"You did what?" Jaime Lannister's voice echoes within his cell.
"We need no longer worry about Lancel," Queen Cersei declares from the other side of the door.
"Cersei, you…" Jaime's face falters in the darkness. Slowly, up from the shadows, his face rises to appear on the other side of the bars. His hair and beard continue to grow, tangled and unkempt. His face is pale and blotchy. But his green eyes remain fierce, but in them Cersei sees confusion and anger. "He was blood. That's kin-slaying."
"I didn't push him," the queen scoffs. "Ser Mandon was there for that."
"By the gods, he wouldn't have told!" Jaime grips the bars, his knuckles cracked and bleeding.
"I went to see him. I could see it in his eyes. He was going to betray us."
"And what happens if Tyrek returns? Will you have Ser Mandon throw him down upon the spikes as well?" No reply comes. "If they didn't suspect us before, they will now. You have to stop, it isn't safe."
"Safe?" Cersei's voice raises for the first time. She slaps the door, and Jaime recoils. "Every day Robert sits upon the throne, we are not safe. Nor our children! Renly has brought that awful bastard into the court, and Robert allows it! They are moving against us!"
"What, are you going to kill him too?"
"I will find a new way. Once Joffrey sits the throne, this will all be over. Father is defying him at last, his armies prepared to raze the Riverlands and then the North. What do you think he would have us do? Sit on our hands?"
"We were to do this together," Jaime reaches through the bars to grasp at Cersei's hand, but she recoils from his scabbed, dirty fingers.
"You weren't supposed to be in prison. Thanks to your foolishness, I need make the rules now. If you hadn't gotten locked away you could have made sure Robert never returned from that hunt!"
"If I hadn't…" Jaime laughs without mirth. "You told me to take Stark!"
"I didn't tell you to lose!" With that, Cersei turns angrily and sulks away into the dark depths of the halls, the guards following with their torches, leaving Jaime to fade into black once more.
As Cersei returns to her chambers, she is both disturbed by her brother's animosity and yet still self-assured of the brilliance of her actions. Lancel had been a stupid, silly, scrawny boy who only wanted to crawl between her legs. He thought he was another Jaime. But there were no men like Jaime. And then he had gone and gotten himself crippled by a Darry boy, of all people. He had disgraced House Lannister. They were better off without him.
But as the door creaks open into her solar, she feels something is off, instinctively slowing her steps. Treading lightly as the door closes, she peers into the dim room, faintly lit by the morning light through the windows. She can see the chairs about her table just around the corner. They've moved. Was Jaime right? Had they come for her already?
"Lester? Lum!" she calls to the guards in the hall as her pulse quickens. Idiots! A looming shadow steps around the corner. With a scream, she grabs a flagon of wine from the table and hurls it blindly at the man. Only as the ceramic shatters in an explosion of Arbor Gold, does she see the Lannister armor and crimson cloak of the captain of her guard. "Vylarr!" she shrieks. "What in the Seven Hells are you doing here? I will have your head on a spike!"
She storms forward but, rounding the corner, sees they are not alone. Six more Lannister men wait in the solar, along with four knights in drag clothes. And sitting at the head of the table, a dark, quilted cloak draped over his broad shoulders, is her uncle.
"You will have no such thing, your grace," Kevan Lannister commands. "Have a seat."
"I am the queen," Cersei refuses to move. "I will sit where I please." He's gotten fatter since we last met, she thinks, and lost more hair. Though he's tried to make up for that with half a beard it seems, scratchy golden hair tracing along his jutting jaw. He is not Father, that much is certain.
"Leave us," Kevan waves to the guards and his knights, who file out one by one. Vylarr is the last to leave, without ever having made a sound, still dripping wine.
"What are you doing here?" she glares down at him. "You should be with Father, freeing Tyrion and collecting Ned Stark's head!"
"My brother sent me here in secret, to collect you, your brother and your children else you be used as hostages in the war to come. And I have arrived to find the city swarming with Tyrells, the king crippled and my son dead."
"Nuncle, I'm…" In her panic, Cersei had nearly forgotten about Lancel. "I'm so sorry, we are all mourning for him. I swear, I did everything to try and liven his spirits but in the end, I fear it was too much for him to bear. He admired you so, all he wanted was to be a knight. That wicked Lyman Darry stole that from him. And to hear that the wretch had been given Harrenhal…"
She moves to embrace him, but he holds up his hand. "No. What did you do?"
