Beneath the shining beacon of the Hightower, the ancient Blackstone Fortress lies like a huge sleeping wildcat, in dark, mournful watch over the great city of Oldtown. Within its slick, fused stone walls, origins long forgotten, House Hightower has ruled for thousands of years, first as kings, now as lords. Their millennia of knowledge is stored within their library, more ancient than any other in the known world. Even the archmaesters of the Citadel have not laid hands on some of the tomes and scrolls kept within the solemn, five-walled chamber, on shelves of dark ebony.
The same dark wood forms a five-edged table, each side facing a separate wall. At its head, Ser Baelor Hightower rests, exhausted, tense hands running through his disheveled, dusty brown hair, flecked with streaks of grey. A huge woolen orange robe envelops the exhausted knight, a void covering all but his hands and face, handsome but worn. A pear sits before him on the table. Beside it rests Caraxys, his red-scaled pet lizard. Between them both is the missive from the king, summoning his daughter away.
Baelor has walked the streets of Oldtown for near fifty years. For the last ten it has fallen upon him to lead the city, as his father disappeared up into his chambers at the top of the Hightower, leaving only cryptic messages for the son the people now turned to. Years of rule without authority and choices without guidance have left the knight known as Brightsmile a spent man. He releases a heavy sigh, pulling a jeweled knife from the depths of his robe.
He carefully carves a thin slice of pear away with his onyx-encrusted dagger. He offers the impaled fruit to Caraxys, but the lizard is asleep. Too ripe, perhaps, he thinks, as juice drips onto the table and runs down his wrist. He gently bites the slice off the tip of the blade. But it tastes as good just the same.
"Baelor, dear, you should be in bed." Lady Rhonda Hightower slips softly out of the shadows, wrapped in a light orange sleeping gown. Her long blonde hair, nearly all turned white by age, tumbles freely down to the small of her back, her thin, pale face glowing in the torchlight.
"It's Helaena. I cannot deny Robert's request, can I? Not without good reason."
"No, I suppose you can't," Rhonda wraps her arms around her husband's head.
"Gunther thinks I should," Baelor sighs.
"Hela is not Gunthor's daughter. And Gunther does not rule the city, nor our House. It is your decision, and yours alone."
"No, I wish it were, but it's not," Baelor tilts back, his head resting on Rhonda's chest as he stares up to the ceiling, invisible in the shadows, imagining the scene so far above. "It's his."
"Your father could care less who Helaena marries," Rhonda waves the thought away. "He did not come down from his tower when Gunthor was wed, his own son. Why should our Hela bother him? Come away to bed, no good ever comes at this hour."
"I will, my love, I will," Baelor promises, longing for sleep. "Just a moment longer."
Slipping Caraxys up into her arms Rhonda nods and turns to leave, taking the rest of the pear with her. Collapsing back into his chair, Baelor lets out a groan that echoes throughout the chamber. And then he hears the stirring of footsteps.
"Who's there?" Squinting into the shadows between the shelves, he sees movement. A grey shape flowing across the ground. Rising cautiously, he checks to ensure that Rhonda did not take the knife with her as well and steps forward out of the light. He hears the sound of light footsteps, headed away from him. At least it is no specter. Specters float. The knife will still be some good against a living intruder. Thieves had entered the castle before to seek these texts. But none had ever made it this far, not in his lifetime.
He stops at the end of an aisle, peering either way into the dark. Nothing. A flash of color catches his eye. Caught up on the edge of a shelf is a frayed orange tassel. It strikes him as suddenly familiar. Looking up again, he freezes. The grey shape again stands before him.
"Mallora?" he calls, and it is moving again. Baelor gives chase, faster now. He can barely see the ground beneath his feet in this corner of the library, but he presses forward into the darkness, more convinced with each step that it is his sister playing games with her. Mallora, the Mad Maid as the smallfolk called her, hidden away up in the tower with their father, only coming down to…
With a loud crash, Baelor slams blindly into a large chair in the dark and topples to the ground. The dagger clatters away on the ground, but as he rises, he knows he no longer needs it. Mallora is gone. As his eyes adjust to the faint light, he finds himself at his father's old desk, a pressed tight into the north-pointing corner, its lamps unlit for a decade. But there before him, resting precisely in the center of the carved wood, is a rolled missive bearing Lord Leyton's seal. Clutching it tightly he carries it back to the light, though he already knows what it will say. Cracking open the orange wax, he reads the words in his father's shaky hand –
"Son, it is my imperative that you betroth your Heleana to Edward Stark. Ensure their marriage is secured with his father and the king's blessing and bring them home to Oldtown. The Starks have warned for millennia that Winter is coming. And now it is here. Dark powers stir beyond the Wall and across the sea. All the world, known and unknown, stirs on the brink of war, a war humanity may not survive. We cannot delay. Bring me the boy. Bring me Edward Stark."
