In her chambers, Alysanne Hightower is hunched over her desk in oversized brown robes, staring intently at the dusty tome detailing the genealogies of the Great Houses. The desk is covered with scraps of paper, scrolls, books and notes, as well as candles crusted to the wood beneath by wax left from long hours of burning into the night.
Sitting cross-legged on the floor, her cousin's daughter Maris stares up at her with cold, dark eyes while her sister, Leyla, watches from an over-stuffed chair, huge goblet of wine in one hand and a thick, flaky roll in the other, crumbs scattering down over her bosom as she tears off another bite with her teeth.
"I dare say, perhaps Jon Arryn died of boredom," Leyla sighs.
"No, there's something here," Alysanne insists dismissively, carefully turning a page. "For years, only two men have touched this book save Pycelle when he must update it. Paper this old begins to whither if left in the sun for two long. Pycelle knows better. But a failing old lord looking for answers will leave any old book sitting open where the light of his window can best guide his eyes. The sun leaves a mark – Here, on the House Baratheon."
"Funny, isn't it, how little it takes to make blood royal," Leyla smirks. "That should be our line, sister."
"Not yet," Alysanne glares. "Mind your tongue, even when drunk. These walls have ears."
"There's no one there," Maris answers, breaking her long silence to startle the older women.
"Still…" Alysanne's eyes flit suspiciously about the room. She shuffles through the papers she has collected, stopping on an itinerary kept by Jon Arryn's Captain. "You say that Ned Stark visited these same places during his final days in the city?" Maris nods. "Brothels, tankards, a smith's shop…"
"I can tell you he wasn't visiting the brothels for their wares," Leyla snorts. "Nor the smith. Did you see that dirty old suit of armor of his?"
"Then what for?" Alysanne turns back to the text. "It's clear Jon Arryn knew something… Something that got him killed. Ned Stark wanted to learn the same secret. Gunthor will be here in a matter of days to take the Stark boy back to Father. We must know by then."
"I begin to think the only way to know is to ask old lord Arryn himself," Leyla takes another swig of wine and notes as Maris' attention turns inventively to her.
"No!" Alysanne's back stiffens. "I told you never again!"
"I jest, sister, I jest," raising her hands in defense, Leyla waits for further response. When none comes, she slides the rest of the roll into her mouth. "Then only Ned Stark knows."
"If that is the case, there is no doubt we are on our own," Alysanne slides aside papers to find two torn and soiled missives marked with the seal of House Stark. She looks back to Maris. "Your birds did well to find these."
"The Grand Maester did not want them found," the eerie young girl answers. "But he is not so clever as he thinks."
"Good. I want you to keep a closer watch on the Starks. If Pycelle destroyed these letters, then their father has truly made high enemies here at court. And if anything happens to the Imp… well, they must be protected at all costs."
Rainwater is leaking through his tent. Ned grimaces as a cold, dirty drop lands in the center of his head. Another plops heavily down atop the map of the Riverlands spread out on the table before him, dampening the ink marking Maidenpool.
"How many days ride is it to Sherrer?" he asks.
"4 or 5, depending on these rains," Ser Karyl Vance answers. The tall, lean knight's face seems strikes an ominous visage in the dim tent – the birthmark covering the left half of his face turned almost black in the candlelight. "Longer still if you avoid the main roads."
"And you are sure that Ser Gregor's men have made their camp there?"
"The men we met made that very clear," Ser Marq Piper asserts. "The Mountain looms high over the charred ruins and desecrated corpses of Sherrer!"
The young knights, Vance and Piper make a queer pair, Ned thinks. The former slim, dark and melancholy with his marred face, the other broad-shouldered, golden-haired, dashing and bold. But they were inseparable, dear friends of his wife's brother and, most importantly, well traveled in the Riverlands.
"Then we shall make haste there on the morn," he decides.
"I beg your pardon, my lord," Ser Karyl interjects. "Ser Marq and I agree, we should return to our fathers' lands to defend them."
"You will defend them best by remaining with us," Ned shakes his head. "You know these lands better than anyone. I am afraid we cannot spare you. Your fathers will be grateful once we have captured Ser Gregor and put an end to his warpath." He watches both knights carefully. Piper seems about to protest, but a short glance from Vance puts an end to it.
