"And then he laughed at you?" Jeyne gasps, and Sansa immediately regrets telling her companion about her last walk with Joffrey. "How awful! I cannot imagine… But you weren't serious, were you? Why would you ever say something like that?"
"Like what?" Sansa does not turn as she walks, or else Jeyne would see her icy glare.
"About hunting! You don't really want to go out there? With what, a spear or a bow? And kill things? Like my father? I saw him dress a deer once and…"
"What else am I to do, Jeyne?" Sansa finally turns on the other girl. "He cares for nothing else. He barely notices I am there when we walk. He does not love me, he does not hate me, I barely exist to him and that is worse than both!"
Jeyne's jaw drops, brown eyes wide in shock at the sudden outburst. She begins to stammer a reply, but Sansa is moving again, on past the guards at the door and onto the balcony where Queen Cersei, Myrcella and Rosamund are waiting, their morning meal already prepared on the table. Sansa coldly takes a seat opposite Cersei as Jeyne scurries along behind, sitting next to Rosamund, whose whining never seemed to cease. Those to ought to get along well, Sansa thinks, crossly. Jeyne was her dearest friend, but this morning she had awoken with little patience for her.
"Good morning, Sansa," Cersei smiles, a greeting echoed by the other girls.
"Good morning, your grace," Sansa nods politely, helping herself to the spread of sausage, fruit, warm bread and steaming porridge.
"Hungry this morning, aren't we?" Cersei raises an eyebrow, but Sansa does not care. Anger always seemed to grow her appetite.
"Is everything alright, Sansa?" Myrcella asks softly. Jaw clenched shut with a mouthful of sausage, Sansa only nods in agreement. "You walked with Joffrey, did you not?" Another nod. "How have you been getting along?"
With an empty mouth and no excuse not to answer, Sansa begins to speak, but stops, looking across the table to Cersei, then back to Myrcella. "My dear prince is, of course, as noble as ever. I love him more every day."
"Of course you do," Cersei interjects into the conversation. "But you do not say if he loves you, too. Your betrothal is very important to us all Sansa, one day I will be your mother, as well. There is nothing that you ever need hide from me."
"Of course, your grace," Sansa nods. She cannot know. She loves Joff too much, if she thinks he is unhappy, she will tell the king to find him a new bride. "A lady has no need of secrets, for her virtue shall be apparent to all." Septa Unella would be proud of that citation. Cersei is about to ask another question, but Sansa hastily spoons a heaping pile of too-hot porridge into her mouth. Grimacing from the burning on her tongue, she daintily dabs away the flecks left on her chin and chews. The queen's response never comes.
Leaving his cramped chamber beneath White Sword Tower, Edward finds Lyman toiling over Ser Barristan's armor. His brown trousers torn and dirty, shirt discarded, hard muscles already glistening with sweat even this early in the day, Edward cannot help but think he truly does look like a plow boy. His long brown hair, uncut since they arrived in the city, hangs down over his face, hiding the heavy bruises left from his fight.
"The stables look especially clean," Edward quips, but Lyman looks up from his work angrily.
"I should have scrubbed them with his damn golden hair, is what I should have done!"
"I'm sorry," Edward steps back, not expecting such a harsh rebuke.
"No," Lyman shakes his head apologetically. "No, nary to be sorry for, Ed. It wasn't your fault. Just the damned Lannisters. This whole castle is crawling with them. They think they're so mighty, and for what? Being born on top on top of a pile of gold? And he's the worst, I'd say. I'd like to face that fool in a tourney. See how Lancel likes the end of my lance."
"My father's tourney is drawing ever nearer," Edward shrugs. "You may get a chance."
"Yes," Lyman nods, returning to his work. "Perhaps I will."
Leaving Lyman to brood in silence, Edward steps out into the yard to find Ser Jaime waiting, speaking with Ser Arys. Edward wonders if Jaime knows about the fight. But as his knight turns to greet him, there is only his constant wide smile stretched across his face.
"A good squire, on time as always! My sword has been looking especially sharp lately, I suppose I have you to thank for that. Would that I had someone to use it upon."
