It is in one of the seedier taverns of King's Landing that Jory Cassel finds the archer. The tall, lanky lad, tangled red hair flopping down over his eyes, freckles darkened by the red flush of wine and ale, is collapsed in his chair at a central table, surrounded by women.
"That's enough ladies!" Jory shouts, applauding. "He doesn't have enough coin left in his purse to pay for a single one of you."
"What?" Anguy is shocked back to sobriety by the sudden entrance of the Hand's captain. "That's not true! I'm a champion, I have… I have so much gold!" But the women are beginning to drift away, shooting him deadly glares. Some flit past Jory on his way out, and he regrets having no more time to linger here. Instead, he takes the seat across the table. "What was that for, you bastard?" Anguy asks angrily, his voice cracking as he shouts.
"I saved you trouble, you should be thanking me," Jory smirks. "Give you much longer and you'd be doing trick shots for the barkeep to pay off your debts. It's a bit impressive, I must say. Few men could manage to spend so much gold so quickly."
"I already told you, I don't want to join no lord's guard," Anguy insists. "My current… financial situation has not changed that concern. I'll just win another contest."
"I assure you, there will be no such contests here for some time. And I am not offering you a place on the Hand's guard."
For a moment, Anguy pauses, mulling over his options. "What do you want then?"
"Outlaws and brigands run wild in the Riverlands. The Lord Hand is assembling a force to take them down. If you don't want to be hired as a guard, archer, how about as a hero?"
"Did you find him?" Ned Stark asks as Jory returns to the Hand's private chambers.
"And just in time," Jory reports. "He's getting himself washed down and sobered up. He'll be in line with the others in the morning."
"Good," Ned nods approvingly. His face is lost in shadow, the dark room lit only by a single grey candle, dripping thick wax onto the table beneath it. Jory squints in the darkness to see the other two shadows in the room – one is only a floating head, his black clothes disappeared in the dim light: Yorren, the crow flown down from the Wall. The other's clothes are more garish, and his copper skin glistens under the candlelight as he rubs his thin mustache between his fingers – Syrio Forell, little Arya's 'dancing instructor,' a swordsmaster from Braavos.
"I will command the force, with Lord Darry, Lord Dondarrion and Thoros of Myr beneath me," Ned continues. "I will be taking most of my personal guard with me, as the Lannister men in the city cannot be trusted to fight their own. Jory, you will remain here with the rest."
"My lord!" Jory's jaw drops. Ned had not told him this part of the plan. "I should be with you!"
"No. I will have the lords for my captains in the field," Ned places his hands on Jory's shoulders, just as he has so many times over the years since he returned from the south, returned from the tower where Jory's father lies buried. "I need you here, to protect the children. It is too much of a risk to send them away in my absence. They must remain in the Keep, and we shall pretend as if nothing has changed. But the moment I return, they will go North on a ship chartered for the Night's Watch."
"My lord, you know that it is best to return over land," Yorren protests. "So that I may find more recruits along the way."
"There will be more than enough prisoners to satisfy your losses when I return from the Riverlands," Ned assures him.
"Perhaps even the Mountain himself," Syrio muses.
"Perhaps," Yorren nods. "The Watch has made good use of worse than him. Though I don't expect him to be taken alive. You'll have to send his head to ole' Tywin Lannister to put an end to this, mark my words."
"In the next days, my lady wife shall release Tyrion Lannister unharmed and recant her accusations," Ned insists. "We have come upon new information. When Lord Tywin hears that his son is freed, I have no doubt that he will denounce Ser Gregor's actions and command him over to my justice."
"Now that's a sight I'd like to see," Jory smiles.
"Until I return, I turn charge of my children over to the three of you," Ned declares. He extends his hand and one by one the others join him in the flickering light. "I pray that the old gods and the new give you strength to weather the night. Until we meet again."
