Edward Stark yawns, almost stumbling as he hauls the heavy bucket of water across the yard to the stable, where Ser Jaime's thirsty horse awaits. He had barely gotten a wink of sleep the night before. Once he had finally opened the pages of Maester Gaheris' book, it had been near impossible to put it down. He had finally fallen asleep, fully dressed, sprawled out atop his bunk with the age-old tome by his side.
Now, the sleep rubbed from his eyes, he clumsily dumps the bucket of water into Lion's trough, the auburn horse snorting happily, dunking its snout to get a drink. Edward looks down and spies Ser Barristan's horse in its pin, the trough there empty as well. He had almost forgotten – Lyman is gone, summoned away to serve the king himself after leaving Lancel Lannister in pain on the maesters' table after their ill-fated joust.
Deciding he has enough time before his next duties to water the rest of the horses, Edward turns back and hurries to the well as fast as his weary legs can carry him. Another squire is already there, returning a bucket of his own. Edward knows him before he turns from the pale blonde hair just dusting the lilac cape with the silver star where it rests upon his shoulders – Edric Dayne. The lordly squire. The kind one. The boy who claimed to know Jon Snow's mother.
"Good morning, Lord Dayne!" Edward calls out. The other squire turns with a smile, and Edward thinks he must look half dead compared to Edric, whose hair is perfectly straight, tanned skin unblemished and teeth bright.
"Edward, please," his smile is unwavering. "I am still just a squire, spare my titles. It is my aunt who rules Starfall, until I'm knighted. Until then, just call me Ned." That's Father's name, Edward hesitates. He supposes many men in the Seven Kingdoms must have it as well but still… it feels queer on his tongue. "You know I was named for him, don't you? Your father?"
"Oh… no," Edward hesitates. He had wanted to ask the boy about how he knew so much about Father. But he seemed to know too much. Why would father never mention the Daynes if they were so dear as to name their heir for him? Perhaps it was better left unspoken. "I need to get water for the Kingsguard." He drops his bucket down into the well with a splash. "Erm, for their horses, I mean."
"Let me help, then," Edward retrieves the bucket he only just returned and lowers it as well. "Lord Beric did not return from the taverns until the hour of the wolf. He will not be awake for some time."
Their buckets filled, the two squires turn back towards White Sword Tower, Edward struggling to keep his load steady and not allow the water to slosh about, jealous of how effortlessly Edric's strong arms seemed to carry his bucket. For a while, they walk in silence until…
"So your father never spoke of me? Or my Aunt Ashara? Did he never mention Starfall at all?"
"They say that he killed Ser Arthur Dayne at the Tower of Joy."
"Eh, that he did. The Sword of the Morning. After the battle, Lord Eddard returned Dawn to Starfall, where it has remained until a new Sword of the Morning is chosen. I hope, one day, that I will prove worthy. He is an honorable man, your father. But he never said a word of it?"
"No," Edward shakes his head, perhaps too curtly.
"Well, then, let's talk about you, Edward. I've heard lots of stories from the other squires, very few of them I think I believe. Do you mind if I ask how you got your scar?"
"The prince," Edward blushes, and the scar burns again.
"Then it is true that you stole his sword? And that your sister threw it into the Trident."
"Yes, it's all true. But I don't want to talk about it. It is in the past. Joffrey and I have made peace. We will be brothers soon, once he marries Sansa." At least, I have made peace. Who knows what Joffrey thinks.
At last, they reach the stable. One by one, they water each grateful horse in turn. As Edward drains the last drop from his bucket, he looks back up to see Edric watching him intently with his pale blue eyes.
"You're troubled. What's wrong?" he asks.
Which problem to choose? Edward grimaces. But I have to tell him something. "I'm to be betrothed. Father has considered Lord Stannis' daughter and a Hightower girl from Oldtown. Everyone tells me they are very nice but… I think I'm already in love."
"With Princess Myrcella?"
"How did you…"
"Some men hide their feelings well. Lord Beric is one of them. But you, Edward, are not. I've seen you with her twice, and your feelings are clear. It's in your eyes, in your voice, in the way that you stand when she is nearby."
If he knows, then who else does? Edward begins to panic. "What should I do? I'm afraid to tell Father. What if they don't let us see each other anymore?"
