The first sign of trouble had been when the horse wandered back into the camp. It was milling aimlessly in the yard outside the inn when Harwin had seen and corralled it. Returning it, Hullen's son had quickly realized his father did not know who had taken the horse out to ride. And that was when they found the sack.
A small pouch knit by Lady Catelyn Stark herself, it had been a gift to Arya for her seventh Name Day, when she had first begun to ride. It was unmistakable to Ned's eye. They'd brought out the hounds then, to trace the scent, huge beasts that Robert had brought along for what whims may stop him for a hunt. They had rode out, knowing soon it would be dark. Ned's mind was only on Arya throughout the search, for he had feared this would happen. The girl had the wolfblood in her, more than any of his children. She could barely be contained in Winterfell, here on the road or in the city, well… something had to be done. Now he feared the worst had happened before his plans could take root.
They had met her halfway, eyes stricken with panic, running an exhausted horse recklessly through the woods. But as words careened out of her mouth, it became clear that there was a greater concern. And so Harwin pulled her onto his own mount and they rode on, Ned keeping pace with them in the lead until they crashed out of the woods and onto the ridge to find the wolves circled on guard around Sansa, kneeling over Edward and Joffrey, both bleeding in the dirt.
For a moment, the memory of finding Bran's broken body beneath the tower flashes back before his eyes. And before that, that day at the Tower of Joy. Promise me Ned... Rushing to his son's side, pulling Sansa away, Ned allows himself to close his eyes for only a second and pray to the old gods. They have never felt so far away.
The night was warm, but Sansa shivers as Jory leads her to the audience chamber. Castle Darry is small and overflowing with men. Lannister men and king's men. Jory is the only northerner she has seen here since she arrived. But that is alright, she tells herself. Joffrey is my betrothed. They have to protect me, no matter what Arya's stupid wolf did. But would they protect Edward?
They're all there – Lord Renly, Ser Barristan, Ser Boros and Ser Maryn… the sight of Ser Ilyn and the Hound makes her shiver, the headsman's hand twisting on his blade's hilt. King Robert is slouched over in Darry's high seat, the queen and Joffrey at his side. Joff's arm is heavily bandaged. His face has been cleaned, she can tell, but she can see smudges of dirt and blood still staining his golden hair and a bruise beginning to form on the left side of his face. That's strange. He wasn't hit there. At least, not on the ridge…
At the center of the room, directly before the king, Father stands with Arya. Jory guides her to him, before stepping back into the crowd of attendants. She feels safer now, stealing nervous glances at Joffrey as she flattens the wrinkles out of her dress, torn though it may be, and straightens her back alongside her family.
"Where's the boy?" Robert asks, a deep, calm voice masking barely contained rage.
"The maester is still tending to his wounds, your grace," Ned answers plainly.
"Will he live?"
"Yes." Sansa hears sighs of relief from several standing behind her, though she knows not who.
"And will he keep his eye?" Robert's head turns slightly as he addresses Ned to glare at Joffrey.
"The maester believes he will," Ned's head bobs stiffly up and down to affirm.
"Now… the lad is not here to speak for himself, but three others are," Robert clasps his fat fingers over the top of his belly, eying Joff, Sansa and Arya one by one. "Let us see if we cannot get to the bottom of this."
"We know what happened!" Cersei hisses shrilly. "That wild girl's beast savaged my son!"
"As your son savaged the son of the Lord Hand and Warden of the North!" Robert bellows, slamming his fists down on the sides of the seat so hard Sansa fears it would shatter.
"He stole my sword!" Joffrey blurts out. "He stole my sword and when I tried to get it back he attacked me and threw it in the river!"
"That's not true!" Arya tries to rush forward but Ned grabs her shoulders. "You attacked Ed first! You were going to hurt him and then you did!"
"I taught him a lesson!" Joff shouts back. "It's not my fault he can't fight! I beat him fair, but he couldn't take it. So he drowned Lion's Tooth!"
