Ned Stark sits alone in his chambers. He is not sure how long has passed since Edward left. He knows his son, he knows what he has said is true, though he wishes he could tell himself it is not. Tyrion… well, Tyrion was certainly well-protected, Catelyn had ensnared him in the cause of supposed justice only by chance of fate. But he could negotiate Tyrion's fate. But Joffrey? The crown prince? The heir to the throne? He wants to believe Robert would see justice done. But the Robert who is leaving this very moment to chase a stag into the woods is a far cry from the man full of righteous fury who toppled a dynasty with Ned at his side.
And why? What had Bran ever done to Joffrey? It simply didn't make sense. At the time their party had left Winterfell, few had even expected Bran to survive, much less wake up. What could the prince have to gain by sending an assassin after a crippled, doomed child? Perhaps the whispers he heard were true. The heir to the throne was a wicked and cruel lad, perhaps even mad. And he had betrothed his daughter to him…
Three sharp raps come at the door. A woman's hand, he thinks. And only one woman would be coming here unannounced. He grimaces.
"Lord Stark!" he hears Jory call from outside. "It's the Lady…"
"Send her in," Ned cuts him off. "Best be done with this as swiftly as possible. The woman was insatiable in all things, it seems – food, drink, gossip and her pursuit of him. The door swing open to reveal Leyla Hightower, laced with unbelievable strength into an alarmingly tight dress, this one a garish pink and black from across the sea, with silken mesh sleeves revealing the soft olive skin beneath.
"Good morn, Lord Stark. I must say, you look exquisite for so early in the day," she bows deeply, jutting her deep cleavage forward and extending one hand to him. Ned looks away, but dips to kiss the hand out of curtesy, almost gagging on the heavy perfume.
"Wise men rise early, in the North," Ned turns to go back to his desk. "One should never waste an hour of daylight. We must remain vigilant, for…"
"For winter is coming, yes, yes, I know," Leyla eases her girth into the chair opposite Ned's desk. "House Stark is not the only family in these seven kingdoms that knows a thing or two about vigilance. It was the name of our great sword, after all."
"And where is that sword now?" Ned asks, knowing that Vigilance was lost in battle centuries ago, in the Dance of the Dragons. Leyla does not answer, only tilting her head inquisitively. Her gaze falls upon Ice, hanging upon the wall behind Ned's head.
"May I see it?" she asks.
"No," Ned answers quickly, perhaps, he thinks, too brusquely. "I beg your pardon, my lady, but I am very busy. What is your business with me?"
"Oh, you know what my business here is," Leyla's voice drops into a low purr, her hand sliding across the table and clutching hold of Ned's before he can draw away. The tattooed ring of diamonds around her wrist seems to lay upon his arm like a chain. "Men cannot lie to me, Lord Stark. I can see in your eyes that you want me. It does not become us to deny ourselves. It chips the years right off our lives."
Ned refuses to look down at her heavy breasts as they rest on the desk, pushing closer to him, but he cannot resist the gaze of her eyes, amber with flecks of blue. They seem to pull him in, like a pool where he knows he will drown if he gets too close. He closes his eyes and thinks of Catelyn.
"On that, we could not disagree more," he finally breaks free of her grasp. "Our strength is defined by what we deny ourselves. Only the selfish think only of themselves."
"That is an… interesting view on life," Leyla leans back, forcing a smile. "I wonder if your friend the king would agree. Was not his great strength defined by what he took? It was you who took the Red Keep. Yet Robert sits the throne listening to the songs writ of him. Tell me, Lord Stark? Have any singers written songs about you? I myself have inspired many. Do you ever regret it? Stepping aside so he could rule?"
I've seen what the crown did to Robert. Would it have done the same to me? Or could I have done better… "I do not have time to discuss what might have been," Ned shakes his head clear. "You have made your proposal before. My answer remains clear. Good day, Lady Hightower." He stands to guide her to the door, but instead she presses tightly against him. He stops cold as her soft body sucks him closer like a deadly marsh.
