As the sun sets over the Riverlands, Ned Stark finds his prisoners hanging over a fire tended by the red priest of Myr. Rafford and the other brigands captured in the ambush are trussed up, arms spread wide on frames of branches, held up by ropes looped around branches that are slowly lowering them towards the flames. Ser Marq Piper holds two of the ropes himself, while Ser Karyl Vance watches the captives with a malevolent look, the birthmark covering half his face darkening as the men begin to writhe in discomfort the nearer they come to the flame.
"Stop this at once!" Ned commands. Are only a few days of war truly all it takes to drive us to savagery? At first, his men hesitate to obey. "Edric, cut them down, now," he instructs the Dayne boy, who quickly obeys, drawing his sword to tear the trusses free. Marq lets his men crash to the ground with an irritated grunt.
"Whose squire are you, boy?" he looks down disdainfully at lad, who pays him no mind. "Did Lord Stark claim you? Big Ned and Little Ned, with the same stick up both your arses." He turns away to stalk off into the woods, not realizing he has been heard.
"Ser Marq!" Ned calls after him. "I did not quite hear you. Would you care to speak up, so that we may all hear your thoughts on the matter?"
For a moment, Ned worries that the knight means to fight him. Marq, half a head taller, looms angrily from beneath the shadows of the hanging tree, his long golden hair and square jaw no longer quite so dashing, his angry veins protruding to look more like a stone gargoyle leering down at unwitting prey. But nothing comes of it. "It was nothing, my lord," he grunts. Tearing a low-hanging branch out of the way, he stomps out of sight. He isn't wrong though, Ned has to admit to himself. Edric has been serving me far more than Lord Beric lately. Where is Beric? Likely passed out drunk in his tent by now.
"My lord, I am sorry," Thoros throws himself at Ned's feet. "I meant no harm, only to extract their secrets."
"Of course," Ned tugs the red priest back to his feet. His breath stinks of sour ale. Are these the men with which I am to save the realm? "See that it does not happen again." He pushes Thoros away, and he stumbles off back towards the camp. The clearing is almost empty now, save a few men at arms, Harwyn, Edric and Ser Karyl. The heir to Wayfarer's Rest stands opposite him in the fire, arms crossed, the smoke blowing up into his face as a slight breeze tugs at his raven hair. On his doublet, two golden eyes and a black dragon stare back.
"My wife, my daughters and all our people stand in more danger every minute," he finally speaks. "Before my father sent me to beseech the king's aid, I saw what these men did to the villages, to the people, the women and the children. I will not curse you with those tales. But I have no such luxury. I will never forget the things I saw, nor do I want to. When I took the vows of knighthood, I swore to stand against evil. And when I walked the ruins of the villages the Mountain torched, for the first time Lord Stark, I saw evil. These are not men. They are monsters. And I mean to extract answers from these men, one way or another. The worst I could do would be a mercy to the crimes they committed on my lands."
"You will not touch them," Ned steps towards the fire. "Return to your tent, Ser Karyl. On the morn, I will be sending you and Ser Marq to raise more men from the surrounding lands. We will need them before we face the Mountain again." Without a word, Karyl nods and turns away, walking stiffly down the rough path towards the tents. Ned looks back to the prisoners on the ground. Was he right? What have they done to deserve my protection? Who is true to their honor here? Karyl or me? He kneels beside one of the men, Rafford, who they called the Sweetling. "This is your final chance. Was Ser Gladden Wylde serving your master all along? Where has he gone? And where is the Mountain?"
"I don't know no Gladden nor no Wylde," Raff swears. "And Ser never told me no plans of his."
Ned stares long and hard into the man's eyes in the dimming light. There is no lie behind them. I should let them take the Black, he knows. The Wall is in dire need of men, and they seem capable enough. But he has no means to hold so many captives while on the march. And were any to escape, they would surely run back to Clegane with word of how broken his force now is.
"What should we do, my lord?" Harwyn asks.
"Hang them," Ned commands. He who gives the sentence should swing the sword, he knows. But there are too many, and the night too short. Tomorrow's ride will be long. Feeling his shoulders begin to slouch, he starts the long, dark walk down the path to the camp, hoping that the night will bring dreams of his dear Cat, of the children, all together again and home in Winterfell. That or no dreams at all.