At that, a loud, raucous laugh breaks the silence from the back of the room. Sansa turns to see Renly, face red as a beat, near bent over with laughter.
"Silence, boy!" Robert rises with a fury. Joff slinks back behind his mother, hand flitting to the bruise on his face. As Renly's chuckles sputter out, he turns back to the Starks. "You, Sansa. You seem a level-minded little thing. Tell us what happened."
Sansa gulps as the king returns to his seat, the spittle catching in her throat, nearly making her cough. She sees Joffrey glaring at her from behind his mother's back. She tries to piece back together the scattered memories, dashed by panic and fear of the moment. What does she owe to Joffrey? What does she owe to Edward?
"I was out riding with the prince, your grace," her mouth finally opens and words begin to tumble out. "We… it was a lovely day. We tracked a shadowcat to its lair, we picked wildflowers, we ate trout at a holdfast…"
"I don't care about that, girl," Robert snorts. "What about the sword?"
"In the morning, Prince Joffrey left to find his sword. It was not in the armorer's wagon. Later that day, along the river, we found Edward and Arya. They were playing knights and…" She phrases her words as careful and true as she can. "And Edward had taken Lion's Tooth. I… I think he wanted to impress Arya. They've always been like that." Her sister remained silent. "When Joff… When Prince Joffrey saw it, he challenged Edward to a duel and won. But he didn't let him get up. He was trying to scare Edward, I think. And when Arya tried to push him away, he hit her. That's when the wolf bit him."
"And when did he lose his mighty sword?" Renly calls out. Sansa winces.
"Arya took it. She took it and threw it in the river."
"Ha!" Renly roars with laughter louder than before. "A mighty lion, that one. Lost his sword to a girl!"
"Ser Barristan," Robert glares over to the crowd. "Escort my brother to his chambers before he chokes." Renly, however, is already leaving on his own accord. Cersei and Joffrey fume as he loudly marches out of the hall, laughing all the way.
"That seems the whole of it," Robert nods as the sound of his brother fades away. "Do either of you take issue with the girl's account?" Joffrey opens his mouth but thinks better of it. Arya does not move. "Then it seems the matter has resolved itself. Blood for blood, two lessons learned. I think it's time we get some sleep."
Cersei's jaw drops as the king rises. "What of the wolf?"
Robert eyes Ned carefully. "What of it? It defended its master. Wolves know no difference between kings and paupers. The mark Joffrey gave Edward is far worse. Perhaps it will teach him to keep a level head."
"But…" Cersei reaches out to grab him, but Robert spins to face her with surprising speed.
"I will hear no more of this, woman. I think I will need some wine before I sleep."
As the chamber slowly empties, Arya quickly hurries to the door. Sansa pauses for a moment. I should wait for Joffrey, she thinks. But her sullen prince sulks straight to The Hound's side, and so she follows Arya instead. Behind her, Ned moves to follow his daughters out, but feels a heavy hand fall on his shoulder. Turning, he is face to face with Robert.
"We cannot afford to delay our return any longer, Ned," he says solemnly. "We must leave again with the rising sun."
"The maester said we oughtn't move Edward," Ned protests.
"I know. But we have a kingdom to run. Leave Ser Jaime with the boy. He won't like it. But I am the king." Ned steps back, realizing that the final sentence is meant as much for him as for Jaime. He does not argue further. "Now, come drink with me. Let us forget this madness."
The king does not wait for an answer, lumbering off down the hall in search of wine and ale. Ned watches him go, then turns to find his own way. He must speak with his children. By the end of the night, Robert will never even notice he did not follow.
Edward's face burns as if it's being held to the coals of the deepest of the Seven Hells. The salve the maester had smeared over the cut had cooled it for a time, but the relief was gone now. He can't remember the maester's face, he can't remember anything since Joffrey's sword slit open his cheek. What was real, what was dream, what was nightmare he cannot tell. He saw old Luwin when he tried to think, gently brushing sticky grey paste over his wound, but that was wrong. Luwin was at Winterfell. At home. Edward wishes he was there, he never should have left. Instead he was here, in a strange castle, alone with his dreams.
