A light mist is falling over the tournament grounds as Ned Stark rides slowly into the jousting arena. With him are Jory and three more Stark men, along with Ser Runcel Cupps and his liege, Ser Urrigon Hightower, whose mouth has not closed since they passed out beneath the gates of the Red Keep.
"These are fine looking grounds, Lord Stark. I dare say your builders must have taken some inspiration from the arenas at Oldtown. It was there I broke my first lance and won my first melee. Those are, of course, the oldest and the finest tournament grounds in all of Westeros. In all the known world, I would wager. And, when one has traveled as greatly as myself, one comes to know such things."
Urrigon drops down from his horse as they reach the center railing of the main track. "Ah, good, strong wood. Well-chosen, from the Kingswood, perhaps? Or did you bring some down from your fabled Northern forests? My father always said your people had little to offer, but that we could never build enough to extinguish your trees."
"Will you be planning to enter the joust?" Ned asks. The large knight had barely left his side since arriving in the city. It seemed he believed that if he clung tight enough to Ned, he would appear a part of the family even before their houses were joined. If they were joined, Ned reminds himself, the man presumes too much. His patience was already wearing thin. Urrigon had even tried to wonder into a Small Council session.
"No, I don't think I will," Urrigon muses. "The melee is much more to my liking. Now my trusted sword, Ser Runcel, he is the best jouster in all Oldtown. He will make short work of anyone in your lists, I wager."
"I do not think I shall join the festivities," Ser Runcel shakes his head. The old knight was past 50, though it was plain the strength had not yet left his body. A small, pointed, neatly-trimmed white beard adorns his chin and his head is smooth and bald, save for a thin ring of white hair still clinging to his skull, plastered flat by the rain.
"No, no, I insist!" Urrigon bellows, wondering away down the railing. Jory smirks, glancing at Ned and Runcel.
"Leave him go on, he'll find his way back eventually," Runcel shrugs. "He always does."
"How long have you been his sworn shield?" Ned asks.
"Since he was but a babe. House Cupps has always served House Hightower. I was squire to his father and have served Urrigon since the day I was knighted. Save for his venture in the free companies. In those years I stayed behind to guard his children."
"And now he has returned to bless us with his company," Jory laughs.
"He is a good man," Runcel insists. "But all he does, he does loudly, and with little thought before. He requires guidance and good council."
"And you say you have provided. How does one council such a man, Ser Runcel?" Ned asks.
"By playing his game, Lord Stark. I expect you should enter my name into the lists. I apologize if it is an inconvenience."
"Of course, good ser," Ned pauses. "But tell me, do you know why he is really here?"
Through the mist, Runcel gives him a queer look. His mouth begins to part, but in the background, Urrigon has continued to examine the rails and finally calls out.
"I must meet your carpenters, Stark! I dare say I've never seen a finer rail! Of course, it's never been used before. You really must test such things before turning jousters loose upon them." Before anyone can stop him, his right foot is kicking at the rail, pounding down heavily once, twice, then again.
"By the gods, what are you doing!" Varrick's voice shouts from high above in the stands. The plump master builder, panicked, is waddling furiously down the steps towards them. "Step away from the poles, ser, in his majesty's name!"
"Are you the man who built this?" Urrigon turns as Varrick rushes towards him. "A great work for such a little man."
"Just what do you mean by this?" Spittle flies from the builder's mouth as his eyes squint near shut with rage. "One does not just go about assaulting the king's arena!"
"No harm was meant, Varrick," Ned commands, riding down upon them. "Your work is strong enough to weather even Ser Urrigon. We were just leaving." He glares down at the knight, who concedes and climbs back upon his horse with a surprising lack of protest.
As the riders leave Varrick behind, steaming in the distance, Urrigon finally speaks again. "I believe it is time I receive a private audience with the king."
Yes, that should do well enough, Ned thinks. Urrigon shares the king's loves of drink, women and battle. Let him unspool his endless tales of glory in the East to the royal ear and fulfill Robert's fantasies of the sellsword life. At the very least, it will keep the boisterous knight out of his way.