"I… I don't know what you mean," she tries to read his face for emotion, but if Kevan had cried for his firstborn, those tears were spent.
"I've already been to see Jaime in the cells," he answers coldly.
When? Surely Jaime would have said… "What did he tell you?"
"Enough. I know that you plotted against Robert. I know that you ensnared my son into these schemes. And I know that Jaime feared he would expose you both."
"I never doubted his loyalty," Cersei vows. "We are all Lannisters. No lion would ever betray their own kin." I hope that is truer for him than for me.
"I hope that is true," Kevan finally rises. "You have certainly made this task more difficult. I will see to your safe passage home to the Rock. If you value your children, put an end to your schemes, or you may yet doom us all." Raising his hood to cover his face, Kevan slips out into the hall without another word. Alone at last, Cersei collapses into the nearest chair and curses to realize she has spilt all her wine.
Lyman Darry awakes with his head between two heavy breasts and a feeling as if an aurochs has caved in his skull. He rises, confused and eyes hazy, before feeling a sudden burning in his stomach. Rolling quickly off an unfamiliar bed, he lands hard on the stone floor and crawls to the chamber pot in time to retch.
Where am I? He needs to know, but it hurts to think. The last thing he remembers Robert naming him heir to Harrenhal before all the court, and being dragged onto the floor to dance. As bile drips down from his agape mouth, he realizes the pot now holding his last night's feast is gilded. Oh no. He rises, shakily at first, and turns back to the bed. Now he recognizes the fine quilted blanket, silk sheets and black and gold drapings. Joffrey's bed. Curled up in the tangled covers, two naked serving girls are beginning to wake.
Spying a discarded pair of trousers on the ground, he tries to cover himself, but realizes they do not fit. Turning about, he sees Edric Storm, sprawled out on the prince's chaise, buried beneath a plump girl he knows from the kitchens. Desperately looking for his clothes and fighting the urge to retch again, he stumbles around the far end of the bed only to see Peremore Hightower, still fully dressed, sitting in a chair by the door.
Lyman cries out with a start, nearly falling backwards through the drapes. Instead, two slender arms emerge from behind them, wrapping around his chest and caressing his muscles. A slender, blonde face emerges to kiss his neck.
"Are you alright, m'lord?" the girl asks. He can't recall if he knows her name. She sees Peremore and giggles. "Do you think he's alive? He hasn't moved since he sat down, but you swore you were man enough for two. Thankfully you were." Her hand slides lower, but Lyman pulls away.
"You have to go! You all have to go now!" The girls look back, confused and disappointed.
"This is the prince's room," Peremore speaks, his eyes snapping open. With a sudden gasp, the two girls make haste out of bed, waking their friend on the lounge and scrambling to find their dresses and small clothes. Lyman's head begins to reel once more.
"Where is he?"
Peremore simply points to the far side of the bed as the girls hurry out. Lyman peers around the corner to see Prince Joffrey, still dressed for the feast and dead asleep, folded into a heap of limbs and clothes between the wall and the edge of his own bed, a pair of trousers atop his head.
"Will you help me?" Lyman glares agitatedly at the older boy as he tugs his pants back on. Reluctantly, Peremore rises and grabs the prince's feet, helping hoist back into his bed and under the covers. Lyman breathes a sigh of relief when Joff does not stir. Slowly, memories begin to return. "Where's Alyn?"
"He ran out with a girl chasing him the moment you started undressing, crying on about his Elinor," Peremore smirks. "He's halfway to Highgarden by now, at that pace."
"Take care of him," Lyman commands, pointing to Edric and tugging on his shirt and doublet. The king always sleeps late after a feast, but I cannot be late. Peremore shrugs and moves to wake the bastard as Lyman hurries out the door, nearly running into The Hound on guard.
"Is his grace a man yet?" Clegane yawns from beneath his helm. Lyman rushes on without an answer.
In the wee hours of the morning, dew still moist on the stones in the yard, Edward Stark scrambles about like an industrious ant, doing his duties for Ser Arys, asleep in his bunk after standing guard by the king through the night. He makes his rounds, preparing food and drink, washing the garments, greeting all the servants on the way. Father would be proud, he reminds himself. And thinking of that helps him forget to worry about the war. Almost.
His work for Ser Arys done for now, Edward returns to the Tower of the Hand. His knight will be asleep for some time. Which means he will be able to train with Jalabar, and maybe even go with Arya to learn from Syrio Forel. Maester Gaheris is busy tending to the wounds of the king, however, so warging will have to wait. It has only been two days since Edward last entered the mind of his wolf, but the yearning to return is already unbearable.