Edward's courage has returned by the time his Father is prepared to ride out from the city. At least, whatever little courage he had to begin with. He has felt the wolf within him again, loosed his arrows true to target, run and jumped with precision at Jalabar Xo's commands. So much that he has almost forgotten Jaime's betrayal, his sister's anger or the lives that his secret has cost in the Riverlands. Only almost, however, for they hover like ghosts over his mood, ready to descend at any moment as he goes to the yard to send off the riders.
"Edward!" He hears the voice call behind him and turns to see Edric Dayne walking through the crowd. The young lord stands out amongst all the rest in a cloth of silver doublet speckled with black stars, his lilac cloak hanging still over his shoulders. "I wish you well!"
"Where are you going?"
"Your father has honored Lord Beric with a command beneath him to bring Gregor Clegane to justice. As his squire, I am bound to follow. It will be my first combat."
"Then I ought to wish you well!" Edward reaches out to earnestly shake the older boy's hand. "But you shouldn't worry, Father says that Ser Gregor will come peaceably once Tyrion Lannister is safely returned!"
"Did he tell you that?" Edric's right eyebrow spikes skeptically.
"Yes…" Edward pauses, suddenly doubting his father's promise.
"Well, he is a very wise man. I am sure he knows Lord Tywin and his men better than anyone. Then I will hope to return home with my sword unbloodied." He flashes a smile as he turns away, but Edward can tell he is nervous. He doesn't believe what he's saying.
Pushing that thought away, he moves on, finding Sansa and Arya. Father has found them already. He avoids making eye contact with Sansa as he arrives, her face sullen and angry, unwilling to look up at Ned as he bids his farewells. Edward smiles as his father bends down to tussle his hair. He is in the armor he so rarely wore in the North, gleaming and strong and sparkling in the son. His chest swells with pride, convinced that his father looks a grander knight than any other displayed in the company.
"You take care of your sisters now, you hear me?" Ned smiles, letting his hands rest on each of his son's shoulders. "If anything goes wrong, I want you to go to Ser Barristan." Edward nods dutifully. "And when I return, then we'll all go home."
"Is it safe?" Edward asks, his determined façade of bravery beginning to falter as the prospect of Father riding away to war begins to set in.
"It is a tragic misunderstanding," Ned assures him. "Once all is made clear, we will have the Lannisters' backing and Ser Gregor will have no choice but to surrender. But one way or another, he will see justice. That is my duty. All our duties. You saw the people in court, Ed. You heard what these criminals did to them. We cannot bring back what they lost. But we must give them justice."
"I'm going to miss you…" Don't cry, don't be stupid, Edward tells himself. Arya would laugh, and father would be disappointed. He told me to be brave. And so he stops the tears in the corners of his eyes.
"I'll miss you too. But I will think of you every night when I see the Ice Dragon in the sky. You look for its eye, Ed. It will always point you North. To home."
"Always," Edward vows, looking to the sky. But there are no stars now, and the sun makes him squint. And he feels another pair of hands on his shoulders as his father stands.
"You are a very brave man, Lord Stark," Petyr Baelish says. "Few men would ride in the face of Tywin Lannister's wrath."
"Bravery had nothing to do with it, Lord Baelish," Ned eyes him suspiciously. "And if Tywin has hand in these crimes, it is out of foolish misunderstanding. When the truth is made clear, he shall have no quarrel and the Mountain will take the Black or lose his head."
"Oh, I hope so very much," Varys steps forward out of the crowd. "I pray for your safety. We all do, of course, though the queen could not come to send her regards in person. She's taken ill."
"Then I will pray for her health," Ned answers bluntly before turning back to the children. "You must all be on your best behavior until I return," he commands.
"We will, Father!" Edward salutes but the girls have no answer. And so Ned turns and walks on, clanking in his armor to where his horse awaits. He hates the armor, heavy and stiff, almost as much as he hates war. But this is no war, he tells himself. It is stopping a war. Cut off the head of the snake before it can bite anyone else. Unfortuantely, first he has to leave this damnable city, and that require passing through the waves of well-wishers, thicker than any enemy army. And chief among them, waiting directly by his horse, is Leyla Hightower.
"My lady, please leave me be," he declares. "I've made my position very clear."