"Ah, but today is different, m'lord," she smiles, guiding his hands over her round hips. "Today I come to you with a bargain. You give me what I want and I will give you what you need."
What? Ned tries to shake free, but finds himself caught, Leyla's arms proving surprisingly strong. "What do you mean?"
"I have information. Information that you need," Leyla begins to back Ned towards his chaise lounge. "When we are done, I will tell you everything."
For a moment, Ned feels himself begin to collapse onto the lounge behind him as Leyla's hand begins to pull at the tightly laced strings of his breeches. But at last he wrests free, shifting his weight away and sending Leyla topping to the ground.
"Do not forget I am the Hand of the King!" He struggles not to shout as she looks up at him with a fury. "If you know of matters regarding the security of the realm, you must tell me. Now!"
Slowly, Leyla rises to her feet. The eyes that only a moment before held animal desire are now burning with a wilder rage. She spits at his feet. "It is not the realm. It is your own family, slicing through the ties that bind this fragile peace. I know where your wife is."
"She is in Riverrun!" Ned almost laughs. "Half the kingdom knows this!"
"No," Leyla grabs his arm, but no longer with a lover's touch. "She is a clever woman, your wife. She's taken the Imp to the Eyrie. She thought they would be safe there, safe to have a trial. But what she doesn't know is that her sister has gone quite mad. She's like to throw that horrid little man from the peak of the mountain herself."
"It's a lie," Ned shakes his said. "Leave my tower, now. How would you know such a thing? Even Lord Varys has not questioned that Catelyn is in Riverrun." Leyla turns and storms to the door. Ned follows, but she tears open the door for herself. "Good day!" He moves to slam the door behind her, but she catches it. Her face half hidden beyond, the one eye Ned can still see watches him with cold disdain.
"I assure you, Varys knows this to be true," she smiles. "Perhaps you should ask yourself why the eunuch has chosen not to tell you?"
Leyla turns and releases the door. It slowly shuts behind her and Ned falls into it, his skull resting against the heavy oak. Could it be true? Why would the woman concoct something so outrageous? And was it truly all that outrageous to begin with? Catelyn was cleaver and Lysa… Well, Lysa had never seemed happy in her marriage…
"Jory!" he calls. "I will need a fire to warm my wax. I must send a letter. Two letters."
Edward had lived with his secret for so long, he had half hoped that he would feel some sort of freedom now that he had told Father. But he has had no such luck. His small room in the Tower of the Hand is cold and untouched, he sits on the floor, back pressed against the bed, wishing he could sleep. But instead, he only fears the future.
He had to do it, that much was true. Mother had kidnapped the son of the most powerful lord in Westeros, Ser Jaime had tried to kill Father and Ser Barristan had nearly died all because of a lie. He didn't know who had told his parents that lie, but he had kept the truth from them. And that was almost just as bad.
Surely they would never let Sansa marry the prince now! She had forgiven him for stealing Joffrey's sword, but could she forgive him for this? And what would the king do? Father would have to tell them. And then there was the question he feared the worst – What will Joffrey do when he realizes I told what happened?
He winces at the thought, the scar on his face burning once again as the memory of that day at the river comes rushing back. And the prince has been training with Urrigon. He will be deadlier than ever before… Edward curls his chest tighter against his knees and prays to silence hi brain. For a moment, he is successful, until the thunderous clamor from the yard below reaches his ears.
The sound of trumpets echoes off the walls of the Red Keep as the royal party passes beneath the gates and onward to the kingswood. Sansa finds herself more excited than she has been since the day they arrived. This is what life at court is supposed to be about, she thinks!
"Do you think they'll catch it?" she jostles Myrcella's arm, the younger girl less than enthused by the pompous celebration.
"What is it they're trying to catch this time?"
