In her dreams, the people of the city have come for Sansa Stark.
"Witch!" they cry. "Monster!" they shout.
She lurches down through the street, hands and feet shackled together by cold iron chains, feeling a deadly winter wind blow cold through the thin, ugly grey dress that scratches at her bare skin beneath. Her hair is undone, dirty and tangled and half-shorn off, goose pimples forming on the bald half of her face.
She turns frantically to the crowd, desperate to see Father and Mother, to see Jory, to see Joffrey, anyone come to save her, but she can only see a wall of grey and white, the mob an invisible terror hidden behind the septons and septas who tower over her like tyrants. One of the septons, a wrinkled old man, slaps her across the face.
"Eyes ahead, witch!" She knows there is only one who can help her now.
"Lady!" Sansa shrieks, adding her desperate cry to the shouts of thousands. "Lady, help!"
"She calls for the demon!" a man from the crowd shouts, but she persists until, at last, the street is at an end and the crowd is gone and silent. They stand at the foot of the steps of Sept of Baelor. The High Septon is waiting, his sparkling crown now devoid of life beneath the sunless winter sky, each crystal a cold accusing eye.
"Look!" He points, but she refuses to follow his gaze. Men come behind her, placing rough hands on her neck and face to turn her head. "Look and see how your beast has fallen, girl! Your dark arts have no power here!"
Lady lies upon the steps in a pool of blood, her hide riddled with arrows, her head nearly severed in a single, cruel blow, her crimson life staining the white stone of the temple. She screams in pain, as if her own throat has been slashed, but there is no sound left, nor strength to move. And so the men grab her arms and begin to drag her up the staircase, her chains rattling against each sacred step.
At the top, a rickety wooden pyre has been erected. The High Septon watches approvingly. And at his side is Septa Mordane.
"Septa please, make them stop, they don't understand! I don't understand!" Sansa shouts as the men produce thick, course ropes and tie her to the stake.
"You understand all too well, my dear," Mordane shakes her head. "You're a very clever girl. You know exactly what you are."
"No, I didn't want this!" she insists.
"You should have prayed harder!" The High Septon bellows. "A pious lady can resist all temptations!"
"I did, I did, I said my prayers, I asked the Seven to take it away!"
"Not good enough," Mordane shakes her head, disappointingly. "And to think I had such hopes for you. You could have been a great queen. But you defiled the throne! You angered the Seven! You brought Them upon us!"
"I don't understand!" Her last words before the sweaty rag is stuffed into her mouth. If any more answer comes from the mouths of her accusers, it is drowned out by a deafening cacophony of ravens descending to swarm in the sky above. Looking down from the sept, she sees Maris Hightower standing on the roof of a hovel below, staring up at her mournfully.
As the first sparks light the wood at her feet, she desperately wrenches her head back and forth until she forces the gag free and puts all remaining strength into a final scream.
"Maris!" But the Hightower girl only shakes her head and turns away as the horrid grey dress catches fire and the ravens blacken the sky.
Sansa awakes in terror. It is nothing but a dream, she knows. But when she hears Septa Mordane calling her in the hall, she cannot help but shiver.
The sound of the crow wakes him up. Prince Joffrey Baratheon lies on his back in a clearing in the Kingswood, face and body covered in a thin layer of morning dew. There is some petty songbird trilling away obnoxiously as he lurches upward, coughing up phlegm from his throat and wiping away the water from his face.
He looks aside. The body of the white stag lies beside him in the grass, a solitary crow tearing away at one ear.
"Go off!" Joff shouts, shooing the indignant bird away. He slowly, achingly stands to look down at the quarry that had eluded him so long. It doesn't look so mystical here in the day, he thinks. His dagger is still wedged in its skull, the once pristine white face now stained with dark, dry blood. For a moment, the prince feels something that, perhaps, could be what joy feels like, imagining the look upon his father's face when he sees who has slain the prize. And that joy turns to pride as he thinks of what his victory portends for his future reign.
