"Leave your little beast behind," Joffrey glares at Lady. The direwolf dips its head away and turns back to Sansa, nudging its big head up against her stomach. She scratches gently behind her wolf's ears, wishing that her prince could come to love the wolf as his own one day. Lady wasn't like the others. She was the smallest of the litter, calm and gentle. But the golden-haired prince had never liked the Starks' pets, and lately something had happened to make him fear them even more. It was probably Arya's fault.
She had caught her sister sneaking off again this morning, and they had fought. They'd never been close, to be true, Sansa had once been convinced her real sister had been stolen away by grumkins and replaced with a wildling girl. But no, as she grew she knew Arya was in truth her blood. She may be dirty, loud, rude and run about with the children of the servants, but Sansa knew it was her role to love her kin, no matter how hard they made it. If only Arya could be more like Edward, calm, gentle and well-mannered. How two twins could be so different she'd never know. Everyone in Winterfell called Edward the 'little lord.' Arya would never be called a lady.
"Lady, you can stay here today," Sansa tells the wolf calmly, and it sits obediently. Giving Lady a final rub good-bye, she turns to follow Joffrey back to their horses. They were to go riding in the forest today, together. Her heart skipped at the thought of spending all day with him, his long curls bobbing up and down the back of his neck. But the sight of The Hound standing guard by the royal mounts stops her in her tracks.
"Is he coming with us?" she asks, softly, hoping the huge scarred man will not hear.
"Ha! Neither of us need our dogs to protect us," Joffrey laughs. "Not when I have Lion's Tooth." He swings gracefully up onto his horse without a word to his glowering sworn shield. "Have you seen it? My father the king had the finest smith in the capital make it for me. It's a real sword, not like those child's things your brothers play with at Winterfell."
Sansa didn't want to see a sword, she wanted to ride to the beautiful places Joff had told her he'd found on the journey north. But it would make her feel safer to know her prince had a good blade at his side. She hadn't wanted to leave the camp at all, but Joffrey seemed so gallant and asked so kindly… Only now he was turning his horse away and she was left on the ground.
"Here," a deep, growling voice comes from behind as The Hound reaches over her head to grab her horses reigns. "Let me help, girl."
"No!" Sansa pulls away quickly, keeping her eyes carefully turned from his hideous face.
"So be it," The Hound shrugs, letting the reigns fall. "Help yourself." Sansa doesn't move until she can hear his heavy footsteps lurching away. She looks about, but Joffrey and his horse are long gone. Only a few camp followers and servants watch from a distance with prying eyes. She has always loved to ride, but at Witnerfell, there were always men in the stables to tend to her. She wishes they were here now, Hullen or Harwin, his strong, handsome son who had led her pony as a child. But both were away with Father's horses, not here to help her. And, after all, I'm 11 now, I ought to be able to mount my horse on my own.
Trying to remember everything she had been taught, Sansa grasps at the saddle, swinging one leg up into the stirrup. But as she pulls upward, the other leg swings out and with a cry she is falling, landing hard on her back in the dirt.
Gasping, she scrambles to her feet, frantically brushing dust from her fine blue silks and looking for tears. Thankfully, she finds none, but in the distance hears a crass, all too familiar laugh. The Hound. Refusing to look back, she hears more voices whisper about until his shout silences them.
"Leave her be. The Lady Stark needs no help." He chuckles, but no laugh from him could ever sound kind. It sounded like a dying sheep, the sort of laugh only a monster could have. It only angers Sansa more, and she grips the saddle tightly with both hands, wishing, perhaps for the first time, that she could be only the slightest more like Arya. But this time it works and she pulls up into the air, precariously balancing herself atop the mare.
Breathing deeply, she calms herself, glancing back a final time over her shoulder. The other watchers had gone, but The Hound stands alone, his face void of expression. Desperate to escape his gaze, she flicks her heels into the horse's flanks and rides off into the camp, hoping she can remember the way to the armorer's wagon. She does and, by the time she arrives, Joffrey's blood bay courser is tied outside and a horrible racket is coming from within. Rushing up the steps, she finds the wagon a disaster and, frantically pacing its length, Joffrey, tearing down racks and shelves in a fury.