"Focus Edward." Jalabar Xo's smooth voice runs down Edward Stark's ears like a cool stream of water. "You have to feel the wind on your skin, taste it on your lips and smell it as it blows by. You cannot see it, so you must learn to live it."
Edward's fingers grip the bow tight, his feet dug deep into the dirt, still wet from this morning's rain, held firm in the position the island prince had taught him. He slows his breathing to a crawl. The wind today is only slight, the air humid and moist. The taut skin of his scar feels it clearest of all. He hears distant footsteps, smells dirt and sweat. He can picture the whole yard in his mind's eye – a door creaks, he can tell by the hinge it is the armory, the footsteps again are on the stairs, and he knows which flight. But he feels something else. Deeper, darker, not from the world around him but lurking in the back of his skull, waiting, panting…
"Open your eyes," Jalabar commands and Edward eagerly looks wide out, but the sudden burst of light blinds him for a moment. Grimacing, his bow wavers. "You must be careful, moving from the light to the dark. Resume your stance."
Edward shakes his head clear, hoping to jostle loose the memories of the wolfdreams. It had been near a week since the last. He had hoped that perhaps they were gone forever. And yet... He looks across at the smooth wooden target, taunting him, free of arrows. He had been training for three days now with the prince from the Summer Islands he had yet to loose a single arrow.
"Will I see the mark today, your grace?" he asks.
"I will give you your arrows when you are ready," Jalabar insists. Today he has left behind his feather cloak for flowing green silk pants and a red leather vest. Behind his legs Edward can see the green and red plumed arrows sticking out of the prince's quiver, where they have waited without moving these past three days.
"I have shot before in Winterfell." Truth be told, he had shot Ser Rodrick in the back with a blunted arrow, and almost hit Robb as well. Theon had laughed for days and Edward hadn't picked up a bow since.
"We are not in Winterfell," Jalabar clicks his tongue disapprovingly, a loud, harsh noise that Edward had oft tried and failed to mimic. "If your Ser Jaime wished you to be a Northern archer, your father has many of those. But no. He chose Jalabar Xo. This how every archer in Summer Islands learn their trade. We are best in world. And I will teach you, too, to be the best, wolf boy. But first you learn to read the wind."
"Yes, your grace."
"Now, close your eyes again. And tell me where the wind lives today." Edward steals a last glance at the arrows. Never had he imagined such a longing to take up arms. But after these long days of waiting, he would give anything to launch an arrow at the damned yellow target. But once again he clenches his eyes shut and is in darkness once more.
High above the yard, Ser Jaime and Ser Barristan watch down from the parapets, twin white shapes, cloaks blowing softly in the wind. "The lad shows great promise with the bow," Ser Jaime Lannister boasts.
"You offer words and words are wind," Barristan shakes his head, disapprovingly. "You have already handed your squire off to another."
"So that he may learn from the best! The son of the King's Hand deserves no less!" Jaime replies indignantly. "I have always favored the sword to the bow. I shall teach Edward what I know best and Jalabar Xo shall teach him archery. You do not expect me to teach the boy everything! Shall I teach him his letters and maps as well? Send word to the maesters they are no longer needed!"
"Mind your tongue, Ser Jaime," Barristan delivers one of his quick, maddening glares. Spiteful looks, Jaime had always found, stern enough to show disappointment but quick enough to fade in an instant, as if the old man simple didn't care enough to be angered, for he thought so little of him, his sworn brother. "Train the boy as you see fit. So long as he steals no one's swords, than he shall at least learned one lesson."
Jaime fumes as the Lord Commander leaves him alone, the clacking of his armored boots slowly fading away down the battlements until he is left with nothing but his thoughts and the gentle, cold wind.
From time to time, the Queen would summon the Stark girls and even Jeyne Poole to break fast or to lunch with her and Myrcella. Different ladies of the court joined from time to time, but today they had so many new guests a new, larger table had been arranged for. The food, always luxurious to Sansa's taste, seemed even richer than normal, the delectable smells filling the open air of the balcony. Even the songbirds flying up from the godswood below to titter and trill away on the parapets seemed louder and fairer than usual. The queen must sorely wish to make good relations with these new arrivals, Sansa decides. And sure enough, as the Hightower women enter, she can see Cersei's piercing green eyes examining them each in turn as if they were the main course, and not the duck upon the table.
