"They weren't lying about the stench." Lyman Darry curls up his nose in disgust as the small troupe of riders winds slowly through the cobbled streets of King's Landing, up towards their final destination – the Red Keep.
The closer they draw to the great royal castle, the larger it becomes and the greater Edward's awe grows. Yes, Winterfell was massive, to that there was no doubt. But there was something about this – the looming towers, the spiked parapets, the foreboding red stone… Something that drew Edward in and captivated him. His jaw drops, until a large horsefly shoots into the back of his throat. Hacking, he bends over in the saddle, feeling the wretched flick of wings against the roof of his mouth until finally managing to spit the dead bug out.
"Are you alright, Edward?" Jaime turns back at the sound of the coughing.
"Boy's fine," Igor grins, his voice rasping through crooked teeth. "He just got his first taste of some fine King's Landing dining."
"Maybe for the likes of you," Jaime shakes his head with a smirk. "But my squire and I will be dining on boar tonight, I think."
"Igor wouldn't know what to do with a boar," Percy laughs, riding past to slap the smaller guard heavily on the back. "Best stick to gnats, archer, no bones there for you to choke on."
Lyman joins the other guards in their laughter, but Edward clenches his jaw tightly shut and keeps his eyes straight on the road ahead. The bitter taste of the fly still burns in the back of his throat, and no amount of water is able to wash it out. He is not about to give any of the bug's brothers the chance to torment him again.
Thankfully, the rest of the ride through the city passes without incident. It isn't long before the gates are opening and the portcullis raising. Edward is surprised to see six white cloaks already waiting at attention for them as they arrive, stableboys rushing in to take their mounts. Edward's eyes flit down the line – There is Lord Commander Ser Barristan Selmy, watching sternly from beneath his helm; Ser Meryn and Ser Boros, as ugly and angry-looking as ever; and three knights Edward has not met. The gilded oak leaf pinning the cloak of the youngest knight marks him as Ser Arys Oakheart, which leaves the others to be Ser Preston Greenfield and Ser Mandon Moore, though he could not say which was which.
"We expected you near a week ago, Ser Jaime," Barristan glares as the seventh member of their number dismounts in his matching white armor.
"So I have been told," Jaime shrugs. "I fear our passage was delayed. My squire has been badly wounded, as you know."
Edward looks down at his feet, suddenly overwhelmed with a sense of shame. But he can feel six pairs of eyes are piercing through to his soul.
"We'd best keep close watch on our swords with that one about," one voice slurs under their breath.
"Ser Boros," Barristan's commanding voice chastises his knight. "I will not have any of you disrespecting the son of our Lord Hand."
He doesn't defend me, not really, Edward thinks. And when he looks up at last, he can see it in Barristan's old eyes. Thief, he names me. Whatever good will the Lord Commander had held for him was gone now. But his attention has turned to Lyman.
"I see you've collected a follower," he looks the lanky youth up and down.
"Lyman Darry. I believe you've met," Jaime introduces the boy without breaking his smile. "His lady mother wishes him to learn the ways of honor and chivalry among the Kingsguard,"
"Then I'd best take him under my personal care," Barristan nods curtly, his words dripping with unspoken meaning. "Ser Jaime, I will have a full report in my chambers. Ser Meryn, Ser Preston, find housing for young Lyman in the tower if you can. And you, lad," he turns back to Edward. "Your father and sisters await you."
Edward is off, making a brisk pace in the opposite direction, well before the thought comes to his mind that he has no idea where he is going. Thankfully, the sound of clanking steel catches up to him. Ser Arys Oakheart falls in line with his stride.
"This way," he nods and points off to a side-door. He has a caring voice, Edward decides as he follows. Perhaps Ser Jaime is not the only kind knight on the kingsguard after all. Within the walls of the keep itself, winding up stairs, Edward does not pause to watch his surroundings. This is his home now, he will have plenty of days to explore it in the future. For now, his mind is only on Father, from whom he has been away from now for the longest time in his life. Who he had last parted from in shame. What will he say when he sees the scar? What will Sansa think?
