In his room in the Tower of the Hand, Edward stares at the scattered pieces of his life tossed about the room. His paints and a pile of half-finished paintings. The book on wargs Maester Gaheris had given him sticking out from under his pillow. His quiver of weirwood arrows tucked into the corner of the room. His training sword propped up against the wall. And in the center of the room, an empty trunk, suddenly seeming far too small to fit all of his life into.
He doesn't remember being carried to his bed the night before, after falling asleep at the foot of Sansa's door. But he does remember her final words to him. They had echoed all night in his dreams, even when he had tried to warg to escape them. This city, the prince, the war… it had all torn them apart. They had been happy before. Life had been so simple, back when they were all together. Back when they were home. How long ago that seemed. He wished he could turn back time, that he and his sisters could stay in Winterfell and never leave.
But that would mean he would never meet Lyman. Or Myrcella, Prince Jalabar, Ser Arys, Syrio, or Maester Gaheris. Or Heleana… It wouldn't be so bad to go to Oldtown with her. But was it worth never seeing Sansa again? He couldn't bear it. But nor can he bear the thought of staying here, knowing that she wished him gone forever.
We are all changed. Nothing is what it was. In Winterfell, all he had ever wanted was to read and write and paint. But then he had become a squire, and met a princess, and his mind had filled with dreams of chasing glory with the sword, bow and lance. He had been scarred, left with an ugly mark upon his face and an uglier feud with the prince. And then the wolf within him awakened, and he had found himself part of something bigger and older than history itself. What does that make me now, he wonders, looking again at the empty trunk. He drops in a pale grey pair of trousers; it lands lonely on the empty bottom. With no answer to his own question, he cannot bring himself to add anything else.
Stepping quietly down the stairs, Edward follows the smells of lunch. He finds Jalabar Xho in the common room, whittling away at a chunk of wood, a forlorn look upon his face. The island prince knows it is him without looking up, knows his question without needing to hear it.
"My home remains denied, little lord Stark," he speaks, his deep voice thick with grief. "The crew of the Cinammon Wind are friends to the cause of Jalabar Xho, but nothing more. I cannot retake the Red Flower Vale with a single merchant ship. They wish me well, but as you say here in western land, words are wind. That Jalabar Xho knows all too well to be true."
"I'm sorry, your grace," Edward sighs. Is everyone I know doomed to be unhappy?
"I tire of your king's words. The only wind I wish is one to carry me home, with an army by my side. I think I will go with you to Oldtown, little lord. Perhaps in a new city I will find men to truly listen to my plea. And you must continue your lessons, of course."
"I would like that very much, your grace." At least I'll have one friend.
"Do not call me grace. A prince without throne is just a man. Do not call me by that name until the day the Red Flower Vale is again at my feet."
"Then don't call me little lord," Edward juts out his chin. "I'm not a lord, and I never will be. I'm a second son."
"Very well, Edward." Jalabar finally smiles, his bright white teeth flashing. He gently places his carving into Edward's hand – a squawking parrot's head with a wild crest of feathers. Without further word, he rises to leave. As he exits, though, Arya appears in the doorway, arms crossed, a dark look in her eyes.
"You're leaving?" She practically growls, less a question than an accusation.
"Septa Mordane thinks…"
"When did you ever care what the stupid old septa thinks?" Arya stomps forward. "I thought we were friends again! I thought we were going back to Winterfell together! Together forever!"
"Father was always going to send me away to be married. He'll send you away too."
"No, the fat old king wants you to get married!" She gives him a shove. Surprised, he stumbles back. "I'll never marry, and you don't have to either! Jory says to wait for Father! Why won't you wait? Do you want to leave me?"
Edward stops, backed against the wall. He looks back at his twin's face, so much like his own. And he sees her begin to cry. Arya never cries. He tries to find the right words, to justify to himself as much as to her – "There's no time. We don't know when we'll get another chance to leave the city. It's dangerous here. We should all be leaving. No one knows when Father will be back!" But she is unmoved. "I don't have a choice."
"You always have a choice." She looks to the door, longingly.
"I can't just run away from all my problems."
"Now you sound just like Sansa. You always did like her better."
