Edward Stark sits, legs crossed, atop his bunk in the small squire's quarters beneath the White Sword Tower. The room, normally kept meticulously clean, is cluttered in disarray. Edward's clothes lie unsorted, paint crusts dry on his palette beside the half-finished painting of Urrigon's victory in the melee, the covers on his bed lie crumpled on the floor.

In the days since the fight - he has forgotten just how many have passed - Edward has walked in a haze through life. Father had offered to move him back into the Tower of the Hand, but he had not spoken about it since, and whatever plans that might have been had fallen away. Edward did not mind. This leaky, creaking little closet was the one thing tethering him to his place in the keep. But it felt like a prison as often as it felt like a home.

These days he was only free in his dreams. Some nights he dreamt of Myrcella, riding on horseback with her down to the sea, Tessarion running along the path before them. But most nights, more often than ever before, he was Tessarion himself, running, leaping and panting with his sisters in the Dragonpit. One afternoon he had even awoken within Tessarion when he dozed off in the day. And so, as his nights grow more and more consumed by the wolf, so too are his days, anxiously flipping through the pages of Maester Gaheris' book, taking down notes with pen to parchment, and abandoning his paintings of knights for a new one depicting the First Men wargs of ancient times.

He is lost in thoughts of fur and fangs, slowly turning ancient pages, each a portal to a new world, when a stern knock comes at the door. It slowly swings open. In steps Jalabar Xo, as solemn as ever, with Edward's bow and quiver in his hands.

"You have left your arrows sleep long enough, boy," the words jump accusingly off the foreign prince's tongue with short, jabbing clicks. "It is time to resume your training."

Edward glares at the bow, the bow that Jaime had bought. "You don't have to keep teaching me," he looks away, angrily. "Ser Jaime is in prison. He can't help you get your home back now, even if he ever would have."

"I knew that would never be," Jalabar shakes his head. "Ser Jaime lies. All men like him lie. When you have walked these halls as long as Jalabar Xo, you learn to see such things. Perhaps I will teach you that too, one day. But for now, the targets await."

Listlessly, Edward drops the book back into its hiding place behind his bed and hurls his bare feet down onto the cold stone floor. "I'm not a squire anymore."

"And I am not a knight. But I swore to train you. And Jalabar Xo is a man of his word." He thrusts the bow forward. Reluctantly, Edward accepts it, slings the quiver over his shoulder and follows his teacher out into the yard. From atop the walls, their path is watched by Prince Joffrey and Peremore Hightower, on the way to their own training.

"The Stark boy grows quite good with the bow," Peremore coldly observes. "Perhaps your grace would like to learn that skill as well."

"Archery is for weak men," Joff sneers. "Cowards who cannot stand within reach of their foes' blades." He zealously readjusts the over-sized new sword-belt around his waist. "I'll be the greatest swordsman Westeros has ever seen. Better than Uncle Jaime and Ser Barristan! Where's that cut I gave you the other day?"

Joffrey grabs Peremore's face with a tight, warm hand, tracing along the older boy's jaw until he finds the puffy red blemish left by his boot. "Do you want to know a secret?" He whispers into Peremore's ear. "I didn't even mean to give Edward that ugly scar. It was an accident. But one day, after his sister is in my bed, I'll leave him with something far worse. Same with his stupid brother. I'll show the Starks their place. And Lyman Darry too, if I get bored."

Lyman smiles at the pretty young seamstress as her narrow, waifish face pokes around the partition to hand him the next doublet. The new clothes the king had bought for him were splendid, made of the finest fabrics. But this girl was even more to his liking. She was older than him by about two years, he reckoned, tall and thin with long brown hair and huge round eyes that reminded him of an owl. And the way the eyes watched him had not gone unnoticed.

People looked at Lyman differently now that he was the king's squire. Not just the girls, the whole court did, but he cared most for the girls. The women at the whorehouses Ser Boros had taken him to had been fun, for sure, but they had been paid to adore him. Now he was truly noticed. And it felt better than even the smoothest of silks. He wriggles into the last piece and admires himself. A dark brown with red trim, the plow of House Darry upon his left breast. It fits perfectly. They all did. Eliza did good work. Her owl-eyes widen even further as he steps out from behind the partition.

"You look incredible!" she beams.