"Where is it?" Joffrey hisses, tossing steel aside with clattering abandon. Sansa steps nervously back as a stray halberd falls unnervingly close to her foot.
"What in the seven hells is going on in here?" a gruff voice barks. The armorer, drawn by the racket, storms up into the wagon, freezing and dropping to his knee when he sees the prince. "Your grace! I'm sorry…"
"Where is my sword?" Joffrey spins suddenly, his fury now fully directed at the bowing man. "What have you done with it?"
"No one has touched it but you, your grace, I swear it," the armorer insists without looking up from the boards of the floor. Sansa sees a heavy bead of nervous sweat drip down off his brow. She glances nervously to Joffrey. The rage in his eyes now is unlike any she has seen before. Slowly, he smiles, but a different smile than the kind ones he kept for her. This one is twisted, frightening.
"What's your name?" he asks. "I've forgotten."
"Holden, your grace."
"Well then… Where is my sword, Holden? Where is Lion's Tooth?"
"I do not know, your grace. I swear, it must be here, somewhere!"
"Then find it!" Joffrey suddenly kicks at the man's bent knee, dropping him to the ground. "Tear this wagon to pieces until you've found my sword!" As Holden rolls out of his path, the prince grabs a sheathed blade blindly and storms out of the wagon. Sansa pauses for a moment, stopped by the sight of the gruff, huge armorer, now cowering in terror of a boy… her betrothed. But Joff is on his horse and calling her name in an instant, and she rushes down the steps to follow.
The river was wide, rushing and clear. But it was not near as grand as the White Knife, Arya decided as she looked down from a top a grassy knoll, kicking her feet in the weeds as she waits. When Father had taken them to see that river, their river, she could barely hear his voice over the roar. The Red Fork, though, was quiet and serene, so much that she couldn't help but hear the ceaseless chattering of the obnoxiously cheerful birds in the woods behind her. They reminded her of Sansa. And she hated that.
The White Knife was much deeper, too, Arya decided from her perch. She could see through to the bottom along the banks, where the river ran into little pools and spiraling eddies. If she remembered right, it was only a short ways to the site of the great battle, where King Robert had slain Prince Rhaegar. Perhaps later she could go and look for lost rubies from the dead prince's breastplate. Or catch a fish to feed to Nymeria.
She catches a glimpse of her direwolf running in and out of the brush and branches in the shade of the forest, near where she'd tied her horse. Long tongue hanging out of her mouth, panting, Nymeria was still adjusting to the heat of the south. As was Arya. Rising to her feet, she draws Needle, letting the thin blade glisten and sparkle in the bright afternoon sun. Spinning around, she slices clean through a row of reeds, sending their dusty seeds flying up into the air. Some blow back into her mouth, sending her coughing and cursing the heat. But it was the end of summer, Maester Luwin had said. Soon the white ravens would fly from the Citadel to warn that autumn had begun. And then winter. Winter is coming, the Stark words. They always seemed silly to her. It was near always winter in the North, Arya smirks, wiping sweat from her brow onto the back of her dirty jerkin. Why should everyone be so afraid of it?
As she takes another aimless swipe at the tall grass, Arya suddenly freezes as Nymeria begins to bark. Turning, she sees her wolf standing between her and the trees. Nervously, she raises Needle at a point towards the forest edge. These are safe woods, she reminds herself. Everyone says so. It is only another rider from the camp. But if that were true, what would they do if they saw me at play with a sword. Would they tell Father?
But any fears are dissuaded when Tessarrion comes crashing out from the underbrush. The dark, blue-black direwolf pounces forward to great its sibling, and behind its roughshod path comes Edward, riding atop a small brown horse.
"You're late!" she shouts. She had begun to fear he wouldn't come. These days he only cared about his knight and the stupid princess. She feared once they reached the court in the city, she'd never see him again. They'll dress him up in fancy clothes and make him like Sansa, she thinks. But now, as long as they were on the road, she could still pull him away.
"I can't just leave when I please, Arya," Edward rolls his eyes, taking care to tie his horse to a nearby sapling. Arya had neglected to do that, she now realizes. "Where's your horse?"
"Where's your sword?" she lobs her own question back at him. Her horse can't have wondered far, could it?