"A white stag!" Sansa turns away, irritated that the princess does not share her enthusiasm. But Jeyne and Rosamund, however, are fully caught up in the moment. "Oh, I hope it is Prince Joffrey who finds it! It would be such a grand omen for his reign!"
"I hope they don't hurt it," Rosamund suddenly frowns. "A white stag is very beautiful, isn't it? It would be cruel to hurt such a beautiful thing."
"Of course they're going to hurt it!" Maris Hightower laughs, brash and course like the caw of a crow. "Did you think they'd make it your special little pet? They'll going to fill its hide with arrows, and once its dead, they'll drag it back to the camp and slice its skin off. My father showed me how. You take a knife and…" Rosamund turns pale as Maris makes a hacking motion with her hand, before a roar arises from the crowd as her father Ser Urrigon rides by, Peremore at his side. She does not wave at them. "By the time they're done, the poor gamesman will have to wash for hours to get all the blood out of the white pelt before they can hang it on a wall."
"Don't listen to her," Sansa tells Rosamund, glaring at Maris, who rolls her eyes and returns to ignoring the world around her. "I wonder how long they will be gone?"
"Oh, I hope not too long," Myrcella sighs. "I think I will miss them. Look, there they are now!" She points as the king and Joffrey ride forth, three of the kingsguard surrounding them, and Tyrek and Lyman close behind. "What do you think of the Darry boy? I'm so happy Father made him his squire. He's so dashing."
Lyman? Sansa is surprised. He was no Ser Loras, no Joffrey. He looked like a Northerner. She supposes she can understand how such a rugged, rough-hewn boy could be quaintly intriguing to someone like the princess. But Lyman looked just like everyone else at Winterfell, and those were not the sorts of men that had songs writ about them. Not pretty songs anyway. But as she watched Myrcella watch Lyman, she suddenly realizes that she knows her look. It is the look she knows marks her own face when she gazes upon her prince or the Knight of Flowers. And that Myrcella had once had for her brother…
"I need to go," she excuses herself.
"Where?" Jeyne protests, but Sansa hushes her.
"I need to talk to Edward, stay here." Sansa leaves her confused friend behind and hurries down past the guards to where she had seen Edward, sulking amongst the other squires. What should she do, she asks herself. He seems so miserable. Dare I tell him that the princess he's pined after for months has fallen for his closest friend? Perhaps it is just a faze. Lyman is nearly a man grown, he will pay Myrcella little mind. Her fancy could return to Edward. But in truth, that match would never be. Mayhaps it was better this way…
"Sansa?" She snaps back to reality to find her brother standing before her. "What's wrong?"
"What's wrong? Why, nothing's wrong with me…" She stops, recognizing the redness on Edward's face. "What is wrong with you? You've been crying!"
"It's nothing!" he turns away harshly. "I've got something in my eye. Leave me alone."
"You're hiding something!" Sansa's jaw drops in indignation. She grabs Edward's shoulder and turns him back to her. "We promised no more secrets!" She had felt sorry for him, come here to help him, and now he is lying to her? "Tell me, what is the matter?"
"I… I…" he stammers, and begins to cry again. Suddenly, Sansa feels sorry for her anger, however, brief, and pulls him into an embrace. "I think we have to go home."
"What?" Sansa draws back. "What do you mean?"
Edward freezes like a deer under the hunter's sight. "I'm sorry, I have to go! It's time for my bow training!" He runs off without another word. Sansa watches him retreat irritably. She decides she should go see Ser Aron, and shoot something herself.
Edward finds Jalabar Xo waiting for him in the yard with his bow and quiver. He hadn't really meant to come back here, practicing with the targets is the last thing he wants right now. But he had needed a reason to escape Sansa. He couldn't bear to let her know the truth. Father would let her know soon enough. But perhaps archery would help clear the worry and shame from his head, if only for a moment.
"Hello, Edward! What is all this festivity?"
