Tales of the Dawn, by Maester Lamorak. So said the title page of the book Gaheris had given Edward, and it is all that he had read of it in the days since. Don't be silly, it's just a book, it can't hurt you, he told himself. And the maester had told him that he had nothing to be afraid of. That instead, others would be afraid of him. But he didn't want to be feared. Frightened people did awful things. And so, somewhere in the back of his mind, Edward had locked away his curiosity, hoping that ignoring the question would make it go away.
He sits in the cramped squires' quarters beneath the White Sword Tower, sitting on his bunk with the book before him. If a stare so fierce could light fire, it would have burned long ago.
"Edward!" Lyman Darry loudly swings open the door and Edward hastily hides the book beneath his pillow. "Ser Jaime is waiting upon you in the yard!" The older squire's hair is disheveled, as are his clothes, the same he had worn the day before, with new wine stains, Edward notes.
"You did not come in last night. Where were you?"
With a wicked grin, Lyman leans in to whisper in the boy's ear. "Believe me when I say this Edward, but I have had the finest night of my life. It seems Ser Boros and Ser Preston were so amused by my little fight with the mighty lion Lancel that they took me to their favorite tavern. They bought me all wine I could drink, the best wine I'd ever had and then Ser Boros took me with him to one of the finest brothels in the city. Percy was right. The women here are like nothing I've ever seen. You should have seen mine, her…" he stops, breaking his memory to glance back at his 9 year old companion. "Well, I suppose you wouldn't understand."
"A kingsguard isn't supposed to go to brothels," Edward scowls.
"Well, I have no plans of donning a white cloak," Lyman jumps up onto his bunk, sending dust flying. "But I do plan on loving more than my share of women."
"But Ser Boros is a kingsguard."
"And what am I supposed to do? Stand in his way and bar the door to the brothel? Turn away his woman as well as mine and deprive the poor whores of his coin? Why Ed, I did not know you to be so cruel!" He grabs at his heart and twists, as if pierced by an invisible dagger, and falls back with a laughing gasp. But Edward remains unamused.
"Ser Barristan would not approve."
Lyman's head reappears from over his bunk, his face turned serious. "Ser Barristan does not know what Ser Boros does, and he shall not know of me either. Shall he Edward?" Edward's glare falters, and he gives no answer. "You'd best run along. Ser Jaime is waiting."
Edward is begrudged to leave, but he has no retort left for Lyman and fears angering his knight, and so he hastily slips out the door and into the yard. Ser Jaime is waiting, as always all in white, but today he is with another, one whose appearance almost stops Edward in his track.
Like something out of a wild dream, Jalabar Xo stands on even height with Jaime, but where the knight's armor and cloak are devoid of color, the Summer Island prince seems cloaked in the rainbow itself. Over skin dark as ebony, he wears a cloth of gold vest and loose pants of scarlet silk that flow and blow in the wind. Over it all he wears his fabulous feathered cloak, adorned with the plumage of uncounted tropical birds, the likes of which never seen in Westeros – vibrant red and green. He smiles disarmingly as Edward approaches.
"Edward, you remember Prince Jalabar?" Jaime asks, and Edward nods. "Excellent. The good prince here is among the finest archers in all of Westeros. He will be training you in the bow."
Edward looks up at Jalabar and notices now for the first time the huge goldenwood bow he holds in one hand. It is as awe-inspiring as Maester Gaheris had described. And in his other hand, the prince holds a smaller bow of red wood, but no less elegantly carved. He extends it to Edward.
"Here, boy," Jalabar speaks, his voice thick, deep and sweet to Edward's ears. "Come to the range. Today we teach you to make your death fly."
Three Lannister guardsmen lurk back in the shadows as Edward and Myrcella walk carefully through the echoing halls in the depths of the Red Keep. Edward does not know any of these three, though he had come to know many of the Lannister men in the month since his arrival. It was a rare moment that any of the royal children could venture outside of Maegor's Holdfast without their crimson cloaked, dark-armored shadows. He was happy that Father did not make the same insistence for the Stark children, though they had brought few enough men with them as it was.
"It's right up here," Myrcella urges him along. It was dark, save for a few flickering torches lining the walls, but life in the North had long since accustomed Edward's eyes to the darkness. That said, he is nervous all the same, fingers clenched tightly around the canvas and paints clutched in his left hand. And then it appears.