He finds Septa Mordane sternly overseeing the servants as they oversee the morning meal. When she isn't looking, Edward snatches an orange from the table and slinks away. As he darts into the study, he halts to avoid disturbing Jory Cassel, Fat Tom, Syrio and Yorren. They are gravely listening to a report from Vayon Poole, the Stark family steward.
"I couldn't hold them," he is saying, his usually jolly face downcast.
"You should have paid them more," Jory insists.
"They could wait no longer," Poole shakes his head. "And even if they were willing, our funds are already low. Requesting more coin from the treasury would raise suspicions. We will simply have to wait upon Lord Stark's return."
"How long?" Yorren snarls, his dirty boots propped up on Ned's empty desk. "I can't stay here forever. I have men needs shipped back to the Wall. Why don't you see if the Bravossi has any friends in the harbor?"
"I fear Syrio Forel has no such friends in this harbor," the eastern swordsman scoffs at the watchman. "If I did, I would not be so common of your dull company."
"You're talking about the ship Father hired, aren't you," Edward blurts out. The five men all turn to look at him at once, his hiding spot given away.
"It's nothing child," Poole raises his hands in assurance. "No need to worry yourself over coin and ships. Leave such matters to us old men."
"You mean the ship Lord Eddard hired to spirit his children safely home by way of White Harbor?" Edward gasps as Lord Petyr Baeish appears behind him in the door.
"Lord Baelish!" Poole's jaw drops before tightening into a suspicious scowl. "We were not expecting you! I was not aware that Lord Stark made you party to his plans."
"Oh, I am party to everyone's plans in this city," Petyr laughs. "Particuarly those involving coin. Jory, tell me, how is your dagger? And Thomas, your axe?"
"Fine weapons, my lord," Jory pats the curved eastern dagger, ever-sheathed on his hip since the day Baelish purchased it in the market. "And thank the gods we've had no need to use them."
"Then let me assure you that any ship you may need will come just as easily," Petyr places his hands on Edward's shoulders. "You must believe me when I say I am a true friend to House Stark. If Lord Eddard is in need of a ship, then you shall have one, no questions asked."
"A generous offer, Lord Baelish," Poole frowns. "We shall speak more on it later. But what is it that truly brought you to us this morn?"
"I only wished to greet my good friends in the Hand's guard. And, of course, to see the children," Petyr tussles Edward's hair. "I thought I might go with them to the sept to light candles for Lord Eddard and his brave men."
"Very well," Jory quickly accepts the notion. "The kitchens always make more than enough food. I am sure the little ones will be pleased by your company. Isn't that right, little lordling eavesdropper?" He looks down at Edward with a laugh and tugs him up in the air by his arms, swinging him out into the hallway.
"Where's Sansa?" Petyr asks, following close behind.
"Still asleep," Edward answers with a thud and a laugh as Jory finally lets him down. Poole and Fat Tom follow, leaving only Syrio and Yorren alone in the study.
"I don't trust that one," Yorren snarls. "You know he once told me he fancied my cloak? Ha! This old thing?" He slams his boots down on the floor. "He's a flatterer. Never believe a flatterer, the Old Bear says. That advice kept me alive many a time. Best keep an eye on that damn mockingbird."
Syrio nods. "On that much, we can agree."
When Sansa Stark awakes, she nearly retches at once. Dizzy, she sits up, steadying her stomach, but then the pain comes – An aching roar in her skull. She tries to remember the night before, but remembering only makes her brain hurt.
"Finally!" Jeyne Poole's shrill voice shoots through her ears from behind the bed curtains like a deadly arrow. "I thought you'd never wake up!"
"I wish I hadn't," Sansa mutters under her breath, shakily turning her legs off the side of the bed and shivering as they hit the cold stone. Her hands clench the curtains as she again fends off the urge to scatter the remains of the last night's feast into her chamber pot. If she did, then the septa would surely know. If she didn't already…
"You were drunk!" Jeyne scolds her shrilly. "And you called me stupid and wouldn't dance with me! And now our food will be cold and we'll be late for the sept with Lord Baelish!"
Sansa angrily tears aside the curtains to reveal Jeyne, ready to snap back at her friend. But, looking at Jeyne's face through blurry, squinted vision, she can see the hurt in the other girl's eyes. Whatever she had done and said, it must have been wrong. "I'm sorry," she says, and wretches on the floor.