"Edward," Edric places a reassuring hand on his shoulder. He forces himself to look into the sympathetic blue eyes, almost purple in the dim light of the stable. "You are nine. You have a whole life before you. Love is not a fleeting thing, blown easily on the whim. Perhaps you will marry Shireen, or Helaena or even Myrcella. Perhaps you will love one. Or not. But first you must learn who you are. If you stay true to that, the rest will one day be clear."
Joffrey once again fiddles with the straps on his new training armor. It is good steel, strong but light, embellished with a crowned stag and bound by leather straps died black and yellow. He had wanted real armor, but Ser Aron assured him that would come in time, and that armor for training should be adjusted to fit him as he grew. And that thought had made Joff forget his complaint. Soon he would be as tall and strong as his father, he knew, and then he would have the finest armor in all Seven Kingdoms. He could picture it now – dark, black plate and mail, embellished with a golden stag and lion, with a great horned helm and a sword far grander than the one the stupid Stark girl had thrown in a river.
Metal boots ring on the cobblestones of the small yard, far from the prying eyes of the lowly knights, as Ser Urrigon Hightower strides up to the prince. He had not hesitated a moment when Joff demanded the melee champion train him at arms. Not like the Hound, who had refused. Even now Sandor lurks idly in the corner, where Myrcella and Sansa are watching.
"Your sword, your grace," Urrigon bellows, extending a short-bladed sword.
Joffrey scowls when he sees the blunted tip. "This is a training sword."
"Of course. We are training, are we not?" Urrigon chuckles. Joffrey glares up at him, but he can barely see the huge knight's face, two heads at least above his own, hidden behind a thick black beard. "Are you ready?"
"Of course I'm ready," Joffrey scoffs, backing up into the sort of stance he imagines a knight ought to have. And then Urrigon swings, and he realizes perhaps he was not quite so ready after all. He frantically lashes out with his sword, but it barely stops the momentum of the blow, the larger sword whistling as it cuts through the air just next to him. He hears a gasp from the girls and stumbles back as Urrigon swings again.
"Wait!" he shouts, dropping his sword to his side, but Urrigon is already moving again, and his broadsword catches him full force in the back. The air knocked out of his lungs, the ground rushes up to meet Joffrey. A sharp pain strikes his skull and for a moment he is convinced he has been cut in half. Panicked, he rules over and reaches for his legs. Still attached. Raising his hand to his scalp, he feels something wrong. Lowering his fingers, he sees the blood.
"It's just a scratch," Urrigon says, looming over him, one hand extended to help. But Joff sits for a moment, staring at the redness glistening on his fingers. He has seen blood before, drawn blood, but never his own. It is… fascinating. But then the anger comes.
"You hit me!" He swats Urrigon's hand away, lurching to his feet.
"Of course I hit you," Urrigon steps back. "You're learning to fight! You think your enemies are going to hesitate to see how you feel before the gut you? No! Here!" he kicks Joff's sword across the stones, where it clatters to a stop at his feet. He almost thinks he hears the Hound laugh, but when he turns, Sandor's ugly scarred face is as unmoved as ever. Instead, he notes his sister and his betrothed, looks of intent concern on their faces.
In the high light of the morning, he suddenly sees Sansa. Not in the way he had bitterly seen her since that day on the Trident. But in the way he had first seen her at Winterfell. The sun beams shine on her pale face and her blue eyes sparkle like sapphires. He feels a queer feeling somewhere inside. She may be very boring, he thinks, and her siblings may be horrid, but she is beautiful And she wants to see me win.
"Your grace," Urrigon coughs, and Joffrey whirls back around and seizes his sword from the ground. Without waiting for another word, he stabs. The big knight lurches backwards, but is slow, and takes a hit to the thigh. But he only laughs, and Joffrey swings once more. This time it is parried, and he stumbles to the left. Without looking, he lunges, but Urrigon steps out of the way and his momentum nearly takes him to the ground once more. Not good enough, he curses.
But when he looks back, Sansa is gone. And Urrigon hits him again.
