brothers. And he was a king. King's were supposed to be wise and noble and kind. And Robert? Well, Robert was many things, Edward thinks as the king coughs up a bone back onto the royal dinner table, but what wisdom and nobility he may have once had were invisible to him now.

"It's damnable foolishness, is what it is!" Robert barks, deeply. He is drunk, as he seems to be every night, and furious with the queen, as he seems to be almost as often. "It ought to take half this time to travel the Kingsroad. I never should have brought you along! You and your infernal wheelhouse."

"It was you who insisted on us coming," Cersei snaps back, stabbing sharply at her mutton with nimble fingers. "This forsaken Northern weather is far too cold for the children, they need the wheelhouse for warmth."

"The cold doesn't bother me, father," Joffrey interjects. "It is a punishment upon the Northmen for following the wrong gods."

"If the gods ever punished anyone, it certainly wouldn't be the Northmen. Though they certainly seem to have a lark at punishing me," Robert empties his goblet of wine once again, and Edward rushes to refill it. "If it's heat you want, I'll set the bloody thing ablaze, that ought to keep the lot of you warm enough!"

At that, Cersei rises, and Edward is convinced that she is about to storm away from the table. Instead, she siezes the empty flagon from his hands, and calls shrilly for the servants.

"The king is out of wine! Bring more!"

"Yes, more wine," Robert grumbles, without looking up from the table. "At least I thought I'd have Ned for company. But he's worse than the lot of you now. All because of his fool son." Edward cannot stop his head from pivoting at that. "He isn't himself, he's like a man of ice, only ever thinking of the boy." One of the servants timidly returns with a full flagon of wine, which he immediately grabs, sloppily, spilling as he pours into his goblet and takes a long drink. "When a horse is broken, you put it down. Send it out of its misery. What does the world come to, when we show more mercy to a beast than a child?"

Edward's jaw drops, but Cersei's drops faster. "I will not have such talk in front of the children!"

"Have what you will, woman!" Robert roars, lurching up out of his seat, sending plate and chair flying to the ground. "I will speak my mind, and pray they listen well before they grow up soft!" King and queen turn away from each other, storming from the tent as Tommen begins to cry. Edward, filled with fury for his father and for Bran, imagines a million things Arya would call out. But no words leave his mouth. And as he kneels to clean the mess left behind, he sees Jaime watching him carefully. And Joffrey, beside him, green eyes staring out into the distance, an eerie grin crossing his face. Not wishing to imagine what the prince is thinking, Edward ducks back down to continue cleaning.

Darkness has fallen over the camp as Edward creeps along in silence, hoping not to disturb any of the sleeping men, his hands wrapped tightly around Ser Jaime's sword. The knight had handed him the blade as he retired, he wished it taken to the armorer's wagon to be sharpened. Did that mean he meant to start training with it? Whatever the purpose, Edward was grateful he remembered where the wagon was, and could find his way there even now, in the dark of the night. The moon was all but gone from the sky, but his mind kept the path clear, and Tessarion at his side is all the company and courage he needs.

A single, flickering fire is lit near the wagon, a handful of shadowy figures lurking around it. Edward rehearses in his head what he will say if stopped. He has nothing to fear, but fear, as it always seems to manage, finds a way to slip in nonetheless.

He sees that the door up into the wagon lies open, swinging free heavily in the night. Within, he sees the light of a flickering candle. Whispering sharply at Tessarion to stay behind, he takes his first step up onto the ornately carved steps. A creak cuts through the darkness, and the candle within vanishes. Edward nearly stumbles back, off the case, but catches himself on the rail, shifting Jaime's sword under his left arm. Restoring his nerves he carries on, up each step, creaking all the way before stepping beneath the great wooden antlers and into the wagon.

For a moment, he wishes he had brought a candle of his own. But as he stands, frozen in the doorway, the faintest of moonlight creeping over his back, his eyes slowly adjust and he can begin to make out the inky black shapes of barrels and racks of weapons, and dangling, ominous rows of more tools and arms hanging from the ceiling. Then, a scrape on the floor reminds him he is not alone.