"Here," Edward beams. At his belt is a sheath, and from it, he draws a double-edged longsword of blue steel. It was smaller than a man's sword, Arya sees at once, but still too big for Edward. As he grips it in his left hand, it tilts heavily to the side, pulling his body with it into a lean as he strains to hold it straight. Arya almost laughs, until she sees the golden lion's head pommel.
"That's Joffrey's sword," she gasps.
"Lion's Tooth," Edward grins. "He's not using it for anything. You said you wanted real steel."
A thin, wicked grin slowly brightens Arya's face. She flicks Needle back and forth before pointing at her brother and motioning for him to strike first. He's never done anything this bold before. Perhaps he will be staying with me after all.
For all its foul beginning, the day had turned beautiful. Sansa smiles as she leads her horse down along a ridge, running away from the small holdfast that had welcomed Prince Joffrey and his betrothed for a lunch of fine trout. Joff loved to introduce her as his betrothed, she had noticed. He was proud of her, she knew it. She was proud to be seen with him, after all. It was easy to forget the rage he had shown in the wagon when looking at his beautiful face.
His anger had faded as soon as they'd left the camp, and who could have stayed angry on a day like this – the forest a vibrant green, filled with the sweet smell of flowers. And the longer they rode, the further behind that frightening wrath faded, the more she understood, she told herself. It was unfair to judge so quickly. All men grow angry, and someone had misplaced her prince's prized sword. Surely even Father's calm demeanor would be roused if some peasant were to abscond with Ice.
"We're almost to the battlefield now!" Joff calls back over his shoulders, flashing a smile as the sun poking through the branches above their heads catches in his green eyes, sparkling like emeralds. "That's where my father killed Prince Rhaegar!"
Sansa glances back up to the sky. It was getting late, if they wanted to return to the inn before dark they should have turned back already. But she could not be afraid of the dark, not with Joffrey here. And not even Septa Mordane would dare punish her for being out with the prince. That realization made her sit up straighter in the saddle and kick again at the horse's flanks. That's what it feels like to be royal, she thinks. Anyone will give you trout and no one can tell you what to do. Sansa has always done what she is told, always as a proper lady ought. But the idea of defiant authority spurns her onward, out of the woods and into a clearing along the river. And then she hears the swords.
"What's that ahead?" Joffrey squints into the sun at the top of the ridge. "Little peasant boys playing knights?" He rides onward.
"We should go," Sansa holds back. At the sound of steel, suddenly Joffrey no longer seems protection enough. She wishes he'd let her bring Lady. And then she sees the other wolves. "Joff, wait!" she calls after him, but if he can hear, he gives no sign.
Atop the ridge, sweat has drenched Edward's dark blue doublet as he clumsily swings the heavy longsword back and forth, trying to connect with Arya's smaller blade. But she is to quick, and raps him on his side again and again, laughing each time.
"Maybe I should be training you," she smiles and her twin, dejected, at last stops, groaning as the tip of his sword thuds down into the earth. "You are getting better, I promise!"
"Wolf boy!" The twins look up to see Joffrey ride up over the top of the ridge upon his courser. "You're a long way from my uncle today. I can't believe he managed to rid himself of you!" Sansa appears over the top of the hill next, as the prince finally recognizes Arya. "And the girl, too? Well, well, where did you get that sword? Did someone decide to let little girls be squires now? You're ugly enough, we could stick you in your brother's clothes and my uncle would never notice. You might even do a better job."
The prince drops down from his horse with a swagger, emboldened by the look of sheer terror on Edward's face as he tries to hide the stolen sword behind his back. Arya, however, blocks his path defiantly.
"You can keep on riding," she glares. "I'm sure my lady sister doesn't want to be out past dark."
"We're fast riders," Joff shoves her to the side, eliciting a growl from Nymeria. "And besides, I can keep my betrothed safe." With a flourish, he draws the outsized longsword from its sheath on his belt. "What about you, squire? Can you protect your sister?"
"Joff, leave him alone!" Sansa blurts out. She has seen Edward fight. Fighting Joffrey now could leave him as crippled as Bran. Or worse. "He's right, we should head back."
"I don't need Starks to tell me when to ride!" Joffrey snaps back before jabbing his sword in Edward's direction. "Come on, wolf boy, fight me."