In the godswood, Myrcella wonders slowly down a dirt path, examining the flowers along the way. Sansa follows a short ways behind, breathing in the peace of the warm air, cool breeze and stillness. For a moment, she pauses just to watch the princess, long golden braid flowing down the back of her red dress, the same braid in Sansa's own hair, for Rosamund had done them both. That seemed to be the only thing the whiny little girl was good for.
Myrcella was Arya and Edward's age, near three years younger than Sansa, but she seemed to have a wisdom far beyond her age. And she knew Joffrey better than anyone else. She had almost felt sorry for her prince today. It seemed he thought himself a much greater warrior than he was. Beating down Edward had been easy. A real knight, however… she had not been able to watch. But she felt guilty for leaving all the same.
"I think we should have stayed," she calls ahead.
"And watched my brother be beaten again and again?" Myrcella turns back, laughing. "I can't think of anything duller."
"But wouldn't he have liked us to watch?"
"Watch what? Him get beat down again and again. It would only hurt his pride even more. This isn't the first time he's done this. Every now and then he decides that now is the time to become a warrior. And every time the poor knight he chooses is gone within a fortnight."
"I suppose you're right," Sansa stops to examine a drooping sunflower, where a tiny bee dances over the petals. Watching Joffrey's martial failures certainly would not help in driving Ser Loras from her thoughts, where the Knight of Flowers had taken up housing all too often of late.
"Did you speak to Ser Aron?" Sansa startles to see Myrcella has crept back to her side.
"Yes."
"And?" Her beady green eyes press hungrily for answers.
"He says he will train me. I am to meet him in two days' time for my first lesson."
"Excellent!" Myrcella claps, excitedly. "I cannot wait. You're lucky Ser Aron is a Dornishmen. Another knight may have been less willing. Just think, you and Joff are both training now. But I think you'll do better. Much better."
Sansa only smiles in reply. I wish I were as confident as you…
The king wants wine. That much was clear. But which one? Lyman Darry scans the rows of tapped wine barrels set aside for the king. Robert was meeting with the Small Council now. He had made it very clear he wanted his drink ready the moment he was done. But there were so many, marked and labeled with their year and from whence they hailed.
In one hand, Lyman clutches a heavy, ornate flagon, embellished with gold and carved with dancing stags. His free hand flits from barrel to barrel, trying to choose the wine that would pour forth into the flagon and then on into the royal goblet. If there was one thing he knew he could count on in his new role, it was that much of his days would be spent fetching drink for the king. Finally he settles on a sturdy looking barrel baring the seal of House Fossoway.
"Not that one! Are you daft?" A snide, shrill little voice demands. Lyman turns, glaring down at Tyrek Lannister, who in turn juts his chin up defiantly at the older squire. It seems the lad has finally run dry of tears for his crippled cousin, the redness in his eyes gone, back to their natural piercing green. "Fossoway wine? That's what the king gives to the guests he doesn't like."
Sneering, Tyrek wrests the flagon away, nearly dropping it, and marches down the row to another barrel. "His grace would lose his mind if you served him that. And I'd get the blame. I always do."
"Tyrek, leave Squire Lyman be," a gentle voice commands. The Lannister boy turns angrily about to see Lord Varys standing in the doorway. "Attend to your own duties." Reluctantly, Tyrek obeys, handing back the flagon and stalking out of the room. Lyman recoils slightly as the Master of Whisperers draws near. The man made him profoundly uncomfortable – the way he seemed to float above the ground in his all-concealing robes, the softness of his hands, his queer round face, the cloud of perfume that followed him everywhere – it all made each and every hair on the back of his neck stand on end.
"That one would make a fool out of you," Varys continues, running his hand along the barrels. "Arbor Gold. This vintage would put the king fast to sleep even before the evening meal. No," he stops before a barrel hailing from Dorne. "This is what you want."
Cautiously, Lyman follows, wrenching free the plug and letting the pungent liquid poor, careful not to splash any on his doublet. It was the only one he had fit for service to the king, his other clothes the rough-hewn wool and leather Lancel had mocked so. Lord Baelish had assured more would be made for him, at no cost to himself. But for now, this was it. The flagon full, he stops the plug once more, crinkling his nose as the spiced wine wafts up to greet him. Dabbing his finger under the tap, he catches a final drop and raises it to his tongue, to remember the correct taste by.
"Thank you, Lord Varys," he turns to see the eunuch lurking uncomfortably close.