Bending back down, he attempts to pry his blade free from the beast's skull. But, after wrenching as hard as he can to the left and right, it does not give an inch.
"Peremore!" he shouts out for his guide, the name bouncing back at him off of the surrounding sea of trees. He waits for a moment, hoping for an answer, trying to remember his path back to camp. But no reply comes save that same loathsome songbird. And so, with a grunt, Joffrey grabs the stag's antlers with both hands and begins to pull.
With the horses watered and the scraps of the morning meal talked to the dogs, the royal camp is alive again as tents are torn down and lords and knights return to their mounts for the day's hunt to begin. Amidst all the cluttered activity, Sandor Clegane stomps through the camp, the hound helm upon his head looming tall over all the men surrounding him. Behind him, dwarfed by the huge guard, follows Peremore Hightower. The lad has not slept all night, though any tiredness does not show on his thin face.
"Your grace!" Sandor bellows as they approach the plot where the king's tent had stood only a few moments before. Lyman Darry, Arthur Ambrose and Tyrek Lannister are hurriedly helping the servants pack it away, until they hear the Hound's approach.
"Your grace, The Hound!" Tyrek scurries to Robert's side, the king distracted in boisterous conversation with Ser Urrigon Hightower.
"Damn it, Clegane, what is it?" the king stomps around to face them.
"The prince is missing, your grace," the Hound reports.
"You've lost your charge, Sandor?" Urrigon scoffs. "Isn't that your only job? Shouldn't you be off looking for him?"
"I thought his grace would like to know, ser." The title sounds a cruel insult in the Hound's mouth, rattling around inside his helm.
"Of course," Robert grumbles, scratching his head. "I can't imagine he's gone far. Wondered off to piss and gotten lost, I suppose, our gotten up the stones to stick his member in one of those chambermaids. Most like he's passed out in in the wine cart, the gods know the boy can't hold his drink." He pauses, and the Hound remains at attention. "Well, go on then, go find him!"
"Actually, your grace…" Peremore steps forward, but the Hound seizes him by the shoulder and turns him around as he marches off.
"You come with me, lad," he grumbles. Robert watches them leave, indifferently before turning back around to see Tyrek waiting with a wine skin.
"Your wine, your grace!" Nodding approvingly, the king grabs the skin and takes a long drink.
Jalabar Xo is a queer sight standing at the head of the bland maester's lecturn in his colorful, feathered royal dress. He barely moves, staring back at the expectant faces of the Stark and Baratheon children as they watch a single bead of sweat slowly run down the center of his bald, black head.
"The Summer Islands, they are, um, your graces," Jalabar coughs to clear his Maester Pycelle shakes his head disapprovingly, grumbling under his breath. "They number over 50, some very large and some very small."
"And which island are you from, your grace?" Myrcella Baratheon asks. Rather than listening to his teacher, Edward Stark is intent on watching the princess, who is so far engaged in the foreign prince's hapless lecture, as he had hoped. "Or is that what we ought to call you? Your grace. You are a prince?"
"I am, that is true," Jalabar's spine straightens, the mention of his royalty seemingly restoring his confidence in this uncomfortable position. "Your grace is, um, it is a formality that has no clear… how you say… companion in my people's tongue. But you may call me so, in your own custom. I myself am prince of the Red Flower Vale in Jhala."
"Were a prince, that is," Pycelle harrumphs. Jalabar shoots the old man a viper's glare.
"A prince I am still, Gran Maester," he clicks his tongue angrily. "It is in my blood, just as it is in your own, children." He looks at Myrcella and Tommen. "You will still be royalty no matter where the wind blows you. Nothing can change that. And one day your father will help we restore me to my princedom and we shall make great fortune for both lands."
Does he really still think that? Edward wonders. The prince has been in King Robert's court for years and years. He has heard more promises than there are stars in the sky.
"Well I think we should do that very soon, Prince Jalabar," Myrcella leans forward in her seat. "I would very much like to see the Summer Islands."
