Jaime sits in the armory beneath the White Sword Tower, staring at his goldenwood lance, scuffed and chipped but looking as strong as ever, returned back to its place on the rack. Tyrion was right, he thinks. It didn't break. But I did. The Hound had sent him flying off the back of Lion. A good horse, now enjoying a well-earned rest and champion's dinner in the stable. It was a champion horse. The fault had been his, though for all his efforts he knows not what he did wrong. Cersei had given him a cruel look after. He had promised to win for her.
In the end, his loss was overshadowed by the spectacle of Ser Runcel Cupps unseating The Mountain, twice his size. Then Loras Tyrell had beaten the Hound, and ultimately triumphed over Runcel after three tilts in the final round. And it had been not Jaime but Loras - Loras with his obnoxious blonde curls and ornate flowered armor and perfume that made him smell more like a eunuch than a knight – who had crowned Cersei the Queen of Love and Beauty.
That was spit in the eye of that fabled title, Jaime swore. A laurel meant for the true love of a champion. And Cersei was his true love, not Loras'. But who else could the Knight of Flowers give his honor to? If rumors were to be believed, he loved no woman at all. His own sister and mother were away in Highgarden. Which left the Queen and the Queen to be. Jaime laughs at the thought of Joffrey's fury had Loras presented to Sansa Stark. But the laugh soon fades. Sighing heavily, he rises, stretches and stalks off. It was time to pay for Lancel's folly.
He finds a small crowd assembled before the Iron Throne. Need we invite half the court for such a matter. Robert sits looming down from atop the spiked monstrosity of a chair. At its foot wait Cersei, Ned Stark, Ser Aron, Ser Barristan and Lyman Darry. By the look of shame on Barristan's face and the stoic defiance on Lyman's, one would think it was the Lord Commander who had crippled the queen's cousin, not his squire.
"Ser Jaime," Barristan's face turns from contrition to scolding. "You are late."
"I can't be too late," Jaime quips. "The boy still has his head and both hands."
"That is enough," Robert bellows, and even Jaime knows to silence his tongue. "We have heard, many times over, an account of what happened in the yard yesterday. It bores me. So it is time I decide what to do about it. But no, Ser Jaime, I will not be sending for Ser Ilyn, neither for heads nor hands. The lad is in Ser Barristan's service."
"And I take full responsibility for his actions," the Lord Commander hangs his head. "It was my duty to see him raised in the honorable ways of a knight. I have been made aware that this was not the first time my squire has traded blows with young Lancel." You only just heard? Jaime almost laughs. Half the castle knew the day it happened, deaf old fool. "I have instructed Lyman to pack his things. He shall return to Darry on the 'morrow."
"Very well," Robert nods.
"Very well?" Every head in the hall turns to the sound of Cersei's shrill voice. "Your squire, my cousin lies crippled in the maesters' chambers! He may never walk again!"
"Erm…" Grand Maester Pycelle coughs. "The boy will walk again. He may not run, he likely will not fight, but he will walk. It is a wound, I think, not dissimilar to that seen by young Willas Tyrell. I have sent ravens to Highgarden to…"
"Willas Tyrell is not a knight," Cersei interrupts coldly. "Nor shall Lancel never be, now that he is a cripple. That joust should never have been allowed." She glares up at Robert. "At the very least, you must dismiss Ser Aron! He has played dangerous games with the safety of the king's squires! What will the boy's father say when he hears? What will Lord Tywin?"
Jamie sees Aron sending him a pleading glance, but he looks away. Let the Dornishman bare the brunt of Cersei's wrath. I've angered her enough already with my failure. He never had cared for the man to begin with. But instead, Ned Stark speaks:
"Let Lord Tywin speak to me, then. I approved the joust."
"You!" Cersei gasps. Jaime shares her shock, though for another reason. Perhaps he is as honorable as they say. A dangerous thing to have in this city.
"I was aware of the petty feud between the two boys. I believed that a knight's challenge would settle the matter once and for all. I have done such in Winterfell, at times with my own son. But Lancel, it seems, tragically overstepped the truth of his skill."
"Tragically?" Cersei sputters. "I do not care who takes the blame, be it you or the Dornishman or my own brother. An example must be made. Lancel deserves justice."