"It is an honor to meet you, your grace," Lady Alysanne smiles as she and her sister Leyla take their seats. "And you as well, Princess."
"Thank you," Myrcella smiles. "And this is my cousin, Rosamund."
"Ah yes, of course," Leyla eyes Rosamund. "A Lannister to be sure, there is no doubt of that. And Sansa, I believe you have already met us all."
Sansa nods and faintly waves as Lady Patrice and her eldest daughter Maris enter. Patrice sits beside her husband's cousins, a flustered look in her eyes, while Maris stiffly takes the last remaining seat beside Sansa and Arya, who is already wriggling irritably in the dress Septa Mordane had forced her into this morning. Sansa sends a silent prayer to the Mother above that her sister will not find some way to ruin such an important lunch.
"How is your lord father?" Cersei asks, pouring herself a glass of wine before handing the flagon to Alysanne, who demurs. "Is all well in Oldtown?"
"All is well in Oldtown," Alysanne answers as Leyla takes the flagon to herself. Sansa watches as the plump woman carefully fills her glass until it is near over-flowing. Lifting it gently to her lips, she takes a long drink. Patrice eagerly pries the flagon away but, finding it mostly empty, summons a servant to fetch more. All the while, Alysanne continues. "My father, though… We of course pray to the Mother for his health every day. But as I am sure you know, he has not descended from his tower these past ten years. None see him, save Mallora, and we see little enough of her as well. But the Crone has blessed our dear brother with great wisdom and guidance. Baelor carries out our father's commands, and Oldtown every day sees greater prosperity than the day before."
"That is good to hear," Cersei smiles stiffly and begins to cut into her breakfast with sharp and precise strokes. "The king and I keep Lord Leyton in our prayers, and Ser Baelor as well. It has been some time since I have seen my own father."
"Has it?" Leyla scoffs, her voice far louder and brasher than her sister's has she piles heaping helpings of the meal onto her plate. "It has been ten years since we have seen our father, your grace. And he is not a kingdom away minding his lands. He hovers above us, day and night, choosing to keep away from his kin. Tell me, is that what Lord Tywin has done to you? If so, you have my dearest pity." Visibly agitated, she takes a large bite of duck, grease dribbling unattended down her chin as she glares at the queen.
"I beg your pardon, or course not," Cersei dips her head, though Sansa can see she is loathe to apologize. "I meant no offense."
"None taken, I assure you," Alysanne places a reassuring hand on Cersei's while her sister's focus returns to her meal. "These years have been hard on us all. How are things here, in the capital? It has been many years since I last visited."
"King's Landing is King's Landing," Cersei replies. "It is as it always has been. The dragons have been vanquished and King Robert has brought peace to the land but the city stays the same. I would not venture far beyond these walls if I were you."
And then Lady Patrice thought of a friend that she knew from Lannisport and wanted to know if Cersei knew the woman as well and one thought led to another and the ladies went on and on. Sansa knows she ought to listen, but it was all just so over-whelming. And so she focused on her food, keeping her head down and nodding at the right times, shaking her head at others, as she had become accustomed to. Jeyne and Myrcella both try in turn to speak to Maris, but the girl with her short dark hair remains cold, distant and silent.
Soon enough the meal is done. Arya makes a hasty departure and Cersei guides Myrcella and Rosamund away. Sansa is rising to follow Jeyne out the door when she hears Alysanne call her name.
"Sansa, dear, if you would walk with us a while longer, I would like to see the godswood, and we would like to come to know you better."
Sansa glances to wear Jeyne waits with the Stark guards to return to the Tower of the Hand. What do they want with me, truly, she wonders. To make a friend of the future queen? That is what Lady Leyla called me when she arrived. If only they knew the truth of it, would they care so for me then? In the end, however, she waves Jeyne and the guards on. "It's fine, you can go along."
She follows the Hightower women in the opposite direction, where two of their own knights, with the heavy orange cloaks and bronzed armor that set them apart, await.
"Patrice, dear, where is Maris?" Alysanne stops.
