At night, he is the wolf again. Edward lies asleep, but in his restless slumber his mind is running over stone, through a maze of shattered columns and broken carvings, his sisters at his side. They are smaller still, but just as long of tooth. This new place is full of strange smells, smells that drive him half mad. But if he descends deep enough into the maze, they fade away, and his pack can be alone with only the smells of stone and dirt, and a strange old smell - one of fire, brimstone and fear, a memory of something long gone. Something that must have been very great to leave such a mark behind.

Here within the stones, they can see no stars above. But there is a hole above them where, every night, the moon passes over oh so briefly and lights up their little cave and the cooling pool by which they sleep. And the wolves know somehow it is the same moon that passes over their brothers, back away in the cold, in the woods, in the wild north. Home.

The small, dull training sword clatters down upon the cobblestones of the yard, knocked free once again from Edward's hands. Ser Jaime Lannister shakes his head as the squire hastily bends down to retrieve it.

The boy has made progress, or so Jaime tells himself. He is not me, that much is clear. He will never serve on the Kingsguard, even if Robert hadn't made other plans, even if he hadn't left a scar upon the boy who would one day be king. But he can learn. Edward left their training with less blood and bruises every day. He had learned to parry well enough, it was attacking where he failed. But Jaime was determined to complete the training. He would not give Ser Barristan the satisfaction of his failure.

Ser Barristan the Bold. He had lost all faith in Edward from the moment he stole Joff's sword. Were it not for the king's wishes, he's have sent the boy home that very day. But Edward could learn to live with the Lord Commander's withering look of shame. Jaime has, every day these past sixteen years. How many lives would have been spared if Barristan had been just a little less bold, he often wonders. He lives by the honor of his oaths. But what is the honor in protecting a madman? In serving a monster?

Edward has risen, sword back in hand, but his attention has strayed across the yard. Turning, Jaime sees a tall Summer Islander in the renowned, bright-colored feathered cloak of his people, taking shots at a target with his bow, putting the keep's own archers to shame.

"Who's that?" Edward asks.

"That is Jalabar Xo, an exiled prince, if I recall correctly. He's been here for years, every so often he'll present himself to King Robert and beseech the crown's backing to retake his home. It will never happen, but his grace the king likes to fancy the thought of returning to war and his grace the prince is more comfortable within these walls than anywhere else. And so he stays."

As he pauses to watch the archer, Jaime catches sight of another prince – Joffrey is watching from atop the walls, The Hound at his side. And even from this distance, Jaime can make out the all-too-familiar scowl upon the royal face.

"Lyman!" Jaime calls to the Darry lad, on leave from attending the Lord Commander. "Work with Edward." He tosses his own blunted sword toward Lyman, who deftly catches it. By the time Jaime reaches Joffrey and the Hound, the prince is already agitated.

"Why does Edward get to train with the Kingsguard? He can barely even fight?" Joffrey's nasal tone leaves a ringing in Jaime's ears as he approaches.

"Has Ser Aron ceased your own training, your grace?" Jaime asks. "He is your Master-at-arms."

"Uncle! Ser Aron may have trained me well when I was a boy. I am a man, now! I deserve to train with the best, not some wayward Dornishman, groveling with the common guards."

A man at only twelve years, Jaime tries not to laugh. "Ser Aron is a fine duelist, or else your father never would have brought him here." Though not so fine as me, I wager.

"Aron Santagar is a dancer," The Hound laughs gruffly. "He prances about with his shiny earrings like he's in a ballroom, not a battleground. I'd take off his arm with one swing."

"You!" Joffrey spins around to face his guardian. "You, dog! You shall train me!" But the huge man only smirks, a cruel look when placed on his horrid face, the scars twitching scornfully.

"No. I do not play at war. I only kill. And I am not about to lose my head for leaving a bruise on your pretty royal face, much less a new scar to match the one the wolf left you."

For a moment, Joffrey stands still, face flushed, eyes bulging furiously out from his skull. But The Hound looks down at him, thoroughly unbothered. At last, the prince turns away, exasperated. "I don't want to train with you anyway! You're not even a knight!"

Jaime nods approvingly. They had chosen Joff's sworn shield well. Sandor Clegane was no knight, but there was no knight in the kingdom who would dare to defy the foolishness of a prince. And this particular prince, his own son, seemed require defiance more often than not.

"I will ensure a suitable teacher is found, your grace."

"Good," Joffrey glares past Jaime to Edward, as he finally manages to land a blow on Lyman's shoulder. "Only the best, uncle. A king must be unmatched in steel."

