For the first time since he entered the walls of King's Landing so many weeks ago, Ned Stark feels free. He is beneath the open sky once more, breathing air not polluted by the constant muck and piss of the streets, feeling a cool and open breeze blow down over his face, seeing green in every direction. It is not the North. But for now, it will do.

There are only two things here on the open road that weigh upon his soul, but they are heavy loads to bear. The first is the task ahead – praying that his letters have found Catelyn in time and that Lord Tywin will listen to reason when his son is freed. He shudders to think of any further life lost, and what that could mean for peace in the realm. The second, though, is worse. For one can win a battle against steel and flesh. It is much harder to vanquish a ghost.

Ashara Dayne.

He has tried so long to forget. In many ways, it has been a lifetime, for the boy who had fallen in love with her at Harrenhall was long gone, erased and redrawn by the cruelties of history as the man he is now. And Ashara? She was gone completely, plucked from this mortal world, her raven hair and violet eyes never to be seen again by him nor any other, save for in dreams. And he had not dreamed of her for many years.

They said she had thrown herself from the Palestone Sword, the tallest tower at Starfall, down into the sea. Her body was never found. There had been stories, rumors, even songs that floated north of why Ashara could have done such a thing. 'A crime against the gods, to throw away such beauty' one singer had said. Ned had sent the man away at once. Because whatever reason, whatever cause was offered, it all came back to him. And he had a wife to love, children to raise. He could not carry such guilt with him into his new life, and so he let it be washed away, every last memory, drowned with the boy he was, at the bottom of the sea with his first love.

But now it was back. The damned Hightower woman, in her relentless pursuit of him, had somehow conjured up the last shred of Ashara that lay buried in the back of his skull. For he too had stood in the Palestone Sword once, on the night he killed the boy within, the night he left Starfall for his true home. The last words she had said to him -

"There is more in this life beneath the stars than you could ever hope to know, Ned."

Ned's chair at the head of the table sits starkly empty in the Hand's solar as Sansa, Edward and Arya break their fast under the watchful eye of Septa Mordane. To Sansa's relief, Arya was gracefully silent, no doubt busy dreaming of running back to Winterfell with her stupid dancing master. Edward is quiet as well, but that much is no surprise.

"Septa!" the guard at the door calls in. "Lord Baelish is here to see the children."

Hastily making certain that her dress is properly straightened, Sansa turns to the doorway as the Master of Coin enters in a tightly fit silver tunic, his hair and thin beard impeccably brushed in a way that strikes Sansa as both elegant and effortless. He strides into the room as if he has been within a thousand times.

"Good morning, children!" Baelish grins from ear to ear.

"Good morning, Lord Baelish," the siblings answer, Arya irritatingly out of pace with the others.

"Now, what have I told you?" the lord shakes his head in mock disapproval as he rounds the table. "Call me lord if you must but please, always Petyr. You make me sound a decrepit old man with your formalities."

Septa Mordane raises one eyebrow as Petyr slides down smoothly into Ned's empty seat, but she does not object, only question in her constant, stern tone:

"And what brings you here this morning, m'lord?"

"The children's welfare of course," Petyr smiles, helping himself to what is left of the morning meal. "It must get very lonely up here in this creaky old tower. To be so far away from your mother, and now your father… well, I was never close to my parents but I can see how much your family loves each other."

"We all miss Father very much," Sansa answers, and feels herself blush. A lie. Can he tell?

"Which is why I am here," Petyr dumps a heaping spoon of sugar into his porridge. "I want you to know that whatever you need, anything at all, I am here for you. You need only ask. This city can be a confusing, frightening place, but I can help make sense of it all. You only need call out. I have very good hearing, you know."

Arya laughs garishly as the lord wiggles his ears. But Septa Mordane's expression only sours.

"I can assure you, Lord Petyr, that myself and Master Jory have the children's needs quite well taken care of. You needn't bother yourself."

"Ah yes, of course," Petyr's smile makes his mustache wriggle like a hairy worm as he leans back in Ned's chair. "Surely you know best in matters of piety, and your captain shall command the guard, but you are both newcomers here yourselves. I could show them the shipyards or the maesters' hall, the artist's galleries and the finest markets where they sell only the most exotic and exquisite goods from across the sea."