"You'd best hurry. After the meeting we've just had, I fear the king will have great thirst and very little patience." And with that, Varys is gone, before Lyman can begin to ponder how he got to here from the council chambers so quickly.
Ned Stark is furious, more furious than he has been in years. Not since the word came that Jorah Mormont had been selling prisoners on Bear Island into slavery had his wrath been so roused. Though to pass him on the stairs of the Tower of the Hand, one would never guess his foul mood, though his booted feet clip up each step faster and heavier than usual.
The Tower of the Hand. Mine no longer, it stopped belonging to me the minute that damned pin landed on the table in front of Robert. There has been no time to consider regrets. They will surely come in the end, but they will not be so great as the regret of being party to the king's plans to have Daenerys Targaryen murdered. Robert. Old friend. He had changed, that much had been clear, but to kill a pregnant girl half a world away that posed no threat? Robert was chasing ghosts. It was as if the damned blades of that bloody iron chair had pierced his sides and corrupted his heart with the same madness of Aerys.
Ned stops as he reaches the top of the stairs. Two of his own men stand on guard by the door to his offices, and with them stand two more in the bronzed armor and orange cloaks of the Hightower guards.
"The lady said she had matters of grave importance," Harwyn reports. "We allowed her to wait inside, I hope you do not…"
"It is fine," Ned cuts the guard off, curtly. "Thank you." The last thing I need now, he thinks, pushing open the door and stepping into the room. He finds Leyla Hightower lounging on the over-stuffed, garish chaise he had banished to the far corner of his chamber the day he arrived. Leyla sprawls in a deep violet gown plastered tight to her ample stomach, twisted on her side with her legs stretched out. The deeply cut lace hemline can barely contain her massive breasts. She looks up at him with the same hungry smile he saw that first day she arrived, and every time he has passed her since. He knows exactly what that smile wants, but asks anyway.
"What do you want?"
"Only your time, Lord Hand," Leyla slowly rises to greet him, uncurling like an awakening cat as she stands, chest first, jutted out towards him alluringly.
"I am the Hand no longer, so you may dispense with such formalities.
"But why?" Only the slightest twitch of her eye betrays the surprise of that news. She's good, Ned thinks, almost as good as Varys. A Varys who wants to climb into my bed.
"It is no matter of your concern," he turns away. He has sparse enough clothes to begin with, but best to start packing now. But he feels the surprisingly strong grip of a soft, tattooed hand on his shoulder, turning him back around.
"Then you can keep your secrets," she pulls him close, whispering in his ear. Her hair smells of cinnamon and ginger and pears. "You can keep a secret can't you? So what if you are no longer Hand. Surely you can't mean to go so soon? Back to that frigid cold? What is it that you Starks always speak so eloquently? Winter is coming? Why not enjoy the warmth while you still can?"
She pulls Ned closer, tightly pressed into her soft body. "Besides, we still have a betrothal to negotiate." He closes his eyes, and tries to think of Winterfell, of Catelyn. But instead, he sees Ashara Dayne. With a choking gasp, he tears himself away. Leyla lets out an annoyed squeak, her flesh shaking as she tumbles back.
"I have not pledged to any betrothals. I have made inquiries, that is all. And as Edward will be returning North with me, I believe such discussions would only prove disappointing for all parties. So I must kindly ask you to leave."
"My father always said not to make a decision in anger, Lord Stark," Leyla purrs, reclining back onto the chaise, barely fazed by his rejection. She is not used to not getting her way, Ned sees. This is personal to her. "I know many ways to calm a man." She pats the cushion beside her, beckoning him to come forward, one leg arching back over the arm of the couch, her gown sliding down to reveal a thick, soft olive leg. "Let me show you what the South can offer."
"Lord Stark, I did not mean to interrupt!" Spinning about, Ned sees Lord Petyr Baelish standing in the door. "I've located that brothel you were so eager to find."
"A brothel? Lord Stark!" All of Leyla's feigned sincerity cannot mask her indignation. But Ned does not care. He were be rid of her soon enough. But first he must finish what he came here for.