"The king has gone on a hunt," Edward answers. Jalabar looks hurt to hear that, disappointed to not have been invited as a part of the royal party. But he does not voice his offense.
"You look tired, boy, in mind and body. Have you been sleeping well?"
"I'm fine," Edward grabs his bow and quiver, but Jalabar does not let them go.
"You are troubled, are you not? Without a clear head, you will never learn. Tell Jalabar what is wrong. Then we will train."
"I said I'm fine!" Edward pulls again on his tools, but Jalabar pulls back harder and he loses his grip, falling back onto the ground. "Let it go!"
"I cannot teach a closed mind," the foreign prince turns and begins to walk away. "Return to me when you are ready to be honest about how you feel."
"Alright then!" Edward shouts after him. "I'm worried, you know! I worry! It's what I do!"
"This is not news to Jalabar Xo," his teacher turns back to him. "You are tense beyond your years, I saw that the day I met you. Taught, like a bow held for too long. I thought you had progressed beyond that. Perhaps I thought wrong." Edward reaches out for the quiver, but it is again denied. "What is it that worries you, boy?"
"The future," Edward answers. That is true enough. "I don't know what is going to happen." He looks up at Jalabar. For a moment, the prince stands in silence, his warm eyes examining his pupil carefully. At last, he extends the bow and quiver. This time, when Edward takes them, they come free.
"No one knows the future," he sighs as they walk together to the targets. "That is something all men must face. Do you think I foresaw that I would be banished from my land? First to grovel for shelter from a foreign king who would have me do tricks like a common fool? No. We cannot fear tomorrow, no loss of sleep will bring us any closer to what it holds." They stop at the line in the dirt. Jalabar plants his hands firmly on Edward's shoulders as he settles into his stance, then steps back to examine the form. "But we can prepare, so that we will be ready for whatever comes with the dawn. An archer must do the same. We cannot know for certain where our prey will go next, but we can learn to predict. Soon you will train with moving targets, Edward. And, as in life, you mustn't worry about where they will go. You must live in the moment, and follow where it leads. Now go."
Edward takes a deep breath, willing away all of the fears and doubts and tomorrows. There is only now, he tells himself. Only the moment, only the arrow, only the target and only me. And in the back of his head, he hears the wolf growl. The arrow flies free. And lands true.
"Take these," Ned places the letters into Grand Maester Pycelle's withered old hands, each sealed with grey wax, imprinted with the direwolf. "One to The Eyrie, the other to Riverrun."
"Ah, of course," the old man bows, accepting the missives. "May I ask what is their concern?"
"You may not," Ned insists. "It is personal. A family matter."
"Of course," Pycelle scratches his long white beard. "You may rest assured that whatever domestic activities concern you so, they are safe with my birds."
I should hope so, Ned thinks, leaving the chambers. If we can no longer trust the maesters, who then can we trust? Only pray his late streak of rotten luck does not extend to the ravens in their flight. He has fretted over these letters for a day now, but he knows he can wait no longer. Too many lives hang in the balance to hesitate. If Leyla tells the truth, then Catelyn will receive the message in the Eyrie and her brother Edmure at Riverrun will dutifully destroy the other. But if Catelyn is indeed at Riverrun and the other message finds its way to Lysa Arryn… He does not want to dwell too long on what may happen then.
He finds Jory waiting for him at the bottom of the stair.
"Send for the children. And find me Yoren and Syrio Forel as well. And once you've done that, I will need to buy passage on a boat to White Harbor, for all of us."
She had almost fought again with Arya that morning. But ever since she had begun to train with Ser Aron, she had found her temper easier to control. And so while her sister was being awful at the morning meal, she had kept a stern face and level gaze on her bread and sausage, and not said a word. So now that they were being summoned to Father's chambers, she cannot begin to imagine why. She is even more surprised to find Edward already waiting their as well, that same morose look on his face. Only now the same somber look is on Father's, too.
"Father, what's wrong?" she asks. Has something happened to Mother? The Lannisters had already tried to kill Father… She never should have taken the Imp!