"Then that is all," Ned declares. "Pass the word on to your men. I'll see you in the morning." As his commanders disperse, he notes that some linger behind, including Lord Darry and Lord Mallery, a cross, squat stump of a man with an unkempt horseshoe of dark hair looping his otherwise bald head. The others are quickly gone, however, and Lord Beric Dondarrion and Thoros of Myr have begun wailing a raucous ditty before they even pass beneath the flap of the tent. Even in the dim light, Ned could tell they had been drunk before the meeting even began.
"I'd sooner follow his squire, than him and that drunken priest," Raymun Darry scowls. The sour-faced lord's mood always seemed unpleasant, and it had begun to wear thin on Ned's patience.
"You need only worry about your own men, Raymun," he answers plainly. "And you need answer only to me."
"Dondarrion seems to think that he is the leader of this expedition," Lord Mallery steps forward. "And I do not like having that Thoros in our camp. The priest of a false god will bring us ill luck in battle. How may we ask for the blessing of the Seven when there is a blasphemer in our midst?"
"Need I remind you, Lord Mallery, Thoros of Myr is not the only man in this party who does not say their prayers to your gods," Ned cuts him off before he can speak further. If Mallery and Darry begin to grumble in harmony, the division may spread. "We ask the blessings of the old gods and the new. I know little of the red god of the flames, but if he may bless us as well, I will not turn that grace away."
"I say the more gods to answer our prayers the better!" Ser Marq laughs.
Mallery scoffs at that, but slinks back into the shadows. The meeting now truly over and done, Ned turns away to exit the tent. Harwyn steps in line behind him.
"Where are you going, my lord?"
"I need to clear my head." Ned steps beneath the flap and is immediately bombarded by the heavy deluge dropping down from the heavens. It is cold, sharp and hard, but a welcome respite from the heated stuffiness of his tent. He trudges through the deepening mud to where the men are struggling to maintain the night's cook fires, powered on by Beric and Thoros' off-key singing. He takes his place in line, waiting his turn like all the other men to receive a ladle of thick, meaty stew in a chipped bowl.
It is Edric Dayne who ladles out his dinner. "My lord!" the squire's pale blue eyes widen to see him. "Here, let me get you more! And a fresh loaf of bread!"
"No," Ned holds up his hand. "I eat what my men eat. Nothing more." Raising the hood on his cloak, he takes a seat close enough to the fire to feel its warmth but far enough in shadow to avoid notice. He tucks the lukewarm stew beneath the shelter of his hunched chest to keep off the rain and carefully spoons it up to his mouth.
"My lord…" Edric reappears at his side. His lilac cloak is turned a dark violet by the rain, his near-silver hair plastered tightly to his scalp. "I don't believe we've had a chance to properly be introduced. I am Lord Edric Dayne…"
"I know," Ned answers more curtly than he'd meant. However young, the boy is a lord, after all. "I mean… I was sorry to hear of your father's passing. He was a good man."
"Indeed he was," Edric answers sadly, poking at his own stew. " It is an honor to finally meet you. He always spoke highly of you."
Honor for the man who killed his brother, Ned thinks. What did I do to deserve such a thing? Return a sword? Break his sister's heart? "I hope I do not disappoint."
"Not at all, my lord!" Edric insists. Ned intently watches his face in the pale light from the fire and the moon high above the treetops. He looks for the familiar lines, the sparkling gaze that he knew in Ashara's face. What does he know of her, he wonders. Of us? Could he hold the answers to the questions he had buried for so long? "How is Jon?" the boy asks, and the trance is gone.
"Jon?" How does he know? It takes a moment for Ned to remember. A lie, so old, almost forgotten.
"We were milk brothers. Willa nursed me when my mother could not."
"Willa…" The wet nurse. Ned tries to picture her face.
"Jon's mother. I've always wanted to meet him."
"Oh. Of course. He is well. Grown to be a fine young man. When I left Winterfell, he left as well, for the Wall with my brother Benjen. He's to join the Night's Watch."
"I've always wanted to see the Wall."
"Perhaps you will, one day," Ned turns his face back to the fire and raises his spoon once more to his mouth, vanquishing thoughts of the past to focus on gnashing the gristly beef between his teeth.