Rising up out of the shade like a great, dark beast, which it was once, in life, the massive black dragon skull sits in the center of the chamber, illuminated by waves of light that dance and ripple across the ancient bone. Edward knows at once by the size what remains are before him.
"Balerion the Black Dread." His jaw drops, a brush slipping from his fingers and clattering to the ground. He steps slowly, closer and closer, until he is directly in front of the towering skull, its huge jaws and jagged teeth poised to swallow him whole. He can almost feel hot breath from within as he leans forward, hand extended. It is smooth and cold to the touch, but he almost feels a warmth within. Leaning closer, so close his own skull almost touches the dragon's, Edward's ears twitch at the sound of a soft, strange sound in the air.
It is a deep, ominous rumble from within the skull, so faint he is not even sure it is real. But as he holds his hand tight against the skull and leans his ear closer and closer, it becomes louder and clearer. Part hiss, part roar, unlike any sound he has ever heard. It grows louder and louder, his scar beginning to sting with a raging burn, but he is frozen. And then, the voice. It could be a man, it could be a woman, but it crackles like fire.
"Join us."
With a shout, Edward jumps back, tearing himself away from the skull as his supplies crash to the ground. He looks about. He has gone nowhere, still in the same dark chamber with the hard stone beneath his feet. But for a moment, he can hear nothing at all. One hand flies to his ears, the other to his scar, still burning. Myrcella rushes to his side, a panicked look on her face. But the mocking laughter of one of the guards is the first sound he hears.
"Are you alright?" Myrcella asks. At first, her words echo in his ears, clashing with the guard's harsh tones, but finally he shakes his head free. The noises and the burning are all gone now, and he only has Myrcella in his view.
"It… it's fine," he nods, dropping to the ground to retrieve his painting supplies. "I just… it's so big. I heard the stories but I never… I can't imagine seeing it alive."
"I know," Myrcella takes a seat in front of the skull as Edward, trying hard to steady his breathing and calm his senses, follows her, reluctant to look back into the eyes of the dragon. "Father doesn't like me to come here. He doesn't like anyone to come here. He would have destroyed all the bones, I think, but the maesters said not too. They were the symbol of the Targaryens. I think a stag is a poor replacement for a dragon."
"You have the lion, as well," Edward points out.
"The lions are a lie," she shakes her head. "The last that were seen in our lands were warped, twisted little things chained in the caverns of Castlery Rock. My Uncle Tyrion told me so." Edwards watches the princess carefully. She has always been so afraid to speak openly about her family, yet here, perhaps, in the solemn shroud of darkness, beneath the shadow of the dragon, she felt more free. "My family killed the lions. They never served us. Not like your House and your direwolves."
The wolves, Edward thinks, and shudders. It has been so long since he has been to the dragonpit to see them. But try as he might, he still sees them in his dreams. In Tessarion's eyes. "You should not believe every story that you hear of the North," he insists.
"No?" Myrcella seems saddened. "I'd very much like to see your wolf again, and the others. Have they grown even larger since they've come here?"
"I don't know, they…" he hesitates.
"Is something wrong?" She lightly places one hand on top of his. "You look scared. If you don't like it here, we can go somewhere else. I just thought you would like to draw the…"
"I do!" Edward blurts. "No, no it's fine. It's just… the wolves." He glances nervously to Myrcella, back to the guards lost in idle conversation, then up at the dragon, whose empty eyes seem to be watching all the same. And in his mind, he decides to trust. "Sometimes, I dream that I'm one of them. But it isn't like a normal dream. I have a bond with Tessarion, and sometimes when I'm asleep, I wake up inside him. I see what he sees, smell what he smells. I know things that I shouldn't know but then they're true in the day. I don't know what's happening to me but I'm so afraid and I can't tell anyone but Sansa and Maester Gaheris or everyone will think I've gone mad and they'll send me home!"
He realizes he has closed his eyes as he reveals his secrets. As they creep back open, he fears Myrcella will be gone, run away, leaving him alone in the dark. But she is still there, golden hair, green eyes and pale skin all glistening in the torchlight.
"You think you're a warg?" she asks, and Edward's surprise is evident. "I told you I know the legends of the North."
"Do you think I'm mad?"
"No, no, not at all," she leans forward to extend the slightest embrace, which Edward gratefully accepts. "You have to tell me more! The Grand Maester thinks that magic is gone forever, but I never believed him."