The girls had both certainly meant to clean the bile from the floor, but neither could bare to get close to it. And so they berated the servants until they swore not to tell Septa Mordane. Satisfied, Jeyne tugged Sansa into a dress and down to the dining table, where she did not eat, and then to the sept with Edward and Arya and Lord Baelish, where she struggled to remember her prayers. But, while kneeling before the stone feet of the Mother, the swarm of candles making her brow drip sweat, she did remember one thing – The night before, in the Great Hall, where Heleana Hightower ran in tears from the dance. Her brother made a terrible mistake. And now she must fix it.
Sansa finds Heleana on a balcony, surrounded by the other Hightower women, all save Maris, she is thankful to see. Alysanne is stitching. Patrice is half-watching her youngest, Ellyn, but the other half is quickly falling asleep. Leyla sits across from Hela, idling munching on a sticky sweetcake while embroiled in her favorite eastern game, the Giver's Gambit. Sansa glares at the pieces on the board from a distance. The first time she had played, Hela had beaten her thrice in front of all the other girls. She was not eager to play again, especially not with her head still aching,
"Good morn, Lady Sansa!" Alysanne looks up from her work. "How are you feeling, dear?"
"Fine, thank you," she blushes.
"After how you felt when last we saw you, I find that unlikely," Leyla laughs.
"Don't mock the girl, Leyla," Alysanne scolds her sister. She gently takes Sansa's hand. "I don't know what you remember. You had an awful amount of wine for such a young one. But we saw you safely back to your chambers. No others saw. Not like my poor Alyn. I'm afraid the lad made quite the spectacle of himself, running from some serving girl who wanted him to bed."
"Thank you," Sansa's blush turns a darker shade of red. Slowly, the memories start to piece back together. "And I'm sorry for Alyn. He's kind."
"Oh, he'll be fine. He's a sturdy boy, like his father. Thinks he's the next Dragonknight. No, go along," she points Sansa to the table. "Sister, let the girls talk. Us old women have our own matters to tend to."
"Old? Ha! Speak for yourself!" Leyla shoves the rest of the sweetcake into her mouth and lurches to her feet, ambling back to Alysanne's side as Sansa takes her seat.
"It's no good for you to apologize for him, I'm afraid," Hela says before she can even say a word. "He'll have to do it himself." She begins to reset the board.
"Well, I'm still very sorry," Sansa goes ahead with her plan nonetheless, unable to think of anything else. "Edward has always been very distractable."
"I don't want to talk about Edward."
Sansa has reached a dead end. But she knows she can't leave it at this. Edward will never fix this by himself, she knows. And above all else, she wants her brother to be happy. She has to know. "May I only ask one question?"
"I suppose," Hela concedes, sighing.
"Do you like him?"
"Today? No, not very much," she surprises Sansa with her bluntness. "I know I shouldn't say that, but I won't lie to you. You can trust me. I promised, remember? But it isn't as if I have a choice, is it, so long as your father concedes. No more than you have in marrying Joffrey."
"Oh, but I love Joffrey!" Sansa insists.
"Of course you do." But Sansa cannot tell if the other girl truly believes it. I do love him, who wouldn't? He is the prince! Can't she see that? "And if I do marry Edward, I will try to love him as well. My own father had only met my mother twice before their wedding. And they love each other very much, but he always wanted something different for me and my brother."
"Is there… someone else?" Sansa asks nervously.
"Oh, Father has tried. He's brought me many playmates, so many noble squires get sent to Oldtown. There was a Florent boy, several Tyrells, a Costayne, a Beesbury. But they were all terribly boring. None wanted to play games. Some could barely even read. Mother often vowed when I was older I would find them more appealing. And I think they would have kept me in Oldtown until then, if they had their way. But it was my lord grandfather who insisted the match with Edward be accepted. And now I am here, and there is no one at all left to play with but my aunts. And I already know all their moves."
"But you have new friends, here!" Sansa takes her hand. "I am your friend! Myrcella is your friend! And Edward can be too! He's not like the other boys, he's very sweet and smart!"
"So did you come to play?" Hela gestures down to the board. Just looking at the different shapes of pieces makes Sansa's head hurt even worse. I will never drink wine again, she vows to herself, not for the first time today, and hopes the other girl did not see her wince. What else? And then she knows, one thing that they have that no one else can offer, one thing a girl as learned as Heleana surely could never resist. Direwolves.