"It fits like a glove," Lyman smiles, slowly brushing aside a stray lock of his hair.

"I must make certain," Eliza leans in and Lyman outstretches his arms, shivering as her light hands trace the link of his arms, over his chest, down along his ribs, his outer legs to his feet. Then she comes up again, following her seams up his calves, his inner thighs and finally coming joining together again, where her hands rest a moment too long. He feels the slightest pinch. "Yes, it fits perfectly!"

Her hands fall away and she rises slowly until her face hovers just inches away from Lyman's. "Are you finished, then? This is the last one." His left hand moves around to her back, sliding down her spine to the curve of her backside. She giggles like a girl half her age and presses closer to him.

"I think I will wear this to serve the king today. He should see what his silver has bought," Lyman tries to mimic the voice he knows knights use to talk to a lady. "It is worthy of royal service, to be sure. I will have to find a way to show my gratitude." Giving a squeeze, he leans in and breathes in the scent of her neck, no fine perfumes, but soap and lye and earth. "Tell me, what are you doing tonight?"

"I have work I must finish," she trembles sensitively, her hands flitting back to his fresh seams and he can hear the want on her voice. "For the prince. But the night after. I will be free then."

"Meet me in the wine cellar," he whispers in her ear, playing at it with his lips as he speaks. "I will come as soon as the king is in bed."

Eliza pulls away reluctantly. "It will be done." She curtsies, and turns to leave. He gathers up the rest of the clothes and follows her out the door, but is surprised to see the princess waiting outside with her cousin, Rosamund.

"Lyman!" the girl calls. "We had wanted to see your new clothes."

"Well, here they are," Lyman does a little spin and walks on, barely paying them any heed.

"You look very dashing," Myrcella declares. But no comment is returned as Lyman wonders off down the halls, already acting out his plans for tomorrow's evening in his mind.

Jaime Lannister sits in his cell beneath the Red Keep. The maesters, apparently satisfied that he would not die from the wounds the old man had left, moved him here at last. It was cold, ugly, dark and damp, but at least he was far from stench of sickness and groans of his fellow patients. He only hopes none of his neighboring inmates start to pray. Shifting his weight, back pressed against the wall opposite the door, he wedges his head into the crevice between two jagged stones he has discovered is just the right size to hold his head upright. Determinedly, he wills himself to sleep, awaiting dreams of Cersei. But first, the footsteps come. His first thought is the guards. Back to taunt him again? The foolish ones did. The smart ones knew that no matter what happened to him, his father's claws would find them in the end.

But the feet are too light for the guards. They are a woman's feet. For a moment he half imagines it to be Catelyn Stark, come to take him as well. Just as well, he was the one she wanted anyway, not Tyrion. All this fuss over that damned boy. But Catelyn Stark is away with his brother, locked behind the walls of Riverrun. Instead, as the keys rattle in the lock and the door creaks open, it is only Cersei standing in the doorway, cloaked beneath a dark cloak, but to Jaime's loving eye, unmistakable.

"I'd begun to think you'd forgotten me," he forces a smile. "That or Robert had locked you away. I swear I would have killed him for you, to see him strike you like that. I still will, if that's what you're here for. Unless he's already dead, is that it?"

"We couldn't be so lucky," Cersei grimaces, lowering the hood. "But he sleeps like the dead."

"Oh, is it night already? It is damned hard to tell down here."

"How dare you joke at a time like this!," she snaps angrily and Jaime lurches back in surprise, slamming his head against the wall. He grunts in pain, unnoticed. "You, here in a cell, like a common thief! What would father say?"

"Nothing, I imagine. Just the same old disapproving glare."

"This is impossible, I don't know why I came!" With a fury unfamiliar to Jaime, she turns away. He rushes to rise in pursuit, but his legs wobble beneath him and he topples forward towards her. She steps aside, letting him fall to the ground. "You tell me you would kill Robert? You couldn't even kill an old man! What good are you to me? This castle is crawling with Starks and Hightowers. There is no one left I can trust, save Pycelle and Tyrek. A doddering old fool and a whiny little boy! Is this what I am given to protect our family? That Urrigon, I can see him grasping his fingers around Robert and our son, all while Ned Stark turns them against us!"