So intent is he on thinking up what he will say next, that it feels as if he's only blinked and Ser Arys is swinging open a door to a small hall, where Lord Eddard Stark awaits his son. Any possible words leave Edward's mind at the sight of his father, and he feels himself breaking out into a run, crossing the final distance in a matter of seconds. As Ned drops to one knee to embrace Edward, it feels in that moment that nothing has changed. He doesn't seem to notice the scar at all.
The first glimpse of Edward's wound had startled Sansa, though she had tried to hide it. Arya had, unsurprisingly, barely been fazed. Now, as they leave behind the scraps of their morning meal in the Tower of the Hand, both of his sisters have plans for him today.
"I don't know why you'd want to go with her," Arya whines. "She won't take you to any of the fun places."
"You know that Father says not to go into the lower levels," Sansa chides her sister pristinely. "You'll get lost in the Black Cells and they'll never find you."
"I never get lost," Arya juts her chest out defiantly and turns to leave, tugging on Edward's sleeve as she passes to take him with her. But he does not move from his chair. Arya's ideas ever only get me in trouble, he decides, and the thought makes his scar sting. And so he pulls free from her grasp.
"I'm staying with Sansa."
"Besides, don't you have to meet with your dancing instructor?" Sansa shoos Arya away. She shoots a final glance back at Edward, part anger, part disappointment, more of which he cannot say. But the thought of Arya being forced to learn to dance rises a laugh he forces back down until she is out of sight.
"Where are we going?" he asks Sansa as they rise from the table.
"Well, you've been to White Sword Tower and the Tower of the Hand. But that's not even the half of it. And I believe there is someone waiting to see you."
Sansa guides him down from the tower, through the winding yards and halls, frequently prodding Edward on as his mind is captured by the spiraling stone and ancient tapestries in turn. Until at last they reach the heart of the Red Keep – Maegor's Holdfast. Edward stops cold as Sansa approaches the bridge, marveling at the huge castle-within-the-castle, a foreboding, insurmountable red block surrounded by a ponderous moat lined with deadly-looking spikes.
"Come on, Edward," Sansa calls. He looks to see her motioning to him, then sees who waits at the other side of the bridge, and hesitates. Two girls, one in red, one in pink, each with golden hair that sparkles in the sun. He knows at once the taller one to be Myrcella and his hand jumps to hide his face. He had imagined this moment so many times over in his head on the road here, but now it had come, and the courage he had stored up was gone in a heartbeat. Realizing the problem, Sansa gracefully flows back to his side.
"Don't be afraid," she whispers in his ear, gently pulling his hand down, away from the scar. "It's not so bad. You don't need to be afraid. It makes you look brave."
Slowly Edward looks up from his feet to his sister's face, a small smile gazing down at him. And somehow, he finds it in himself to believe her. Taking her hand, they walk side by side across the bridge towards where the princess waits. But as they near, he hears the smaller girl in pink gasp in fright and his conviction buckles at the knees. Panicking, he turns back, but Sansa's grip tightens around his hand and holds him fast.
"Rosamund, that was not polite," she scolds the girl. Slowly, Edward looks back. Rosamund has stepped behind her cousin's back. But Myrcella has not looked away with her steady green eyes.
"It is good to see you again, Edward," the princess curtsies politely. Gingerly, she takes a step forward and raises her hand to his face. Rosamund grimaces. "I'm so sorry. Joffrey can be…" she hesitates. "Does it hurt?"
"A little," Edward flinches as her soft hand grazes lightly over the scar. She steps back.
"You look like a proper warrior, now." They exchange a shy smile.
"The thieving wolf cub has come to join us after all!" All turn to see Joffrey swinging down from behind a battlement, dropping lightly to the ground, a sickening leer on his face. He presses the wrinkles out of the front of his black silk vest as he saunters over. "I'd wagered you'd turned tail and scurried back home to Winterfell. But I see you bear your lesson well…"
The prince's fingers, nails sharp, scratch at Edward's face, but memories of their last fight freeze him in place. He does not move as Joffrey pinches the skin on each side of his scar and begins to twist, pain shooting like lighting to his brain.