Irritated, the tall woman pivots her head about, looking for her daughter. "Maris? Maris!" No answer comes. "The Stranger take her," Patrice mutters and storms off.
"She can't have gone far, I'm sure," Leyla calls half-heartedly after her as the guards follow to search for the girl.
"Should we wait for them?" Sansa asks.
"No, that will not be necessary," Alysanne decides. "We are safe here, are we not?"
"Yes, yes of course," Sansa nods eagerly, fearing she has made some mistake. "His grace the king and my brave prince keep us very safe. I only hope Maris does not become lost. The castle is very vast."
"So is Highgarden," Leyla laughs, waddling away down the hall. "That girl's spent near her whole life there. This castle has more to fear from Maris than Maris has from it. Especially any of those poor cats wondering along. She is a curious girl, for certain."
Sansa shudders at that thought. It was no wonder she had not liked Maris. She prayed the girl stayed far away from Tommen's kittens. Or from her Lady. A direwolf is no creature to be trifled with. Perhaps, she wonders, the Hightower women would like to see Lady? Alysanne was known to be very learned, Varys had told Father, and Leyla widely traveled, both fascinated by the strange and mysterious things of the world. Lady was not so strange, she thinks, but she was certain neither would have seen a direwolf before. Father said none had been seen south of the Wall for many years.
But today, they seemed only interested in seeing the godswood. The ground is still moist from the misty morning, but not muddy, and the sunshine and light breeze make for a beautiful late summer day. It would be Autumn within the year, the maesters said, and Sansa hoped to savor every of warmth they had left.
"You must love this weather," Alysanne muses, as if she can read Sansa's thoughts. "All your life up there in the cold." She has already grown fond of the younger sister. She looked quite plain, but was quiet and kind. Not at all like her sister. It was Lady Leyla that frightened her. Though they shared the same dark skin of their Myrish mother, the elder did not look at all like a lady of Westeros, with her tattoos, ornate jewelry and ornate dresses. Quite fat, but strikingly beautiful, she was loud, brash and thoroughly disinterested in what anyone thought of her. Altogether, she was quite unnerving for Sansa.
"I will always love my home," she answers Alysanne. "But I too love my new home, here. I do not think I will miss the cold very much."
"I cannot imagine living in the North," Leyla shudders. "Snow every year? It was a blessing for Lynesse that her husband was banished, I say. I tried to warn her against following that fool back to Bear Island. But she never was one to listen to reason."
Lynesse Hightower, Sansa remembers. She had almost forgotten! Their youngest sister, married to Lord Mormont before Father had banished him for slaving. But it certainly seemed they did not hold it against him.
"Enough talk of the past, sister," Alysanne chides Leyla. "I am sure Sansa has little interest in such matters. But we know so little of you, dear. Tell us about yourself."
"What… what do you wish to know?" Sansa asks, walking along between the two women.
"Why, anything at all!" Alysanne laughs, smiling down at her. "Has no one ever asked you what you enjoy in this life? What you abhor? Who are you, Sansa Stark? You are to be our family soon, if our fathers reach an agreement. Your brother will marry our niece, but think of us as your sisters."
You would be a better sister than Arya, Sansa thinks. Do you feel the same about Leyla? But what to say? Who am I? Who do they want me to be? The words begin to tumble out as fast as she can think of them. "Well, I am my lord father's eldest daughter. I am betrothed to Prince Joffrey. I… I love lemoncakes, and flowers and songbirds and music and apples and my wolf, Lady, she is not frightening at all, she is a very nice wolf. And I love to sew!"
"Oh, my!" Leyla feigns a gasp. "Sister, the young Lady Stark may be the sweetest girl in the world, she loves quite so many things. Surely there must be something you hate?"
"It is not kind to hate," Sansa scowls. She is not used to being treated so flippantly. By Arya, maybe, but she was a stupid girl. Not a lady. "But I suppose that I do not care for ice. Nor burnt food, nor long rides, nor dogs and men that are too loud."
"And what of the prince?" Alysanne stops walking. "What can you tell us of him?" Sansa's pulse quickens. Joffrey. What do they know? Can they suspect her betrothal is in danger? What if they have truly come to steal Joffrey away for another? Margaery Tyrell was their niece, and everyone said she was very beautiful… How much time passes in silence she does not know.