Curse this damned tourney, Ned Stark thinks as he paces through the dirt of the jousting line, running his hand along the wooden barrier. The realm faced threats from a dozen fronts and yet this is what Robert meant to trouble him with. Not only did it distract from the larger problems, Ned is increasingly alarmed that it will worsen them, bearing an ever-greater load upon the crown's empty coffers.

At that only concerned the matters of the realm. He had more personal concerns to tend to. Robert was intent upon arranging betrothals for Edward and Arya before the year was out. When news of that returned North, his lords would begin to clamor for Robb's hand in their daughters' names. And worse tidings had blown south as well. His beloved Catelyn was safely away on the road home, but she left behind a dark shadow. A killer, sent to murder his crippled son, using a knife that, should Petyr Baelish be believed, belonged to the Imp, Tyrion Lannister. The conspiracy that had first drawn him to the city, it seemed, had now ensnared his own family as well.

A sharp pain in his hand snaps him free from his thoughts. Looking down, he sees a trickle of blood running down his wrist from his palm, a thick splinter piercing his skin right beneath his thumb. Gritting his teeth, he pulls the shard free and wipes his hand clean on the side of his grey pants. Keep your mind in the moment, Ned, he tells himself and turns back to the overseer's tent.

"The barrier needs sanding!" he declares, stepping beneath the golden awning to find Varrick, the portly, sunken-eyed carpenter Lord Baelish had acquired to command the work on the tournament grounds. Varrick stands hastily as Ned enters and he sees the man's master has paid a visit.

"If any of our fine knights find themselves run up against the rail, I fear they will have much greater problems than a few splinters," Petyr Baelish, Littlefinger, as the court knows him, smiles up at Ned, declining to rise from the chaise on which he reclines. He notes the blood on Ned's Hand. "Although it seems you may want to take to wearing gloves, my lord."

"The king will not want rough-hewn wood at his tourney," Ned repeats his order to Varrick. "See that it is done."

He turns to leave, but as he does, Littlefinger finally rises, stepping into pace behind him.

"But it your tourney, is it not?"

"Lord Baelish, you know better than anyone my feelings about this frolic. But what his grace desires, it is my duty to see done to the best. I am not in the business of cutting corners."

"No, no, that much I can see," Baelish gently reaches to examine Ned's hand. "You ought to have a maester tend to this, my lord. I wonder, what becomes of a Hand who loses a hand?"

"Hands have served well enough without eyes. A splinter will do little harm."

"But what of hearts?" Baelish stops walking, forcing Ned to turn back to face him. "I hear his grace King Robert has a will for that as well?" A quizzical look washes over Ned's face. "Children are the heart of a man, are they not?"

"That is no concern of yours," Ned turns away. However Littlefinger managed to learn of Robert's betrothal plans, it did not matter now. But it served a pointed reminder that nothing in the Red Keep stayed secret for long.

"I only wish the best for you and Lady Catelyn's children, my lord," the Master of Coin makes it clear he does not plan to leave him be. "It has been many years since you last met Lord Stannis. I would not be so hasty to bond your families in marriage. It is said his wife has gone quite mad, and he has brought a shadow-binding witch from Assai to tend to her. Poor Shireen, I hear, has only one friend in all of Dragonstone, a mad fool."

"Then it will do her well to know my own children as friends," Ned puts his foot down as they reach his horse. "I will have words with Stannis one way or another, Lord Baelish, even if I must sail to Dragonstone myself once this infernal tourney is finished."

With that, he lifts himself up swiftly into the saddle and clicks his heels before Littlefinger can get in a final word. Riding back to the Keep, though, the man's words do not leave his head easily. This is not the first time he has heard these rumors. Perhaps, if they are true, Stannis had his own reasons to leave, not because of any grand conspiracy to murder Jon Arryn and Bran Stark. And perhaps the city were better off without him. But he must know for sure.

"Lord Stark!" Renly Baratheon's voice calls out. He sees the knight, looking ever-more like a young Robert, riding swiftly up behind him, the Knight of Flowers, Loras Tyrell, as always by his side. Ned slows his pace, though Renly's huge, black destrier would have caught him anyway. "Ser Loras, hold back. I must speak with the Hand in private."

"What do you require of me, Lord Renly?" Ned holds back a groan, impatient at this latest delay. He has already begun to suspect what the matter is.

"It is about your son, Edward," Renly answers in as hushed a tone as can be heard over the clamor of the city streets. He pauses to wave and smile at a crowd of peasants calling out his name. "There is word about the court that you are looking to find him a wife."

"It is our grace, your brother, who wishes to arrange a betrothal for Edward, not I. If you wish to sway his mood on the matter, tend to his ear, not mine."