"Oh, yes, please Lord Petyr!" Sansa blurts out, leaning forward eagerly as her mind conjures all manner of dresses and jewels. And he is the Master of Coin, perhaps he may even buy me new gowns, colorful, brilliant ones, not like the drab ones Father brought from Winterfell.

"Are there very great artists in the city?" Edward asks eagerly.

"Only the greatest!" Petyr boasts.

"And big ships?" Even Arya's attention is captured now.

"The biggest!" And so Petyr Baelish passes the rest of the meal under Septa Mordane's skeptical eye, regaling the young Starks with stories of all the capital city has to offer.

"Bah, your grace!" Urrigon Hightower coughs, droplets of ale shaking loose from his thick, wiry beard as he reclines beside the noon fire, a wad of salted meat gripped in his hand. His eyes roll up to the thick forest canopy above them. "What do you require now?"

"I already told you, you have to teach me how to kill the stag!" Joffrey Baratheon glares down angrily at his trainer. The day was only half done and the huge knight was already drunk and ignoring the prince's commands.

"Your father pays me to show you how to fight, not to hunt," Urrigon takes a fierce bite of the dry meat, tugging harshly to tear the stringy sinew apart. "I ne'er been much a hunter myself."

"What good are you too me then?" Joffrey kicks angrily at Urrigon, but the knight's heavy leg is unmoved, and he barely notices the blow. The prince whirls about on his heel and storms off, past the watchful eyes of his sworn shield.

"Why don't you ask your father, your grace?" The Hound's voice growls out from behind his helm, the dog's-head visor disguising his smirk. "Surely he has time to teach you. My father taught me to hunt, I suspect that's what most fathers do."

"I won't ask him!" Joffrey snaps back.

"Why not?"

"Because he's the king! King's do not do such things," Joffrey marches on. In truth, he can never ask his father because to ask would be to admit he does not know. And that he cannot allow, not now, not when the king is finally beginning to see him as a man, to pay attention. Urrigon had helped with that – teaching him to fight, leaving him bruises to show off at the dinner table. Why couldn't he teach him to hunt as well?

"Stupid old drunk," he mutters.

"You aren't wrong." Peremor Hightower steps out from beneath the shade of a willow tree. Startled, Joffrey stumbles back. But Peremore only continues in his same, cold, unwavering tone. "My father is both stupid and a drunk. But what do you need him for? Surely you've killed before."

"Of course," Joffrey reasserts his composure, putting back on his royal authority. "I've killed rabbits and birds and even cats. Cats are very hard to catch you know. But… nothing like this. And I must have that stag. Gods, if the Darry bastard finds it first…"

"Of course you must have it," the older boy matches pace with the prince. "You could not buy a better omen for a new reign unless you were to make the dragons fly again."

"Exactly! You understand!" Joffrey wraps one arm over Peremore's shoulders as the walk, yanking his head down to his level. "So you have to help me."

"Well, I am a bit of a hunter myself. Of all things. My sister and I, we have learned many tricks to find that which does not want to be found."

"Good, good," Joffrey pulls away, thoughts spinning about in his head. "If I get the kill, I'll give you any reward you ask for, anything in the kingdom. Gold, whores, a ship, a dragon skull, Valyrian steel, even Sansa, if that's what you want!"

When the Prince finally stops, a disinterested Peremore only points at his garish golden riding cloak. "First, you need to get rid of that. Any deer will see you a mile away in the woods. Find something dark. Then we can begin."

"Very good, Edward!" Jalabar Xo nods approvingly. Edward hurries down to pry his arrows free from the target. Today he had made some of his best shots yet. As he returns to the quiver, the back of his legs ache from hopping to and fro, balancing on one leg, all the exercises that his teacher has tasked him with. He's getting better every day, he could feel it in his sore muscles and see it in Jalabar's face. But it was not just his growing skill that had led him to excel today. No, it was Princess Myrcella's watchful eyes, gazing like emeralds down from her seat atop the yard wall. They were his inspiration.

When he returns to Jalabar, however, the prince is not alone. Ser Arys Oakheart, his white armor glistening in the sun, is examining his bow.