"No one is listening but us, my dear," Alysanne drops to one knee to look her in the eyes as a lone raven circles overhead, cawing lonelily. "We saw the scar he gave your brother. We have heard… stories about the boy. Stories that have concerned our father. We only want to know the truth of our future king."
They think he is cruel, she realizes. They must have heard such things, but from who? How? It does not matter. Joff isn't cruel, not really, she insists. But what can she tell them? They will not believe me if I only say no, they suspect me already.
"Joffrey will be a good and just king," she finally speaks, reaching deep into her chest to summon all the authority she can muster. "And I pray that I will be his queen when he sits upon the Iron Throne. But we have grown distant since our betrothal. We have so very little in common, I fear. I thought I might learn to hunt, as that is the only thing he seems to love, but, being a lady, he does not think I can. It was foolish of me."
"It seems not all northern women are as fierce as we'd thought," Leyla grumbles, but Sansa pretends not to hear. That was a mistake. They'll think I'm just a stupid little girl.
"It wasn't foolish at all," Alysanne insists, gently brushing her olive hand through Sansa's auburn hair. "Joffrey is a prince, but he is still a boy, and boys have a very small idea of how this world works. Do not let him tell you what you may aspire to. When I was your age, I wanted to study at the Citadel. The maesters of course would not allow it. Girls are not permitted in the Citadel. But my mother told me not to listen to them, that they were just silly boys who had gotten all wrinkly and dressed up in boring grey robes. And when I spoke again to my lord father, he demanded that if I could not go to the maesters' libraries, that they would bring the libraries to me. And so they hauled book after book to Battle Isle, and I learned all that I could, until I knew more than any of my brothers and cousins who had studied within the Citadel walls. I think we are very alike, Sansa, you and I. And the world can be very cruel to people like us. But you must never let them tell you what you can be. And when Joffrey sees who you truly are, then you will find the answers you seek."
"Thank you, m'lady," Sansa curtsies politely. Alysanne stands again.
"And if all else fails," Leyla interjects, "You are a very beautiful girl about to become a woman. The prince is a boy about to become a man. No matter what you have in common now, very soon there will only be one thing in all the world he wants. You need only remind him of that and you will be his queen."
Sansa blushes and Alysanne glares at her sister. "Come now," she changes the subject. "Show us to your favorite places in the godswood. I always find them fascinating. You can tell a great deal about a House from the godswood that they keep. They are my favorite part of a castle."
"They are my favorite as well," Sansa smiles, and she begins to lead the sisters away down the path, aware again of the birds trilling overhead as her spirits rise again.
Walking back to his quarters after his day of training, Edward has decided that he has waited long enough. Today he will open Maester Gaheris' book. The wolfdreams are not going away, that is very clear now. And if they are going to be lurking in the back of his mind, as they had been today, he had best do whatever he can to face them. If Myrcella isn't afraid, he tells himself, I shouldn't be either.
He had thought of telling Father, but they rarely saw each other for more than moments at a time lately. Especially with the tournament about to begin. He ought not bother him, not now. But later. One day they must talk. But will he be proud, as Edward hopes, or frightened, as Gaheris had warned? First, the book. But when Edward arrives at his bunk, reaching his hand around the lumpy mattress to where he had hidden it, the old text is missing.
"Did he let you actually use the bow today?" Lyman Darry asks, out of sight on his upper bunk.
"No, not today. Tomorrow maybe. I'm tired of waiting, but if it means I'll be as good as him, I'm happy to listen to the wind a while longer." It also means another day without being covered with bruises from sword training.
"Perhaps he thinks you can move them with your mind," Lyman swings his feet over the edge of the bunk, peering down at Edward. "People think all sorts of queer things about the North. It's no wonder with books like this." Edward gasps at the site of the black-bound book with its little white weirwood on the cover, dangling open in Lyman's hands.
"Give it back!" Edward cries out, lunging for the book. Out of reach of Lyman's hands, he instead grab's hold of the older boy's legs instead and, in a moment of impulsive panic, tugs him down off the bunk. Lyman lands with a thud and a cry of pain, the book thudding free to the ground. Before he realizes what he's doing, he is kicking his friend. He can't have it, it's mine, he thinks. He can't know!