"I care not if the boy marries now or never," Renly shrugs, stopping again to wave to another admirer on the roofs above. "But not to Margaery Tyrell." Ned looks back at Loras, following close behind. "No one else knows this…" That much is not true, Ned knows all too well "but I mean to make the girl my own wife. Ser Loras has already discussed the matter with his father. I need only Robert's leave."

"Then you'd best get it, and worry not about me. Edward will not be betrothed to Margaery." He wonders where Renly received this rumor.

"Who then?"

"That, my lord, is not a matter that concerns you," Ned allows the slightest hint of his irritation to slip out. "Good day." With a flick of his wrist, his mount is off again at fast pace, leaving Renly behind with the Knight of Flowers to greet more of their adoring subjects.

As his horse trots beneath the gate, Ned at last breathes a sigh of relief and sets his path back to the Tower of the Hand. His throat is parched, and his mind is on the coldest water he can find. But without fail, standing in the doorway waiting for him is Varys.

"If you are here to speak of my son's betrothal, it is not a matter that concerns you," he spits out, walking past the Master of Whisperers into the tower.

"My lord, I hope I have not offended you by my presence," Varys protests, following him in.

"If only the rest of the counsel were so concerned for my feelings regarding the matters of my family," Ned responds without looking back. He stalks swiftly and directly in search of his drink, but Varys keeps up behind him, only noticed by his voice and breath. His soft feet, in softer shoes, tread silently across he stone floor.

"This castle is lined with greedy ears, that much is true. Unlike the others, however, it is my designation to learn such things. I know that you wish to seek a match with Shireen Baratheon. I know that the king prefers you choose Heleana Hightower. I have, perhaps, knowledge that may do you well to share."

"I have heard more than my share of tales today, Varys," Ned swings open the door to the kitchen. "I do not wish to be drawn further into your web, nor to see my son caught up in it." Finding a simple wooden cup lying free, he plunges it into a basin of water and takes a long, cooling drink as Varys watches.

"A wise father indeed. I wish no harm to come to the boy. But I fear you may draw him into plans of your own. Leave Stannis be on Dragonstone, my lord. Some questions are better left unanswered."

With that, the eunuch turns to leave, but Ned grabs him by the shoulder, turning him back. "You may traffic in secrets, but I do not. Do not forget your place, Lord Varys. I traffic only in the truth. And it is your duty to help me find it."

Edward's eyes trace the lines of text on the page, flitting from the tome to the old, wrinkled map spread out beside him. It smelled old and musty, full of ancient lives long past, the same scents that filled the library at Winterfell. It was a comfort to Edward to know that even here, old books still smelled the same. A thick, dry, calloused finger jabs down onto the map in front of his eyes pointing to a cluster of islands at the bottom of the map

Maester Gaheris was, as far as Edward could tell, the youngest maester at work in the city, though he was still at least ten years older than Father. He had dark auburn hair with a silver streak running through the left side. His eyes, though always bagged and tired, were a fierce bright blue, that always seemed to be watching everything in the room at once, as well as a few secrets tucked in the back of the man's mind. Edward liked to imagine old Maester Luwin was very much like him when he first earned his chain.

"And what are these, master Edward?" Gaheris asks.

"The Summer Islands," Edward has always known his maps well. "That's where Jalabar Xo is from. Have you met him?"

"Ah, we have all met our fine summer prince. Do you know which of the islands he hails from?" Edward shakes his head. Gaheris points again to the largest of the group. "Jhala. Large enough for several rival princedoms, evermore bickering over one plot of land or another. Prince Jalabar once ruled the Red Flower Vale. Goldenheart trees grow in their forests."

"Goldenheart?" Edward is fascinated by that.

"Ah!" The maester smiles. "At last I have discovered something you do not yet know." He rises and walks briskly to his overflowing, broken down wall of cabinets. Pulling open a few doors and drawers, he finally finds what he seeks.

When Gaheris turns back around, he holds in his weathered hand a shard of wood of a deep, dark yellow hue. He places it softly into Edward's eager hands, surprisingly light. He raises it up towards the window to see it more clearly, examining the grain and the smooth texture.

"You know that export of the wood has been forbidden since the Slavers' Wars," Edward turns to see Varys standing in the doorway. He ought to have noticed the smell first. The eunuch's perfumes waft over him, smelling as sweet and strong as if his lilac robes were made of the flower itself. "It is said to make the finest bows in all the world. Save, of course, for dragon bone." He reaches to take the sample from Edward's hand. "How did you come by this, I wonder?"

"If there is an answer I hold that the Spider does not know, I think I should like to keep it, if only for the novelty," Gaheris answers, taking the wood back.