"Father says it is good that our knights needn't draw their blades. King Robert has brought peace to the realm." Though lately, Edward had to admit, Father seemed more wary when he spoke of peace. Or wary in general, truth be told. It worried him, atop all the other things he needed to worry about of late.
"Lord Stark is a wise man," Ser Arys nods.
"I've spoken with Ser Arys and I agree. You shall begin your archery training post haste. Run along to Ser Aron, and he will fit you with a bow." Jaime watches as Edward hurries off to the armory. He looks to his sworn brother. "Will you be training him?"
"I, ser?" Arys shakes his head. "I fear I am no great marksman."
"No, I suppose not," Jaime muses.."Mandon is the best of us, yet he is unlike to offer any training to the boy. But he must have the best teacher we can find. I will accept nothing less." Because Old Barristan will accept nothing less, he thinks.
"There is another," Arys suggests. "It's not like our friend the prince is ever busy."
"Joffrey?" Jaime laughs at the thought
"No," Arys shakes his head and points across the yard. There, by the mounted targets, he sees the bright colored feathers of Jalabar Xo's cloak stand out amidst a crowd of Lannister guardsmen and hears Igor curse as the Summer Islander shows him up once again. Yes, he thinks. Yes, that just might work perfectly.
Though taller and longer of leg, Lancel Lannister struggles to keep pace with his younger cousin, Prince Joffrey, as they quickly stalk through the halls of the Red Keep.
"I hear that you lost a fight with that Darry plow boy in the yard," Joffrey laughs. Lancel's face today is heavily made up, but cannot hide the bruises and the crook in his nose that now mars his once perfect face.
"I didn't lose…" the older boy mutters under his breath.
"It certainly looks like you did. How do you plan on explaining that nose to Uncle Kevan when he comes to visit?" He turns around to face Lancel in mock supplication, his voice whining into a shrill, taunting pitch. "Oh, I'm sorry father, I wasn't looking and walked into a door." Lancel flinches as if to strike and Joffrey immediately jumps back across the hall. "Mind your hands, cousin!"
"It was nothing," Lancel shakes his head stiffly and marches on. "How do you even know? Ser Aron said he would tell no one."
"The walls of this castle have eyes and ears, and I am fond of listening."
"It no longer concerns me, cousin," Lancel regains his composure as they round the corner to find Ser Mandon and Ser Jaime on guard outside the king's chambers. "But when you are king, I pray you bear in mind that House Darry has clearly not yet been punished enough to know their betters."
Whether or not Joffrey has heard or, for that matter, listened to anything Lancel has said is unclear. Instead, he steps forward, outsized confidence pushing him up onto his toes, to confront Jaime. "Uncle! Have you found me a trainer as you promised?"
Jaime sighs from beneath his white helm. "I am sorry, your grace. It is neither the time nor place to speak of such things. I am guarding the king. Ser Aron is Master-at-Arms. Speak to him."
"You are sworn to me, as well, uncle, and I wish to speak to you," Joffrey's yellow eyebrows arch in agitation. "I do not like Ser Aron. He spends more time combing his hair than he does fighting. He has never been to war. I told you I will have the greatest fighter in the Seven Kingdoms teach me at arms, as befits the next king."
Jaime eyes Ser Mandon, wishing the silent knight would chill the prince into silence, but his grim companion has not wavered, back straight, eyes dead ahead, as if made of stone rather than flesh. Sighing, he gives in. "And how do you plan to find the greatest fighter in all of Westeros? Have a tournament to compete for your hand in battle?"
Such an insult was a risk, but flies over Joffrey's head. "The tournament. That is it! The Hand's Tourney. Whoever wins the melee, they will train me. I will have nothing less than the best."
"Your grace," Jaime realizes he may have made a terrible mistake. "There will be knights and lords coming from across the realm, if the champion has duties to their lands, we cannot…"
"They will stay. And they will train me until no one in all seven kingdoms can defeat me."