"Cersei, please, beloved…" Jaime limps back to his feet and this time they do not betray him. He reaches out to her, lovingly, calmingly, to still the rant. "There is nothing to fear. Urrigon is a buffoon. And Ned Stark is too honest for his own good. Once father has his way, the wolves will be sent packing and it will be just us. As it always has been and always will be. Only us."

He pulls her close, leaning in with scabbed and puffy lips for a kiss, but she stops. "No. There is still Robert. He grows worse every day. I could not hide the last bruise, no matter how hard I tried. I can hear all the court talking of it." Tears begin to well up in her eyes. This time, when Jaime leans in, she accepts his kiss.

"He is a brute," he whispers. "And brutes are easy to kill, when all is said and done. We are smarter than him. You are smarter than him. It's time we end this." He begins to grope beneath her cloak, desperate to find the hem of her dress and what lied beneath. But she pulls away.

"No. Not now. The guards have brought me here to mourn."

"Then let me free so I can kill him now and we will do it in his bed this very night!"

But she steps away through the threshold and slowly swings the door shut between them. "Oh, Jaime… And where would we be then? You get no second chances at kingslaying."

The next morning, Renly Baratheon rolls out of bed. It takes him a moment to remember he is not in his room in the Red Keep, grasping with blurred eyes for water from a nightstand that is not there. He rubs the rest of the sleep from his eyes, grimaces from the pain left behind by last night's wine, and strides to the nearest window. Cranking open the shutters, he lets the rising sun and early morning breeze wash over his naked body, warming and cooling him at the same time.

He looks down to the streets below and remembers where he is. The brothel… what was it's name? He sees a few stray smallfolk creeping out into the momentarily quiet streets and wonders if any will think to look up. And so what if they see? Robert frequents enough brothels, and all the city knows it. They should expect nothing more of me. Waking up to a new morning of their miserable, little insignificant lives. It would do them well to gaze upon royalty. He feels himself stiffen and hears the light slap behind him of two more feet leaving the bed.

"I see your stamina knows no end, my prince," Loras Tyrell smiles, his face obnoxiously fresh and unmarred by sleep, framed like the heart of a sunflower by his tussled golden curls. He rises, naked as well, his thin, lean body pale and hairless. Thoughts of the little people below him evaporating like dew in the dawn sun, Renly cuts back to the bed with long strides to seize the flower of a face with both hands for a kiss, but Loras draws back.

"What are you doing?" Renly scowls.

"I swear, I want you now and always," Loras for a moment hides his smile behind defensive hands. "But you have a meeting to make. The realm has little patience for lovers."

"Mayhaps not, but it ought to have patience for lords," Renly scowls as a knock sounds. "Hide yourself." Loras descends back beneath the blankets as Renly marches to the door, wrenching free the lock and flinging it open to find Garrett Flowers waiting, impeccably dressed in green and white with a golden rose pinned to his chest. The bastard is blithely ignoring the advances of two tired but eager looking whores.

"Good morning, m'lord," Garrett's scratchy mustache wrinkles as he smiles. Perhaps Loras and Margaery got their smiles from their mother, Renly thinks. Flowers' smirk looks like a gash in a rotten fruit. But he steps aside to let the bastard enter, noting the two bundles of clothes under his arms, one green and one black, each with gold accents. The girls follow him in. "You can come out Loras," Garrett crows. "It's only me." He tosses the green bundle on the bed and the black to Renly. "If anyone asks, these two will swear they were with one of you all night. Does m'lord wish to choose his lover?"

Renly eyes the whores, one a skinny foreign girl in an oversized dress, black hair cut short to bob around her neck; the other a round-faced blonde leaning towards plumpness, by Renly's assessment. The thought of lying with either repulsed him. But that, of course, was no fault of their own.

"That one," he points half-heartedly as he pulls on the newly delivered pants. Only when he looks up does he see he's selected the blonde. Better that way, he supposes. Varys would be like to make the foreign girl out to be a spy if he were so inclined.

"Excellent," Garrett pushes her forward. "Her name is…"

"Do you suppose Robert remembers the names of his whores?" Renly cuts him off, attention focused on buttoning up his tight quilted doublet, twin gold stabs embroidered on the front. Garrett shakes his head. "Then I don't see any reason I ought to know mine. Good day, Ser Loras. It's best you wait a while longer to leave, I suppose."