"Oh, you would love them very much, princess!" Jalabar crouches down to look her in the eye, a huge white smile growing on his face as he tucks his arms into his cloak like wings. "The jungles and the monkeys and the parrots." He caws like a bird, Myrcella and Tommen burst out laughing, and Arya joins in. "There are emeralds there as green as your eyes, little ones!"
"What about wolves?" Arya blurts out. "Are there wolves there too?"
"Oh, yes, there are many wolves in the jungle, with fur red like your sister's hair, but much smaller than the great beasts you Starks have brought south with you. There are no creatures that large on our islands, none but the great apes."
Edward has never seen his teacher like this, but slowly he starts to understand. It's all a performance, almost like a jester, he thinks, but with grander purpose. Like when the lords would come to ask favors of Father, and bring magicians or singers to entertain him and his siblings. They wanted us to love them, so that Father would do as they asked. Only Jalabar has no fools, singers or magicians. He is here all alone.
"What's an ape?" Tommen pipes up. This is the first lesson Edward has ever seen him take interest in.
"Apes…" Jalabar pauses to find the right words in Common Tongue. "Apes are like monkeys, but much larger. Big as a man! Each of the great islands has their own sort of ape. On Jhala, we have the silver pelts, Omboru as the old red men and on Walano the great night stalkers descend from the trees with long, stinky hair as dark as shadow to carry naughty little children away!"
Tommen gasps. "I want to be prince of the apes!"
"Then I shall be princess of the parrots," Myrcella smiles, picking up a stray green feather that has fallen from Jalabar's cloak onto her desk. She slips it behind her ear, smiling, and it makes Edward's heart race.
"And Nymeria and I will rule your wolves!" Arya shouts. Sansa rolls her eyes "If they are as little as you say, that shouldn't be very hard!"
"Of course!" Jalabar jumps back beaming. "When I am returned to my kingdom, there will be bountiful plenty for all!"
"Now that's quite enough, Master Xo," Pycelle lurches forward. "Let us remain focused on the prepared topics of discussion."
Before Jalabar can respond, the door swings open and Maester Gaheris enters, leading a reluctant Maris Hightower behind him. Pycelle is confused.
"Her mother sent her on to you, Grand Maester," Gaheris smiles. "She has been slacking in her studies. Given her father's service to the king, they though perhaps she could join the young prince and princess in their studies."
"Well, I do not know, this is highly irregular, highly irregular," Pycelle grumbles, running his gnarled fingers through his beard and staring down at his feet. "The class is already quite large, with the Stark children here and…"
Maris sits stiffly into the desk beside Sansa with a rattle, arms crossed, staring with angry dark eyes up at the Grand maester, a gaze that seems to make him lose track of his thoughts.
"Prince Jalabar," she asks as Pycelle fumbles for his next word, her voice cold and flat. "What sort of gods do you worship in the Summer Isles?"
"A score of deities bless our islands, little one," Jalabar's eyes flit up and down, trying to take a reading on the new pupil. "But the most favored of all are the god and goddess of love and beauty and fertility. The act of, what you say, love-making is a holy form of worship for our people."
Sansa's face turns beet red at that, as Pycelle finally hurls himself back in control of the classroom. "That is all the time we have for that today, I am afraid, Master Jalabar. It is time for the young ones to study their maths."
Reluctantly, Jalabar concedes the floor, but Myrcella raises her hand. "Grand Maester, will the prince be able to come teach us again? There is still much to learn of his land, I'm certain."
"Erm, perhaps, possibly, yes mayhaps indeed," Pycelle nods before turning away to prepare his next lesson. Edward watches Myrcella as she in turn watches Jalabar leave, her thin fingers twisting the feather in her hair. It's working, he thinks. It's actually working!
Joffrey crashes into a bed of ferns as the shadows begin to decend onto the Kingswood. A few steps behind him, the dirt-covered corpse of the white stag has begun to stink in the late summer heat. Coughing up dust, he peers out in every direction at the endless sea of trees, each looking to him the same as the last.