"The hell are you doing, damn it? It's right there!" Lyman angrily pushes Edward back and jumps to his feet, pinning the smaller squire against the wall. Edward comes to his senses seeing the fury in his friend's eyes. Lyman lets him go, pushing him towards the spot where the book fell. Edward bends to pick it up gingerly, hands shaking. What was that? That same feeling he had felt when he attacked Joffrey at the river. The way Arya would have done.
"Go ahead, take it, I didn't mean any harm," Lyman snaps. Ashamed, Edward silently hides the book safely back away behind his bunk.
"I'm sorry," he turns back to Lyman. "That was stupid. Just… you should just ask, next time. Stay away from my things."
"You're just like all the other great lordlings," Lyman shakes his head. "You think you're so mighty, just because of who your father is. You think you can just push people like me around and treat us however you want, just like Lancel and the rest!"
"No, Lyman, come back!" Edward shouts, running after his friend as he storms out of the White Sword Tower. Lyman ignores his calls until he arrives in the yard, overflowing with new arrivals – dozens of knights and lords and their squires given access to the Keep as they prepare for the tourney. Edward is tracing Lyman through the passing crowds when he hears his name called.
"That's Edward Stark," Lancel Lannister stands at the center of a group of squires, all of high birth, including his cousin Tyrek, Ser Urrigon's son, Peremore, and Peremore's cousin, Arthur Ambrose. The Hightower lad, of the same age as Lancel, shares his father's pitch black hair. But where Urrigon is broad and burly, Peremore is thin and angular. His hair is cut close to his scalp, freeing it of curls, and a faint line of dark, coarse hairs traces over his flat mouth.
The Ambrose boy is a queer-looking youth. His mother's Myrish blood has gifted him dusky skin, but with a crop of thick, clumped orange hair and blotchy freckles on his cheeks. There is a gap between his teeth that whistles when he speaks. "Is he very important?"
"Don't be stupid, Arthur, his father is the Lord Hand," Peremore cuffs his cousin on the back of the head, but Lancel laughs.
"Perhaps, but he is still a second son, and a thief, and terribly ugly ever since my dear cousin the prince taught him such a valuable lesson," Lancel motions to Edward. "Come here. Tell Arthur what lesson you learned at the Trident."
Reluctantly, Edward turns and walks towards them. "Go on, tell him what you did," Tyrek smirks. Edward glares at him, but answers all the same.
"I stole the prince's sword to play knights with my sister." He looks down at his feet. Lancel and Tyrek burst out laughing, as if hearing a joke being told for the first time. But Arthur only looks confused.
"I remember now," Peremore looks down, examining Edward's scar with fascination. "You're the Kingslayer's squire, aren't you? I'd very much like to meet him."
As if the other boy is invisible, Lancel steps between them with a sneer, draping one black velvet arm over Edward's shoulder. "I heard Joffrey say that you're learning the bow, wolf cub. Only you're not allowed to touch the arrows, for fear you'd shoot your own eye out."
"It is the ancient art of the Summer Islands," Edward looks up to see Lyman walking back towards them. His anger seems gone, replaced only by his old contempt for the Lannisters. "By the time Edward's training is done, he'll be able to shoot a crabapple off of your blonde head, Lancel."
"Ah yes," Lancel pushes Edward back towards Lyman. "And this is Lyman Darry, the plowboy."
"I was just speaking to Ser Hugh, of The Vale. He has a fine new set of armor prepared for the tourney. You really ought to see it. He is of the same age as you, is he not? And now a true knight with a knight's armor. You should ask the king for a suit like it next time you fetch him his wine."
"Ser Hugh is not so impressive," Lancel's upper lip twitches in irritation, spitting the knightly title out as if it were a curse. "He's only a knight because his grace felt sorry for him after the old Hand died. Only The Father knows where he got the money for that armor. But armor does not make a knight. My lord uncle Tywin always says that."
"Your uncle Tywin should have told you not to pick a fight with a Darry boy, then," Peremore interjects, a cold smile on his face. "There is no honor in beating one so low born, and thrice the disgrace if one is beaten."