"That you have," she shrugs, and Ned sees something different in her eyes. Something he has never seen before. She leans forward, speaking in a hushed tone. "That is not why I'm here. You shouldn't be leaving the city, not now. Not with the king gone. The throne must not sit empty in a time like this. We need the Hand. We need you."
"The people of the Riverlands need me. I will put an end to the Mountain's violence and return. I should hope his highness will be back himself before I am finished, and all will be restored as it should be." He moves to mount his horse, but Leyla steps into his way.
"There is more to this than Ser Gregor Clegane cutting down smallfolk in the mud. My family knows this, and I think you know it too. These are dark times, Lord Stark. The darkest, perhaps, in many generations. There are foul signs in the skies…"
"What do you know of signs? Do not speak to me of mummer's games," Ned tries to keep his patience. What is this, another game to steal her way into my bed?
"You should understand this!" her voice begins to rise. "House Stark stands watch, just as we do!"
"And what does the Hightower stand watch against?"
"The winter and the summer. The night and the day. The ice and the fire. The Hightower sees all, Lord Stark. I swear to you, it is not too late to turn back. Not too late to stay with me."
"I took a vow to my wife and to my king," Ned turns away. "From that moment on it has been too late for anything but my duty. I wish you a happy life with your husband my lady, and may the gods bless you with many children. By the time I return to this city, I hope you will have returned home to Oldtown. You may tell your lord father Edward will not be matched with your niece."
Ned has one hand on the saddle when Leyla reaches out and pulls back tight on his arm. Feeling a rush of anger he tugs back, but when he looks back her eyes are wide and manic, her voice dropping to a deep growl.
"You will never return to this city, Lord Stark. Not while its walls still stand!"
Letting the saddle go, Ned drops back down to face Leyla. She breathes heavily as he draws near and he feels the warm perfume blow up over his face. She grabs his hands, pulling them into the softness of her stomach. "What do you mean?"
"There is more in this life beneath the stars than you could ever hope to know, Ned," she whispers, and it stop his heart.
"Who told you that?" Before he can stop himself, Ned has shoved her away.
Realizing he has yelled, he looks about, but sees no one watching. Whirling back about, in an instant, he sees a ghost before him – Ashara Dayne. And he hears those words echo in his head once more. But then he blinks, and Ashara is gone and Leyla's broad backside is turned, ambling hurriedly away. Grunting, Ned finally climbs atop his horse and flicks the reigns, hoping the sound of pounding hooves will drown out the memories.
Lyman Darry's thighs ache from the hours of riding as the royal party makes its painfully slow path, winding down the road to the Kingswood. He has followed close behind the king for every step of the journey, trying to block out Tyrek's whining. This was the furthest the Lannister boy had ever traveled by horseback, and there seemed to be no end to his whinging whenever they dropped out of earshot of the king.
Today, Tyrek was riding closer to the prince, and so Lyman was allowed a brief moment of bliss rising up over this final hill with the vast expanse of the world beneath him. It is truly a beautiful day, he thinks, not a cloud in the sky, sun shining down and the woods a deep and vibrant green. One of the last such days that could be expected before Autumn came. As the horses begin to crest over the hill and drop down towards the forest, Lyman waits for a moment, just taking in the view and the feeling of the day. For all the joys of the city, nothing could compare to this. He feels as if he could ride forever.
"Have you been struck blind? You're standing in the way!" Tyrek breaks the moment. Lyman looks back to see his fellow squire come to a halt behind him, with Joffrey and Peremore by his side. "Go on, get moving!"
"A wise man looks before he leaps to know where his feet will fall," Peremore mutters.
"That's right," Joffrey insists. "If I'm to kill the white stag, I need to know by way about this forest." He stops his horse, a slender golden stallion with a white mane, beside Lyman at the edge of the ridge. "I suppose you have to hunt for your own food back home, plow boy?"
"I hunted often with my father," Lyman ignores the insult. "Because we chose to. Like men."
"Then you will help me find this stag."