"I'll fight you!" Arya shouts, stomping through the grass.
"Arya, where did you get that sword?" Sansa calls out, trying to decide whether or not to get down from her horse. But before she can choose, Joffrey lashes out, with a loud clang his heavy sword hits Needle hard, knocking it from Arya's hand and sending it flying to the ground.
"I don't fight girls!" Joffrey shoves Arya to the ground beside Needle. "Don't you know better than to hit a prince?"
"I didn't hit you." Arya glares up at him.
"But you were going to. Apologize." He slowly lowers the point of his sword at her chest.
"I didn't do anything! You wanted a fight. I said you could fight me."
"That's an insult just to suggest it," Joffrey scoffs. The heavy sword, built for a grown man, not a twelve year old boy, begins to sink down as he struggles to hold it straight with one arm.
"Just say you're sorry!" Sansa pleads from her horse while Edward remains frozen and the direwolves prowl closer. But Arya only pushes away on her back through the tall grass, reaching for Needle.
"You heard your sister, girl!" Joff stomps down hard on her foot. "Where are your manners?"
"Leave her alone!" Edward shouts and Joffrey spins around to face him.
"That's more like it, the wolf does have a bark after all," he smiles. And then he sees the lion's head pommel poking out of the sheath on Edward's belt. His face begins to redden. "Wait… That's my sword! That's Lion's Tooth, you little thief!"
"Edward, what did you do?" Sansa gasps.
"He stole my sword!" Joff shouts.
"I… I didn't mean… I'm sorry…" Edward stammers, hand clenching tight on the hilt, slowly backing away from the encroaching prince.
"Give it back!" With a fury, Joffrey charges forward, swinging down heavily. In a blinding flash of steel, Edward draws Lion's Tooth, blocking the attack. Both swords fly back in recoil and each boy stumbles back with them, unused to the weight in their hands. As Sansa cries out, each switches to a two-handed grip and takes another step back.
Edward breathes heavily, the sword held in front of him, splitting his vision, cutting Joffrey's sneering face in two. He tries to remember the right stance, shifting his feet to steady himself. I should run, he thinks, I can't win this fight. He saw the prince duel in Winterfell. But something makes him stay. A dark rage deep within his gut plants heavy weights in his feet and forces him to stand as Joffrey lets out a howl and charges again.
"Stop! Stop!" Sansa shouts, louder and louder, just her voice is drowned out as the direwolves begin to bark, growl and howl louder still, circling the two boys as they fight.
The duel is slow and clumsy. Each is ill-suited to the blades in their hands. But Joffrey is without a doubt the better fighter. Edward dodges, desperately trying to parry and knock away the opposing sword as it swings ever closer to his body, backing him closer and closer to the edge of the cliff overhanging the river. He's not just trying to hurt me, Edward realizes, as panic begins to rise with bile in his throat. He's going to kill me.
But as he hoists Lion's Tooth to block blow after blow, he forces the fear back down and stops backing up. The anger, the fury fills in his veins. Who does he think he is? With a howl more animal than boy, a howl joined at once by Tessarion, Edward lunges, this time not to parry but to attack. Joffrey's eyes widen, startled, and he jumps back, narrowly missing be struck by his own blade.
Edward presses the advantage, swinging wildly, the heavy sword guiding his arms. It whiffs and sings through air again and again, never connecting with steel as Joffrey sidesteps each slow attack, the look of fear on his face slowly turning to a cruel grin. And then he strikes. Mid-swing, Edward's sword halts with a sudden clang. The shock halts his momentum and Joffrey shoves his full strength forward, sending him stumbling back. The prince swings down again before Edward can catch his footing. His feet tangle over one another and he falls back, hitting the ground hard. He raises Lion's Tooth up over his prone torso as Joffrey swings down, knocking the sword aside.
"Yield!" Edward gasps as the sword hits the ground, he raises his arms over his face in submission. "I yield!" He squints his eyes shut, praying to the old gods for salvation as his brief rush of courage dissipates. But the only answer he gets is Joffrey's laughter. The prince laughs, tossing aside his borrowed blade.