While most of bounty of the hunt had been dined upon in Castle Wendwater, there was enough left to be embellished into a grand celebration of the king's return and a welcome to the freshly arrived lords and knights of the Reach. As the music and laughter fills the Great Hall, one could almost forget that the realm was at war.
There is song and dance and many courses of food. But not all is merry. While King Robert sits at his table at the head of the hall, surrounded by his counsellors and the Reach lords, Queen Cersei is notably not with him, relegated to a separate table with the Western nobles. As Prince Joffrey and Peremore Hightower slip past rows of servants carrying out steaming trays of food, this does not go unnoticed.
"I think my mother wants me to sit with her," Joffrey whispers.
"Of course she does," Peremore holds him back. "Your father barred her from the table. They're clearly fighting. But if you go to her now, instead of him, you'll be taking her side."
Joffrey looks back and forth between the two tables. "You're right." He moves to take a seat near Robert, walking past the squires' table, where he notices Lyman sitting by Alyn Ambrose, both in somber moods.
"I shan't be having such glum faces at my feast!" he declares, grabbing a roasted duck leg from a passing servant and tearing off a greasy bite. "This is a celebration!"
"I'm not feeling well," Lyman mumbles under his breath.
"Nothing that good food and drink and dancing won't fix!" The prince waves the duck bone in Lyman's face before snatching up his goblet of wine to finish it himself. "Where's the ale?"
"I thought you hated ale?" Alyn asks.
"Of course not. Real men drink ale," Joffrey insists, stealing a potato from the squire's plate. "Don't tell me you're feeling ill, too."
"I wish Eleanor were here to dance with," Alyn sighs, patting his betrothed's gilded favor, ever always pinned over his heart.
"There are plenty of maidens here to dance with," Joffrey laughs, but Alyn frowns.
"There is only one girl in all the world I want to dance with." He stares longingly into the distance. Joffrey follows his gaze, and is confused to only see a stone corner. "She is the fairest maiden I've ever seen. I am promised to her and…"
"Oh, you are a bore!" Joffrey recoils. "Do you think you're some kind of poet? Here, have more wine, that should make you more interesting." He holds Alyn's goblet up to his mouth, forcing him to drink the rest of it, before yelling at the servants. "More wine! And ale!"
With a laugh, the prince struts off to the king's table. Lyman breathes a sigh of relief to once again be left alone. He pokes at the remains of a slice of meat pie with his knife, spinning it melancholily around his plate. He has been lost in a haze all day. Before, he had begun to fancy the thought of returning to Wendwater when he came of age and seeking Cassanda's hand in marriage. His family may have lost much of their wealth in the rebellion, but Lord Wendwater could surely appreciate his proposal. And he had even let himself think that Cassanda may love him. It had seemed so real. But had it really all been a lie? The ploy of a greedy lord? And if so, what did that mean for him and Eliza? Realizing that the servants have refilled his goblet, he takes a long drink and tries to drown out the noise.
Having seen Joffrey to his seat, Peremore makes the long walk back down the hall to the table where his family is sitting. While his mother is laughing and singing with his aunts and uncle and their companions, he finds his father, Ser Urrigon, sitting grimly on a too small chair, untouched food piling up before him, an empty ale mug the only thing touched.
"Father, is everything alright?"
"Of course," the huge knight mumbles, scratching his beard. "I'm not feeling particularly hungry tonight." His eyes stare coldly ahead, face betraying no emotion. But Peremore can see where his father is watching:
The king's table. Where Urrigon had sat scarce days before at the feast in Wendwater, now Mace Tyrell sits, face flushed red, chortling and laughing at all the king's jokes. The rest of the table is filled by his peers – Lords of Florent, Merryweather and Tarly and their sons. And still more to come. With a burst of shouting, a new group enters – Renly, Ser Loras Tyrell and young Edric Storm, along with several young knights of the Reach and Stormlands. They are willfully late, and as such are now the center of attention, all the ladies of the court and aspiring men flocking to them like gulls to a fresh meal.
"I'll be in my chambers," Urrigon decides gruffly and rises with a sudden force, quickly exiting through the nearest door. Unfazed, Peremore takes the now open seat beside his sister Maris.