"You've learned well from his grace of the islands, lad," Arys smiles. His helm removed, the knight's brown hair tussled and tangled from a day packed down beneath steal. "I good squire goes wasted without a knight. At Old Oak, my father taught me never to let anything go to waste." He drops to one knee to return the bow to Edward. "When Ser Jaime dishonored himself, he dishonored you as well. I swear, you need never fear the same from me."

At first Edward is confused. Jalabar nudges him with his foot. "The good ser asks you to serve him now, boy."

"From this day until the day you are knighted." Arys stands again. "What say you?"

"I…" Edward stammers. What can he say? How could he ever say no? He tries to remember if he ought to bow or kneel. "Yes! Yes, of course, ser. Your every need is my command!"

"Well, I have no needs as of now," Arys laughs. "Run on and see to your day. But I expect to see you moved back into your old bed in the White Sword Tower by morning!"

"Of course, ser!" Edward turns and runs off, eager to tell Father… until he remembers that Father is no longer in the city. And had sworn to send them all home when he returned, far away from Ser Arys… But that thought will be saved for later, for now Myrcella, Sansa, Jeyne and Rosamund have come down to see him.

"You did very well today, Edward," Sansa beems. But Edward's eyes look past his sister to the princess.

"How was your day?" he asks earnestly.

"Oh, it's been fine so far," Myrcella shrugs. "It is a good day to be outside."

"Did you see Ser Arys? He's going to make me his squire!"

"I suppose that will give you something to do other than shoot arrows all day."

"I've gotten a lot better though, don't you think?"

"Of course, just like your sister said," Myrcella looks away, as if searching for something vaguely over the horizon. "I think Ros and I will go watch the seabirds. The septon says they hold omens for those on the hunt."

Edward's momentum grinds to a halt as Myrcella turns away and wonders off, her cousin following behind. At first, he is not quite sure what has happened. He knows that the two of them have grown apart since his first weeks in the city. He had been so focused on his work, and then so tormented by his fear and stress… He thought his archery would win her attention back, or becoming a squire again, but instead she leaves to count seabirds? Had her fascination in him only ever been in the strange northern boy with the wolf? If so… he suddenly realizes that no arrows or polished armor will when the princesses favor back. But he knows what will.

"Edward!" Sansa's voice jars him back from the depths of his thoughts. "Edward, stop daydreaming, there's something I need to talk to you about!"

"Not now!" Edward brushes her aside as he dashes on and up the stairs, remembering the path to the maester's chambers. Myrcella may be bored by a squire. But surely no one could be bored by a warg!

"I don't know what you two see in that stupid game," Patrice Hightower stumbles past her husband's cousins, Alysanne and Leyla, their eyes focused intently on a game of cyvasse. Patrice slams the empty gilded goblet in her hand down hard on the table, face flushed red from the many times it has already been filled today.

"Cyvasse sharpens the mind like a whetstone sharpens a sword," Alysanne answers.

"No, no, you already said that about books," Patrice stifles a hiccup, watching intently as crimson wine pours down from the flagon and spirals into the depths of the goblet, a hypnotic liquid dance far more fascinating than any game. "Come up with a new excuse for being so dull."

"If we bore you so, why don't you run off and find some knight's bed to shake, now that Uri's run off to the hunt?" Leyla glares.

"Excuse me!" Patrice gasps in half-mocking offense. She spins about on her heel, drunkenly toppling forward, sending thick drops of wine sloshing over the edge of the goblet. "Mine and my husband's affairs are no business of yours."

"And you do mean affairs," Leyla smirks, moving a piece forward on the board.

"As if you can talk, the way you chased after Lord Stark!"

"Lord Stark was a piece in the game, cousin," Alysanne sighs. She spins a tiny carved ivory man in a circle on his place on the board. "Like this rabble. Or better yet an elephant, as stubborn as he was. The elephant is one of the most powerful pieces, but the most difficult to move. You must find just the right way to steer it onto its path. We failed to find it."

"And now he's doomed," Leyla sighs, her mood suddenly souring.

"Doomed truly? No wonder he's so grim!" Patrice begins to laugh hysterically. The flagon narrowly misses Alysanne's head as her arms flail about. "Did another little ghost whisper that in your ear at night, cousin?"