"Maybe later," Edward shrinks away. He doesn't understand what is happening himself, how could he hope to explain it to her? "I just want to paint, right now." She nods, but does not leave his side as he begins to work.
The tournament nearly upon them, it seems the day and night Ned Stark had been busy welcoming a seemingly endless stream of lords and knights and their entourages into the city gates, all hoping to win gold and glory in the spectacular waste of coin that was being held in his name. And, more pressingly, all amounted to one very large distraction from his mission to discover the truth behind why Jon Arryn was killed.
But this arrival, this one he cannot miss. Robert had seen to that. The king had not yet mentioned a match for Arya, and for that Ned was grateful. He could only bare to manage one of his children's betrothals at a time. And it would be hard enough to hold off the Hightowers until he could hear from Stannis. If there was one thing true about the lords of Oldtown throughout history, it was that they did not easily take 'no' for an answer.
The first outriders has arrived well before the orange banners emblazoned with the Hightower beacon first appeared over the horizon. He'd sent Fat Tom to summon the children at once, before mounting his horse with five of his own men to ride out to meet the approaching party.
Ned reaches the River Gate in time to catch first glimpse of Ser Urrigon's procession riding up the kingsroad. He counts at least a score and a dozen more men-at-arms beneath the banners – Hightower orange and Tyrell green. They surround a huge wheelhouse, not quite as large as the one that had carried the queen to Winterfell, but a formidable wooden monstrosity all the same, armored with bronzed steel.
At the head of the procession rode a huge knight that could only be Urrigon himself – a heavy woolen orange cape draped over bronzed armor and a black surcoat. He wears a three-pronged helm meant to mimic the point of the Hightower itself. At his left rides a knight in matching armor, save for the sigil of a fireflower upon his surcoat. To his right, a knight in grey steel bears the green cloak, plume and surcoat of House Tyrell.
"Welcome to King's Landing, sers," Ned calls out as he brings his horse in alongside the three leaders. "His grace King Robert sends his regards."
"You must be Lord Stark," Urrigon's booming voice echoes within his helm. Up close, Ned can see the wiry brown strands of a thick beard creeping out from behind the visor. "You're a good deal younger than the last Hand, I can say that much for you." And what did you know of Jon Arryn, Ned wonders. "I have no doubt you know who I am," Urrigon continues, chuckling. "My companions you find here are Ser Runcel Cupps and Garrett Flowers."
The two knights tips their heads respectfully towards Ned, who takes the lead of the march. Urrigon continues to bluster on about the journey up from Highgarden and enquiring if the Hand knew this knight or that lord and how they fared in the city. Most men of his size Ned knew to be still and silent types. But Urrigon's constant chattering is already waring on his nerves as they pass back beneath the River Gate and up the winding roads to the Red Keep. Thankfully, Jory was willing to take the brunt of the southern knight's questions.
His family and household await in the yard. They had arrived post-haste, even Arya, assembled like little soldiers in their best dress. Edward even had a squire's sword. Much of the Small Council is waiting as well – Littlefinger, Varys and Renly, Ser Loras Tyrell at his side. But the royal family, Ned notices, has decided not to come. Ser Urrigon Hightower was too far from the head of his family to be worth the king and queen's attention, it seemed.
If Ser Urrigon's importance was less than grandiose, however, it seemed that someone had neglected to inform the knight himself of that fact. The outriders sent ahead have unfurled Hightower banners and revealed trumpets from within their packs to announce the arrival of their leader as the procession rapidly fills the yard. Ned hands off his horse to Jory and makes haste to stand at the head of his children as the wheelhouse comes shuddering to a halt. Urrigon drops down from his own horse, handing off his helm to a stern-looking squire and shaking free his massive beard and rolling mane of curled brown hair.
"Lord Stark, what a fine, strong family you have," he clucks with his tongue, looking down the line. "I see you've adopted an eunuch." He laughs, before turning to crank open the heavy latch on the door of the wagon. As it swings open, he looks back. "I swear to you, Lord Stark, my wife, the lovely Patrice, is even more eager to meet you than I."