The Small Council is assembled before Ned Stark. The king, as is almost always the case, he has found, has declined to join them. The meeting thus far has been uneventful. Varys had no further news regarding the movements of the Targaryen girl and her Dothraki horde, nor was there any word from their wayward Master of Ships, Stannis Baratheon. Renly was staring idly out a window, as bored as ever, while Littlefinger prattled on about funds for the tournament, funds they did not have but Ned found himself forced to spend regardless of his feelings on the matter. His own thoughts are of matters he dare not broach here – the mysteries of the dagger sent to kill his son and the plot that murdered Jon Arryn. At last, the meeting draws to a close.
"Pardon me, Lord Stark," Varys raises an airy hand. "But there is one more matter, of a personal nature to yourself. We have received word from Oldtown. Ser Baelor is pleased by the prospect of your Edward marrying his Helaena. He apologizes that he cannot leave the city at this time, but sends his warmest wishes. The girl is boarding a ship with her uncle Gunthor to come and meet with you personally."
Ned grits his teeth. He had not expected this all to happen so fast. "I have not yet made my decision. I still wish to speak to Lord Stannis."
"Don't we all!" Renly guffaws. "You might as well trying screaming through a horn across Blackwater Bay, that will as soon glean you a reply from my brother than any number of ravens. Perhaps his lady wife will think it the voice of her red god and demand he holler back."
Ser Barristan glares sternly at the young lord, who rolls his eyes in reply but silences himself all the same. In the uncomfortable silence that follows, Varys speaks up. "Unfortuantely, my lord, you will have to make audience for House Hightower sooner than Heleana herself can reach the city by sea. A Ser Urrigon Hightower is riding up from Highgarden. He will want your ear, and I expect that he will plan to ride in the tourney as well, he is a knight of some great repute in the Reach. He spent some years with a Free Company in Essos."
"I do not recall Lord Leyton having a son by that name," Ned wracks his brain to remember the old lord's many children.
"A nephew, I believe. The son of Octavian. He will be traveling with his whole family, a wife, son and daughter. And there are several other of the Hightower blood living near Highgarden who may yet join them in their procession. It seems Lord Leyton has taken the prospect of this proposal very seriously."
All serving to keep me busy, far away from Dragonstone and Stannis, Ned thinks.
"Some say that it is Octavian who holds the true power in Oldtown," Littlefinger muses. "What with his elder brother not descending from the tower these past few years."
"Thoughts of magic have driven Lord Hightower mad," Pycelle coughs. "A pity for a man of such great learning. But no, it is Ser Baelor who rules Oldtown now, in his father's seat."
"Baelor Brightsmile is much beloved by all, that is well known, but the man has a malleable will and commits to nothing of his own volition," Varys turns his hands over each other within his draping, perfumed orange sleeves. "If House Hightower is truly this committed to a match, the decision was made by another."
But who… Ned's eyes follow the line of the table, marking his advisors one by one. Varys, Littlefinger, Pycelle, Ser Barristan, Renly. Who indeed… No matter what the problem, that was the question that never seemed to leave him.
In times like these, Edward misses Arya. It has been near a full turn of the moon since he arrived in the city, and they have scarcely spoken since. He envied her now, the way she never seemed to worry about a thing. But he had pushed her away, angry about the Trident. And now that he wanted her listening ear and brave defiance to lean upon, his twin was pushing him away right back. She had her 'dancing lessons,' whatever they truly were, and queer games to play with cats in the shadows. Edward, more oft than not, was left alone with his thoughts. And they were terrible.
Last night he had a dream. In his dream he saw Bran fall from the tower, as terrible as it had been the night it happened and every night he'd dreamed it since. But this time was different. This time he could see a face in the window of the Broken Tower, silhouetted in the light within: Joffrey, his taunting leer upon his face, the Valyrian steel dagger in hand.
That night terror made the wolfdreams seem like lullabies. Edward would rather be mad than crippled with guilt, his head bowed in shame when he spoke to Father. You could not hide secrets from him. Father knows everything, Edward believes. He can see the suspicion in his eyes. And he is glad that his service as a squire keeps him away from the Tower of the Hand.