Lyman Darry swats away a pesky mosquito as he trudges through the puddles left by a night rain in the Kingswood. The morning mist has not yet clear and already the bugs are out for blood.
"Hideous little things," Tyrek Lannister whines behind him.
"What, do they not have mosquitos in the West?" Lyman smirks, swatting one dead against his cheek. "Did Lord Tywin pay them all to fly away and leave you alone?"
Tyrek ignores that, instead swatting wildly at the swarm buzzing around his head and stalking faster on ahead through the haze into the only tent in the camp bustling with life this early in the morning – the cook tent. Lyman quickly follows beneath the fold and is almost immediately ran down by a fat, urgent cook carrying a kettle of piping hot water with hard white eggs floating on the surface.
The squires quickly catch the eyes of the Lord Steward, a tall, gaunt man from the Vale, who points about to what is needed for the royal platter. He is a man of many words, but Lyman has quickly learned to understand what the man wants. If there was one thing his father had taught him, it was to keep the kitchens happy, or else one may find a fly in their stew.
For all their bickering, when it comes to their daily tasks, the two lads move like clockwork. They swiftly assemble the trays for the king and his boon companions as they soon break their fasts with the rising sun. Soon, only one task is left.
Tyrek grabs a small wooden hammer in one hand and a gilded flagon in the other and approaches the looming stack of wine kegs in the cart, still speckled in mud from the rut they had freed it from days before. Lyman watches as the younger boy knocks loose the peg but, recognizing the barrel Tyrek has chosen, shoves him aside. He catches the overflow in a small wooden tasting cup while forcing the plug back closed.
"Seven hells!" Tyrek's indignant voice cracks, but Lyman ignores him, holding the cup up to his nose to waft the bitter aroma and take a small sip.
"This is why I serve the king's wine!" Lyman drains the rest of the cup with a long gulp before tossing it aside and grabbing the flagon for himself. "If his grace starts drinking that at breakfast, he won't be able to ride straight by afternoon!"
"Yesterday he said the wine was too weak."
"He always says that. But the Lord Steward made it very clear – we are to serve his best interest, and that means knowing what wine to give him. For the gods' sake, we're in a bloody forest, Tyrek! If the king runs off after that damn stag drunk out of his mind, he's most like to have some sort of accident!"
For a moment, Tyrek's back stiffens and his mouth freezes mid-protest. Lyman watches the younger boy curiously as a single bead of sweat begins to form on his brow.
"Is something wrong?" he breaks the silence.
"No!" Tyrek answers angrily and hammers the plug on the right barrel this time before turning away. Lyman rushes to reach the flagon out in time as the crimson flow comes rushing out, spiraling down to cover the golden vessel.
Deep in the forest, two young men, however, have already been awake since before the morning sun first peered over the eastern horizon. A yawning, exhausted Joffrey Baratheon stalks through the underbrush close behind Peremore Hightower.
"I don't understand why we had to leave so early," the prince groans.
"Beasts move freely at night," Peremore answers without looking back, his feet nimbly skipping over fallen branches and sliding around underbrush. "Their tracks are freshest at the dawn, before the rest of the party has a chance to muck them up."
A loud crack cuts through the silent morning like a knife. Peremore whips his head back to see Joffrey with one foot firmly planted in the center of a freshly broken branch.
"Tread lightly," he whispers. "Or else you'll trip over what we're looking for."
Joffrey rolls his eyes and swats away a mosquito, but in the end his next steps are carefully chosen. Peremore can tell the prince is torn between a deep-rooted resistance to any sort of instruction and an even deeper need to master the skills needed to impress his royal father. And so they trek on, further into the woods, ducking from low-hanging branches as Peremore's eyes flit about the ground. At last, he sees what he is looking for. A path through the brush, broken twigs and freshly trampled ferns. He freezes so fast that Joffrey almost crashes into him.
"Damn! What are you doing?" the prince shouts, startling a partridge from a nearby tree. Peremore raises one bony finger to his lips and whistles a hushing sound. Joffrey freezes as well and begins to look around and down. Then he sees it too. "There! There, look there!"