"Joffrey, stop!" Myrcella shouts, pushing her brother away. Free, Edward doubles over.
"Do not strike me, sister!" Joffrey suddenly shouts, a fury boiling up behind his eyes. He almost raises his hand to strike, but thinks better when he sees Sansa watching.
"That was unbecoming, my love," Sansa states plainly. "My brother will not trouble you again. I am only showing him around the keep."
"Yes, of course. I saw well to that. Justice is a king's chief duty, after all. Did you know my uncle Stannis cut off the fingers of the Onion Knight for smuggling, even though he saved his life? That is true strength. There can be no tolerance for thievery and such petty crimes. Such acts are for the smallfolk. If they should see highborn like us doing such things to each other, what would they think then?"
The prince tilts Edward's head up, pain still shrieking across his face. Joffrey smiles coldly, strands of his golden hair falling over his face. "It would be chaos. That is what kings and lords do, Edward. We keep the chaos away. Every day, when you see that scar, remember that."
Edward furtively nods, and Joffrey lets him go with a glance to Sansa for approval. She only offers the slightest smile in reply. "You said you were showing Edward the castle?" he asks her. She nods. "Well, have you shown him the only thing here that really matters?"
The doors to the Great Hall swing slowly and silently open. Edward squints in the dim light as he, Sansa, Myrcella and Rosamund follow Joffrey in. The prince stretches his arms out wide, radiating prides as he walks the long length of the floor, footsteps echoing throughout the empty chamber. And then Edward sees it.
The Iron Throne. Rising up from the floor like some great, monstrous beast, a warped, dark tower of melted steel, jagged points stabbing out from every side as the precarious steps rise up, up to the seat amidst it all. The seat from which all Seven Kingdoms were ruled. The sun shining in from the windows behind it lights up the dark hall, casting evil, hungry looking shadows across the floor and leaving a queer glow around Joffrey as he stands dwarfed at the foot of what will one day be his. Edward doesn't realize his jaw has dropped until the prince turns back to him.
"What do you think?" he asks. "I hear you love your histories. Is it as great as the legends say?"
"It's… it's amazing," Edward stammers. "A thousand swords…"
"All dropped at the feet of the Conqueror," Joffrey beams, his eyes wild at the thought. "Each one a man who thought himself a warrior, brought to his knees at the sight of a true king. None could stand against the dragon. Aegon was the greatest warrior to ever live. Until my father ended his line. So what does that make him?"
Ned Stark finds the king sitting on an isolated balcony, overlooking the sea. He approaches slowly, unsure of why his presence has been summoned in this moment. From day to day, even hour to hour, it was ever unpredictable what man Robert would prove to be – the brave, jolly hero of the Rebellion or the bitter, paranoid, bored ruler he had become. As reluctant as Ned had been to take this office, he was now in great relief that he had. The kingdom was in disarray, the treasury empty, debts rising, and now Robert wanted to hold an exorbitantly expensive tourney in his honor. How Jon Arryn had let matters get this way was of amazement to Ned. Had his mentor changed so much in the years before his death as well?
"I can hear you sulking about back there, Ned," Robert barks. "Show yourself! Your king is comfortable here and does not wish to be disturbed."
Ned steps forward to the edge of the balcony as the king chuckles. How he could be comfortable here, he can't imagine. The chair Robert has chosen is ornate, carved black wood with antlers sprouting from the back. And it is two sizes too small. The king's girth spills over the edges and the protruding carvings jab into his sides. But seeing his face, staring out into the west, Robert seems at peace, the morning sun casting a warm glow over his features, making him seem almost young again, a salty breeze pushing the tip of his beard back and forth.
"That's where I should have gone," he muses. "Over there, across the sea. Left you the throne and found myself a company of sellswords.. I could still do it, you know. Oh, the songs they'd write for me then. I could leave today… if only I could find my hammer…"
"I would be ill-suited for the throne, your grace," Ned shakes his head. He has heard this particular fantasy before. But never while Robert has been sober.