"Give me the wine," Leyla commands coldly. Reluctantly, Patrice hands the flagon over and Leyla raises it directly to her lips. Patrice sputters as Leyla gulps deeply, scarlet drink splashing over her lips and running slowly down over her olive skin like blood until there is none left. She lets the empty flagon clatter to the ground. "If you want more, get it yourself."

Patrice, for once at a loss for words, turns away and ambles cautiously to the over-stuffed lounge in the far corner of the room, dropping down atop an absurd amount of pillows.

"His may not be the only life in danger," Alysanne's brow furrows, looking up from the board to her sister and back down again. "The princess was watching the birds over the bay today and praying for a safe hunt. An albatross crashed into the wall just below her, shattered it's skull all over the red stone. She cried for hours, they say. She thinks it is a sign the king is in danger."

"You worry too much," Patrice shakes her head and sinks deeper into the lounge pillows. "The men are off playing what games men do. They will bed a few whores, chase tracks in circles, run out of wine and come staggering back home. This is not the East, there are no omens in this land. No harm will come to the king in the woods."

The royal wine wagon is stuck in a rut.

"This is so stupid," Tyrek Lannister grunts, kicking angrily at one heavy wooden wheel, lodged tightly up against a gnarled tree root exposed from beneath the forest road by years of rain. "It's servants' work."

"We are servants," Lyman answers through gritted teeth. His fellow squire has been no help at all, but would be of little use even if he tried, as scrawny as the boy was. And so he pushes harder on the rear of the wagon as the cart driver whips the horses harder at the front.

"Servants to the king!" Tyrek protests still. "We ought to be with him, not back here. He shouldn't go out of our sight. The queen made that very clear!"

"Is Cersei king now? What happened to the royal beard?" Lyman glares, muscles straining as he desperately tries to find a better grip as the weight of the wagon pushes back on him. "We take orders from King Robert and King Robert values this wine more than all the gold in the kingdom, so here we stand until we get it out of this bloody rut!"

"You don't need to be so cross."

"Then push, gods damn you!" Lyman screams, spittle flying from his mouth onto the wood planks inches from his skull. Jarred from his indignation, Tyrek rushes forward and, crashing into the wagon with a thunk, gives just enough momentum to send the whole thing groaning forward. Lyman crashes face first in the dirt as the strained horses drag the wagon further down the road at a breakneck pace, the driver showing no sign of slowly down.

"See, I did it!" Tyrek beams proudly as Lyman picks himself up out of the dust. "Wasn't so hard after all!" The older squire slowly turns to stare at him with dead, disbelieving eyes. He stands still for a moment before finally, with all the force used on the wagon, shoves the Lannister boy into the bushes.

"Fetch the horses!" he shouts before turning away to trudge on foot down the road. "I'll catch up eventually. But you mustn't be late. Wouldn't want the king to shit himself without you there to watch! Cersei would never approve." Hearing no response, he marches on, eyes straight ahead on the black and gold pennant trailing behind the wagon as it barrels on, deeper and deeper into the darkening forest.

The golden stag upon his black tunic is hidden beneath a drag, ratty cloak as Renly Baratheon follows Garrett Flowers down the Street of Steel. Normally, he would be on horseback, unveiled, basking in the cheers of those who recognized him. These are my people, he thinks. I should not be hiding from them. But if what Littlefinger had told them was true, secrecy was key.

"How much further is it?" he hisses at the Tyrell bastard leading the way through the crowd. It was a blistering hot day for this late in the season and the cloak was heavy, scratchy and suffocating.

"You need ask no more, my lord," Garrett smirks his irksome weasel grin. "We are here."

Renly stops and looks at the sight before him, for a moment in shock. He had no idea any tradesman here upon the Street of Steel had such a luxurious manse – The great hulk of wood and plaster looms high over every near building, a huge door of ebony and weirwood is guarded by two gleaming red suits of armor crafted in the styles of a griffin and a unicorn.

"What manner of man are we here to see?"

"Master Mott is not at home, my lord, and that is by no accident," Garrett answers. "Follow me." He guides Renly away from the crimson sentinels down the high stone wall surrounding the smith's property until they find a small gate in the corner. There, a waifish serving girl swings open the door to welcome them in. Garrett palms her a coin and the men walk in.

