Sansa's mind is a million miles away as her mare traipses down along the Kingsroad. It is a gloomy day out, dark grey skies covering the sun, a cold wind blowing down from the north and east, where the dead towers of Harrenhal had finally, thankfully, disappeared back over the horizon. Joffrey had filled her head with horrid stories of that castle as they passed the God's Eye – murders and madness, witches and spirits, worse than any tales Old Nan had ever told at her bedside as a child.
That was the most Joff had talked to her since that horrible day and night by the Trident. His silent anger left her mood as dark and cold as the sky above. She wracked her brain night and day, was there something else she could have said? Something to protect Edward and not anger her prince so? And then, the question she feared the most, if Edward hadn't been there, if it had been only Arya that Joff attacked, what would she have said then?
At least Lady seems happy, she tells herself, the pale direwolf padding softly alongside her horse, long tongue hanging out to taste the smells on the late summer air. For a moment, Sansa lets her own eyes close and mouth drop open to breathe deep and wash in her senses. The clattering of the caravan fades to the back of her mind as she listens to the wind. A hawk shrieks in the distance. A horse coughs. The air tastes wet and cold, it will rain soon, she knows, and lets the wind carry her mind far away, far from Arya and Joffrey and the king and queen.
She imagines herself in a meadow, full of flowers she can almost smell, birds circling her head singing their soft melodies. It is just her and Lady here, alone and at peace. Here she can be a girl again, not a princess. And here the songs are all of brave knights and lovely maidens, with nary a witch nor specter to be seen. She lets herself fall back and the flowers rise up to meet her…
"Sansa!" Arya's voice snaps the girl back to reality. She clutches at the neck of her mare, half sideways, and clings tightly. "Falling asleep in the saddle? Don't let Hullen see you like that!"
Restoring her balance and straightening her dress, Sansa shoots dagger-eyes at her sister, who keeps chuckling to her own jokes. "Did the ghosts of Harrenhal keep you up all night again?"
"There's no such thing as ghosts!" Sansa finds herself nearly spitting as she shouts. But for once, the outburst doesn't drive Arya away, nor egg her on. Instead, her small grey mare comes to a halt in the road and she turns back, unkempt hair tumbling over her face as usual, eyes turned towards the ground.
"I… I never said thank you," Arya's voice is barely a whisper. "For what you told the king. I was so scared that Edward…"
"What did you expect me to say? It was the truth, wasn't it?"
"Yes, but, Joffrey…"
"Joffrey is a prince, Arya," Sansa chides, riding past her sister. "He must protect his honor. He told the king his perspective, you told yours and I told what really happened. It's only my duty. I am your sister, after all. And a lady must always tell the truth."
She waits for a reply as she rides on, but none comes, leaving her alone with her own words. A lady always tells the truth. What did you expect me to say? Joff had wanted her to take his side, that much was clear. He had wanted her to lie. Not, not lie, she insists to herself. Just… share his point of view. If she wanted to win back his favor, if she wanted to be queen… What else will he expect of her? She buries the thoughts in the pack of her head and rides on as the first drops of rain begin to fall.
In the morning, Edward breaks his fast at Ser Raymun Darry's table. At the far end of the table, Ser Jaime sits, glistening in his white plate, in Ser Raymun's own seat. The head of House Darry now sits to Jaime's left, a little younger than Lord Eddard, by Edward's judgement, with shaggy brown hair like a bowl atop his head and a neatly trimmed beard covering his pointy chin. His lady wife sits across from him, and their son, Lyman, beside her.
Nary a word has been spoken at the table. It is clear that Ser Raymun has little patience for his guests, but is too afraid to question Ser Jaime asserting himself as lord over his own castle. Edward smiles to see the man's face reflecting in Jaime's armor. He had worked well into the night before polishing that breastplate.
"The maester believes Edward has healed well enough for travel," Jaime announces, finally breaking the silence.
"So you will be leaving soon, then?" Ser Raymun asks, without looking up from his ham.
"Soon, yes, soon enough. Though I have grown fond of this little keep of yours, Raymun. Perhaps we ought to stay here a while longer. They say that life in the city stunts the growth of children, and I want only the best for my squire."
"Ah, yes, I've never cared for the city," Raymun glares as disdainfully as he dares back at Jaime. "But the king is in the capital, and you are of the Kingsguard. I would hate to keep you from your duties, Ser Jaime. I know how dear you keep your oaths."
For a moment, Edward fears the two men are about to fight, right there at the table. But instead, Jaime stands, forcing his bright smile back onto his face.
"I think I've had quite enough ham for one day, Ser Raymun. My squire and I will be in the yard if you have need of us. Or if you would like to cross swords. It has been too long since I last sparred. Perhaps you may even land a scratch for Edward to buff out."