The sun rises over the Blackwater, he tells himself, and it sets in the West. But which way had they come? Which way had he gone the night before? Surely Father was searching for him now, tearing up the brush with his bare hands to find his lost prince. But he has not heard the sound of another human the whole day long.
Resting his back up against a sturdy trunk, he glances sideways at the dead stag, it's lifeless blood-stained face, still split by his dagger, staring back mockingly. For a moment, he fears he has been cursed, trapped to wonder in a phantom realm like the stories Uncle Tyrion has told him of when he was just a child. But those were foolish children's tales. He tears up a fistful of ferns to cover up the empty black eyes and presses himself tighter against the tree, pulling his knees to his chest. It was getting colder every night. Fall was nearly here, the maesters said. He has never seen a Fall before. And from the feeling of tonight, he does not wish to.
The shadows have near-fully descended now, creeping out from behind every tree to fill the air with their inky blackness. The forest takes on an amber shade in this fading twilight, as if the view from a memory of a land long forgotten. A land with a thousand eyes.
Joffrey isn't sure when he first sees the light return. But somewhere in that evening haze, it appears, hovering, tauntingly above the ground just as it did the night before, its pale white and blue glow unmoving and unfeeling. Yet it judges him more harshly than the High Septon ever could. This time, the prince does not challenge the light. Instead he clenches his eyes shut and squeezes his hands into tight fists until sleep takes him.
In the darkness, he dreams of Sansa.
"In the camp yesterday, why didn't you let me tell the king what had happened?" Peremore asks as he shakes the dew off of his small, make-shift tent. The earliest rays of dawn pry down through the canopy of branches.
"Damn!" The Hound snorts, shoving a stick of dried beef into his mouth. "You've come all this way without asking questions, boy, don't you start now!"
"I only wondered."
"That's a dangerous thing to do in this line of work," the Hound laughs. "But you do seem smart. Why don't you guess with that clever little Oldtown brain of yours?"
"I can tell you take new pleasure from guarding the prince," Peremore wraps the cloth back atop the rest of his pack with twain and hoists it onto his shoulders. "He can be difficult company to keep. But you're stuck with him. You will guard him until the day you die. So you hope he gets better. Wiser. More… palatable."
"I stopped hoping for anything a long time ago," the Hound shakes his head, lifting his own pack and beginning to trudge away into the forest. "That shit burns away real easy in the flame."
"You're right," Peremore follows. "Hope is for docile sheep. True men take action to change their own fate. If Joffrey has failed to kill the stag, and his father knows this, he will be mocked and turn that cruelty onto you. So it is best the king never know, unless there is good news to report."
"You know, boy, there might be something in you after all." The Hound almost smiles as he breaks off a low-hanging branch in his path.
"Did you see anything in the woods last night?"
He stops, branch still in hand, and looks back at Peremore, who is watching, head tilted, expectedly. "No. I only see what I want to see. The sooner you learn to do that, the better."
Ser Arys Oakheart's blunted sword slaps Edward hard on the ribs and he bites his tongue. The knight seems to recognize the pain.
"Always keep your tongue secure when riding and fighting," he warns. "There was a guard at Old Oak who had only half a tongue. Bit the tip clean off in a tourney. I could never understand a word he said."
They strike their stances again. Arys darts out with his sword. Edward jumps aside, stabbing back, but the knight easily bats his sword away and counters. This time, Edward is too slow and gets another jab in the ribs. He's not as good as Jaime, he thinks dejectedly. But still I can't touch him. Things had been looking up for him lately – in everything save swordsmanship.
"Edward, remember what I taught you," Jalabar calls over from the bench where he watches between short, precise bites of an apple. "You must know when to be a tree and when to be a seed. Plant yourself to parry, but be like the wind when you strike and dodge. Your strength cannot match him, but your speed and size are your advantage."
"You seem to have quite a lot of ideas," Arys turns to the prince, wiping sweat from his brow. "I've never fought a Summer Islander. I think I'd like to some time."