"Who's there?" he calls to the invisible stranger, straining to remember the armorer's name. "It's Edward Stark. I have…"

"You!" A voice hisses from his left and a shadow lunges forward. Whirling around, Edward forgets the sword, and it smacks hard into the unseen speaker, sending them toppling back into a curtain of hanging steel with a cry and a clatter. "Damn you, Stark!" The voice comes again, and as it emerges again, the shadow has a face – Prince Joffrey.

"Your grace!" Edward gasps. "I'm sorry!"

"You will be sorry, boy!" Joff shoves Edward back against the wall of the wagon, so hard he drops Jaime's sword. In the moonlight, he sees the prince's right hand wrapped tightly around a catspaw dagger, the metal glistening with a distinctive hue he only knows from one blade, Father's Ice – Valyrian Steel. And then he feels the prick of its point between his ribs.

"Y…y…your grace, I did not mean to disturb you!" he stammers, to know avail. Joffrey presses sharper, and he feels the point cut through his vest and pierce his skin.

"What are you doing in my father's armory, boy? Are you a thief? My queen mother says that Northmen can never be trusted. Is that true?"

Before he can answer, there comes a deep growl and two glowing eyes appear at the top of the stair, one cold blue, the other burning orange. Tessarion. A low bark sends the prince jumping back with a gasping, whining squeak of terror. Edward immediately drops to the floor to retrieve Jaime's sword and ensure it is still safe within its sheath.

"See, look here," he lifts up the blade. "Ser Jaime told me to bring his sword to the armorer." But he sees Joffrey still has not moved, his terrified eyes still locked on Tessarion, the hair on the wolf's neck all standing on end. "You don't need to be afraid of Tessarion," he assures. "He won't hurt you." Unless you do something stupid, he thinks, but stops before he says anymore.

This seems to appease the prince, who turns stiffly away. It is then that his eyes catch glimpse of another sword, knocked to the ground as he had floundered about. "Lion's Tooth!" he gasps, siwzing his personal blade to inspect it in the dim light. "I swear by the Warrior, if you've damaged it…"

"Me!" Edward's mouth finally gets ahead of him. "It was you who knocked it down! If you weren't so blind in the dark…"

"I am the prince!" Joff shouts, his eyes wide with fury. He marches back the length of the wagon, pushing Edward out towards the entrance as Tessarion's growls grow louder with each step. "This is my sword! A royal blade!"

"And whose dagger is that?"

At that, Joff's free hand flies into the air, ready to strike, and Tessarion howls. Edward ducks as the Prince attempts to slap him, instead tripping over a scattered hammer and toppling face first out and over the wolf, landing hard on the ground below. As he calls out for help, his cries are drowned out by Tessarion's barking. Edward jumps down, grabbing onto his wolf's neck to stop him from lunging. He regrets at once speaking so bluntly. Those were Arya's words, not his.

"Shut up dog!" A deep, slurred voice shouts. Both boys look up to see Ser Boros, torch held high, eyes shot red with ale, stumbling towards them, the armorer at his side.

"That beast attacked me!" Joff shouts, scrambling to his feet.

"Which one? The wolf or the boy?" Boros laughs, deep and slow.

The prince is not amused. "He was sneaking around in the dark. In the armory!"

"I was returning Ser Jaime's sword!" Edward addresses Boros directly. "I do not know what the prince was doing in the wagon, ser. He startled me."

"What are you doing out so late, your grace?" Boros eyes Joffrey carefully. "Where's your own dog?"

"The Hound is on guard at my tent, where he belongs!" Joff insists, defiantly. "What I do is none of my business! You are of the Kingsguard!"

"Of course. And that means I am to keep you safe," Boros motions for the prince to step forward. "I will walk with you back to your tent, to see no more creatures of the night trouble you."