"And I am not?" Robert laughs, a laugh heavy with more pain than mirth. "But such dreams are for children. Children like our own. Yes, yes, that is why I called you here, Ned, I remember now. Your son, Edward. He is arrived, is he not?"
"Yes, your grace, Ser Jaime returned with him yesterday, as well as Lyman Darry, to serve the needs of the Kingsguard."
"Good, good. I would like to see him again, soon enough. How is his wound?"
"He will bear a scar for the rest of his days, but he is otherwise fully healed."
"Good. A fool of a boy for stealing my damned son's damned sword. He'll look the part of a warrior now, I suppose. It's not so bad as to turn away the eye of a goodfather, I hope?"
"A what, your grace?"
"I should hope my Hand knows what a goodfather is!" Robert laughs. "I am looking for a suitable betrothal for the boy. The other twin too, I should think."
"They're only nine, your grace," Ned is immediately taken aback. He had been reluctant enough to give Sansa away, the thought of planning weddings for the twins had never crossed his mind.
"Their marriages would still be years away, Ned. But such bonds are what holds a kingdom together. They are near the same years as Myrcella, and she will be betrothed by the year's end. Tommen soon enough as well. I leave you Robb to marry some Northern lass, but your second son must forge alliances. Surely you have thought on this."
Ned has not, but as Robert leans over, chair creaking and groaning beneath him, his stare makes it clear he expects a suggestion. "Edward has grown fond of Princess Myrcella."
"Ha! And what would Tywin Lannister say if I were to marry my two eldest both to Starks? No, that would never do, I'm afraid. It may break their hearts, but it would never do. That's what young hearts are made for, aren't they? To be broken." For a moment, the king's voice falters, and his mood turns somber, as if blown by some foul Northern wind. But as soon as it comes, it fades again. "Margaery Tyrell, however, now there is a rose ripe for plucking."
"She's a maiden grown," Ned shakes his head. "Edward is but a boy, and a second son at that. Mace Tyrell would never consent."
"More importantly, Mace's mother would never consent. They wanted Joffrey, Varys tells me. I suppose they'll have to settle for Renly now."
"Shireen, perhaps?" Ned's eyes flit across the bay to where he knows Dragonstone rests, where Stannis Baratheon, his wayward Master of Ships, hides away with his wife and scarred daughter, one of a myriad of missing pieces in the puzzle he has found himself caught up in.
"Perhaps," Robert strokes his beard. "But my brother's moods are like the tides. He may promise you Shireen one day and deem you unworthy the next."
That is not the Stannis I knew, Ned thinks. But this could prove his chance at last to speak to the man. "I would like to see him on the matter, if it pleases your grace."
"So be it. But I warn you, do not narrow your mind so soon. There is a Hightower girl. Heleana, I believe. We would be wise to secure our ties with Oldtown. I have a mind to bring her here, perhaps she will fancy your Edward. I hear she is fond of books and art. If not, mayhaps she'll fancy Tommen. The Seven know some sweet girl must, no lord who wants a knight for a son will ever take him. He's named every cat in this damned castle, you know that?"
Ned did not, but his mind couldn't be further away from Tommen and his kittens. He still stares out to the horizon, thinking of Stannis, Jon Arryn and the mystery that had drawn him here, a mystery he has dared not even share with his king. The Hightowers will have no answers for him. But Stannis…
"What should I call them?" Robert's voice interrupts his thoughts.
"Call what, your grace?" Ned's mind snaps back to the present.
"My sellswords. If I were to leave," Robert stares intently back across the sea, all thoughts of business and marriages already gone from his mind. "The Stag's Horns. That has a good ring to it, doesn't it?"
A/N: Sorry for the delay on this one. Much like GRRM himself, I've found that the middle of the story proves the hardest part. Chapter 8 ended the first "Act" so to say, and now I'm working towards the ending. The mid-section has been harder to work out, but now I'm breaking back into the groove of things. Next week, we'll see Edward meet more denizens of King's Landing and kick his training into the next gear; Sansa put her plans into action to secure her place with Joffrey; and Ned discover that betrothals can prove more complicated than he ever could have expected. As always, thanks for reading, all comments are greatly appreciated.