"I wager 50 silver stags that the boy quits by tomorrow," Ser Boros bellows. The knights of the Kingsguard sit around their grand table in the White Sword Tower, for today is the one hour of the week in which mere common guards are left to defend the king. In their meeting, the Lord Commander assigns their tasks for the week to come. As they await his arrival, they swap stories of Joffrey's training as Edward circles the table with a pitcher of water, for Ser Barristan forbids wine and ale within the tower.
"You should not speak in such away about his grace the prince," Ser Arys glares disdainfully at Boros.
"Always so serious, Arys," Jaime smirks. "You must learn to take a joke, or else you'll end up like Ser Mandon." He gestures, laughing, to the stoic Vale knight, but Mandon gives no response. Until he sees the door open and rises to attention as the Lord Commander enters. He has been with the king ever since the Small Council met this morning, Jaime had said, and agitation was clear on the old man's face. He wondered what they had been arguing about.
But he did not linger long. There was no water left, and Ser Barristan will surely be thirsty. As the meeting begins, Edward hurries back down the stairs of the tower to fetch more. As he reaches the bottom landing, however, he sees the barrel near empty as well. That would have been Lyman's job. Stretching up on his toes to reach in with the pitcher, he feels the barrel begin to wobble. And then the knock comes on the door.
Who could that be? he thinks. There were never visitors at the tower. Setting the pitcher aside, he hurries to the door and swings it open. Standing outside is a crowd of Lannister guards. Edward recognizes two of them at once – Percy and Igor, who had traveled with him on the Kingsroad. As he steps out onto the stoop, the guards part revealing, standing in their midst, the queen herself in a blood-red dress.
"I'm here to see my brother," she declares with a voice as cold as ice. "Now."
Without question, Edward turns on his heel and bolts back up the steps to the meeting room. He slams open the door and freezes, the perturbed eyes of the knights all turned to him.
"It's the queen, ser. She demands to see Ser Jaime." Barristan glowers as a confused look passes over Jaime's face. "I think it's very important, ser."
"Go on then, be quick about it," Barristan commands. Jaime, clearly reluctant to earn further ire from the Lord Commander, rises slowly, but follows Edward back down the stairs. His confusion only deepens when he sees the crowd of guards standing at attention.
"Your grace," he forces a smile, hands outstretched. "What has brought you to bless us with your presence in our humble tower."
"This is no jest, Jaime," Cersei glares.
"It's your brother, ser," Percy adds.
"Tyrion?" A sudden seriousness falls over Jaime, all pretense dropping away. In his voice, Edward hears something strange. Something he hasn't heard on Jaime's lips before. Something that almost reminds him of Father. "What happened?"
"Lady Stark came upon him on the Kingsroad. What she was doing there, I do not know. But she has seized him and spirited him away to Riverrun to face justice. She believes he tried to murder her child."
Bran? That can't be right, Edward thinks as the blood drains from Jaime's face. For a moment, he thinks the knight is about to be sick. Instead, he asks "How do you know this?"
"Littlefinger received word just today," Cersei answers. "And better yet, he's told me exactly where Ned Stark is right now. A brothel called Chataya's. Take our men and see to it that the Starks learn what happens to those who attack our family."
It takes a moment for Edward to realize what she means. Slowly, he starts to back away. Jaime looks up, longingly, to the peak of White Sword Tower. Then his gaze falls to Edward. For a moment, Edward stares back, hoping to see something in his eyes, hoping that he will stop and turn around, return to the meeting in the tower as if nothing ever happened. But instead, he turns to Percy and Igor.
"Fetch me my armor," he commands. "My Lannister armor." And Edward runs.
Varys had not been lying, that much was true. The king had been in a fouler mood today than Lyman had ever seen him. He and Barristan had argued for hours after the meeting. Something about a girl across the sea. Lyman had not been paying close attention. Instead, he had been thinking towards now, when he was to meet the pretty serving girl who had been so quick to wrest hold of the attention of the king's new squire. And since Robert had been gracious enough in his agitation to release him early, he could get there before and prepare himself.
Instead, as he rounds the corner into the stable, he crashes into Edward, the other squire barreling blindly as fast as his short legs can carry him. They both slam to the ground.
"Damn it, Ed, what are you doing?" Lyman untangles himself. But as he stands, he sees Edward, still kneeling, gasping for breath with a look of terror on his eyes. "What's wrong?"