"Arya, wait!" Edward calls after her as she turns to run off.
"I don't want you to come to lessons anymore!" she shouts without looking back. "There's no use, if you're leaving. Syrio shouldn't waste his time on you anymore!"
"Where are you going?" Edward shouts, chasing her past the kitchens. He's never been this far into the tower before. The light grows dimmer, the stones dirtier and the air danker.
"I'm going to catch cats!" Arya dashes down a crumbling old stairs, out of sight. Edward speeds up, spinning around the corner, but as he takes his first step, the edge of the stone breaks off and he hurtles forward, slamming hard against the stairs and beginning to slide down, his head smacking hard against each step. Desperate, he flails out for support, digging each hand into the harsh stone and loose mortar. At last, he comes to a stop and slowly turns himself over. Blood seeps from his nose, his chin and beneath his right eye, through the rough skin of his scar. He stares down the long stair in front of him – there are no more windows, nor torches. No more than three steps past his shaking feet, the passage disappears into an abyss of blackness.
"Arya!" he calls out. But there is no reply, not even the faintest echo of a footstep. "Arya come back!" Quiet as shadow, he remembers Syrio teaching. For a long time he sits, waiting on the precipice for his twin to return to him. But she never comes, and in his heart he knows she never will, not while he waits. And so when Septa Mordane's bell rings to announce the noon meal, he turns and limps back up the steps. If not his sisters, at least he can keep the old septa happy.
A loud splash of water sloshes over the side of the royal bath as King Robert Baratheon lowers himself in with the help of his squire, Lyman Darry, and Maester Gaheris.
"Gods, that feels good," Robert sighs, sinking deep into the steaming tub. "This is how I should hold council. Make the fools come beg to me like this. At least one of us will get some pleasure from it. I'd forgotten how achingly sore that damned throne was. I should have melted it down and used it to seal Arys' tomb. Built a proper, sensible seat for my own glorious reign." He laughs. "More wine!"
Lyman hurries to fetch a jeweled goblet and fill it with fresh Arbor Red, returning it as fast as he can without sloshing any onto the floor.
The king takes a long drink and lets free a relaxing sigh, sinking further into the water until the tip of his beard is wet. "Poor yourself some, Heir to Harrenhal."
Lyman obliges, though he blushes at the mention of his title. Robert had taken to referring to him as The Heir in recent days, to the squire's great embarrassment. He wished the whole castle would just forget. These days, it seemed every woman of the court wanted him for herself or her daughter and every man-at-arms wanted to pledge himself to his service. Lyman only wanted to be left alone and quickly drinks a cup of wine before pouring himself another.
"You too, maester," Robert waves Gaheris towards the drink. "You've earned it."
"Your grace honors me," he bows, "but I never drink."
"Maybe I shouldn't trust you after all," Robert scowls. "You hear that, Lyman? Never trust a man who doesn't drink!" He laughs and takes another drink. "You should have seen their faces when they entered to find me on the throne. They thought I was dead. Ha! Their king is back to put this foolishness to an end!"
"It was very good of them to see how strong you've grown," Gaheris nods. "When word reaches the West that you sit the Iron Throne once more, surely Lord Tywin will reconsider this foolish war of his."
"Indeed. Now that he's knows the truth about his whore of a daughter. Certainly, we must have a trial, I know. Let Stannis and Ned and Renly deal with that. My mind is made up, I can feel her falseness in my bones. And I was a fool to not see it sooner."
"She fooled us all, your grace," Gaheris reassures him soothingly.
"Not Jon Arryn. And they killed him for it, I'd wager. Nor Ned, and they tried to do him the same. You need only look at her children, with their damned golden hair and green eyes. No, she only ever gave me one true heir, and it died within the day." He waves his empty goblet at Lyman, who shuffles back with more wine. "It's a shame. The boy was finally showing progress. He was always such a stupid, spiteful child. And weak. Not like Edric. Now, it it good to see him again, my how he's grown."
"Have you given more thought to his claim, your grace?" Gaheris sits on the edge of the tub.