If his lover has any parting farewell, Renly does not see it, marching straight out and down the stairs, eager to rid himself of Flowers and the damned girls. Their company, however, suddenly seems preferential when, entering the lobby of the brothel, he finds Littlefinger waiting upon him. The Master of Coin is lounging at a table, surrounded by Renly's old guards, drumming his fingers alongside a steaming cup of tea.

"Lord Baelish. What a pleasant surprise," Renly greets through gritted teeth.

"It oughtn't be a surprise at all, m'lord. You were to meet me this morning. I supposed that I should save you the trouble and find you here," Renly turns back angrily to the stairs. Flowers! He's supposed to be better than this! But Littlefinger sees his intent. "Oh, don't be cross with the bastard, I didn't have him followed. I already knew about your little rendevouxes. Or have you forgotten that I own nearly every brothel in this city?"

"I didn't know you owned this one," Renly glowers, tugging out a chair to sit in. He grimaces as it scrapes on the floor, sending a shock of pain to the front of his head, and motions for a cup of water. Littlefinger smiles, as if taking joy in his discomfort.

"Then you have learned something new today, my lord. That is good. We should all seek to expand our knowledge about this world, don't you agree?"

"Is that what this is, then?" Renly rolls his eyes, the cold water soothing his cottony throat. "You want to pawn me knowledge. If I want rumors from the gutter, Baelish, I'll go to Varys. You are the Master of Coin, talk to me of gold."

"Oh, I suppose Varys already knows this particular secret, that is true," Littlefinger leans back in his chair, looking obnoxiously satisfied. "But would he tell you? I think not."

"And why is that?," the veins on Renly's neck begin to swell red as his irritation grows. "There are to be no secrets between us on the council. We all serve the good of the king who, need I remind you, is my brother! So now I must ask you, Littlefinger, why do you think this little gem of a story is so special that the Master of Whisperers would dare keep it to himself?"

Unfazed by the outburst, Littlefinger leans in to whisper in his ear. "Because I know what Jon Arryn knew. What Stannis knows. Why Ned Stark really came to King's Landing. And what I think you've suspected all along…"

A cold wind blows down over the ruins of the dragonpit, reminding Sansa Stark that Autumn will soon be upon the land, or so the maesters say. In her hands, she holds the bow Ser Aron Santagar had given her. Across from her on the rock, a target. It had been a gift from Jory. Father still hasn't spoken to her about her lessons. And that has begun to make a part of her sad. But she refuses to dwell on it.

Nearby, Myrcella, Rosamund and Jeyne watch, sitting next to Lady, who lies, curled up, napping in the sun. She has grown so much since they arrived, but is still the smallest of the pack. Rosamund had been terrified to come near her, of course, but eventually she stopped whimpering and shut up and sat down. She didn't know where the others had gone. She had just wanted to come to train alone with Lady, but she had told Jeyne and Jeyne had told everyone and now it felt like every noble child in the castle was running around the dragonpit.

Drawing an arrow, she begins to take aim, trying to remember what Ser Aron had said about the wind. Let it carry the arrow, don't fight it. She takes a deep breath, pulls back and…

"Is it very hard?" Rosamund blurts out. Startled, Sansa looses the string clumsily and the arrow clatters over the edge of the rock. She glares back at the younger girl, whose face flushes red.

"Yes, Rosamund. It is hard." For a moment, she misses Arya. At least Arya would understand this. But her sister wanted little to do with her or any other children of the court. So she only shakes her head and reaches for another arrow.

Beneath them, on the floor of the pit, Nymeria prowls through the maze of ancient rubble. Watching from a distance, Peremore and Maris Hightower are intrigued by the direwolf. Behind them sits Edward, who sulks and paints next to Tessarrion. Edric Dayne and Arthur Ambrose wait awkwardly at his side.

"What are you painting?" Edric asks.

"It's a warg," Peremore answers, startling the other boys with his quiet approach. Edward looks up inquisitively at the grim older squire.

"How do you know that?" he asks.

"Oh, we know many things in Oldtown," Peremore leans down to examine the painting more closely as Maris joins the group. "One thing I do wonder… Your wolf, was he a runt? Normally the males are larger, are they not? But Nymeria is larger."