"Chataya's brothel!" he gasps. "Do you know it?"
"Yes, uh… yes, I think I do," Lyman tries to remember where it was Ser Boros had taken him.
"Father is there," Edward spurts out each sentence like an explosion between the breaths from his heaving chest. "…don't know why… you have to warn him… I'll get the guard…"
"Edward, you've got to calm down!" Lyman grips the boy's shoulders, holding him tight to stop the shaking. "What's happened? Why do I need to warn him?"
"It's Ser Jaime," Edward finally stands, wiping dust, and maybe a tear, from his eye. "He's going to kill my father."
Lyman clings tight to the reigns of Ser Barristan's horse as it pounds down the roads of King's Landing. The Lord Commander cannot dislike him anymore than he already does. He only hopes that whatever disaster Eddard Stark has gotten himself into, he will be forgiven by the king in the end. He breathes a sigh of relief as he sees the familiar sight of the brothel rise up before him – an elegant establishment for the richest and most noble of clientele. Too rich for Ser Boros, but he had oft boasted of one night he spent there years ago.
"Is this Chataya's?" he shouts to a man passing on the street. Before the walker's reply even registers, he vaults down from the horse, letting the reigns fall free. He rushes to the door, shoving it open, right into the face of Jory Cassel.
"Damn!" Jory swears, stumbling back, his hand instinctively reaching for his sword before he recognizes who his unwitting assailant is. "Lyman, what are you doing?"
"Where's Lord Eddard!" Lyman gasps, pushing Jory aside.
"I'm right here, boy," Ned emerges from a stairway. Slowly, Lyman allows himself to calm, slowly taking in the surroundings. The luxurious lobby, peopled with Stark guards, beautiful women and… Littlefinger? But all eyes are on him. "What are you doing here?"
"Edward sent me, m'lord," Lyman bows swiftly. "He said to warn you. The Kingslayer is on his way with a dozen or more Lannister guardsmen. Edward swears he means to kill you!"
Ned takes a step back, looking first to Jory, then his other men, before his gaze finally settles on Littlefinger. "If Edward says it, it is true. I don't suppose you know why the Lannisters would want me dead, Lord Baelish?"
Littlefinger raises his hands defensively, seeming as if to shrink in upon himself. "I… We received word this morning. Of certain… actions taken by your lady wife. Regarding the Imp, my lord. Tyrion Lannister."
"I know," Ned glares, hand dropping to his sword. "Jory stand guard at the door. We will wait to see just what Ser Jaime means to do. Lyman, where is my son?"
"He went to find your guards, m'lord."
"Good," Ned walks to the window. "Now we wait."
They do not have to wait long. But as they do, the light drops of rain that Lyman had felt on his way begin to turn into a steady fall. And from the rain emerge the Lannisters, heavy wet cloaks draped over their crimson armor. And at their center – the Kingslayer himself, atop Lion. Beneath the wool, he has traded his white mail and armor for crimson, embellished with a golden lion. Ned swings open the door.
"Ser Jaime! I believe we need to talk!"
"Ah. I see you're expecting me," Jaime drops his hood, revealing his drenched golden hair plastered tight to his scalp. "I take it Edward got to you first. You may know I hold no ill will towards him for that. Family must come before all else. Which is why I'm here. And if you know all that, then I expect you know I'm not here to talk. Show your steel, Stark."
"I'm not going to fight you," Ned stands unmoving in the brothel door. "This is beneath you. I will not sully King Robert's peace by spilling blood in his streets."
"It will be your blood spilt," Jaime spits. "And your family broke the peace the moment your wife kidnapped my brother."
"My lady wife had reason for her actions. Reason which I will gladly present before the king should you peaceably return to the keep with me."
"I am not here for your reasons," Jaime swings down from his horse, splashing into a puddle. With a flourish and a metallic whistle, he draws his sword. "I am here for your steel. If you do not come willingly, my men will tear this whorehouse apart until we have you."
"Ser Jaime, listen to reason," Littlefinger tries to worm his way around Ned but is shoved back.
"I will not take a step beyond this threshold until you return that sword to its sheath and order your men to stand down," Ned grits his teeth. "Nor will anyone."