"I'm afraid the bow is much more my weapon," Jalabar replies, and from the momentary pall over his face, Edward wonders if that is the reason he lost his princedom.
"Bold to talk swordplay without the skill to back it up," Ser Meryn Trant scoffs from where he hones his sword at the foot of the White Sword Tower.
"One can study a thing without the capacity to do it himself," Jalabar ignores the crass knight's mockery. "I know much about birds, after all, though I have never been one myself."
"None the less, I should like to try," Arys insists. "Perhaps we may both learn something."
Edward looks up to see Myrcella passing along the walls above, with Sansa, Rosamund and Jeyne at her side. He tries to puff out his chest and stiffen his sword arm as she looks down at them, but only manages to make himself gag.
"Prince Jalabar!" Myrcella calls down. "Thank you for speaking to us today. It was very interesting. I do hope you come again!"
"Of course, your grace!" Jalabar shouts back up, rising to bow before hurling his apple core into the air. In a flash, he grabs his bow from the ground and an arrow from his quiver and shoots up with perfect aim. The arrow strikes straight into the heart of the apple and falls back down to earth where the prince catches it with a flourish. The girls atop the wall eagerly applaud.
Distracted by the impromptu show, Edward does not notice Ser Barristan limping out of the tower and over to where they are standing.
"Ser Arys!" the Lord Commander call. Begging Edward's pardon, the knight makes up the distance between them far faster than Barristan could on his wounded leg.
"What do you need, Ser?"
"When you are done with the boy, follow me to the old training yard. There is another pupil in need of your aid."
"Who, ser?"
Barristan glances over to Ser Meryn, then to Jalabar and Edward, and lastly back to Arys. "You'll meet them at the appointed time, ser. An old dog who must learn new tricks."
"You've been very good, Lady, but you can't come out into the city with us," Sansa informs her direwof, stroking its face as she crouches by its side in her room. Lady seems content to let her go, until her nose perks up at a smell she distinctly dislikes. The grey hairs along the back of her neck begin to rise as she lowly growls. "What is it, girl?"
"Sansa!" Septa Mordane calls from the hall. "Her grace the queen is here to see you!"
"I'm ready!" Sansa calls back before hushing the wolf. "You be nice now, Lady. It's only the queen. She's our friend. You have to be on your best behavior."
The door opens slightly, just enough for Cersei to slip into the room in a slender red gown. Sansa rises hurriedly to greet the queen, before noticing the bag of feathers in her hands. Cersei smiles and places the bag gently on her bead.
"The feathers from the grouse you killed," she explains. "I heard you wished to sew them into a gift for the prince. I am sure he will be honored by whatever you give him."
"Thank you, your grace," Sansa curtsies.
"But let that be enough of your reckless fancies, little one," Cersei's tone shifts to admonishment as she looks Sansa up and down. She suddenly feels very naked as the queen draws closer. "You may think, perhaps, that Joffrey will be drawn to some wild, wolfish northern spirit. But I can see that isn't who you are. Just look at all it got you. A clump of feathers and a scar." Cersei's hand touches the small scar where Sansa's head had hit the rock in the river. Truth be told, she has not looked at her reflection since the bandages were removed. "You were very lucky it was no great wound to your beauty. Men don't want to marry hunters, Sansa, nor warriors. They want ladies."
"I am a lady!" Sansa recoils indignantly. "I'm not Arya!"
"Of course not, my dear," Cersei pulls Sansa back in, holding her head close to her chest. She traces her fingers over Sansa's intricate braids. "You are a fine lady. And one day you will make a grand queen for my Joffrey. But you have much to learn. Only listen to me, and you never need worry about a thing."
Riding through the high market of King's Landing, Lord Petyr Baelish is dressed in a slick grey coat with silver lining and tails that nearly touch the ground, over a soft lilac-colored doublet with a mockingbird pin. Sansa and Arya share a horse close behind him, and they are surrounded by two of his own men and three of the Stark guard, led by Jory Cassel himself, who struggles to be as watchful as he knows he ought when surrounded by the throng of eager merchants pressing close to sell all manner of wares from all over the realm and across the sea.