"Ser Aron has testified that the horse fell because its rider had wrapped their hand in the reigns!" Robert finally speaks, pounding his fist on the throne and swearing as it slices a thin cut on his knuckle. "What does Lancel need justice for? For being weak and foolish? No, Ser Barristan has dismissed the boy. That is punishment enough. However, as the maester said, Lancel has crippled himself in his folly. I am in need of a new squire." His stern eyes settle of Lyman. "And it seems the court now has one to spare."
"You can't be serious!" Cersei cries out, lunging towards the steps of the throne. Barristan moves to stop her, hand flitting to his sword. Jaime reaches for his own blade, though who he means to stop he cannot say.
"Silence, woman!" Robert thunders, rising. "I have made my decision. If I am to lose one squire, it is only fitting he be replaced by one who is undoubtably his better. Leave me, all of you but Ned!" Cersei pauses for a moment, then turns, stalking in a deadly fury down the long length of the hall. Slowly, the others assembled turn uncomfortable to follow.
"Lyman," Jaime hears Robert calling as he leaves. "Your duties will begin today, at the noon meal. Do not be late."
Lord Petyr Baelish is among the last to leave the Great Hall when he spies a familiar figure lurking amidst the columns – Garrett Flowers. The Tyrell bastard, as always dressed in green and gold, his irritably aesymetric face twitching in recognition, extends his hand in greeting.
"Lord Baelish, it is good to meet you, I'm…"
"Garrett Flowers, I know," Baelish dismisses the greeting, glancing behind him to see if Varys is watching. "I have done business with your father many times."
"Of course. I am pleased to let you know, times are good in Highgarden. My father is very well."
"Well of body, but not well of mind if he has sent you here. Or is it Lady Olenna's troubled nights that send you scurrying up the Rose Road? I know for certain it is not your Lord. He is quite happy with the capital so long as we continue to buy his wheat and barley and apples." Baelish watches Garret's reaction, but finds none. He knows I know what he is. Which means he knows what I am. So he is cleverer than he looks. Good.
"I am here as a companion to Ser Urrigon Hightower, nothing more. We have grown close during his stay in Highgarden."
"Of course you have," Baelish smiles. His nose stings, catching a whiff of perfume. Varys is coming. "Mind you take care to keep such a close friend, Garrett. I see you in his company very little. He seems to prefer his companions more… royal. I can't help but wonder why. But then again, so do you don't you?" Clamping one hand on the bastard's shoulder, he leans into whisper. "It's the eunuch you want, not me. He hears everything in these walls. Just be careful not to be caught in any webs."
Within their newly claimed chambers in the Red Keep, Alysanne and Leyla Hightower sit opposite each other upon brightly colored floor curtains, deeply engrossed in a game of cyvasse. Across the room, their cousin's wife, Lady Patrie, is deeply engrossed in a bottle of wine and slightly less engrossed in her youngest daughter, Ellyn. Alysanne idly pops a fruit tart into her mouth from a nearly empty bowl, chewing as she slides a jade elephant across the board.
Alysanne rests her head on interlocked fingers, silently peering down at the board. A stray strand of dark hair slips down in front of her small hazel eyes, but she does not notice. Instead, her concentration is broken as the door slams open and Ser Urrigon Hightower strides in, beaming as if he has just been blessed by the Father himself.
"Today is a good day!" the huge knight declares. "My victory is so proud that I have won a septa away from her vows and into my bed."
"I hope she was willing," Alysanne glares up at her cousin.
"Oh, she was willing! Climbed right atop me in the midst of the night, that one did. They call them Silent Sisters for a reason, we stirred nary another soul."
"Willing or not, it will not do for you to go about risking shame upon the women of the Faith," Leyla insists sternly. "We are here to win friends, not enemies."
"And friends I have won us, and gold as well, far more so than either of you," Urrigon boasts, marching to the trophy chest in the corner of the room. Creaking it open, he begins to run his fingers through the gold won at the melee. "We have only been here a short while, and have good omens to spare."
"Ah, but Ser Loras defeated your sworn man in the joust, remember," Alysanne interjects, turning her attention back to the game, moving an ivory horse around a mountain. "So the tournament bore off-setting omens at best."
"But you forget my septa!" Urrigon laughs, crashing heavily down upon a delicate chaise lounge that shakes so hard the sisters fear it will collapse at once. He reaches one huge arm to the table to claim the last of his wife's wine. "So we are up one omen on the Tyrells."