Joffrey has neglected to comb his hair. That is the first thing Queen Cersei notices as her son crashes down into his seat to break fast. Tommen yawns, Myrcella is radiant as ever, and Robert is nowhere to be seen. He rarely eats with his family, and Cersei prefers it that way. Joff is more than enough trouble to deal with on any given morning. She glares at him as he tears a a jagged chunk of bread off of a loaf and dips it into the butter dish.
"Joffrey, you're making a mess," Myrcella chides him as a large clump of butter drops onto the table in front of her.
"Leave your brother be, dear," Cersei quiets her. She is no mood for fights today. "He's clearly had a poor night's sleep."
"I have not!" Joff retorts indignantly, before silencing himself, shoving his bread into his mouth.
"How did you sleep, Myrcella?" Cersei asks.
"'Cella cried," Tommen blurts out between bites of an apple half the size of his head.
"My dear, what's wrong?" Cersei is taken aback, but it is clear her daughter doesn't want to answer. Now two children will not listen to me? Holding back irritation at the silent defiance, she instead gently reaches across to take Myrcella's hand. "You can tell me, whatever it is."
"I'm worried about Edward," she answers, hushed, looking nervously down the table to Joffrey, lost in his own mind. This is exactly what Cersei had feared. "I… It was my fault that he took Joff's sword. I told him he would look very knightly with a sword like that."
"Why would you say that?"
"He's very brave, and cleaver and kind…" Myrcella's voice trails off. Cersei turns to see they have caught Joffrey's attention.
"What are you whinging about?" he leers. "The cold again?"
"Nothing of your concern," Myrcella insists and returns to her meal. It is clear she will speak no more on the topic. Cersei settles back into her seat. Perhaps she had been to fast to judge the Stark boy. He was not like most lads his age, more Tommen than Joff. If he were truly in love with Myrcella, she would control him. Whether the girl wanted to or not, she would teach her how. And then what would Ned Stark have? Two of his children would belong to her, a third a cripple… But there was still the other twin. Arya, the little devil. Robert should have slain her damned wolf.
"I'm going riding today," Joffrey interrupts her thoughts, standing to leave. Cersei raises her hand to stop him.
"You have not ridden with Sansa since the day you were wounded," she gently instructs her son. "I expect you to amend that. You will not have such chances once we return to the city."
"I don't want to ride with Sansa," Joff glares from beneath his unruly blonde strands. "I don't want to marry her anymore."
In that moment, her composure nearly flies away and she begins to rise. But that will only make matters worse. Instead, she seizes an orange and begins to carve into it. Her nails pierce the peel, and bitter juice runs out over her fingers. "That is a very bold statement to make, Joffrey. What has the girl done to anger you?"
"She doesn't love me!" he insists angrily. "The Starks are all as treacherous as their wolves! When the beast savaged me by the river, Sansa didn't help me at all! She let me lie bleeding and ran to uncle's thieving squire instead!"
"Edward is her brother!" Cersei shouts and her knife slips, splattering orange juice over the table. Tommen bursts out laughing, but Cersei's eyes narrow on Joffrey. "Of course she ran to Edward first. Blood runs deeper than any artificial bond a man or woman may be pressed into. Never forget that." Irritated at the lecture, Joff rolls his eyes, and turns back to exit the tent. She returns her hands to the table, as soft as a lady ought but loud enough to force his attention back. "Never forget it. Family is everything."
In the Darry's yard, Edward focuses on his stance. One foot turned in front of the other, weight balanced, just as Jaime had taught him. The sword gripped tighter than death in his hands is lighter than Lion's Tooth had been, but heavier than the swords Ser Rodrik had trained him on. But he had grown accustomed to its feel in the days here at Castle Darry. Well, almost.
Lyman Derry lands a slapping blow on the back of his left leg and he jumps back.
"Focus, Edward!" Jaime calls out from where he reclines on a bench, fending off the fawning attention of a seemingly endless rotation of maidservants and men-at-arms. Edward shifts his feet back again and jabs at Lyman, missing, as usual, but refusing to let his dejection show. Instead he grits his teeth and jabs again, before shifting back to parry Lyman's next thrust. The ring of metal reassures him he has done something right.
Ser Raymun's only son seems about Robb's age, Edward thinks. He had his father's narrow face and straight brown hair that fell down to his shoulders, but not the faintest scruff on his face. The lad was a skilled knight, quick of sword and quick of wit, without any of the dour moods that darkened his father's face. Edward had grown quite fond of him in his stay. Even Robb had grown wary of training with him, but Lyman's patience for his clumsy fighting seemed endless.