"No. I have something better."
"Where? A new game? Something from the North?"
"Not a game, but from the North. From the Far North!"
Sansa takes Hela's small hand and is relieved when the other girl follows. But it is only then that she recalls Cersei's warning and the promise she had made. But she pushes those thoughts away and leads Hela down the path to where she knows her siblings will be.
"Tell the new boy what Syrio Forel has taught you to be."
The Bravossi watches Arya as she stands facing Edward in the glaring sun, sweat already beginning to form droplets on their brows. Both clad in simple grey shirts and trousers and Arya's hair tied up close to her scalp, the twins look almost identical. The tips of their training blades nearly touch halfway between them, under their tutor's watchful eyes.
"Swift as a deer," Arya answers, eyes straight ahead, locked with Edward's. "Quiet as a shadow. Quick as a snake. Calm as still water. Strong as a bear. Fierce as a wolverine."
"Very good. What else have you learned?"
"The man who fears losing has already lost. Fear cuts deeper than swords. All men are made of water. When you cut them, the water comes out, and they die. That is why the water dancer survives when others sink. See the truth that is really there, not that what is presented."
"All this and more Syrio Forel will teach you, boy."
Edward nods, dutifully taking in every word. The sword he holds is strange in his hands. It is far lighter than any of the blades he's been handed before. It is not near as thin as Needle, but it feels more like a pen than a sword. He raises it, steadying his stance as if he were shooting at targets with Jalabar Xo, but Syrio instead sharply kicks at his feet.
"No. I have seen you stand like this with the bow. But this is not a bow, this is a sword. Here, your feet are planted here like stone. Like a knight. But you are not a knight. That is why you are here. You are weak."
With his own wooden sword, Syrio swats Edward's blade to the ground, clattering out of his hands. He scrambles to pick it up. Arya does not move. "I'm not weak!" he protests.
"To fight, you must first know yourself. Perhaps one day you will be strong. Perhaps one day you will be a knight. But today you are boy. You must be fast, or else you will die. Like so," Syrio pokes Edward in the back, and he tries not to stumble. The Bravossi points to Arya. "Show the new boy what you have learned."
Arya jumps forward and before Edward can react, her sword is on his chest.
"Dead," she smirks.
"You see, boy?" Syrio paces around them in a circle. "You must be fast. You must be water."
Arya strikes again. And again. On the third try, Edward finally manages to parry her attack. That time, he blocks her sword twice before it hits the back of his neck with a blunted but stinging bite. Every time she smirks. "Dead. Dead. Dead." Somehow, these defeats rile Edward's blood more than any amount of beatings he had taken from Ser Jaime or Ser Arys. He feels the fierceness within that he had felt the day he attacked Joffrey by the river, that he had buried away ever since, only letting free when he warged. But now it is bubbling up again. "Dead. Dead. Dead." The room spins around him as he turns, each new attack from a different direction while Syrio paces beyond them. He is the spoke within a wheel, rolling about and about. He tries to dodge, but his feet are clumsy, dragging him down, tangling up in each other. "Dead. Dead…"
At last, with a violent lurch, Edward twists out of Arya's path and slashes upwards, knocking her sword out of her hand and into the air. Before it can hit the ground, he lands a jab in her stomach. "Dead!" he declares triumphantly before hunching over, gasping for breath as the sword comes clattering down the ground by the door, which has opened silently. When Arya turns to retrieve it, she sees it resting at Sansa's feet, Heleana Hightower by her side. She recoils, but Sansa beckons her to take it.
"I see you are learning to dance now, too, Edward," she looks to her brother. "Heleana would like to see the direwolves. That is, if you're quite finished?"
The twins look to Syrio, who, examining Sansa for signs of her inner feelings, finally nods. "That is enough for today. Go along. See your wolves. Syrio Forel will see you tomorrow."
Fat Tom leads four of the Stark bannermen to accompany the children to the Dragonpit, along with Ser Runcel Cupps and two men of the Hightowers' household guard. They find the wolves all together, as if they anticipated the arrival of the children. Nymeria has grown the largest, thought Tessarion is not far behind. Standing, their heads come up to the twins' chests. Lady remains the smallest and, while the others rush to great their new visitors, stays behind, lounging in the sun, to make Sansa come to her.
Heleana does not flinch away as the wolves approach nor, Edward and Sansa sigh in relief to see, do the wolves growl at her approach. Instead, she stoops down to examine them.