"No…" Edward shakes his head. "I don't think so. Jon got the runt. It was all white. He called it Ghost."

"Makes sense for a bastard, I suppose. But all white. That could be an omen, couldn't it?"

"I don't know," Edward turns back to his painting. He does not like talking with the Hightowers.

"Well, I like Tessarion the best," Arthur blurts out. "Look at his eyes. They're like fire and ice!" Tessarrion's ears twitch at that. "And he has the best name! I wish I could have seen a dragon!"

"Your ancestors did," Maris grins wickedly. "I think several of them were burned."

Arthur's eyes grow wide at the thought, and he quickly changes the subject. "What do you think will happen to the Kingslayer?"

"I suppose it depends what happens to the Imp," Peremore shrugs.

"Yes," Edward tries to ignore Arthur, but he prods his shoulder. "Edward, why'd your mother kidnap the Imp?"

"Why should I know?" Edward stands quickly, sending Arthur toppling back down to the ground. "Nobody told me! Nobody tells me anything!" He turns to storm off but crashes into Maris. He freezes when he catches a glance from her cold, dark eyes.

"I'm surprised they haven't told you," Maris crooks her head sideways, looking at him queerly. Edward's heart plummets in his chest as he hears the answer. "Your lady mother seems to believe the Imp sent an assassin to kill your brother Bran. With a Valyrian dagger."

Edward stumbles backward, paintbrush and painting dropping from his slacked hands. The blood drains from his face, leaving him pale as a ghost. His heart skips violently inside his chest as he takes another step back, then another, until Edric stops him at the edge of the rock, draping one arm around his shoulder and turning him away with an angry glare at Maris.

"She's just making things up," Edric looks back and forth between the siblings. "How would you know what Lady Stark believes?"

"Oldtown knows many things," Maris answers, her bland tone unwavering. "Why not ask your father, Edward? He'll tell you the truth. He is so honorable, after all."

"Don't listen to them," Edric pulls Edward along, back towards the waiting guards. "Let's get you home." But Edward hears none of it, idly rubbing a silver tassel from the Dayne boy's robe as he remembers every painstaking detail – Joffrey in the wagon at night on the Kingsroad, and the Valyrian dagger glistening in his hand.

Yawn by yawn, dream by dream, the Red Keep has fallen asleep once again. All is quiet, save deep within the bowels beneath the kitchens, in the wine cellars, where Lyman and Eliza clink together two oversized golden goblets.

"You've never had wine like this before, have you?" Lyman asks, leaning up against a barrel as he stumbles for a moment, half-drunk.

"The wine they give us tastes like it's been brewed in moldy socks," Eliza grins, her teeth stained scarlet red. Lyman laughs at the thought, looking down at his own feet. "What are you doing?" she asks as he hands off his goblet, bending over to pry off his shoe and claw at his long black stocking. Finally managing to pull it off, he looks up to find she has drunk the rest of both their goblets. "You're joking."

"No, I'm not," he lurches back to his feet. "This is a very serious matter." He reaches out to take back his goblet, but she drunkenly pushes him away. Stumbling, his head thumps against a barrel and he stops to steady himself. "I must know what this famous Flea Bottom stocking wine tastes like!"

Dropping the goblets, Eliza suddenly lunges forward to grab the scruff of his collar and pull him close. "Flea Bottom? Is that how lowly you think I am?"

"I… I thought that was just where servants come from," Lyman slurs.

"I am not a servant here, not now," Eliza shoves him back against the barrels and presses her chest tight up against his. "And I am not from Flea Bottom. A Flea Bottom girl wouldn't know how to do this." She kisses him, her lips descending onto his own, tongue snaking into his mouth, tasting like sweet wine. He feels her nimble fingers begin to pry at his buttons.

"Careful!" For a moment he is suddenly very concerned with the fate of his new clothes. "You made this, remember. Mustn't…" he hiccups. "Mustn't tear it."

"I sewed you into these clothes, Lyman Darry," the last button comes undone and she runs a cold hand over the muscles beneath while the other begins to work on the trouser laces. "Trust that I can get you out of them in one piece."

"What are you doing here?" Lyman instantly recognizes the shrill shriek as Eliza pulls away. Tyrek Lannister stands in the entrance to the cellar, holding a torch. "I thought I smelled sod. I'm going to tell the king!"