He frantically points one finger as Peremore looks down at what he has already seen, a distinct deer track, left plain in an open patch of mud. He holds the prince back for a moment and steps forward first, marking the direction of the track. He follows the path to the broken branches of a nearby bramble bush. There, caught by a jagged thorn, a tuft of short hairs sticks, so thin and faint as to be nearly invisible, but not to his eyes. Deer hair, as white as freshly fallen snow.
The first thing Sansa sees when she arrives at the gate on the back of her small chestnut mare is Ser Aron Santagar in his flowing yellow-and-black Dornish robes.
"Fat chance we have of getting anything good today with the bloody leopard dressed like that," Jory Cassel mutters. "He'll stick out like a black bear in a snow storm." Fat Tom guffaws at the observation, but Sansa only rolls her eyes, sandwiched between the two guards. They would be following her on the hunt today. She wished Jory would have sent guards with her who better knew their graces. But the Captain had insisted on coming himself, and brought boorish Fat Tom along as well. Sansa can only pray they will not embarrass her in front of Ser Aron.
They didn't think she was ready for a hunt, but she had insisted. She was tired of waiting, and who knew when the royal party would return? When Edward had brushed off her request for help, she had been furious for a day. But she soon realized that it was for the best. She didn't need his help, nor anyone's. She would have Lady, and that was all she needed.
The hardest part had been waking up, earlier than she was used to. She was terribly afraid of oversleeping, so much that she almost never went to sleep at all. But that would have been truly unbearable, so she had asked Arya's help. That was always a risk, but any spite Arya had for her had been overruled by the joy of waking her as abruptly and shockingly as possible. And so now here she sits, in an itchy brown riding dress and a quiver and bow tugging on her back.
There was no fanfare for this hunting party, not like when the king had left to chase his white stag. They were only a small group – her and her two guards, three hunters from the royal kitchens, Ser Aron and his apprentice Diggery…. And Maris Hightower.
The grim girl sits atop a grey horse, larger than Sansa, her black hair pulled tightly back into two simple braids. She watches the Starks approach without a word.
"My lady Sansa!" Ser Aron bows with a flourish. "The gods have blessed us with fair weather for our hunt today. A fair hunt for a fair beauty." She blushes as he flashes his golden tooth. "The young lady Hightower asked to come along. She has hunted often in the woods along the Mander. I thought it would do you well to have a peer in the party."
"Good morning, Maris," Sansa offers a half-hearted smile to the cold girl, but her eyes have turned up to the sky, where a flock of ravens perch atop the wall. If the weather is a good omen, she thinks, then what is that?
"Good morning," Maris finally answers. And that is all the reply she gives as the cranks begin to turn on the gate and they ride out into the city.
Edward Stark's face smiles back at him from the glistening steel of Ser Arys Oakheart's white breastplate. He has finished the knight's work with time to spare this morning. Arys was on duty now, guarding the king. He would return to find his other set of armor neatly arranged in its proper place and waiting upon his return.
Edward meanwhile, hurries down the stairs of the White Sword Tower and out the door, only to be surprised to find Jalabar Xo already waiting for him outside. The Summer Islander has left behind his feathered cloak today for just a beaded vest, and is lying back catlike, taking in the morning sun. He is startled to hear the small footsteps running out the door.
"Edward!" He clicks his tongue sharply. "Where are you running off to so early?"
"I'm sorry, your grace," Edward stops in his tracks. " I'm afraid I cannot come to the archery range today. I am working with Maester Gaheris." True. True enough at least that Edward would not break out in the nervous sweat that always gave away his lies. "It's been a long time since I've been to lessons with him."
"Then that is very well," Jalabar nods approvingly. "You mut not neglect your studies. The brain is as vital a weapon as the bow."
With his teacher's leave, Edward regains his racing pace, recklessly rounding corners and skipping steps, his mind caught up in one thing – wargs. He had had a dream last night, in it Tessarion was grown near big as a horse. He had rode upon its back across a sea of tall grass dark as the night, with sparkling, glowing lights rising above the field around them. Behind him, her pale arms clutching tightly to his chest, had ridden Myrcella, her long golden hair flowing freely in the air behind them, glistening like the moon.