Sansa is herself overwhelmed, enough to forget the nightmares that have plagued her sleep of late. Never has she seen such finery. When Cersei had heard she was going to the market, she had told her to find something very beautiful to wear for the prince's return. The queen had even given her a coin purse to buy it. But she was not convinced that any sort of fine clothes would impress Joffrey. But surely Cersei knows her own son better than anyone, she supposes. And the queen only wants to help her. She must be very wise in such matters to have come so far.
"Now, you don't have no business with those, Arya," Jory's admonishment shakes Sansa from her thoughts. Her sister has jumped down from their horse and rushed over to a smith's stand, where daggers, swords, maces and all manner of steel dangle from racks and ropes. "Those aren't toys for a little girl." Nonetheless, Arya's eyes sparkle as she watches the blades, as if they were a chest of diamonds, not cruel, cold metal.
"What about a toy for a captain of the Hand's guard, then?" Lord Baelish slides down from his horse, barely making a sound as his feet hit the stones of the market square. He smiles at the smith pawning his wares and produces a handful of gold and silver coins. For their cost he procures a gruesome looking dagger with a curved blade and look back up at Jory. "The Sorrowful Men of Qarth use such blades, captain."
Jory almost refuses the gift. "My lord, you don't need…" but before he can finish his protest, Baelish has already pressed the hilt into his hand.
"I insist. The guardians of these fine children deserve only the finest arms." Hearing that, Fat Tom drops down from his own horse with a thud and begins to examine the weapons himself.
"I want a dagger, too!" Arya crosses her arms. Baelish crouches down to wrap one arms around her shoulders.
"Maybe next time, little wolf cub," he whispers. "Perhaps your dancing teacher could help you choose a dagger that would be best for such little hands."
"How do you know about Syrio?"
"Oh, I know everything, my dear," Baelish smiles. "Save for the number of hairs on the Father's head." When he looks back up, Fat Tom is standing expectedly over them with a huge mace in his hands. With a laugh, Baelish pays for the weapon and turns back behind them to the ever-growing crowd in the square.
"We'll need to leave the horses here," he tells Jory, who is still turning his new dagger over in his hands and making taunting jabs at the air. "If we wish to go on."
"Are you sure?" the captain asks, snapping back to attention.
"I did promise Sansa to see the silk dealers from across the sea, and their stands are further on. There is no room for horses on a day like today, and these crowds will pass for none but the king." Hearing that, Sansa turns to Jory with pleading eyes. It would be horrid to come all this way only to look at ugly old swords! In the end, he offers no more resistance, slipping the dagger into his belt and dismounting, he entrusts the horses to the other Stark guards as Littlefinger gently helps Sansa down from the horse. He's very strong for such a thin man, she thinks.
Baelish leads the way as they plunge into the crowd, the girls close by his side. Back in Winterfell, sometimes Sansa had gone down to the Winter's Town with Father, and been to the market there, but it was a paltry fair compared to this. The finest market in the city, countless men and women in elegant clothes tightly brush past each other in an ever changing maze of bodies and rainbow fabric.
"Good ser, I beg thee try my wares!" An old Dornish man with sun-cracked skin lurches forward with a painted wooden box of colorful peppers and gourds. "Only the finest from the banks of the Greenblood, tended by the orphans of Mother Rhoyne."
One round, bright orange pepper immediately catches Fat Tom's eye. He reaches his huge hand into the box and holds it up to the sun. "An excellent choice, ser!" the vender grins, flashing a glint of a golden tooth. Baelish looks back just in time to see Tom open his mouth to bite.
"Tom, wait!" he calls, but it is too late. The huge guard bites off half the pepper at once, chewing loudly as the lord watches, concerned. His chewing begins to slow and, as it does, his face grows red. He turns to Jory with a panicked look.
"Jory, water!" he gasps, but before the captain can pull free his bag, he's lost patience, charging off into the crowd, mace still in hand, shoving shocked and confused shoppers out of the way. Arya cackles to watch him go.