The wolfdreams were coming more often. And they frightened Edward more each night, ever since he and Sansa had found the pool, the pool he'd seen in his dream. What did it all mean? He wanted someone, anyone that he could ask, but they would surely think him mad. And they already thought him a thief.
"Prince Joffrey!" Grand Maester Pycelle's withering old voice cuts through the chamber. Today the Starks had been invited to lessons alongside the Baratheons. This lesson had taken twice as long as Edward's normal sessions with Maester Gaheris, who watches from the back of the room. Not because Pycelle had twice as much to say, but because he was twice as slow. And Joffrey… well, the prince did not speed matters along.
"Quiet, I'm watching a raven," Joffrey blithely dismisses his instructor without looking away from the window he is staring out of. "It's eating a rat and is terribly bloody."
Unsure how to respond, Pycelle grumbles to himself, shakes his beard and resumes his instructions as if nothing has happened, as he always does when rebuked by the prince. Today he is lecturing on the languages of the First Men and what words had been brought into the Common Tongue by the Andals. Maester Luwin had taught this all before to Edward back in Winterfell and had made learning it far more interesting. So instead, Edward is scrawling out a drawing of Pycelle himself, but as a First Man warrior in the far north.
Sliding his arm out, he reveals the sketch to Myrcella, who stifles a giggle and flashes him a smile, her green eyes sparkling as she blushes. But they have caught Pycelle's attention.
"Princess Myrcella!" The old man groans, shuffling forward to grab Edward's drawing. "What is this?" He holds it up to the light to get a better view, unwittingly displaying it for everyone in the room.
"It appears to be you, Grand Maester," Gaheris lets slip a wry smile. "Young master Edward is quite the artist, don't you think? It's a better likeness than the royal painter gave you."
Grumbling Pycelle turns away, crumpling the drawing up in his hand.
"See what old Pycelle thinks of your work, Edward?" Joffrey laughs.
"Edward pays twice the attention to his letters as you, your grace, and still has time to draw the Grand Maester," Gaheris plants his hands heavily on the table in front of the prince. "Perhaps you would do well to learn from him?"
"Drawing is a woman's affair," Joffrey rises from his seat. "And all this talk of words and ancient peoples is for wrinkled old men. Not for me." He turns to leave.
"Your grace, the lessons are not finished!" Pycelle calls after him.
"I say they are!" Joffrey shouts back, the door slamming behind them. The other children look nervously up to the maesters.
"Should we continue with the others?" Gaheris asks.
"No," Pycelle sighs heavily, collapsing into his over-stuffed chair. "Let them go."
Dismissed, Tommen and Arya both hurry away from the classroom while Sansa leaves in search of Joffrey. Myrcella and Edward find themselves alone, walking the halls. For a moment, his fears are gone, Edward's mind awhirl with a million new feelings that burn for the first time, feelings he does not know how to put to words. And so, for a long while, neither speaks, only a glance and a smile and the light brushing of hand against hand passing between them. And that is enough.
"He's wrong you know," Myrcella finally says. "Joff. About your drawing. It's very good. He only wishes he could do what you do. All Joff knows is how to hurt things."
"He's good at fighting," Edward is eager to cover up any resentment towards the prince. The thought of it makes his scar burn.
"And why does anyone fight? No… Mother says he will grow up to be wise and true and I pray to the Seven every night that he does. But you… Do you know what you could paint here? Have you seen the dragon skulls?"
"Dragons?" Edward's eyes light up with the memory of a thousand legends. "No!"
"You haven't seen them? Oh, you must! They're terribly frightful, but… Well, follow me!" Myrcella tugs at his arms as they round a corner and come crashing into the path of Lord Petyr Baelish. He looks down with a raised eyebrow, his mustache twitching.
"Right where I suspected. Your mother has requested you in her chambers, princess."
"Oh," she looks back to Edward. "Another time." A simple wave and she is gone, skipping off down the hall as Lord Baelish steps into Edward's view. Edward can count the number of times he has spoken to the Master of Coin on one hand, but the tall, thin man always has a way of putting him at ease.
"I see you and the young princess have grown fond of each other," he smiles, stroking his thin beard. Edward shakes his head, nervously, but Baelish only chuckles. "Ah, young love. Well, I would not get too attached. I know that all too well." What does that mean, Edward thinks, as the Master of Coin touches his own scar, far smaller than Edward's. "Those of us who get to choose our future are few and far between. You may very well go to bed one night a boy and wake up a husband. But there are worse fates, I suppose. It's such a shame what happened to your brother."