"Omen or not, I owe myself a lover," Patrice sighs, fanning her red-flushed pale face. "But all of the knights in this damned keep are too afraid of you to look at me."
"Then leave Ellyn with a wet nurse and find yourself a brothel to scour about. That Littlefinger fellow has some fine establishments, Robert says. You may even get paid to take a lover there."
"Perhaps I will!" Patrice lurches angrily to her feet, staggering off to find more wine.
"A beacon of marital virtue, those two," Leyla scoffs, popping another tart into her mouth as she turns back to the board and blinks, alarmed, to see the move her sister has made. She hastily responds, advancing one jade trebuchet.
"Pah. As if you and Ser Jon have stayed so tightly bonded by your own vows," Alysanne is unfazed, and corners her sister's king with her own ivory dragon.
"Jon and I have always been clear about our arrangements," Leyla's brow furrows. "But we love each other at the end of the day. I do not think the same can be said of Urrigon and Patrice. Unfortunately for us…" she maneuvers out of the trap, "Ned Stark seems to be both loving and loyal. He might as well be The Wall himself, as icily as he receives my advances."
"He fathered a bastard," Alysanne moves again, an ivory rabble blocking the jade king's retreat.
"14 years ago," a jade elephant takes the rabble.
"Perhaps he needs be swayed by trimmer bait than yourself, sister," Alysanne smirks, leaning back on her cushion playfully. Ignoring the taunt, Leyla frantically scans the board. Her sister never allows confidence until she has already won. While she searches for a threat, Alysanne steals a tart for herself. "Perhaps a few less of these and we would already control the Hand."
"If you think I'm too fat for seduction, perhaps you should try yourself," Leyla looks up irritably. "Perhaps the Lord of Winterfell would fancy himself a twig to match those trees he prays to. Or better yet, Patrice. She has won more men than us combined, and is unlikely to remember anything about it in the morning."
"No." Alysanne sits back up, her voice dropping to a whisper. "Let her and Urrigon play their games. He thinks he does his own father's bidding, to best the Tyrells once and for all. But it's all just a mummer's farce in the end." She raises a jade spearman from behind her sister's ranks to face the king. Leyla grimaces, seeing there is nowhere to go. "In the end, Father was clear," Alysanne raises her hands triumphantly. "All that matters is the boy."
The horse-hair brush cuts through the globs of thick paint, filling in the lines sketched out with charcoal. The blurry bronze-colored shape slowly fills life into the form of Ser Urrigon Hightower as remembered by the hand that tightly clasps the brush with overbearing pent-up frustration – Edward Stark puts all his focus into the image of the final stand of the tournament melee, as the huge Oldtown knight brought down Thoros of Myr. Satisfied with Urrigon's armor, Edward dunks his brush into a mug of water and turns back to the jars of fresh paint Father had gifted him, considering which colors to join into the dark crimson of the foreign priest's robes.
"Edward!" Jalabar Xo's rich voice calls out from behind him. "It is time for today's lesson."
Begrudgingly, Edward stands and puts aside his paints. Without looking to his mentor, he stalks back into his quarters to tuck them away and retrieve his bow and quiver. Stepping back outside, he finds Jalabar waiting in his feathered cape, the bright sun shining on his black bald head.
"It looks very good, Edward. That is the melee, is it not?"
Edward does not answer. I do not care what you think of my painting. You're supposed to teach me the bow, and I was humiliated at the tourney! He marches swiftly to where the targets wait. Before the prince can catch up, he tosses his quiver idly aside, takes his position and clenches his eyes shut. Perhaps, he thinks, I can focus until everything else really does go away. But instead he hears Jalabar's footsteps approach. Their scrape upon the ground was unmistakable – light and quick padding, like a very large cat. If nothing else, he swore he could tell the steps of everyone in the whole castle.
"You did not do so bad, you know," Jalabar's voice begins where his feet halt. Edward flits open one eye to see the tall man looking down sympathetically. "Your form was perfect."
"Father said that, too," Edward mutters. "But the others don't remember form."
"Who do you want to impress, boy?" Jalabar clicks his tongue. "Those other boys with the brute ways and foolish heads? Or the knights and lords who will one day seek your service? They are men, Edward. And men, wise men, will see form. They are who you want as friends."