Ever since leaving Winterfell, Edward had feared his training, but now, after the Trident, after Joffrey, after Jaime stayed behind with him, he lived for it. The prince had made a fool of him by the river, a fool in front of his family and in the mind of Myrcella as well. She wanted to see him with a sword, and what had he done with it? And so with each parry, jab and dodge, he fights back against the prince and for the favor of the princess and to prove to his knight he had not made a mistake. But that battle fury he had felt before eludes him still.
"Come on, Edward!" Lyman calls from behind his steel. "You parry better now. Try and strike again!" Edward glances to Jaime, who nods approvingly, and presses forward. His feet slide in the dirt as his weight leans forward and his arms swing wider and harder. For a brief moment, Lyman's eyes widen and he begins to fall back. But the brief press shoots to Edward's head and he lunges recklessly forward. Lyman casually steps out of the way, letting the smaller boy topple away, smacking him on the back of his sword as he goes by. When the dust clears, Lyman's sword is lowered and his father is striding into the yard.
"Have you come to take your chance at me, Ser Raymun?" Jaime spreads his arms wide in welcome. "It seems you've forgotten your sword."
"I've come for my son," Raymun shakes his head. "He has lessons with the maester before dinner. Come along, Lyman." As the two turn away, he takes one last look back. "The cooks will not be made to wait upon you, so pray do not be late." The Darrys dip their heads in a respectful farewell and are gone. Dutifully, Edward picks up both of their swords and returns them to the armory, taking care to clean them as meticulously as ever.
When he returns to the yard, Ser Jaime is nowhere to be found. Edward wonders the grounds for a while then, grinning and waving to the household who had come to know him during his recovery. The children though, he avoids, to spare the sight of their reactions to the fresh scar upon his face. It still leaked at times, seeping through the stitches and making it hard to speak or eat without pain. Laughing was the worst, and for that he was almost grateful for the grim mood that seemed always to hover over Darry.
Before long, it was time for dinner, and still no sign of Jaime. Determined to avoid another spat between the two knights, Edward quickens his pace, rushing up the steps to the tops of the walls, hoping to catch a view of the knight from above. Instead, he sees the white cloak and shining armor flapping from the wall above the gate, cast in shadow as the setting sun begins to dip behind the tops of the trees of the forest.
When he reaches Jaime's side, the knight's face looks almost sad.
"It's time for dinner, ser."
"Let Ser Raymun stew. He won't start without us. Not really."
"Why does he hate you so?" Edward finally blurts out the question that has been lurking on the tip of his tongue from the first morning he woke here. He does not expect Jaime to answer, but at last the knight looks down at him.
"How much do you know about the Rebellion, Edward?"
"I know… a lot," Edward stops himself from vomiting out the full history of the war. Every lesson from Luwin, every story from Father he knew by heart. But he does not think Jaime wants to hear them all.
"Then you know that House Darry stayed loyal to the Targaryens until the end. Ser Raymun's three brothers died on the Trident, as did his uncle, Ser Jonothor. I served King Aerys at his side. When Rhaegar rode to face Robert, I begged him to take me instead, to leave Jon to guard the king. But Jon reminded me of my place. And my oaths. Now he is dead. And so is Aerys. And I am here in his family's castle. On the journey here, my brother and I decided to explore a little. Tyrion is ever the curious one and I followed along. Do you know what we found, hidden away from the royal eyes? Targaryen tapestries, and not old ones. It seems that Ser Raymun has never stopped fighting his brothers' war, at least not in his heart. Kingslayer. Every time he sees me, every time he says my name, I hear it. He dares not say it, but that is all he sees."
Edward looks nervously away towards the sun. He knows what Father thinks of Ser Jaime. He and Ser Raymun would not differ much in opinion, he thinks. "That was so long ago."
"So long," Jaime laughs. "If only. Wars are still being fought behind men's eyes that ended on the field centuries past. In all of history, our great king's reign has been but a blink."
"I'm sure Lyman will understand," Edward feels a strange need to reassure his knight. But this time, no answer comes. He looks up, squinting into the glare as the setting sun flashes and rolls off the white armor in a blinding array of color and light that covers the glistening at the corner of Jaime's eye. He looks away. When his voice returns, it is low and grim.
"We may be at peace, Edward, but life still has sides all the same. There will be many people in your life who will try to tell you what side you should choose. Maesters and septons, lords, kings, your family and friends. But when it comes time to choose, none of them will be there. It will just be you. Only you alone can say what side you fall on."
"The right one," Edward declares, looking up for a nod of approval, but Jaime only sighs.
"The one that's going to win."