Despite his grand introduction, the first to emerge from the wagon is Urrigon's cousin, the Lady Leyla Hightower, a formidable woman, heaving herself down from the wheelhouse. Every inch of her considerable girth shakes as she hits the ground heavily. A dark purple gown, crossed with delicate orange threads, is stretched tight over her broad hips and ample stomach. An orange silk collar opens wide at the neck, allowing heavy breasts to puff up in an attempt to escape the confines of the too-tight dress. A ring of ornate tattoos circles her neck, markings of her substantial travels in the East. A glistening white smile crosses the olive skin of her round face, framed by wiry black hair as she bows to great Ned.
"Lord Eddard Stark. It is my pleasure to meet you at last. I have heard so much of your victories." And of how I chased your sister into exile, no doubt, Ned thinks, but there is no sign of malice in her dark eyes. But what he suspects he does see there is even more troubling. "I was visiting my dear sister when the word came, and knew I must come."
After her, diminutive by comparison, her sister Alysanne drops down. Slender, wide-eyed and in a simple brown dress, only the olive skin of their shared Myrish mother marks them as siblings. She offers a stiff, nervous curtsy.
"I apologize that my lord husband could not visit," Alysanne speaks meekly. Arthur Ambrose, Ned remembers, noting her ruby ant earrings. "He is rebuilding the battlements along the Mander. I believe he fought by your side at Pyke."
"He did indeed. A brave knight and true," Ned nods, though he cannot remember the man's face.
"We want you to know, all our prayers are with your Brandon," Leyla places a painted hand on his shoulder. Ned recoils only slightly. "You have such lovely children," she turns down the assembled line. "You must be our future queen," she tells Sansa, making her blush. Then Arya and Edward. He flinches, turning his head away from her as she bends down, but his scar does not seem to disturb her. "And you are the lad who is to marry my darling niece."
"You should meet my Alyn," Alysanne adds. "He is about here somewhere."
"Patrice!" Urrigon's bellowing voice snaps Ned's attention back to the carriage. "Patrice, have you fallen asleep in there?"
"No, but your damned daughter has!" A sharp voice cracks back like a whip. Crashing out through the door like a whirlwind, a small child clutched tightly in her arms, Patrice Hightower appears. Tall and slender with long raven hair, face flushed red, she stumbles down the steps. Behind her, a dark-haired, grim looking girl watches from the doorway.
"Lord Eddard Stark, my lovely lady wife and our youngest, darling Ellyn," Urrigon introduces them as a duo of handmaids rush from the rear of the procession to hurry the child away. The knight pulls his wife in for a kiss. "How was your ride, my dear?"
"Terrible," Patrice grimaces and turns back towards Ned. "Where is the boy, my lord?" Up close, Ned can see clearly the woman is quite drunk. He grimaces internally, but only gestures down to where Edward waits.
"My second son, Edward Stark. Edward, this is Lady Patrice Hightower."
"Good afternoon, m'lady," Edward bows curtly. Patrice visibly gags at the sight of his scar and quickly turns around, making shaky haste to follow her husband's cousins into the keep, where Littlefinger and Renly have already waylaid them in conversation. Thankfully, Ned notes, his son does not seem to have seen her reaction.
"What a fierce little wolf boy you are!" The last to leave, Urrigan drops to one knee before Edward. "Look at that!" His huge hand reaches to Edward's face, but the boy flinches away. "Where did you get a scar like that, lad? That's the mark of a true warrior. You shall be a good match for my cousin!"
"I… I don't know, ser…" Edward stammers, his face turning deep red as he looks frantically up to his father for intervention.
"Ser Urrigon!" Ned commands the knight's attention. He rises, towering once again a head taller. "I must remind you that I have not yet betrothed Edward to Helaena. My mind is not yet made. Do well to keep that in mind."
"Ha! Of course!" Urrigon's lips pull back in a smile, huge teeth jutting out behind the wiry hairs of his beard. He looks back down to Edward. "We wouldn't want the boy to lose too much sleep dreaming of an Oldtown bride. Our women burn as fierce as the Hightower itself! Come along, lad, we'll breathe some life into this old pile of rocks! " Edward silently nods and follows the Hightowers inside. Ned stands for a moment watching as the rest of his household files in until only he and Jory are left in the yard.
"What a family," Jory chuckles under his breath.
"Indeed," Ned sighs. What have I gotten us into now?
"Should I have the guards mark a tighter watch? Keep eyes on their room?"
"No, you needn't worry. Focus on the tournament. They are no threat. A nuisance, perhaps, a distraction for certain, but no threat." At least not the kind one fights with swords…