"I know your honor, Stark," Jaime takes another step forward, sword outstretched before him. But Ned does not flinch. "You want no harm to come to these women. But if we are forced to storm this building, I can make no promises as to is hurt."
For an eternal moment, no one moves. No one speaks. It seems for all the world that no one breathes. There is only rain dropping heavily down from the heavens onto cloth and steel and stone. And then comes the hooves. The Lannister guards turn, horses snorting and clattering hooves, as more riders approach from each end of the street. And with them, Stark banners.
The full force of the Hand's guard surrounds the Lannister men – led by Harwin on the left and Fat Tom on the right. Edward rides beside Harwin and with Fat Tom rides a figure all in white, from his wet glistening armor to his drenched cape to the sparse hair atop his head. The Lannister men part as Ser Barristan Selmy rides a mule forward through their ranks. Jaime turns away from the door to see, and his fury boils over.
"You have no business here old man!" he shouts.
"I came for my horse," Barristan descends calmly from the borrowed mount. "And I find you here, committing treason once again."
"Ser…" Percy opens his mouth and in a flash the Lord Commander has drawn his sword.
"Silence your tongue if you know what's good for you! Come now, Jaime. Tell me yourself. What are you doing here?"
"This is between me and Stark. He is no longer Hand to the King. He is only a rogue lord who has wronged my brother. And I am here for justice."
"You are here in folly," Barristan scoffs. "Where is your armor? Where is your cloak?"
"I am here on Lannister business."
"You are a Lannister no longer," Barristan steps between Jaime and Ned. "The Kingsguard is not just a cloak which you can take on and off as you please. Something you should have learned long ago. Something I will have to teach you."
What that, Jaime shouts out and lungs, his sword cutting a long arc through the rain. Barristan effortlessly blocks the strike and presses his own attack. Jaime parries and lunges, but Barristan dodges. Seeing an opening, Jaime strikes, trying to move past his foe to the door, but the old knight does not yield, blocking each blow in turn. Within the brothel, Jory and the other guards move forward, but Ned motions them to stay foot as the two Kingsguard's sword sing a metal cacophony, each refusing to budge from their tiny space of street.
The rain comes down heavier, thick streams running down over Jaime's face. He stabs, landing a glancing blow to the Lord Commander's side. Barristan grunts and kicks, knocking Jaime back. Without wasting a moment, he presses the attack, raining down a whirlwind of blows, incredibly strong and swift for a man of his age, each strike only seeming to anger Jaime more and more.
"Why won't you die!" Throwing all his strength forward, he swings up, knocking Barristan's sword to one side. He slices down, catching the old man in his side. When he draws his sword back, it is glistening red with blood. Barristan stumbles back. Sensing weakness, Jaime lunges with a howl of fury, but Barristan drops to one knee and cuts at Jaime's feet, taking the younger knight to the ground. As he falls, one Lannister guard inches his foot forward, but is halted as an arrow buries in the road before him. Looking up, the men see Stark archers assembled on the roof.
On the ground, Jaime has dropped his sword, rolling over in the mud on top of Barristan. He hammers down with his mailed fists – once, twice, then again – the old, wrinkled face of the Lord Commander turning bloody beneath his hands. But Barristan is not finished. His sword hand still grasps his weapon. Silently, he swings up, bringing the pommel hard into the side of Jaime's skull. The knight drops hard onto his side, red blood quickly staining his golden hair. Shakily, Barristan rises, clutching his side.
"Lord Stark, arrest this man and return him to the Red Keep to face the King's Justice!" he shouts, before looking up at the Lannister men still surrounding him atop their horses. "Any man here is free to return in peace. You have committed no crime."
With a shout, one Lannister spearman charges. With a look of disdain, Barristan sidesteps the spear and knocks the guard down with a clean strike. Before the man has even hit the ground, Barristan buries his sword in his throat.
"My offer still stands," Barristan looks back to the other guards. And no others dare challenge.
A/N: Merry Christmas, everyone! I hope you enjoy this chapter! Between royal assassination decrees, would-be seductions and oath-breaking knights, Ned Stark has his hands full. Wonder how Robert will sort this all out... I start a new job next week, so between that and the holidays, it may be a while before the next update but, as always, please leave any thoughts you have in the reviews below!