"You found one for each of you?" she asks.
"Yes, and for Jon, he's Father's bastard," Sansa answers. "His was the runt, and all white. He's at the Wall now, in the Night's Watch."
"Yes, I know of Jon Snow," Heleana answers as if it is nothing, intent on gently touching Tessarion's head. "This one… he has different colored eyes. I've never heard of it on a wolf before. He is very unique."
"He's Tessarion," Edward boasts proudly.
"The dragon of Oldtown." She recognizes that name too. "I first heard that story when I was a little girl. Mother says I wept when he died."
"I did too."
Nodding, Hela swings her feet out over the edge of the broken stone and drops down. The Starks follow and their wolves come in step behind them, padding along each paw in time with their masters' small feet. Her eyes widen, seeing the great ruins for the very first time. "Will your wolves truly grow as large as the legends say?"
"Of course they will!" Arya insists, already distracted. Tossing a stone as far as she can, she sends Nymeria in pursuit and dashes off.
"I've heard many legends of how the Kings of Winter rode direwolves into battle."
"Yes, and some of them were wargs!" Edward adds, excited. But a sharp glare from Sansa quickly shuts down that talk. "But there are no wargs, not anymore."
"For many years there were no direwolves south of the wall, either," Hela stops in front of half of a great broken column, even now towering high above them. "And yet here they are. Strange things are awaking in the world. My lord grandfather has seen them. That is why he's been in his tower for so long. He's preparing."
Sansa suddenly shivers. Lady draws close to her. "Preparing for what?"
Heleana, however, does not answer. She draws nearer to the broken pillar. Here, only a breath away, she can see the great black stain on the once-white stone. It is scorched, the very rock warped and darkened by unimaginable heat. She holds out one tiny, pale hand to touch it. Somehow, it still impossibly feels warm. In the moment of silence, the wind hustling through the ruins sounds as if a distant roar, pulling a cover of clouds across the sun. "It is very strange, I think, to keep the beasts of the North where once the dragons lived. And where they died."
"Do you think they'll ever come back?"
Without removing her hand from the burnt stone, Hela turns to stare directly at Edward as Tessarion nuzzles tightly at his side. "Strange things are awakening."
Sansa, arms wrapped tight around herself to fight off the sudden chill, steps between them. "You said your grandfather was preparing. Preparing for what?"
"What is it the Starks say? Winter is coming."
In the distance, Nymeria howls. And with haunting unison that makes the heat of the city feel as chilling as a northern winter's night, Lady and Tessarion join in, heads tossed back to the tangled mess of stone and cracks of sky above, an ancient, primal symphony united as one.
The howls of the wolves still echo in Edward's head as he takes his seat in the torch circle that night deep beneath the keep. Maester Gaheris circles him once again, extinguishing each torch in turn as he has so many times before, the only sound the slight rattling of his chain.
"Are you ready?" he asks.
"Yes," Edward vows. And he knows it to be true. When the wolves had howled as one, he had felt tied to them, tied to his sisters, more than ever before. Winter is coming. Whatever comes with it, we have to be ready. I have to be ready. Edward clinches his eyes tight shut in the darkness and lets his mind drift.
When he opens his eyes again, he is Tessarion once more, the moon in a clear night sky filtering down through the ruins. His sisters are asleep, but he is awake, and spares no time following the old familiar path up the rubble and collapsed walls to the precipice. He does not stop to stare down at the crevice he has fallen into so many times before. He does not know fear any longer. Instead, he pictures Arya and Sansa on the other side, waiting for them. As he begins to run, grey paws launching him forward across the uneven stone, he remembers the words –
Quiet as a shadow. Quick as a snake. Fear cuts deeper than swords.
Fear cuts deeper than swords. But with his pack, there is no fear.
With all his strength, he launches over the drop. For a moment, he is flying. And then he lands, uncut, all four paws on solid ground. Boy and wolf as one throw their head back at the night sky with a triumphant howl, one that is heard all across the city. To some, it makes them shudder and latch their windows. But to others, they look out and up to the stars, and wonder…
A/N: So sorry for the delay! I recently changed jobs and apartments, and hadn't had any time to sit down and finalize this chapter. But I hope you love it! Things are looking up for Edward even as the stormclouds darken for the realm. And with only 10 chapters left in this book, things are about to get VERY intense. As always, thanks for reading, all feedback is greatly appreciated.