In his mind, the world is consumed by ice and fire. He runs through knee deep snow, hurling himself forward, half tripping over his own feet, bogged down and frozen. Before him Winterfell rises, towering against a red sky. But its walls and towers are ablaze with flame. Turning back, he sees the forest and the Winter's Town are a burning inferno as well. Snow falls from the sky mixed with ash and as his mouth drops in horror, they both choke him. Coughing, his foot catches and he topples face-first into the snow. The crystals sting and burn, sharp and cold. When he lifts his head back up, he sees the burning forest once more. A mad howling pierces the air and crashing forth from the burning wood charges a pack of direwolves, their pelts ablaze, crashing through the ice that sizzles to their touch. And behind them, a dark shadow rises up from the horizon, like a huge bat sillouhetted against the destruction of its own design. And from its mouth comes fire. Dragon.
Overcome by terror, Edward turns back, back to the crumbling, burning rubble of his home. He comes to the gates, frozen over as if made of solid ice and pounds his fists furiously against them as he hears the heavy flag of massive wings draw nearer behind him. Finally, the ice gives way, exploding into a million cascading shards. And Edward runs on, over the moat and through the second gate and into the yard. But there is no solace here. The halls, the towers are all ablaze. And the servants, the guards, all those he knew from home, even Maester Luwin mill about, shuffling through the ruins of what had been their lives. Slowly, they turn to look at him, eyes glowing a fierce, unholy blue. They're dead! Edward realizes. They're all dead! And somehow he knows it is his fault. There was only one place left, one place safe. Tearing away from those accusing blue eyes, he rushes headlong through the snow to the godswood.
In the godswood, the snow is the deepest yet, but it is stained black, a layer of soot and ash steaming on the surface of the snow. The trees are gone, scorched skeletons stabbing up at the sky, their burnt branches pointed at him like accusatory fingers. Only the heart tree remains. But there, beneath its crimson leaves, his family waits. Exhausted, he trudges the final steps towards them, a deludedly gleeful smile spreading across his face. But then Father turns towards him and he stops. Father's eyes were not blue.
One by one, they turn to him, one by one their eyes flick open, the same, cold, dead, blue – dead things, all. Father's chest is torn open, as if a fist had punched it through. Mother's dress torn, neck black and withered, a mockingbird pecking at her blind eyes. Robb is ripped and torn by claws, Jon burnt, his skin cracked and sizzling to the touch of fallen snow, Arya pierced with a dozen or more daggers and swords, Rickon's mouth stuffed with wolf's fur, his eyes glass balls. And Sansa… Sansa wears a crown of daggers upon her brow, red blood trickling down over her porcelain skin. She shakes her head and turns her face away.
Then, with a thunderous roar, the pool behind them erupts. Edward falls once more, screaming though no sound comes, as eight shadowy tentacles rise up from the sacred pond where he used to play and drag his dead family down, down into the deep. And then the last tentacle comes for him. He does not fight, he does not cry as the cold, crushing shadow coils around his legs and drags him through snow and soot. He looks up to the face of the wierwood as he slides past, but its red eyes only hold judgement.
Edward is only inches away from the pool now. The thing of the night is taking him to be with his family, he knows. Soon his eyes will be blue, too. And he will be home, home at Winterfell. Forever. But then he looks back a final time to the gate. And there, amidst the blizzard and the inferno, stands a glowing figure of white and gold. And though they stand so far apart, he can see her face. Myrcella. And he remembers, now he remembers that he can't go home. No, he must stay. Stay here. With the princess. His mouth opens to call her name…
His eyes snap open, awake. But they are not his eyes. He's still dreaming, he realizes, but this feels different. He's a wolf, now in the castle yard. Running, pacing along the walls in the dirt. Waiting and smelling for his master. Long jaw slides open to let cold night breeze pass over sharp white teeth and dark wet tongue. He has the scent.