I want to impress Myrcella, Edward thinks, clinching his eyes back shut and thanking the gods she hadn't been there to see him fail. But Tyrek had surely told her, once he was done crying for Lancel. She would never see him as a warrior again. He tries to listen for the wind, but there is none to be heard.
"I lost, as well," Jalabar is moving again, he can hear. "To a commoner. A smallfolk as you people call them. But I do not sulk. Did you hear how they jeered me Edward? No matter how long I live in this court, I will always be foreigner to them. They could not abide me to defeat their knights. But in the end, those knights lost to one even lower than me. And they are the ones humiliated. We must choose our victories, Edward."
Edward's bow wavers in the darkness, he hears the prince stop again. "Pick up an arrow." Both his eyes fly open and he flinches at the sudden burst of light. Convinced he has misheard, he turns to look at Jalabar. But he nods. "It is time. Take your arrow and take your aim."
Trying to maintain calm, Edward reaches down to his quiver. Which arrow to choose? They all look the same to him. Ser Rodrik had given them to him back in Winterfell. Slowly, he draws a thin arrow of grey wood with a black, raven-feather plume. He fits it snugly into the string of the bow and pulls back tight, taking aim at the target and letting his eyes close as he has so many times before. But this time is different. This time feels complete.
"Remember what I teach you," Jalabar instructs, before going silent again, leaving Edward alone, floating in the space of his mind. But now, the arrow seems to tether him to the ground, feet planted firm. No, there is no wind today. And no prying eyes waiting for him to fail. Only himself and the target. Breathing deeply, he lets his muscles relax, settling into familiar places. He opens his eye and looses the arrow.
It cuts swiftly through the air, landing with a mighty thud on the outer ring of the target. Little better than the day before, he knows. But today, it feels like a triumph.
"Very good," Jalabar strides to his side. "Now, draw again. Let us see what you did wrong."
Edward is beaming as he returns to his quarters. He had loosed ten arrows today, but after the past weeks, it felt like a million. And each he swore landed better than the last. For certain, he was nowhere near as good as Lancel or Edric or Lyman. But he truly believed for the first time that he could be better. Ser Jaime is waiting for him when he arrives.
"I saw you training with Jalabar," he smiles.
"I know." Edward had heard his footsteps atop the wall.
"You're doing very well, you know. We may yet make you our new Red Robb yet." Edward blushes at his knight's approval. Embarressed he begins to move on. "But not yet. You are still my squire after all," Jaime chuckles. "You will find my arms and armor in the same place. I'm afraid they will need quite a deal of work."
"It is my honor, ser," Edward bows. But before he can leave, Jaime places a firm, white-gloved hand on his shoulder. "I do mean it though. I believe you will be a great archer one day. A great warrior, to be true. You have the heart. You just have to find the skill to match it. My father said every man is born with a place in life they must grow into. Find that place, and you will fly."
With a parting smile, Jaime is off again and Edward returns his bow to his quarters. As he turns to leave once more, however, he pauses, looking at the spot on his bed where he knows Gaheris' book on wargs hides. In the moment, he thinks he hears the growling somewhere in the back of his skull. Find the place I was born for. And as he runs off to tend Ser Jaime's armor, he knows what he must do.
"What do you want in the armory?" Fat Tom asks. For a moment, Sansa Stark considers not answering. She hadn't wanted him and Wyl to be here at all. But they had seen her leaving the Tower of the Hand and followed on guard all this way. In Winterfell she had come and gone as she pleased. Here, she did not think she could breathe without them knowing. The only time they let her be was when she was with Joffrey.
"I need to speak to Ser Aron," is all the answer she gives and ducks her head and walks on as a lonely raven circles overhead. She was still not so sure what she meant to say to the Master of Arms. It was easy to make grand plans in the dead of night. But once day dawns again and it comes time to act, things begin to slip away.
Last night she had dreamed of Ser Loras. When she awoke, she had felt guilt and shame, and it haunted her still now. She ought only to be dreaming of her prince. Joffrey had been the most beautiful boy in the world when she met him. But she had not known Ser Loras then. She confessed part of her had hoped the dashing Knight of Flowers would make her the Queen of Love and Beauty. But that day would yet come. One day, her prince would be the champion, and he would give her his laurel. And then, in the end, Loras could not compare to Joffrey, for he would be one day be king, and somehow that made him more beautiful than any other man could ever hope.