"Some… very serious matters have come to my attention," Ned looks down at them from behind his desk, hands folded over each other, each word chosen slowly and deliberately, has he would do back in Winterfell whenever he had to leave on a long trip. "I have sent Jory to hire a ship. I am returning all three of you to Winterfell."
"You can't!" Arya blurts out as Sansa feels her blood turn cold as ice. She stands, unmoving, ignorant to Arya's brash protestations. It can't be, she tells herself. I've been perfect, more than perfect, it can't be for nothing!
"Father you mustn't!" she finally finds herself talking out loud. "I can't leave the city, I'm to marry Joffrey! I'm to be the queen! I have to be here to do that! Here! Not Winterfell!" She looks desperately to Edward for support, but he says nothing, only staring blankly off into space.
"Sansa, I cannot explain everything now," Ned tries to calm his daughters. "But this match with Joffrey was a mistake. I swear you will marry a great lord, a gentle and kind man who will treat you as you deserve. He will give you strong, loving children. And one day you will understand why…"
"And my children will not be princes!" Sansa snaps, clenching her fists as disbelief turns to rage. "And that lord will never be king! Joffrey is gentle and kind and he loves me and I love him! He's going to kill the white stag and he's going to bring it back to me and it will hang over our wedding bed! And I will have his son and one day he will sit on the Iron Throne and be the greatest king that Westeros has ever known, as brave as the wolf and as proud as the lion!"
"No he won't!" Arya stops her angry tears to laugh mockingly. "Not if Joffrey's the father! Then he'd be stupid and a bully!"
"Don't talk that way about him!" Sansa's hand flies up, nearly abandoning her hard fought patience. But she hesitates, and Arya does not, shoving her sister back, toppling to the ground.
"Girls, stop that this instant!" Ned rises thunderously, and Arya immediately bows back in submission. Sansa, however, lying on the ground, tangled in her dress, feels her blood begin to boil in a way it never has before. She has had enough.
"You're the stupid one!" she yells at Arya. "You wouldn't know a great king if he stepped on you, Arya Underfoot! And one of these days, someone's liable to do just that, if you can't remember your place. You just hate us because we're better than you! Joffrey will be a great king, wise and brave and handsome and fierce! He's not at all like King Robert! And you'd best stay out of his way!"
Turning away in a fury, she throws open the door and storms out past the guards, who stand unsure of what to do. She hears Father call for Septa Mordane and runs faster, down the hall and onto the stairs until a small hand wraps around her wrist and tugs back. Whirling about, she raises her hand once more, intent to strike Arya for real this time. But instead, it is Edward. She freezes, seeing his tearful eyes looking up at him.
"I'm sorry…" his voice is barely a whisper.
"Sorry for what?" Sansa scoffs, tearing her wrist free and storming on. Stupid boy, always apologizing for things that weren't his fault…
Sansa is out of sight by the time Ned and Septa Mordane reach the foot of the steps, but Jory is waiting there.
"Fat Tom and Albett went after her," he reports.
"Good," Ned sighs. "Take the septa and bring her back here. No one must know of this." He turns back into the tower to see Arya watching him. "I've sent for Syrio. If he will enter my service, he may return with us to Winterfell." That seems to brighten her mood.
"Sansa's right, you know," she smirks. "Joffrey's not at all like the king. He's worse!"
In ways you don't even know, Ned thinks as she scampers away back up the stairs. But something sticks with him. He's not at all like King Robert, Sansa had said. Slowly, the pieces begin to fall in place – the genealogies, the bastards, everything Jon Arryn had done and said… There could only be one answer. How could I be so blind?
Turning once more, he marches out the door of the tower and into the courtyard. This was it, the sword that had killed Jon Arryn, that would kill Robert soon enough, of that he had no doubt now. But what can I do, now that I know? Who can I trust? Renly? Littlefinger? Varys? Pycelle? Ser Barristan? There is one thing Ned knows for certain. The Hightowers must not find out. It is deep in thought that he nearly barrels over his Master of Whisperers as Varys steps into his path.