"I think not, your grace. I am the king's squire, sworn to help him in his own hunt. If you want someone else to do your hunting for you, maybe you can hire a camp follower. They're always hungry for gold."
With a click, Lyman bids his horse down over the hill towards the woods below. "Come along, Tyrek!" he shouts back. "I'm sure the king is getting thirsty!"
"I can't wait to be back in Winterfell!" Arya's voice is high and sharp like a knife in Sansa's side as she stalks irritably along the ramparts back to the tower, her sister trailing behind, as always. "I'll train with Syrio in the godswood!"
"Good. Far away from me," Sansa mutters.
"Ha! Don't be stupid, you'll be there too!" Arya points and laughs, shrill and bracing and for a moment Sansa wishes she would laugh so hard she'd fall right off the wall.
"That's what you think!" she spins back around. "I'm not leaving, I don't care what Father says! He can't make me leave! I'm going to stay here with the queen and the princess and I'm going to marry Joffrey! You can go back to Winterfell and play with your stupid dancing instructor and marry some dirty stable boy but I'm going to be the queen!"
Arya sticks her tongue out and blows spit, but Sansa ignores her, pacing quickly to the nearest stair. She hears one of the guards call out behind her, giving pursuit, but she heads down anyway, wanting nothing more than to put distance between her and her sister. For a while, she doesn't even look where her feet are taking her, blinded by fury at Arya, at Father, at Edward, at everyone who just couldn't understand, who wouldn't just get out of the way!
Finally, she comes to a stop, finding herself overlooking the yard. Below her, she sees Edward, training again with that Summer Islands prince. She watches as he draws the string of his bow back and lets the arrow fly, straight and true into the hard wood of the target. A truer shot than she has yet to make, and her face flushes with jealousy. Edward was clumsier than a blind calf when he got to the city, now look at him! Clearly, Jalabar Xo was a better teacher than Ser Aron. But she could never train with him. Edward though…
In Sansa's mind, a plan begins to form. She can forgive Edward for whatever secret he may be keeping, so long as he helps her with the bow. Between him and Ser Aron, surely she will learn twice as fast! And when Joffrey returned from his hunt with his bounty, she would have her own bounty waiting for him. He would surely fall in love with her then, she knew. And by the time Father returned home, he would never be able to pull her away. This is my home now, she tells herself. And there's nothing he can do about it.
"Is it safe to assume he didn't listen?" Alysanne Hightower asks, hearing the door to her chambers slam as her sister stalks angrily back. She does not look up from the huge book in front of her, idly flipping a dusty page.
"Of course the man didn't listen," Leyla scoffs, pouring herself an overflowing glass of wine. "All he listens to is his damned honor. It's all he speaks of – honor this and honor that, like a drunk singer who's forgotten all his words. And now it will be the death of him."
"We do not know that for sure," Alysanne sighs. "Your parlor tricks have been wrong before."
Leyla glares at her sister over the top of her goblet. "They have never been this clear. The man signed his doom the moment he passed beneath those walls. But at least that should make it easier to secure the boy. He was going to call off the betrothal."
"Remember sister, the betrothal was never set. I warned you being too forward might foul things up. Not every man's good will lies between his legs. It may well be easier to return the lad to father with Lord Stark gone, but if he does truly die, there will be a new Hand. We must ensure that if that day comes, the choice is one favorable to our goals. Renly will think it should be him, and that cannot be allowed."
"Of course not," Leyla sighs, drawing nearer. "What's that you're reading?"
"A genealogy of sorts. Tracing the lines of the Great Houses."
"Ha! I'm shocked you aren't quivering with excitement as you flip those dirty pages!" Leyla laughs. The goblet shakes and a drop of wine falls down. With quick reflexes, Alysanne catches the crimson stain before it hits the page. She glares up at her sister, who backs away, still chuckling. "By the gods, why would you ever want to read something so dull?"
"Because it's the last book Ned Stark read before leaving the city, to his death as you claim. And it was the last book Jon Arryn read before his own quite certain demise. I think we ought to decipher just what it is within these pages that is causing our Hands to drop like so many flies."