"How do you know that?" Lancel whirls about in a fury, his crimson cloak whipping as he turns.
"You could say I heard it from a passing crow. It is fascinating the things that men will say of a lion when its back is turned."
"You must tell me what you have heard!" But before Peremore can answer, another voice calls out from the crowd. The group turns to see a boy looking about eleven, with loose pale-blonde hair framing a sharply elegant face. A lilac cloak clasped by a silver star flows behind him, draped over a rich black and silver doublet. He wears riding boats with silver spurs.
"You there!" the lad shouts, with a voice soft yet sternly authoritative all the same. A septon's voice, Edward thinks, or a maester's. "You two must be the Lannister's, by the look of you."
"And what are you?" Tyrek juts his chin out. No squire in the keep has as fine as clothes as he and his cousin. At least, none had until now.
"Lord Edric Dayne. Squire to Lord Beric Dondarrion. My lord is riding with the king, Ser Urrigon and the Lord Commander ride with him. They wish to be attended by their squires."
"A lordly squire?" Tyrek laughs, but a stern look silences him.
"Not all fathers live to be old," Edric states plainly, with an air far beyond his years. Edward suddenly feels a great wave of sadness for the boy. What would I do if Father died? He did not want to think of that. "I do not think your own fathers would like you to keep the king waiting."
Lyman moves to leave without hesitation. Edward moves to say a final word to him, but is too late, as Lancel and the other squires follow behind. Peremore lingers a moment longer, still watching Edward, his head half-tilted, cold dark eyes unmoving. Finally, without saying a thing, he turns and walks away. A chill runs down Edward's spine.
"You're Lord Eddard's son, aren't you?" Edric asks, the last to go.
"Yes, his second," Edward answers cautiously. His time in the capital has taught him to be wary of pretty faces in fine clothes, but this new arrival seems kindly enough. He tries to read the intent behind the young lord's eyes. They are a dark, deep blue, almost purple, and obscure whatever may lie beneath. "Robb is the oldest."
"And Jon."
"Jon Snow?" Edward is caught off guard. He and Jon had never been close, and he had never expected a young Dornish lord to even know there was a bastard in Winterfell, much less his name.
"We were milk-brothers. Jon's mother was my wet nurse," Edric smiles, delivering such a revelation as if it were idle chatter, something Edward ought to be expected to know. But Edward had never heard talk of who Jon's mother was, and the look on his face betrays his astonishment. "I think I should like to speak to you more later, but I must be off. As I told the others, it is never wise to make a king wait." And with a whirl of his lilac cloak, he is gone.
Alone in a yard full of strangers, Edward stands for a moment, kicking at a rough hewn stone on the ground. Ser Jaime will have left his things to be tended to – armor to polish, clothes to wash. His duties calling, he makes his way on his own back to White Sword Tower, only to find Lord Petyr Baelish waiting for him.
"Edward!" The Master of Coin calls out in greeting, smiling.
"Lord Baelish," Edward stops to bow. "Are you looking for the Lord Commander? He's left with the king and…"
"Of course I know all that, dear boy," Baelish chuckles, shaking his head in amusement, as if sharing a secret jest with only himself. "I've come to bring you with them. And as I've said before, my boy, your family is very dear to me. Please, call me Petyr."
"But Lord… Petyr," Edward protests. "I must see to Ser Jaime's things."
"Ser Jaime will be at the tourney grounds as well. The king is to give his final approval before the festivities begin tomorrow. Your father would want you to be there, only he was much to busy to bring you himself," Petyr extends one long arm as Edward continues to peer around him to the tower door. He turns the boy around and moves him forward as they begin to walk together. "Don't worry about it. I'll take care of you. That's what I do. Take care of important things."
A/N: So this one ran way longer than usual, but I had to cover a lot of ground before kicking off the tournament next chapter. I hope you're enjoying the developments. Edward struggles to understand the ancient powers within him and is at risk of losing one friend, but gaining another. Sansa finds a new potential mentor and is beginning to take agency for herself. And the arrival of the Hightowers begins to shake up the power structure in King's Landing. Let me know what you think in the reviews and, as always, thanks for reading!