For now, he waits in the yard as dusk falls, quill in hand, scribbling down a dark image of a wolf in the woods. His wolf, Tessarrion, free to run instead of being trapped here within the city. It is a crude drawing, far from his best work. But he feels a piece of himself is there on the paper.
"Good evening, Edward!" He looks up to the sound of Sansa's voice. She is with Jeyne, crossing the yard. Alyn and Fat Tom are with them, escorting the girls back to the tower for the night. For a moment, Sansa leaves the group for her brother. "You should join us sometime, when you're not with Ser Jaime. It seems I see you less and less."
Edward shrugs sheepishly. "I'm sorry. I'm very busy."
"Of course, you are a Kingsguard squire after all," she smiles kindly, sitting beside him and taking the parchment into her own hands. "This is nice. That's Tessrrion, isn't it?" He nods "It seems rather sad though, don't you think?" Edward gulps. Even more than Father, Sansa has always been able to see right through him. "What's wrong, Edward?"
"Nothing," he shakes his head stiffly, a futile gesture.
Putting the parchment aside, Sansa places a gentle hand on his shoulder, the other turning his face back to hers. "Edward, I know something is wrong. We don't lie to each other, remember? We're family. Real family."
A single drop of sweat forms at the peak of Edward's hairline, slowly sliding down the center of his face onto the tip of his nose as every muscle in his body tenses. What could he tell her? That her beloved prince, the boy she was to marry, the boy who would make her queen of all seven kingdoms, had tried to murder their brother? So instead he blurts out what he can.
"I've been dreaming I'm Tessarion. At night, I see myself in the dragonpit, in his body. I feel like him, smell like him, taste and hear and see… It's so real! And I see things, things that I shouldn't know about, but I do. Like the pool, the pool that we found beneath the rocks. I'd seen it before! In a dream, as Tessarion!"
Sansa's is silent as Edward, eyes wild, finally stops talking. She seems calm, unfazed by his revelation. "A wolfdream. Like in Old Nan's stories?"
"You think I'm crazy, don't you," Edwards voice drops to a whisper.
"Sansa, hurry!" Jeyne calls out from where she waits with the guards, but Sansa does not move to leave, not yet. She takes each of Edward's hands in her own.
"No, I don't think you're crazy. I can't tell you what you're feeling Edward. Maybe you are just dreaming. Maybe it's nothing. But you saw what you saw. You mustn't keep all these secrets inside your little head. We're always here fot you, no matter what." Edward smiles back, slowly. No matter what? He prays that stays true. "Maester Gaheris has studied the old legends, has he not? Go to him. Perhaps he will have some answers."
Once again, Ser Jaime Lannister stands on guard outside the antechamber where the king reclines, blundering on with Ned Stark, about the tourney no doubt. Jaime could not care less. He has drawn watch with Ser Mandon again, but for once he is grateful for the steely silence of the Vale knight. He knew next to nothing of his sworn brother's life before the white cloak. The man was as cold and frozen as whatever gods-forsaken mountain he had creeped down from when Jon Arryn brought him to the city. But after the endless storm of arriving tourney guests and swirling rumors around his squire's betrothal and some brawl in the yard, the silence was golden. Until his sister came along to break it.
"Dear brother, is it true what they are saying about the squires?" Jaime tilts his head to the side, hoping she will infer this is not the proper moment. But Cersei has never been one to mind the time of others, even for him. "Come," she motions. Jaime glances, a tad nervous, towards Ser Mandon. But he knows the man's jaw will stay sealed shut as tight as a steel trap. He silently follows Cersei into a nearby room.
"This is no time for idle talk," he hisses through clenched fist, though he could never stay angry for long at his sister. "I am on duty. What if the king…"
"What if…" Cersei muses, leaning close to smell his hair, her small hand placed softly upon his breastplate over his beating heart. "But I have no choice. Ever since you took a squire, he follows you like a shadow. We are never alone, unless you are on duty."