Reluctantly, Joffrey steps in line with Boros as the drunken knight shambles off in as straight a line as he can maintain. "And what of the Stark boy?" He shoots a green glare back over his shoulder.

"I think the little squire can find his way back just fine by himself. Or perhaps he will go off and run with the wolves and save us all a lot of trouble…"

For a long while, Edward does not move, listening to the armorer swear a fury up to the gods as he cleans his shaken wagon. He stands still until Boros' white cloak has faded into the night, trying not to think to long on the fact that he saw the distinctive hilt of the Valyrian dagger poking out from Joffrey's belt as he stalked away, or to question just what the prince intends to do with his stolen blade.

A few day's ride from the Trident, the royal party was met by outriders up from the capital – chief among them were the king's brother, Renly, the King's Justice, Ser Ilyn Payne and Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, the legendary Ser Barristan Selmy.

Edward had nearly overwhelmed himself when he first realized who it was beneath the white helm. He had long cherished the stories of Barristan the Bold, and had eagerly awaited meeting the Lord Commander in the capital. But now he was standing here before him, stepping down from his horse and removing his helm. Edward at once dropped to his knee.

"You don't need to do that, my boy," Ser Barristan had laughed. "I'm no lord." Edward had rushed back to his feet and looked up to see the face of a man much older than he had imagined. But not old in the way Maester Luwin was old. Ser Barristan looked just as strong and dangerous as Edward had dreamed him, only with whiter hair and more wrinkles.

"This is Edward Stark, ser," Jaime had introduced him. "Lord Eddard's second son. And my squire."

"A squire for Ser Jaime?" Barristan had lifted Edward's chin up then, as if examining a horse to be sold at market. "That is something I will like to see. If you are as noble as your father, Edward, perhaps you will done a white cloak yourself one day."

Edward had seen little of Ser Barristan after that first encounter. The Lord Commander spent most of each day at the king's side. But Edward did not forget his words. For as much as he felt he owed to Bran to join the Kingsguard one day, he had quite a different dream in mind. I'm going to marry the princess.

The next afternoon, as Ser Jaime sits in on a council, Edward is once again trying futily to train Tessarion in fetching sticks when Myrcella finds him.

"Edward!" He turns to see her approach. The weather is warmer here in the Riverlands, letting her don lighter dresses, such as this flowing golden riding dress, covered with thin red lace. A soft breeze blows her yellow hair up in the air as she approaches, daintily stepping over rocks down into the gulch where Edward sits. And he suddenly remembers he never finished the painting he had begun for her back at Winterfell, the night that Bran had…

"I was so sorry to hear about your brother," she sits gently beside him on the log, delicately placing her legs and arranging the fine fabric of her dress around them. "We all are, it's so terrible. Tommen and I pray to the Mother for him every night." She hesitates, no doubt remembering what her own maesters have taught her of the North. "Do you…"

"My lady mother worships the Seven. We have a sept at Winterfell, Septon Chayle has taught us all of the prayers and traditions."

"That is good," Myrcella nods determinedly, and slides closer down the log. "I met your sister's septa. She is…"

"Unpleasant," Edward answers when she hesitates. "But she means well. I think. Arya hates her, but that's because she doesn't want to be a lady."

"Arya is a very funny girl," Myrcella laughs and brushes a stray hair blown into her face. Edward finds himself drawn into the green pools of her eyes until Tessarrion chooses that moment to finally return, crashing out of the bushes, a gnarly branch lodged in his teeth. Not the branch Edward had thrown, but progress. The princess, however, gasps and jumps back, nearly falling off the log.

"No, don't worry!" Edward hurries to calm her, prying the branch free from the wolf's jaws. "Tessarrion is very friendly! See!" He motions for her to come nearer. He scratches Tessarion's back and the huge hound sits, panting heavily. Myrcella slowly extends one pale, thin hand until it sinks into the dark-grey, blue-speckled fur along the side of Tessarrion's face. Slowly, she begins to rub, growing more comfortable until the wolf jumps up. She half-gasps, half-laughs as it licks her face, pushing it back until it is content to lie down, curled at their feet.