"No, you're not!" Lyman stumbles forward, his feet tangling up amongst themselves. His loosened trousers begin to drop and he grasps to catch them, finally coming to a halt, hunched over and at a loss for words.

"And why shouldn't I?" Tyrek turns up his nose. "You're a thief!"

"It is only my squirely duty," Lyman straightens hesitantly, struggling to strike a knightly pose. "I must know the king's wine so as best to serve him only the finest."

"You're a fool!" Tyrek laughs. "You don't belong here! Lancel knew you would foul this up, but I'd never thought it would be this fast!"

"Then go ahead, tell the king!" Eliza steps back out of the shadows. Slowly, she begins to walk near the younger boy, pulling at the laces on her bodice as she nears. "Tell him that his new squire is up at all hours of the night, getting drunk and bedding women. Truly scandalous behavior. But… wait," she pauses, bending down to look Tyrek in the eye. "Doesn't that remind you of someone else? I think brave King Robert might only grow to love Lyman more if he knew they shared so many interests."

"You can't say that about the king!" Tyrek shouts and Eliza jumps back as he waves his torch at her. But in the flame, it is clear his spirit is faltering. "You… you… you think you're so clever! Well, you're not! Lannisters are clever!"

"Run along, Tyrek," Lyman smirks, allowing himself to collapse back against the barrels and slide down onto the stone. He pulls his goblet back to him and reaches for the nearest spicket. "Your wetnurse will be waiting on you."

"Oh, I don't know," Eliza sways back and forth on her feet, undoing the rest of her bodice, leering tauntingly at Tyrek. "He is a lion, after all. I wonder if he claws?"

With a panicked look on his face, Tyrek turns and runs off, leaving only a few scattered embers behind to mark his path. Lyman laughs and fills his goblet as, one by one, Eliza begins to snuff out the torches in the cellar.

"He's just a boy. All he could do to you is claw."

"And you're a man, are you?" she asks as the final light is extinguished. Plunged into utter darkness, Lyman takes a long, nervous swallow of wine.

"Of course…" Lyman gulps. "Um, where are you?" And then, without an answer, he feels her upon him and lets the rest of his goblet spill out on the stone, invisible in the black of night.

Ned Stark had barely finished his morning meal when Robert's summons came. He finds the king in his chambers, Lyman, Tyrek and an assortment of servants scurrying in and out of rooms like a swarm of ants whose hill has been kicked up. He spies open trunks being piled high with clothes, and immediately fears his highness has finally decided to run away to the East after all.

"Your grace, where are you going?" he asks.

"To the wood, Ned!" Robert bellows. Ned is taken aback, in all the time since their reunion in Winterfell, he has not seen his old friend this happy.

"I was not aware of such a trip."

"Nor was I, until this morning!" Robert yanks Ned towards the window, with enough force to nearly pull his arm from the socket. "Word came from the Kingswood of a white stag! A white stag, Ned? Is that not a grand omen?"

"It is, I suppose," Ned nods along, though he has little knowledge of what omens may portend here in the south. A white stag in the North meant that winter had nearly come. And they were not ready for winter here, of that he was certain.

"I'm going to find it. Find it and kill it and hang its pelt on my wall!" Robert stares out the window with wild earnestness, like a bird longing to be free from its cage. "It will be a blessing upon my line. A sign that my seed is strong, just like Jon Arryn said. You should see the boy, Ned, the way he trains with Urrigon. Fresh bruises at every dinner. I had my doubts, I must admit, but he is a warrior, through and through. I think I shall take him with me. His first real hunt!"

"Your grace…" Ned interjects, but Robert barrels past him.

"Tyrek!" he commands. "Go to the prince's chambers and see he is prepared. He shall ride with us at noon!"

"At noon?" Ned halts incredulously. Finding the room momentarily empty, he slams shut the lid of one of the trunks. At last, Robert turns back to him, confused.

"What's the matter? Are my trousers undone?" The king laughs, but quickly sees his Hand is not laughing with him. "Do you want to come? I would have invited you, Ned, I swear, but I supposed you want to stay behind, tend to the business of the realm and all that. But come, come if you want. Let the council mind the throne!"