It was a dream he had never wanted to end. But he knew to make it come true, he had to master his gift. And the key to that lies deep beneath the Red Keep, in an ancient chamber where no sun light ever pries. There, in the middle of a circle of torches, Gaheris waits. In this light, he looks even younger than above ground, the white streak in his auburn hair the only sign of his age. His grey maester's robes look almost black in the dim light, the slight clinking of his chain the only sound save the crackling of the torches.
His eyes look Edward up and down. "Take a moment to let your body and mind rest, Ed. You needn't have run. You're early."
Only then does Edward realize how heavily he's panting for breath after the long dash down into the bowels of the keep. He stops his hands from shaking and wills himself to stillness, breath by breath. As he does, Gaheris begins to extinguish the torches.
"Don't bother to let your eyes adjust to the dark. You won't be needing them." His vision grows blurry as the shadows creep in and it becomes harder to trace the maester, save for the sound of his chain. He looks down at his feet instead and notices, in the dim light, he's torn a hole in his shoe. "Are you ready?"
"Yes, maester."
"Then take your place." Gaheris steps back and Edward steps forward, remembering where the chalk circle had been drawn in the center of the room. It is near invisible now, but four long steps puts him where he knows it to be.
"Very good. Take a seat." Edward slowly, hesitantly lowers himself to the ground, feeling the cold stone through his trousers. Gaheris nods and takes a seat on the lone wooden stool. Now, the only remaining lit torch is directly behind him, casting his face into a dark shadow as he perches atop his seat and looks down at Edward upon the ground. "Did you finish your reading?"
"Yes." They have met twice now, studying the ancient texts. But this is the first time he has tried this – to warg at will, not just in his dreams.
"Then you should know what to do." Gaheris' voice is cool, smooth and rhythmic, like a mountain stream tumbling down over wayward stones. Edward lets his heart beat in time with it. "Embrace the darkness. Let go of your spirit. Your body is only one vessel, like a cup into which we pour living water. Tip over your cup and let the water fall free to its new home."
Edward clinches his eyes shut, slowing his breathing to a steady, faint pace – so still that he can almost hear each breath echoing off the cavernous walls. His heart beat slows with his breaths, each thump longer and heavier than the last within his chest. He can hear the maester faintly speaking of water and cups, but it fades into the background with the sounds of the lone torch and his own breath thrown back to him. His head tilts back and mind falls away into the darkness as it swoops in to replace the world around him and he reaches out. Without a word, he calls to the wolf.
Lady crashes through the underbrush. She has grown large in her captivity, but not fat. While still smaller than her brother and sister, beneath her short grey fur ripples tensed muscles ready for release. And now, beyond the city walls, they are free.
This manner of freedom, however, is proving far more suited for Lady than for Sansa. The cool morning breeze has given away to a muggy late summer day, and the mosquitos swarm in the narrow trail of woods they've ridden into, a beautiful run of trees following a small gorge which funnels a rock stream down into the Blackwater Rush. It had been successful hunting grounds – the men from the kitchens had trapped a line of rabbits, Ser Aron's arrows had skewered a partridge, and Jory a seagull blown in from the bay – for everyone but Sansa.
She had loosed three arrows thus far, with nothing to show for it but a welt on her fingers. Now, crouched open behind an unexpectedly thorny circle of brush, Sansa attempts to rearrange her dress and undergarments after relieving herself, a truly horrid experience in the woods. She nearly retches as she totters back to her feet, wondering for only a moment if the love of Joffrey is truly worth all of this. What if she does kill a gift for him and he decides to bring her on his every hunt, trundling over roots and crouching behind brambles? But she would be queen.
And so she shoves aside a low hanging branch and heaves herself back out into the open, where Lady has returned to wait upon her.
"Good girl," Sansa forces herself to smile as the direwolf falls in step beside her. "I suppose those horrid bugs can't bother you with all that fur. You're the lucky one, you know." Then, realizing what a fool she must look, she straightens her back and talks to Lady no more, striding back to the tree where her pony is tied and her bow and quiver wait.
"I heard a grouse." Startled, Sansa whirls about before seeing the speaker – Maris, nearly invisible in her dark brown vest and trousers. The hairs on Lady's back spike as she snarls, but Maris does not seem to care. If it weren't for her hair, she'd look like a boy, Sansa thinks, though to be honest she half-wishes to shed her graces enough to wear pants in these awful woods.