"You ought to speak to your Ser Jaime, Edward. I hear he owns a goldenwood lance. A shame, though, I think, to waste something so rare on the tourney field," he stops, looking back to the maester. "I must apologize, I do not wish to interrupt further."

"It is no matter," Gaheris returns to his cabinets. "Young Edward's studies are finished for the day."

"Then I shall escort him back to the White Sword Tower," Varys motions to Edward, who follows him out into the hallway, trying not to choke upon the heavy perfume. "I am pleased to see you continue in your studies. If only certain other children of the court were so diligent. Far too few young men take time to care for books or for arts. And then such boys grow up to rule over us all…" His voice trails off.

"Father always told us all to mind our learning. And he likes my painting. At least he says he does." Truth be told, Edward could always tell his father was disinterested in such habits, but he played loving tribute to them, because he was Father. "Are there many great artists in the city?"

"Of course. Many artists and many scholars, too. Perhaps you may meet them, when you are not busy polishing that blinding white armor. A pity… you could have been a great maester. Pray don't let those steel-clad brutes in the yard beat all the good sense and finer pursuits out of your head, dear boy."

In the ruins of the great Targaryen dragonpit, new beasts have made their home, no less strange and foreign to the streets of King's Landing today than the first dragons were three hundred years before. The Stark children's direwolves – Lady, Nymeria and Tessarion have been left here in a makeshift enclosure, far away from the royal family, by order of the Queen. They had howled without end at first, separated from their young masters, but eventually they settled into their new home, a maze of stone rubble, broken columns and collapsed walls. And today, as the setting sun shines red and orange through what remains of the western wall, they have visitors.

Sansa Stark hitches up her dress as she steps gingerly down the steps to the floor of the collapsed pit. Edward follows close behind, carefully minding his steps on the crumbling stone.

"Lady!" Sansa calls, cupping her hands to her mouth and peering out across the ruins. Not hearing any answer, she proceeds further, stepping over a deep crack in the foundation.

"I wish Arya would have come with us," Edward glances back over his shoulder. He and his twin had been on poor terms ever since the fight at the Trident, but most days they barely cross paths, and he has begun to miss her.

"She had her dancing lesson," Sansa shrugs, dismissively.

"I don't believe Arya is learning to dance," Edward shakes his head, nearly tripping over a fallen piece of ceiling. "She would never."

"I don't much care what she's doing as long as she's busy. She's caused enough trouble already. Joffrey will scarce speak to me, no matter what I do. I fear he means to put me aside."

"He'd be stupid to do a thing like that," Edward climbs atop a broken column to get a better look at the ruins around them.

"You mustn't speak that way about a prince!" Sansa chastises him.

"Well, what does he like to do?" Edward takes a seat on the jagged rock, feet dangling over the edge, his mind for the moment focused on his sister's problems.

"I don't know!" She throws her hands in the air in frustration, running them back down through her scarlet hair. "Nothing ever seems to make him happy, save for talking about hunting, and I can't do that."

"Why not?"

"Because I'm a lady! I'm to be the queen! Ladies do not hunt!"

"Your Lady hunts just the same as any direwolf," Edward quips, and is happy to see Sansa smile. "The Targaryen queens rode dragons just like the kings. If they can do that, certainly you can kill a quail or two."

"Perhaps…" Sansa, still smiling, turns away. And then she sees a dark, hairy shape move between the rocks. "There!" She points and Edward leaps down. Together they move quickly through the stone, trying not to lose sight of the wolf in the nooks and crannies and shadows.

"Which one is it?"

"Nymeria, I think." They stop as suddenly the direwolf is in plain view. It is Nymeria to be sure. And then it is gone again, darting through a crack in a wall down into darkness. Edward rushes to follow, but Sansa holds back.

"We shouldn't…" but Edward tugs at her hand.

"Lady must be down here, too!" Together, they slip through the crack and into the darkness, with barely enough light to guide them down into the lower level of the pit. They can hear the heavy breathing of the wolf in front of them. And then another light, leaking in from above, appears. Edward picks up the pace, moving forward until suddenly his feet feel wet. He freezes and sees glimmering around him three pairs of eyes, including the mismatched blue and orange of Tessarrion. He takes several steps back as his eyes adjust to see the surroundings. And he gasps. There before him is the pool in the stone, exactly as he had seen through Tessarrion's eyes in his dream.

A/N: Sorry for the delays of late, things have been rough going lately, and I've had some pretty bad writer's block. I truly hope to get back on my regular publication schedule soon. In the meantime, thank you so much for reading. I hope you're enjoying this story and, as always, all commentary is greatly appreciated.