"Your grace," Ned grits his teeth. "I beg your pardon, but only a week has passed since Jaime Lannister tried to kill me! My wife still holds his brother, awaiting trial. And we have heard no word from Tywin. When that word comes, you must be ready! He will not take this lightly!"

"No, I suppose he won't," Robert's face droops. "Then you must stay. You know how to deal with men like Tywin. That's why I brought you here, after all. I wish you well."

"Robert wait!" Ned calls out as the king sulks off. "It needs to be you! You are the king, you must rule. Tywin will not listen to me!"

"You are the Hand of the King!" Robert turns back, hallway out the door. "Make him listen! Tywin Lannister may shit gold but he's a lord like all the rest. His knee bends to me, and therefore it bends to you. And besides, we hold both his sons. Here you are, talking of treason… This is a time of peace, Ned! Stop living like we're at war!"

And with that, the king is gone. A time of peace where boys are thrown from windows, kingsguard turns on kingsguard and killers are sent to slay pregnant girls across the sea, Ned thinks. But he does not pursue his highness. Instead, he walks the slow, long path back to the Tower of the Hand, back slouched, shoulders sagged. I should have left when I had the chance. But who would that leave to counsel Robert? There was no one in this city he could trust. His friend needed him. The realm needed him.

But my family needs me too, he thinks, as the door to his chambers swings open to reveal Edward waiting inside. And in that moment, he is alarmed to realize he can't remember the last time he talked to his son. Edward looks pale, sullen, his head drooping down, eyes staring blankly at his hands. Is it about Jaime? They had grown close.

"What's wrong?" Ned asks, making haste to pull up a chair beside him at the table.

Edward reluctantly looks up at him, his eyes red with fresh tears. "Is it true what they're saying about Mother? About why she took Tyrion captive?"

Ned's blood turns cold in his veins. Trying to maintain calm, he rests a comforting hand on his son's shoulder. "What are they saying about her, Edward? Who do you mean?"

"The Hightowers. They say that Mother thinks Tyrion tried to kill Bran. With a Valyrian dagger."

For a moment, Ned pauses, unsure of what to say. Edward turns away from again. "It's true, son. That… that is what we believe. We don't know why, but he is going to face a trial."

"He didn't do it," Edward mumbles without looking back. Impulsively, Ned turns his head towards him, perhaps too harshly.

"What do you mean?"

"T… T…. Tyrion didn't send the dagger," he stammers. "I saw... When we were on the Kingsroad, one night, it was dark, Ser Jaime… he sent me to the armory. And I thought I was alone but there was someone else there. It was Joffrey."

"Joffrey?" Ned's breath catches in his throat. "Edward, what did Joffrey do?"

"He… he got angry. He had a dagger. He… he said it was Valyrian steel… and then… and then…" Unable to go further, Edward bursts into tears. Ned pulls him out of his chair and into his embrace, patting the back of his head, trying to stay focused on his son and his needs, and not the disaster unfolding around them.

"What…" Ned finds himself stammering now. Because he knows that if the answer he knows waits on his son's tongue comes true, there will be no going back. Steeling himself, he asks the question. "What happened to the dagger, Edward?"

"Joffrey took it with him."

"Are you sure?" Ned lets him go to look in his eyes again. Edward has never been able to lie to his father. Ned knows the boy's eyes so well, they are so much like his own. And he can see frightened certainty in them now.

"I… I didn't know… I didn't know…" Edward starts to back away, but Ned rises and pulls him back into another embrace. Edward writhes in his arms, trying to break free, but Ned drops to one knee and holds him tight, wishing for a moment he could never let go. It has been too long, he's let his son drift too far away. And his mind goes to Robb and Jon, Bran and Rickon. What will become of us now?

"Listen to me, Edward, this isn't your fault. I swear it's not your fault! You mustn't blame yourself. But you have to tell me now… does anyone else know this?" Edward shakes his head. "Good, good. That's all you need to do. I'll take care of everything. Did you sleep last night?" Edward shakes his head again. "I want you to get sleep, do you hear me? Stay here today, your room is just as you left it."

Without a word, Edward shuffles out of sight and Ned collapses to the floor. He wishes Catelyn were here. He wishes he could hear his gods. But instead, he is alone, with only his own thoughts to face the day ahead.