"I've never seen Fat Tom move so fast in all my life," Jory's eyes are wide. Baelish flips a coin to the chuckling vender and looks down where Tom has dropped the rest of the pepper.
"Dragon's Breath. Very rare. Unbearably hot for most men born north of the Red Mountains. These sorts of wares never make their way to Winterfell, I presume. Children, never buy anything in this city before first asking someone who knows such things." With that, Baelish spins on his heel and marches on with swift direction to their destination – the cloth venders.
Sansa's heart nearly flies out of her chest to see the scene. It is as if all the colors in the world have come together to dance in the wind here beneath elegant patchworked tents. Long sheets of every imaginable color, texture and pattern are on display, a hypnotic whirlwind of beauty. She runs on ahead of the others into the first tent, where a short, kind-looking dark-skinned woman with a stubby nose curtsies at her entrance.
"What a beautiful young lady come to look at Masha's beautiful tent," she smiles. Rising out of the bow, she sees Lord Baelish appear behind Sansa. "Ah, Lord Baelish, are dutiful Master of Coin. What guest have you brought to grace my humble wares?"
"Humility is not a dress that fits you, Masha, nor should it," Petyr raises her calloused hand and kisses it gently. "This is Lady Sansa Stark, eldest daughter of Lord Eddard, Hand to the King. And one day, she shall be our queen."
"A Northern girl!" Masha's eyes grow wide. "I take it you've never seen the likes of these colors up in Winterhell?"
"It's Winterfell," Sansa half-heartedly corrects her, her eyes still dazzled by the endless array of options spread out before her. The old woman grabs her by the hand and leads her on.
"Oh, I can find all sorts of soft, lovely fabrics to replace that harsh northern wool," she insists, pushing aside a curtain of deepest blue. "Perhaps a golden gown, to match your lovely prince. I made one for the queen herself once, for his nameday!"
"No gowns will be necessary today," Baelish slips in behind her. Sansa looks back at him, disappointed. But her yearning eyes do not have the same control they have over Jory. "We're looking for something smaller." He looks to a rack of scarves in the corner of the tent. "What about one of these?"
By the time they leave Masha's tent, Sansa is beaming one more, with a lilac scarf, the softest she has ever felt, in her hands, the color a perfect match to Lord Baelish's outfit. Gingerly wrapping the scarf around her neck, she imagines it flowing in the wind as she rides through the market beside Joffrey, and all the crowd calling out to them.
Jory does not notice their return at first, flirting with one of the young women helping peddle Masha's goods. Fat Tom has rejoined them, his beard dripping with water. And Arya taps her foot impatiently on the stones.
"You should get a scarf as well," Sansa tells her sister.
"I don't want a stupid scarf," Arya complains. "When are we going to the docks?"
Baelish looks up at the sun, squinting. "Right about now, I say. Come along, I know a shorter path." His guards part the way as they duck behind the tent and through an alley to find an empty, hidden back stair. Suspicious, Jory's fingers hover over his new dagger all the way down the stair, but, to their surprise, when they exit back out of the shadows of the alley, they find themselves at the docks, with the vast expanse of boats moored along the shore of Blackwater Bay stretching out in front of them.
Chief amongst the boats is a new arrival – a huge schooner of dark wood with massive orange sails. Arya's jaw drops to see it as the boarding plank slams down onto the dock in front of them with a thunderous crash. Two trumpeters appear over the edge of the deck, their instruments scattering any workers mingling about below.
The first down the plank are four guards in heavy, dark orange woolen cloaks and bronzed armor that glistens with a strange light. Each carries a spear as long as they are tall, marching with rigid, carefully placed steps into formation on the dock. In unison, they slam the butts of their spears onto the ground, summoning two more to appear at the top of the plank.