"Yes, Lord Baelish." Edward replies meekly, trying to keep down his buried shame. "I say my prayers for him every night. I wish I could have done more to help him."
"Please, call me Petyr," he smiles, placing a firm, assuring hand on Edward's shoulder. "You mustn't blame yourself, child. You were leagues away here in the capital. There is nothing you could have done. And young Bran is safe now, and awake. That is all that matters."
"What?" Edward is confused. "I'm sorry, Lord B… Petyr, but I don't understand. I was there when Bran fell, in Winterfell."
"What?" Petyr seems taken aback. "Has no one told you? Your brother was attacked, Edward. A hired assassin tried to kill Bran with a Valyrian steel dagger."
Joffrey's eyes flit impatiently from tree to brush to flower to sky as he walks stiffly down the path of the godswood. At his side, Sansa glances nervously across at him, imagining that he would only reach out and take her hand, any sign of warmth from him. But this walk was out of duty, nothing more.
"This is my favorite place in the castle," she says quietly. "I like it, that every keep has their own godswood. It's like there's one little thing you can count on, wherever you go." She kneels to look at a new flower, she has not noticed before. Delicate, blue petals shaped like bells, hanging down from a leaning stem. "Do you know what this is…"
But Joffrey has moved on down the path. Sansa can't say if he even knows she's fallen behind. For a moment she pauses just to watch as a cool breeze descends through the branches, blowing the prince's golden curls up away from the back of his neck to dance in the wind. She tries to imagine the crown on that head…
"Sansa, where are you?" Joff has finally noticed she isn't at his side. She hoists up the edges of her dress, running to catch up. He has abandoned the path stomping through the grass along the incline as the godswood drops down to the Blackwater Rush. Even as Sansa hurries to catch him, he does not stop, until a startled duck bursts out from the brush ahead of him.
"Damn!" he watches the bird fly off with a killing look in his eyes. "Would that I'd brought a bow!" Turning, he sees Sansa finally catching up, and his chest puffs out with pride. "I would have sent it to the cook for your dinner tonight."
"You are a great hunter, your grace," Sansa curtsies, struggling to keep a steady breath and clear face after running behind the prince.
"That is very true," Joffrey nods in reply. "Father is the greatest hunter in the Seven Kingdoms, and he has taught me well. He will take me to kill my first boar, soon."
"I would like to learn to hunt," Sansa suddenly blurts out, faster than she can think through her plan. Joffrey turns back with a queer look on his face, as if he has a moth caught in the back of his throat. And then his jaw drops and he laughs.
"You're a girl!"
"Women often hunt in the North," Sansa insists, flustered. This is the only chance, it can't fail, not now. He can't laugh!
"Men and women both do many queer things in the North," Joffrey shakes his head. "I hear your people pray to trees. But I will not have you doing such things here."
Sansa opens her mouth to protest further, but nothing comes out. I've ruined it again, she thinks, silently stepping into pace at the prince's side as his mind, straying once again, draws him off further and further away…
A dagger made of Valyrian steel… Littlefinger's story spins over and over again in Edward's head as he polishes Jaime's breastplate, hand wrapped in rags winding in a circle across the same patch of white metal, his mind a hundred miles away. He can remember that night in the wagon as clear as day. But it couldn't be. Joffrey had no reason to want Bran dead. He wouldn't… would he? The rag drops from his hand as he hears the familiar sound of Myrcella's voice coming from somewhere above him.
Four golden heads bob up and down along the parapet over the yard. Myrcella and Rosamund are there, along with their cousins, the king's squires, Lancel and Tyrek Lannister. Each with yellow hair to their shoulders, pointed features and glistening green eyes, the two lads would be near impossible to tell apart, were Lancel not four year's Tyrek's elder, with a head-and-a-half of height over his cousin to show for it. But both squires held Edward in equally low esteem, and their appearance quickly sours his excitement to see Myrcella.
"Look, Cella!" Tyrek's voice, as high and pretty as a girl's, calls out. "It's the wolf cub."
"And his plow boy is with him," Lancel sneers, looking down an Lyman.
"Don't speak that way about Edward," Myrcella glares at her cousins. But they have caught Lyman's attention, and the older squire is marching across the yard. Edward reaches out to stop him, but is pushed away.
"What did you say of me, Lannister?" Lyman shouts. Lancel, excited by the prospect of confrontation, skips eagerly down the steps to the yard, black cloak trailing behind him, draped over his scarlet tunic.