"Your brother isn't much of a fighter, beloved," he smirks at Sansa, her face drained white with horror, as he gingerly picks up Lion's Tooth. He slowly wipes it clean on his sleeve. "And I thought that Robb was an easy opponent. That should teach you to steal from a prince." But then he turns and stalks back to where Edward still lies in the grass. He plants one booted foot square in the center of the younger boy's chest. "Have you learned your lesson?"
"Joff, he's only nine!" Sansa finally finds her voice again. "He didn't mean any harm!"
"A boy who steals will grow up to be a man who steals," Joffrey glares, pressing down harder with his foot. "Unless he is taught a lesson." He lowers the point of Lion's Tooth to dangle right over Edward's eye. "A sharp lesson."
"Get off of him!" Arya shrieks, leaping up and towards Joffrey. Sansa finds herself screaming again and finally jumps down from her horse as the next moments turn into a blur. Arya lunges, fists clenched, slamming into Joffrey. Edward rises half off the ground before screaming in pain and falling back into the dirt, screaming in pain. Tessarrion crashes through the grass to his master's side. Joffrey tries to shove Arya away but one hand clenches his collar tight while the other pummels his face. He spins wildly, trying to strike with Lion's Tooth, but she is pressed tight to his own body.
And then Nymeria, springing like a night fury, slams into them both, fangs clamping down on Joff's sword arm as Arya falls away. Sansa shrieks again in terror as the lad disappears beneath the beast and she runs into the chaos.
"Nymeria, No! Go away!" she shouts, shoving hard into the direwolf's side in a blind panic.
"Get off!" Arya tears her back, ripping the hem of her fine blue dress, but the wolf backs away, leaving Joffrey squirming in the dirt, blood seeping through his sleeve. Arya runs to Edward's side. She places a hand to the side of her twin's head. When she raises it again, it is stained red and there is death in her eyes.
"Where's my sword?" Joffrey whines, dragging himself through the dirt and grass, right arm hanging bloody and useless at his side. "Let me kill the beast!" But Sansa runs past him to where Edward lies. The breath rushes out of her lungs as she looks down to see a deep red tear on his face, sliced from lip to ear, dark red pulsing up from beneath his left cheek. His breaths are short, few, and gasping. No, no! I cannot lose him! I will not! She drops to her knees, desperately pressing down on the wound, crying out with all her heart to every god that may yet be watching them.
"Get away from me!" Joffrey! She turns to see that Arya has reached Lion's Tooth first. The prince cowers beneath her, all gallant bravado vanished. "If you touch me, I'll tell my mother!"
"You hurt my brother!" She shouts down at him. "You shouldn't get to tell anyone anything!" She stabs down and Sansa's mouth drops in a silent scream, but the blade has only buried itself by Joff's head. She raises it again as he cries, placing her foot on his chest as he had to Edward. It is plain that he could throw her off if he tried. But he only lies on his back and cries spite and doom.
"Leave him be, Arya!" Sansa finally summons back her voice to command with all the authority she can muster. "Take a horse, run back to the camp and get help!"
For a moment, Arya hesitates. But then her eyes fall on Edward once more, and she nods. Leaving Joffrey to moan in the dirt, she runs to the nearest horse, Sansa's. Before climbing up, she looks over the edge to the river below and, with a defiant spit, hurls Lion's Tooth over the edge. They barely hear the splash as hooves clap and she disappears down over the ridge, Nymeria bounding along behind her.
As the sound of the horse fades, Tessarion, belly on the ground, curls up alongside Edward, laying a huge snout down upon his master's chest. Sansa looks into the wolf's orange and blue eyes and says another prayer, clutching her brother's hand tight with one hand while pressing down on his face with the other.
"Help me!" Joffrey calls from where he lies, unmoving, at the edge of the cliff. "Don't just sit there, help me! What did she do to my sword?" But Sansa never leaves Edward's side, and the shouts of her betrothed eventually fade away amongst the rushing river, the wind in the reeds and the trilling of a lone songbird circling in the sky.
A/N: So poor Mycah the Butcher's Boy has been spared a grisly death, but neither Joffrey nor Edward will be the same after this fight. If you thought there relationship was bad before, well... Our young hero may already have a nemesis at age 9. As always, all comments, critiques and questions are greatly appreciated.