"You must stop that!" she scolds the other girl. "You and brother both, you're always sneaking up on people, it's uncouth! You startled me!"
"We don't sneak up on anyone," Maris sighs. "People simply don't notice us until we make ourselves hear. You must pay closer attention if you ever want to catch a fowl." Sansa glares at her. "Now go ahead, grab your bow. I heard a grouse."
Sansa looks around. Jory and Fat Tom had said they wouldn't go far, but they are not in sight. Somewhere in the distance she thinks she hears Tom's laugh. She knows that she should go back to them but… a grouse would be a fine prize, and Maris certainly seems to know what she's doing… She looks down to Lady, but the wolf only tilts her head to the side and cocks an ear.
"Show me where," Sansa commands, making up her mind. Without a word, Maris turns back into the trees. Sansa rushes back to grab her bow and quiver, give her pony a pat and follow the brooding girl deeper into the woods.
Off the trail, she ducks and jerks to avoid branches that swing at her head and claw at her dress, stumbling again and again over divots, ruts and roots in the ground. Lady at least seems happy, tongue hanging out as she weaves between the trees and brush. Sansa can hear the sound of the stream growing louder. And then, at the edge of the woods, Maris stops. Lady stops in the same instant but Sansa is slower to respond and almost trips over the wolf.
"There," Maris points. Sansa squints. Where the trees stop, a strip of tall grass speckled with large rocks runs along the edge of the gorge. She can hear little else but the rushing water now. But then she sees the slightest motion – some of the reeds shaken in the opposite direction of the breeze rolling down over the gorge. She looks closer and sees a flash of red – the thin stripe above the grouses eye.
Slowly, Sansa pulls an arrow from her quiver. She tries to remember every lesson from Ser Aron as she fits it into the string of the bow. Which way do the feet go? And how to hold the arm? She begins to pulls back, feeling the bowstring go taught, and points it towards the rustling in the grass. A stiff gust pushes her aim off. Ser Aron had taught her about wind, she remembers that now, feeling it running coarsely over the right side of her face and sending goosepimples down her spine. She shifts her feet and pivots, aiming slightly ahead of her target, scarce allowing herself to breathe for fear of shaking the bow.
As she fully draws back the bow, the thought comes to her mind: She has never killed before. A wretched little bug here and there, perhaps, but nothing real, those didn't count. Another shaken reed and she sees the full head of the grouse, red-brown feathers shaking as it shuffles along in the dirt, unaware that its life hangs in the tension of a single string. And then it stops, turns its head, and one black, white-circled eye seems to look directly at her.
Without another thought, she lets the arrow go and a sudden, abrupt squawk is the only sound left to come. She drops the bow.
"Did I get it?"
"I can't tell," Maris shrugs, leaning bored against a nearby tree. "I didn't see it fly."
"Come on, Lady," Sansa beckons to the wolf, who has waited patiently and silently by her side all this time and they rush forward into the grass. Brushing aside the reeds, she stares down at the ground. Joffrey will be so proud to see it, she knows. A grouse is a splendid catch, it will make a grand dinner and she will sew him a hat from the feathers. It has to be here somewhere….
And then there is no more earth beneath her feet and she is falling, hands grasping in air, out into the empty space above the water. The shock comes so fast she forgets to scream, the only sound Lady's frantic barking as she wrenches her eyes shut and the river rushes up to meet her…
Sansa never feels the water hit her. When she opens her eyes, she is back atop the gorge. Something is wrong, very wrong. She feels different, terror running through her veins, her body twisted and hunched over. She stares down into the gorge. There is a girl in the river, floating away motionless downstream, with scarlet hair like her own.
Her hair… she cannot feel her hair.
It is only then that she understands. These eyes are not her own. This body is not her own. They are Lady's eyes and Lady's body. And the girl in the water is her.
She screams, but only a howl comes out.
A/N: So sorry for the recent delays, life has thrown a couple curve balls my way. I'm trying to work better on my planning, so I hope to be able to provide regularly scheduled updates going forward. As always, thanks for reading, all feedback is greatly appreciated!