"Will you be eating that?" Leyla calls down from her end of the table, eying the untouched food lustily. With a shake of his head, Peremore passes it down to his aunt and instead focuses on the king and his new companions, he and his sister carefully watching their every move, noting every gesture, every reaction, every sideways glance. And they remember.
The night goes on and on as the feasting, for all save the most gluttonous, gives way to dancing and drunken warbling along with the band. Sansa Stark, much to her joy, finds herself in Joffrey's arms, spinning about among the lords and ladies. She is in her finest gown of grey and white, he is in a fine tailed doublet of burgundy and gold. He is a grand dancer, and as she clasps onto his hands, she closes her eyes, imagining them dancing one day at the center of the floor with crowns upon their heads and children running about at their feet.
"I can't believe Lord Renly brought that bastard to court," Joffrey's scoff breaks Sansa's dream. She sees his green eyes are no longer watching her, but glaring indignantly at Edric Storm, dancing with some girl she does not know.
"He's just a bastard," she gently turns his face back to her. "This feast is a celebration of you. You're the one who killed the stag!"
"That's right!" Joffrey snaps back into a good mood. "There it is, right there!" He points to where the tightly stretched white hide of the stag sits freshly hung on the wall directly behind his father's head. "Edric's never done anything like that! Come on, let's get more drinks!"
He's drunk, Sansa realizes, watching the prince clumsily shuffle off, but she follows him back to the table nonetheless, smiling as she passes Edward, stiffly dancing with Heleana Hightower in his arms. It's as if his legs have turned to stone, ambling awkwardly and stiff as the older girl in her green dress tries to force him into the steps of the dance. Finally, one foot lands harshly upon Heleana's, and she pulls free.
"If you don't want to dance, we don't have to," she scowls, her patiently demure attitude beginning to crack. "We can just talk. We never talk." But Edward isn't listening. He sees Myrcella on the dance floor, glowing in a fine golden gown that sparkles as she twirls beneath the candlelight of the chandeliers. "Is that it? Do you want to dance with her instead?"
Hela gives him a push and he turns back to her, confused. She stares intently, waiting for a response, her round face frozen half-angry, half-polite. But his mouth goes dry, all he can think of is the princess. And then, his eyes grow wide as a fat drop of hot wax falls down from a candle on high to land squarely, scalding in the center of Heleana's forehead. With a screech of pain, the girl shoves him out of the way and runs out of the hall, Gunthor following swiftly when he sees what has happened. Edward knows he should go after her. But instead he turns away, crossing the dance floor towards Myrcella.
Back at the king's table, Joffrey is pouring two large goblets of wine.
"Father only lets me have one cup at dinner," Sansa hesitates.
"Your father isn't here!" Joff laughs and pushes the goblet into her hands. "You're my betrothed. One day, all of these fools will be bowing to us. You can have whatever you want. We can do whatever we want."
Sansa lifts the goblet and takes a long drink. The wine is sweet, and as it pours down over her tongue and down her throat, it warms her insides. She eagerly takes another drink, then another. When she finally looks back up, Edric Storm is standing before them.
"Arbor gold," he recognizes the drink. "Some say it's the best wine in the realm. But have you ever had wine from Tarth?"
"Of course we have," Joffrey insists, though Sansa has not, and she suspects he hasn't either. "Have you had ale like this? It's how the First Men made it." Joff hands a mug overflowing with foam to the bastard, who happily takes a long drink with a smile. Suddenly nervous, Joff rushes to gulp down his own mug, leaving him sputtering as Edric swallows smoothly. Sansa laughs despite herself and, blushing, takes another drink.
"Look at him, already the pride of the Keep." From the king's table, Renly watches Edric approvingly as Joffrey attempts to force down more sour ale.
"And look at Cersei fume," Loras giggles into his wine. "When will you tell Robert?"
"Not yet. We must bide our time. Crush the Lannister rebellion and then, once the court has come to see how Baratheon Edric is compared to the prince, then we will make it known. Stannis is the problem now. If he wins back Robert's favor…"
"Think not of that! Stannis is a bore! Once the dust has settled, Robert will send him back to Dragonstone to wither away with his hag wife and her red witch."
"Very well," Renly pushes away thoughts of Stannis and continues watching the supposed half-brothers. There could not be a starker contrast. Put all the eyes on them now, he thinks, and surely they will see it, too. With a flourish of his golden cloak, he rises, goblet in hand. "A toast!" he bellows, his thunderous voice silencing the hall. But before he can continue, Robert is struggling to his feet.