"Is it really a direwolf?" she asks. Edward nods. "Will it really grow as big as a horse?"

"I don't know," Edward has to admit. He had heard such legends before, but Maester Luwin said no maester had examined a direwolf in millennia. No one could say for sure how large they could grow. But the dead mother of the pup's they had found had been truly huge, bigger than any wolf Father or Ser Rodrik said they'd ever seen.

"I hear in the legends they say the Kings of Winter used to ride direwolves into battle," Myrcella looks up from Tessarrion to Edward. "Do you think you'll ride Tessarrion one day?"

Like Prince Daeron rode Tessarion the dragon, Edward thinks, but instead he says "The king has long kept the peace. We all pray to the Mother it will never leave us."

"Of course," Myrcella blushes. "But I think you would look very fierce, one day, if we had to go to war again. Father says the realm has enemies everywhere. You could lead our armies, one day, riding your wolf, in great armor, with a sword like Joffrey's."

"Lion's Tooth?" Edward remembers his brief look at the sword in the wagon.

"A sword like that would look better in your hands."

Edward can tell she immediately regrets saying that, but decides to pry further, the memory of the prince's violence still fresh in his mind, and the stolen dagger. "What is it like to be his sister? Joffrey?"

"He… He is very noble. As strong as our father at his age, they all say. Mother says he will be the greatest king the Seven Kingdoms have ever known…" Her voice trails off and a veil of sadness drops across her face for only a moment. And suddenly she seems afraid. Edward looks back nervously, as if some dark force has stepped out of the woods, but the moment is gone as soon as it arrives. "I do not want to talk about Joff. I want to talk about you."

She nudges him playfully, pulling back his attention. And so they talk about him, about life in the North, about Winterfell and direwolves and The Wall and the snow. Myrcella, it seems, loves the snow. And as simply as that, all thoughts of the boy who would be king, the boy who would marry his sister, the boy who was fumbling through the armory in the middle of the night, were gone. And Edward is happy.

Arya finds her brother as he is walking back to the royal tent at dusk. Tessarrion, trotting alongside him, smells her and Nymeria before Edward hears their approach.

"Edward!" Arya hisses just as the direwolf turns, dipping its head with a soft growl to greet its sister. Edward himself nearly jumps out of his shoes, but calms when he sees it is just Arya.

"The Princess…" he begins, but she cuts him off, disinterested in the latest flights of fancy she can already sense rolling behind his eyes.

"Needle. I need to train, and no one here can teach me. Father can't know, or else he'll take my sword away."

"I'm sorry," Edward protests. "I'm Ser Jaime's squire. He needs me by his side, I can't just run away to play knights with you!"

"And what does mighty Ser Jaime do all day that he can't spare you for a few hours?" Arya laughs. "Laugh and make jokes and lounge with the queen? I heard them say we'll be at the Trident tomorrow. He'd never tell you that you couldn't explore there. Meet me by the river at noon. And bring a sword. A real sword. Needle needs steel."

As Arya runs off, Nymeria sprinting out ahead, already seeming to know where they are going, Edward watches and absent-mindedly scratches the back of Tessarion's neck. He has never been able to say no to Arya. He can't let her think she's afraid, of all times not now, not when he's a squire. Squire's cannot be afraid. And he has always wanted to see the Trident….

Finally turning back, he makes haste to his bed with the Kingsguard. As he goes, however, he passes once again the armorer's wagon, still as sparsely guarded as the night before. And he remembers Jofferey's cruel words, the prick of the Valyrian dagger and Myrcella's thoughts of him holding Lion's Tooth. In his mind he knows what Arya would do. And as his feet move him faster to bed, he starts to think he might be able, just once, to do it.