"A plow boy, Lyman," Lancel smirks in a way that makes him look very much like Ser Jaime. "Or have I made some mistake? You are of House Darry, are you not? I've always found it queer that a noble house would choose a servant as their sigil. But now that I've finally met one…"
"House Darry is a proud name," Lyman's grip tightens on his training sword. The two are face to face now, taunting green eyes staring into angry brown.
"Many men are proud. Few have reason to be. My Uncle Tywin taught me that. Tyrek!" Lancel motions to his cousin. He slowly undoes the clasp of his cloak and hands it off. "Let us see what you have to be proud of, plow boy." He begins to cross to the rack of weapons. "We'll use blunted steel, of course. I would hate for you to end up like your uncles."
"I'll blunt your head, you bastard!" Lyman shouts, lunging forward. Before Lancel can even reach the rack, he brings the pommel of his sword down on the back of the other lad's head. Myrcella shrieks in protest, rushing down the stairs as Rosamund cowers on the parapet. Lancel drops to the ground, but reaches out, grabbing a blunted mace from the rack. He rolls in the dirt, swinging heavily into Lyman's legs, knocking him down.
"Stop! Stop!" Edward shouts, but Tyrek pushes him back into Myrcella. Lancel tosses the mace aside and climbs up on top of Lyman, wrestling away the sword. He punches down, a square shot on Lyman's nose, bloodying them both. As the other squire squirms beneath him, he punches down again and again until Lyman gets a hand free. Grabbing the incoming fist, he twists hard. Lancel yells out in pain, letting Lyman lunge forward in a head butt.
"Ho! Squires!" Ser Arys Oakheart storms out of the armory, Ser Aron Santagar close behind. "Put down your arms!" But neither listens, continuing to wrestle and flail about in the dirt. White cape flapping angrily behind them, Arys reaches the fight in a matter of moments, grabbing the collar of each lad and pulling them apart. Holding back Lancel himself, he pushes Lyman away to be seized by Ser Aron.
"Let me go!" Lancel struggles, his bravado fading away in the knight's grip, his kicks only stubbing his toes on armor.
"Calm yourself!" Arys pushes him free, and Aron does the same. The two squires look angrily at the knights, then at each other. Clothes disheveled, hair dirty, faces bloody, they steam with anger. "This behavior is most unbecoming of both of you. Ser Barristan and his grace King Robert would be supremely disappointed." Lyman's defiant head drops to look shamefully down at his feet, but Lancel still glares back at him. But Arys is unfazed. "If you mean to act like stableboys, that is what you will be. To the stables, both of you. I do not want to see your faces again until it shines like the Sword of the Morning!"
"You can't!" Lancel protests. "I serve the king!"
"Do you want to take the matter up with him yourself, boy?" Ser Aron smiles, the Dornishman idly spinning one of his round golden earrings. No answer comes. "I didn't think so. Get on then." He turns back to see Tyrek watching, wide-eyed. "Move along, unless you want to join your cousin. I am sure King Robert needs attending."
Tyrek rushes away up the steps, still clutching Lancel's cloak, and Ser Aron leads the way off to the stables. Edward watches the older squires as the follow the master-at-arms away. When he turns back, Myrcella is gone, but Ser Arys remains.
"What's wrong, Edward?" Arys drops to one knee. "You have not seemed yourself of late. Has there been foul news from the North?"
What can I say? Edward thinks. That I may be going mad? That I turn into a wolf in my dreams? That I think the prince sent an assasin to murder my brother? No. And so he only says – "My sword. I… I worry I'll never master it. I try again and again and never get better."
"You're only nine, boy. No one expects you to be disarming Ser Jaime," Arys gives Edward's hair a playful tussle, but receives no smile in return. "Well, perhaps it would do well to try your hand at a new skill for a while. What about archery?"
Edward pauses for a moment. He hadn't thought far enough ahead past his excuse. So instead, he only nods, hoping it will dispel Arys' attention to his nerves.
"Very good. I know many men who swear by their bows to clear their heads and calm their worries. Let's get one in your hand, shall we." Slowly, Edward follows Arys to the armory, away from the distant sounds of Lancel and Lyman cursing in the stables, and tries to focus on bowstrings and arrows and targets. But he cannot forget the dagger.
A/N: Highs and lows. I get to write House Hightower again (my favorite) and that's always a blast. On the flip side, it is SO frustrating to write for Sansa at this period of her life. She knows so badly what she wants but is too passive and confined to her idea of "lady's courtesies" to actually take the agency of claiming it. Thankfully some new role models are on the way. And speaking of role models, Edward is discovering there are plenty of options willing to mentor him. Let's hope he chooses wisely.