"Aye, a toast!" the king drunkenly shouts, spilling ale onto Lord Merryweather. "A toast to the hero of the hunt, to the fine young lad who saved me from the most savage of beasts! Let all men know, that those who serve their king truly will be rewarded. Lyman Darry!" He points, and all eyes turn to the squire's table and the groggy and confused Lyman. "Rise boy! Rise and greet these lords as the heir to Harrenhal!"
Gasps and shouts spread across the hall at Robert's declaration and the crowd surges towards Lyman. Edward is almost to Myrcella, darting in between the adults as they begin to rush past him. He barely registers the honor bestowed upon his friend as he watches the princess, without ever seeing him, hurry straight to ask the new heir to Harrenhal to dance.
"Here." He feels a small familiar hand grab his and turn him back – Arya, looking a comical sight in a frumpy grey dress with billowing blue sleeves, her hair reluctantly forced into something half-resembling a braid. "They said I have to dance. I might as well dance with you."
Edward takes one last longing glance at Myrcella as she pulls a stumbling, dazed Lyman onto the floor, before following Arya into the crowd. And for the rest of the night, he lets his mind rest. With Arya, at least, the dance feels natural – free and unruly, jostling the somber adults, spinning about with wild arms and legs just as they once had in Winterfell. At least for now, he is happy.
As the night wears on, the crowd begins to disperse. Sansa finds herself alone in an increasingly empty room, unable to remember where Joffrey has gone. She has stopped dancing, but the room is spinning around her, her vision blurry. She sees Moon Boy, the fool with a mop for a steed, galavanting about, screeching a song that seems both deafening and distant at the same time. She sways in rhythm to the off-tune canter, realizing that the fool is dashing towards her now.
Two hands tug her back as Moon Boy passes in a blur. Agitated, Sansa tears herself free. "Let me go!" She boxes at the air. "Let me go, I wanted to ride with Moon Boy!"
"Hush now, dear," the hands steady her once more. She looks up to see the hazy shapes of the Hightower sisters staring down, Alysanne and Leyla. No, that can't be Alysanne, she thinks. She's much too pretty. The normally demure lady is dressed in a slender yellow gown, crossed with red lace, her dark hair braided ornately. But that must be Leyla. No other lady in the Keep is that fat! She laughs shrilly at her own joke and realizes she is being guided to the door, though she never told her feet to move. Stupid feet! I have to stay! The dance isn't over! "Let's get you off to bed." The woman strokes her hair.
"Mother?" Sansa stumbles, confused. But then she sees Maris waiting by the door and realizes she is about to be sick.
As the music begins to fade from the night air, Lancel Lannister sits brooding in his wheelchair along the walls of Maegor's Holdfast. One of the kingsguard had brought him out so that he could hear the band play. He had been a good dancer. Before the Darry boy crippled him, of course. And so he sits, breathing silent curses to the gods, to Lyman Darry and to the queen.
He remembered when she first came to him. It was was no small thing to betray the king. But she had promised him knighthood, glory, gold and new lands. Most of all she had promised him her bed. In his mind, he imagines her wearing nothing but her crown, waiting for him beneath golden sheets. All he had to do was get Robert terribly drunk on his next hunt, so drunk he would have a tragic accident. But instead he had fallen in the joust and Lyman had taken his place as squire. Now he was left with nothing. He would never be a knight, and would waste away until the father of some ugly highborn girl decided to give her to a cripple.
Unless… That was the thought that had come to his mind when had Cersei come again that morning. Unless he could still serve the king. For the man who revealed a plot against the throne, surely there would be great rewards. Lancel smiles at the thought. They all thought he was stupid, that they could just cast him aside. He looks down over the edge at the spikes in the trench below. If he can't have Cersei in his bed, then seeing her head on the spikes would be the next best thing.
He hears the clinking of mail on the stone behind him.
"Ser Mandon?"
And then he feels the push.
A/N: This is the one year anniversary of me beginning this piece! Thanks so much for coming along on this journey with Edward, Sansa, Ned and all the others! I always aim to better my writing so, as always, all comments, critiques and suggestions are greatly appreciated!