"He is a good lad," Jaime reluctantly pulls away. "Honest and loyal. He may never be a knight, but his skills do grow every day, if painfully slow. And I do love the look on Ser Barristan's old face when he realizes I have not failed."
"Yes, yes," Cersei sighs. "He certainly seems a youth of admirable qualities. But for our love's sake, it is for the best that he will soon be gone. The Hightowers mean to take him away to Oldtown, I hear, once their pact is done. And then we will be one again." She takes his hand, leaning close again and Jaime feels himself stiffen. He is about to kiss her, to do far more, when he stops. Some things even silent Ser Mandon must not know.
"From what I hear, Stark is far less convinced of the match than the Hightowers are. He seems determined he can draw Stannis back with Shireen."
"We cannot allow Stark to betroth the boy to that ugly little girl," Cersei snaps. "Stannis must be kept as far away as he can. But I do not fancy the thought of having the castle crawling with Hightowers much more. Nothing good ever comes of them coming to King's Landing."
"Then just let him and Myrcella be," Jaime shrugs. "They like each other well enough."
"Father would never allow that and you know it. I will never allow it. Give away two of my children, to him? The boy may be sincere, and Sansa as well, but they have the wolf's blood. Their father cannot be trusted."
Jaime cannot help but laugh at that. "Ned Stark? Are we speaking of the same man? You think Ned Stark is scheming against us?"
"You are too trusting," Cersei shakes her head and looks away. "You have always been too trusting. No man is a honorable and true as the great Ned Stark." She nearly gags saying the name. "No, he loathes this city, I can read it in him every time we meet. He is hear for a reason. His father had southron ambitions. And if he suspects…"
"He suspects nothing," Jaime insists, pulling her back to him.
"I pray you are right. Even so, mind the boy. He must know his allegiance is to the lion now, not to the wolf. If he should play you false…"
"Cersei, darling sister," Jaime pulls her in, this time stealing the risk of the smallest kiss. "I swear to you, he is harmless. We have nothing to fear from the Starks."
"Wolf dreams?" Maester Gaheris' auburn eyebrows arch, his brow wrinkling as he looks down at Edward, a cup of steaming barley tea in his hands. "You mean you think you are a warg?"
Edward pauses as fat Maester Ballabar thuds through the solar shared by the Red Keep's maesters, all save Pycelle himself, who kept to his own private chambers. It was a small yet well-furnished space, kept meticulously clean, despite the best meddling efforts of Ballabar's clumsy hands. As the drunken old man wonders off to his bed, Edward looks back to Gaheris.
"I… I don't know. I don't know what it is, I only know what I see. And what I feel."
"Ah, well, the legends of skinchangers and wargs are well-documented," Gaheris muses, scratching his blunt jaw as he turns to one of the many bookshelves lining the walls. "Of course, the archmaesters of today will tell you such arts died out millennia ago, if they ever existed at all. Tell me, did Maester Luwin ever speak of such matters at Winterfell?"
"Bran used to ask him about the stories Old Nan would tell," Edward remembers, and misses his brother. "She was our nursemaid. Bran loved magic and wizards and the Children of the Forest, all those stories. Maester Luwin always listened, but in the end he said the same as you. What magic that was ever in the world has been long gone for generations."
"Aye, of course. Luwin did well, teaching young boys as he should, not filling their head with tales of fantasy…" Gaheris stops, having found what he is looking for. He pulls an old, black bound book from one of the shelves, small but thick, and carries it back to the table. He places it in front of Edward – in the center of the black leather carving the shape of a tree is cut out, revealing white wierwood underneath. "There are some still, however, who would disagree. Those who believe that the old ways never disappeared, only hid. And that now their strength is growing once again."
"And what do you think?" Edward asks, looking up as the maester takes a long sip of tea.
"I think, Edward Stark, that you should be very careful whom you speak to of such matters. Read this book, and speak only of it to me. Weak men fear what they cannot understand."
"Should I be afraid, maester?" Edward asks.
"No," Gaheris' chain clinks softly together as he shakes his head. "It is not you who should be afraid."