"My lord, where are you off to in such great hurry?" Varys' face flushes red in concern. "Is something wrong? Have you already heard?"
"Heard what?" Ned stops in his tracks.
Varys face suddenly droops, turning paler than usual. "Messengers have arrived from the Riverlands demanding your audience. I fear they bear dire news."
Ser Barristan Selmy winces as he limps about the sick ward, pain shooting up through left heel, over his ribs and wrapping around his spine with every heavy, limping step he took. But he grits his teeth harder and presses on, waving away the nervous septa following along behind him. She's liable to drive herself mad chasing after me, Barristan thinks. A pretty, chattering young girl, always rushing to his side at his every move, eager to hear and answer every word. What is the opposite of a silent sister, he wonders?
But in the end, just a few strides short of the door - that damned wooden door that stays closed between him and the world beyond, between him and his duty - the pain gets too much. He turns around and hobbles back to his bed, grunting with each pace, until he collapses onto the dusty, stiff mattress. He irritably scratches his beard, grown long and unruly since the duel.
"Do you need some water, Lord Commander?" the septa asks.
"Yes, yes, get me some water," Barristan sends her away, settling back into rest to enjoy the few brief moments of peace and quiet. He wonders if the other patients here get such a treatment, and doubts it. I am only the Lord Commander, I live to serve. I do not deserve special treatment. But, he cannot help but wonder, if he does not heal, what service will be left of him? The greatest swordsman in Westeros, barely able to walk. He scoffs at the thought.
The door creaks open and Barristan groans. How is she back so soon? But it is not the septa entering the ward, but the Hand to the King, Ned Stark. By the look on Ned's face, he can instantly see something is wrong.
"What's happened?"
"The Mountain," Ned answers plainly, and Barristan can already predict the rest. "Lord Darry came today, along with many others from the Riverlands. They say that men from the west have been pillaging their lands, burning their fields, slaughtering men and boys and raping men and girls. And they swear that Gregor Clegane leads them."
"Vengeance for Tyrion Lannister, no doubt," Barristan sighs and finds himself coughing as Ned sits himself in a chair next to him. "I had prayed I would not live to see another war."
"Do not call it that!" Ned looks to him as if he has only now considered the word. "It is not that! The Mountain is a mad dog, he always has been! You know that as well as I!" Barristan shudders, remembering the fates of Elia Martell and her children. "Whatever this fresh evil is, I will see that he sees justice."
"A dog he may be, just like his brother, but every dog answers their own master. Sandor answers to Cersei. And Gregor… you know who Gregor answers to. He would never do such a thing without word from Lord Tywin."
"Then I will have words with Lord Tywin as well. But first, the bloodshed must stop. And of all the times for the king to go hunting…"
"We can all agree such madness must be ended. You do not need my council to determine that," grunting, Barristan props himself back up so that he may look into Ned's eyes. "So tell me, Lord Stark, why are you here?"
"Ser Loras Tyrell has volunteered to lead a force to capture the Mountain," Ned sighs. "As has Lord Beric Dondarrion, and even Jalabar Xo."
"And yet you are the Hand of the King. Only you hold the authority of the throne. And his quarrel is with your family. Only you have the voice that even Tywin Lannister will listen to. And yet still, you are here."
Ned sighs wearily, and Barristan wonders how long it has been since the man has slept. "There are… matters that have arisen. And with Robert away, I fear what will happen if I leave. But it is my duty as Hand to keep the peace when the king cannot. I must not wait upon his return. And this bloodshed is, in a part, the fault of me and my household." He raises his hands in the air, as if he is climbing and has reached for a branch that is not there. Slowly, gently, Barristan reaches down and wraps both hands in his own.
"Lord Stark… I can see you already know the answer."