There is a door, unblocked and unlatched, a servants' entrance, easy enough to push open with his head. He treads into the dark halls, heavy paws falling silently on the stone. In this late hour, few are awake to see him and know fear. He follows the trace on the air, winding around corners and up stairs. This castle seems familiar to Edward, but it is not Winterfell, nor any of the northern castles Father had taken him to visit. But he has seen it before, through different eyes.
The wolf comes to a door. There is a guard, asleep against the wall. He hears stirring far down the hall behind him and slinks into the room like a shadow. His master is here. There is a bed against the far wall. In it lies a boy. The wolf draws nearer and nearer until it is looming down over the sleeping child. And Edward sees his own face look back.
With a scream, Edward awakes, hurling upright in a strange bed in a strange room. The darkness blinds him for a moment and he rubs at his eyes frantically, trying to clear them, wincing as he feels the poultice on his face crack and leak. There is someone at the door. Two figures, two blurs, one grey and the other white. The white blur steps forward into the room, torch in hand and hangs it on the wall. As his blurry vision returns, the white figure slowly becomes clear. Ser Jaime, one hand behind his back, stands in wait, his face caught somewhere between disappointment and concern.
"You shouted. Are you alright?" Edward nods, slowly and silently. He hears lumbering steps and a clattering chain in the hall, the maester must have heard his cry. "The boy's fine!" Jaime calls out to him. "Twas only a nightmare."
The knight steps forward and a growl comes from the foot of the bed. Edward gasps as Tessarion rises slowly into view. The wolf really had come to his room, just as it had in his dream.
"Tessarrion, sit, its only Ser Jaime," he commands, his voice hoarse and cracking. Jaime cautiously steps further into the room and the wolf lies back down. Reaching the small desk at the bedside, Jaime pours a small clay cup full of cool water and hands it to Edward, who drinks eagerly. As the water soothes his dry throat, he slowly lowers the cup to his lap, looking up to meet Jaime's eyes. And shame begins to creep in.
"I'm so sorry," he whispers, at first worried the knight has even heard him. "I shouldn't have taken Joffrey's sword. I shouldn't have fought him. Is… Is he alright?'
Jaime is caught off guard by the question. "What, Joff? Oh, the prince is fine, I assure you." He chuckles, taking a seat on the edge of the bed, his white cloak draping over the bedpost. "He marked you far worse than your sister's wolf marked him."
"Arya?"
"I do not think my lady sister gave her a bit of a fright, but she seems like a stern little thing. Went and through Joff's sword in the river. That's the last we'll see of Lion's Tooth."
That beautiful sword, Edward's heart drops. They'll never take me back now. "I didn't mean… I didn't want… I'm so sorry, ser. Am I being sent home?"
"What?" Jaime scoffs. "No! You are my squire! Your lord father and the king will be traveling on to the capital on the 'morrow. I shall be staying here until you are fit to travel."
Edward's jaw drops in shock and he nearly cries out in pain as the motion tears at the stitches and hard paste covering his cheek. He struggles to rise so that he may kneel or anything, whatever is proper. "I… I swear I will not fail you again. I will serve you and the king and the prince so well. I swear by the old gods and the new!"
"Yes, yes, of course you do. Now get back to sleep." Jaime shakes his head, rising. This time, Tessarion does not bother him as he crosses the floor. Before he leaves, though, he stops and turns back, removing a woven wreath of crumpled flowers from his sword belt. He places them on the desk before snuffing the torch on the wall. "A gift from Myrcella. She wishes you a swift recovery."
A/N: As always, thanks for reading. I hope you've enjoyed the story thus far. Here we have our first major plot divergence, with Robert's judgement at Darry being colored by his anger at Ned's son (the pure image of his best friend as a child) being mauled by his own boy. And so we find Sansa and Joffrey's relationship in jeopardy and all three direwolves leaving Darry alive with their masters. How they will fare in the city, who's to say? Only keep reading to find out!