One, a tall knight in matching armor to the guards, save an orange silk cloak where the lower guards have wool, holds his helm beneath his arm. He has a strikingly handsome face, with the pale skin, striking blue eyes and hair so blonde it is almost silver. At his side stands a young girl in a brown and green dress, straw-brown hair tied up into an ornate ring of rose-curls around her head. Her eyes peer down inquisitively at the Starks. She seems familiar, Sansa thinks.
"Who's that?" Arya asks, embarrassingly loudly.
"That girl, my dear?" Petyr answers. "If the Hightowers have their way, she's to be your twin's own betrothed bride."
In the Kingswood, an arrow flies through the brush and, with a final shocked squawk, a quail drops dead from a branch. Peremore treads lightly forward from behind a tree to retrieve his prey as the Hound watches approvingly.
"A good shot," the huge guard lumbers forward as Peremore ties the quail to his belt alongside a rabbit and a plump partridge. "But I ain't spending another night in these bloody woods. No more stopping, we're here to bring back the prince, not dinner."
"The prince should not return to the camp empty-handed," Peremore insists as he catches up.
"Aye, I suppose you're right," the Hound tears aside a shield of branches revealing an empty creek bed, the skeleton of a once flowing stream. Along the mud and stones below, footsteps can be seen here and there, and the scrapings of a large something being dragged along.
Peremore leaps down into the gully first. He crouches to examine the print. "It must be him. These aren't boots. Only Joffrey would wear shoes like these in the woods."
"Fresh?" the Hound awkwardly slides down the edge of the creek bed, kicking up stones and knocking loose chunks of dirt. He stumbles, regaining his footing. Peremore nods, and he chuckles to himself. "Are the royal feet really so small?" One armored boot smashes Joff's print into oblivion as he marches on.
It is not too long before they can hear the sound of their quarry grunting and heaving just around the bend. The Hound stops in his tracks as he rounds the corner, displaying all the shock his stern, scarred face can muster for only a moment.
"He fucking did it."
Prince Joffrey Baratheon stands over the body of the white stag, or at least what appears to be, its pale coat covered in dirt and dust. The prince himself looks even worse for wear, his cloak gone and fine dark doublet and trousers torn and dirty. His hair is tangled, eyes dull and darkly ringed, face pale, scratched and gaunt, as if he has been missing for weeks, not a day and a half.
"Dog!" he gasps, his voice raspy and desperate. "What took you so long?"
Peremore quickly rushes forward, shoving a water bag into Joffrey's hands but otherwise ignoring him as he drops to one knee to examine the stag. Joffrey quickly begins to empty the contents into his mouth, most of the water pouring out over his face. He looks to the Hound, panting with relief, life rushing back to his green eyes as they demand more. Begrudgingly, the Hound throws over his own water without a word.
Peremore kneels closer to brush away the dirt and brambles from the stags white side. It is bigger than he expected, and for a moment even he is impressed the prince has managed to drag it so far. The cause of death is clear enough. A dagger with a lion's head pommel is still stuck in its skull. As he wraps one gloved around the hilt, he sees the stag's eye, dried open with blood, black and empty. He meets it lifeless gaze and wonders just what fortune the omen portends. This is a beast of legend, he knows. But what kind?
"Get moving, lad!" the Hound bellows. "Help me make a splint to carry the beast back. I want to make camp before nightfall." Peremore twists on the dagger and it pulls it free with a sickening sound. He hands it to the Hound and leaves to find a branch sturdy enough to hold the stag's weight. The Hound stays put, turning over the dagger in his huge hands before finally handing it back to Joffrey. "You kill that thing this close."
"It charged me," Joffrey sneers pridefully. "Stupid deer. That was its last mistake, that's for sure." He walks over and kicks at the corpse, as if to make certain its truly dead. Perhaps we were wrong, the Hound begrudgingly thinks. He may have some warrior in him yet.
A/N: As always, thanks for reading! Ghosts in the woods, the white stag is dead, Edward's would-be betrothed has finally arrived and Littlefinger continues to wrap himself around the Starks. The omens are stacking up, but in whose favor will they fall? As always, all feedback is greatly appreciated!