And just like that, she was at the door of the armory. I could turn back now, she thinks. Why risk embarrassment. Joff thinks I am a scared little bird, I can never disappoint him if I never try to be more. But what will happen when he meets another girl, a lady who he understands? And so she knocks, rapping thrice on the heavy oaken door.
Almost immediately, it swings open. A tall young man in ill-fitted brown pants and a heavy black apron stands before her, thin but tightly muscled, with thick, tussled brown hair topping a square jaw and soot-stained tan handsome face, a shoddy hope of a mustache scratching his upper lip. He freezes for a moment, taking in Sansa in her fine dress – mother's colors, Tully red and blue – before stumbling back.
"M'ady, I'm sorry," he bows urgently, hair flopping forward down over his face. "I… I…"
"That's Diggery," Peremore Hightower strides out from around a corner. "Ser Aron's apprentice. He isn't much for talking to noble ladies. They tie his tongue in knots. It's very tragic, really. Now, Diggery, this is the Lady Sansa Stark, daughter of the Lord Hand and betrothed of our brave Prince Joffrey."
Diggery straightens back up and regains his composure. "G..greetings, m'lady. The prince just left, I'm afraid. He was looking for Ser Urrigon."
"I'm not looking for Prince Joffrey," Sansa shakes her head. She looks back to the guards who have followed her in, their attention now diverted by the fine arms hanging on the walls. "I wish to speak to Ser Aron."
"Oh," Diggery hesitates again, before over-correcting, frantically gesturing to her. "He's out back." He turns and begins to wind through the armory and forge. Sansa follows, with Peremore stepping in behind her. They exit on the far side of the armory, in the small yard with a sinlge lonely pear tree where Ser Aron is tending a fire. In his work, he has discarded his upper garments, dense olive muscles tensed on his back as he hones the blade of a longsword.
"Ser Aron!" Diggery calls out. The Master of Arms coils straight up slowly, like a snake, tension releasing as he turns and balks to see Sansa. He rushes to grab his black silk from the branches of the tree and throw it over his bare shoulders.
"Lady Sansa, what may it be my honor to do for you?" he asks.
Sansa looks nervously back to where Peremore had stood, but he seems to have already lost interest, instead gazing intently at the raven now perched atop the roof of the armory. She turns back to the Dornishman.
"I want to learn to hunt."
That night, Edward drags tired feet back into the squires' quarters beneath White Sword Tower. He had trained long with Jalabar today, and Ser Jaime had kept him busy even longer, mending everything damaged in the tournament. But at last, he is free. He stops suddenly, however, to find Lyman in the room, packing his clothes back into the weathered old trunk he had carried up from Darry. For a moment, Edward panics. He has not spoken to his fellow squire, not since the accident at the tournament. Has Lyman been sent away? My only friend? If even that, after our fight…
"It looks like you'll have a little more space in here now, little lord," Lyman smirks, slamming the lid of the trunk shut. "Old Barristan the Bold finally had enough of me."
"I… I'm sorry…" Edward stammers. Why does he seem so happy?
"Oh, don't be. I'm only moving into Lancel's old quarters is all," Lyman laughs out loud, braying harshly, like a donkey. Edward's jaw drops. "It seems the king was so impressed by my breaking his pet lion that he made me squire in his place. How's that for a plowboy, eh?"
"That's amazing," Edward lurches forward. What do I do? Hug him? But instead, Lyman only hoists the trunk up onto his shoulders with a grunt.
"Ser Boros and the others are taking me back to the tavern again. I wonder if the same girl will be there for me again…." The older boy shifts his weight, centering the trunk as he pauses in the doorway. "You could come along, you know."
"I'm nine," Edward blurts out.
"Ah, yes, that's right," Lyman chuckles, shifting again. "Well, you'll understand one day, Edward. And when I'm knighted into the king's service I'll buy you a drink. And maybe a girl. Though at this rate, I'll be a knight before you're a man." He turns once more to go, but stops a final time. He looks back, a crooked smile on his face. "Try not to miss me too much, okay?"
"I'm sorry about the fight."
"I know." And with that, Lyman is gone with his trunk, out into the night. Edward slowly sits down on his bunk and reaches back to where he has hidden Gaheris' book. For a moment, the room seems impossibly empty, as if a great crushing nothingness has rushed to fill the space where Lyman once sat. Quickly, Edward opens the book and begins to read, drowning out the newfound silence with ancient words.