Renly grimaces as the deafening sounds of steelwork begin to rise in their clamor, echoing out from a cavernous stone barn. Within it lies a dozen forges, but only three are lit now. Two huge older men toil by two of the fires, but the third is different. From the worker's lean, thin but muscled bare back, Renly knows him to be a youth. And as he turns, he knows that Littlefinger in this at least has not been false.

"Gendry!" Garrett greets the lad. He cannot be older than 15, but is near as tall as Renly, with deep blue eyes, a jaw chiseled as if from stone and thick black hair, scarred by dark, stubbly scruff striving to one day be a fierce beard. Renly knows the face at first glance. For once it was his own face, and before that, it had been his brother Robert's.

"I'm sorry, my lord," Gendry throws up his hands in supplication, "but I already told the sellsword, I can't leave. I'm Master Mott's apprentice. I'd be glad to take your order, but if you want to hire me away, you'll have to speak to Master Mott. He's already made plans for me. But I'll be here a while longer, if you want a new helm, perhaps. I'm very good."

Turning back away, the smith rummages about his workbench and produces a gleaming steel helm in the shape of a bull, the finest craftmanship Renly has ever seen. He pulls it into his hands to examine more closely, feeling the smooth, perfectly shaped metal beneath his soft hands. Even if he wasn't Robert's bastard, I'd buy him away to Storm's End nonetheless.

"You are mistaken, lad," Garrett wraps one arm over Gendry's sweaty shoulder. "I am no lord…"

"I am," Renly lowers his hood and Gendry's jaw drops. "I want to hire you to serve House Baratheon at Storm's End."

"I… I…" Gendry stammers. "My lord, I'm sorry, but I cannot!"

"Why?" Renly recoils, unused to denial. "Our forges are even greater than these here and our coffers filled with royal gold. You are clearly a man of great skill. But this is a cruel world. One day your apprenticeship will end, and then what will you do? Continue to serve here under that Quorik goat Mott or try to make it on your own?" He leans closer, placing the helm firmly back into Gendry's hands. "Trust me. The gutters are littered with men just as talented as you."

"Like I told you and the others already, I would come if I could!" Gendry insists, backing away. "But I can't! Master Mott spoke with Ned Stark and that other Northerner, the one from the Wall. He sold my service to the Night's Watch."

Stark is smarter than I thought, Renly glances to Garrett before placing both his hands assuringly on Renly's shoulders. For a moment, he pauses to examine the face, their matching eyes, hair, chin… He remembers his own youth. It was not so long ago in fact. But to be a lord ages a man.

"Listen to me, Gendry," he whispers. "Don't believe for one moment that you can just be traded off like a spare mule. Ned Stark doesn't want you to make swords for those pathetic crows to stab savages with. He wants to hide you away to freeze your balls off on the edge of the world because he knows who you really are. You aren't just some street rat. You're the son of the king. And you deserve to live like one."

The fire crackles in the night. Ned has taken first watch, to let his men rest before him for once. But he is more weary than he had realized. He forces back a yawn, squinting into the flames to stop his eyelids from drooping. The light is dwindling, but he cannot bring himself to retrieve another log. Instead he watches the burning tongues twist and dance and send sparks flying up into the dark night sky. They dance the way Ashara had danced at Harrenahal.

And then, rising up from the smoke he sees her face and is frozen in time – Her swaying raven hair, violet eyes that begged him closer, pointed chin that had rested upon his shoulder for all of a dance he'd wished would never end…

But he blinks, and the hair becomes pale blonde, the eyes light blue and the face a boy's. The ghost turns corporeal as Edric Dayne steps out of the shadow.

"I'm here to take your watch, my lord. I hope I didn't frighten you."

"No, not at all," Ned shakes his head, turning back to his tent. He does not fear the dark. He only fears what may await in his dreams.

A/N: Gendry has entered the chat. Edward is on the cusp of unlocking his full potential, not realizing his love has eyes for another. Mysteries are beginning to unravel as others only deepen. As always, thanks for reading! All feedback in the comments below is greatly appreciated. I hope you've been enjoying this spin on the story and how Edward has shifted the saga we love so well. Things are only going to get more intense from here!