"Aye. He would be a proper heir, there is no doubt," Robert stares down at his crimson reflection in the wide goblet. For a moment, he seems melancholy – the mournful look Lyman had saw so often when he had feared his wound might kill him. Only for a moment. "But I will remarry! And have many more true sons, with my own hair and eyes! Why talk of such things now? It is a new day! I sit on my throne, I drink my wine, my court cowers at my feet and Rhaegar is at last gone from my dreams! All I need is a woman in my bed."
"Your grace…" Lyman interjects impulsively. "Are you sure…"
"What, you think a Lannister whore will stab me in my sleep? Ha! Don't act so pious, boy, I know my men in white have taken you for pleasure. I haven't lain with a woman since that boar took me down." You almost did, Lyman thinks foully, remembering what he had said about Cassanda Wendwater. "If you are so concerned, you may choose the girl yourself."
"Your grace, I could not!"
"Of course you could! I command it! Now go!"
Reluctantly, Lyman returns the flagon to the table as Robert sinks back into the tub, closing his eyes and humming a lazy drinking tune under his breath. Lyman takes a final drink and turns to leave, but Gaheris pulls him aside.
"One more thing, on your way, stop by the Tower of the Hand. Ser Gunthor Hightower has petitioned leave to take young Edward Stark away to Oldtown with his betrothed, Heleana. He fears for the girl's safety. The king has given his blessing."
"Under your advisement?" Lyman scowls.
"Of course. His grace has honored me as his confidant, and I am sworn to honor him in return with good council. I can see you are troubled. You have been for some time."
"You're not giving good council," Lyman grits his teeth. He has bit his tongue for weeks now, but no longer. "You're only telling him what he wants to hear!"
"And what would you know of good council, boy?"
"Enough to serve my king. I am the heir to Harrenhal. You should treat me with respect."
"How long do you think you would keep that title if Robert learned of the secret toasts your father keeps?" Gaheris leans in close, pushing Lyman back against the wall. He looms taller, taller than Lyman remembers him being, his auburn hair turned dark as they step into shadow, his hands surprisingly strong as they grip his shoulders. The heavy links of his chain press cold against Lyman's chest. "Or the tapestries that still hang on your walls? You may lie well enough for his grace, boy, but not well enough for me."
"How do you know?" Lyman gulps
"I make it my business to know what hearts still beat with dragon's blood. I must know who is loyal to the king. And who still yearns for the lost glory of the great unitors. I must know who to trust. Can I trust you, boy?"
"Can I trust you?" Lyman's fear turns to anger as he grabs the maester's wrist and pushes him away. "The king thinks he's been poisoned. He should be healed by now. They say Pycelle was the traitor. But Pycelle never touched the king's wound, that was you. All you."
"Release me," Gaheris tears himself away, his chains rattling. "I have given his grace the finest treatments known to man. But he was in poor health long before that boar fell on his leg. You may be the heir to Harrenhal, but you are still a squire, not even a man grown. Save your conspiracies for gossip with the washwomen. But stay out of my way."
The maester stalks off and Lyman does not give pursuit. His tasks lie in the opposite direction – the Tower of the Hand. He only wishes Lord Stark were here to steady this ship before it crashes upon the rocks.
As the glaring noon sun beats down on the Riverlands, the sharp eyes of young Robert Cafferen are the first to see the riders approaching Lord Eddard Stark's camp from Stone Hedge beneath the rainbow banner of truce. A knight and a squire. They draw nearer as the boy summons the leaders of the mission to the top of the ridge. It is not long before Ned recognizes the maelstrom on the approaching knight's yellow surcoat – Ser Gladden Wylde. And the boy carrying the banner must be his missing squire we all thought dead.
"Look who comes crawling back," Ser Neville Buckwell scowls, scratching his tangled beard.
"Treacherous bastard," Harwyn growls, hand resting on his sword.
"I can kill him from here, m'lord," Anguy offers, an arrow already notched. "If you wish."
"Stay your hand," Ned commands. "All of you. He is here in peace."
"And if he tries to stab you in the back again?" Harwyn turns.
"Then you have my leave to kill him twice, once for each betrayal."
It takes longer than necessary for Harwyn to search Ser Gladden in his squire for weapons, but Ned does not begrudge his gruff guard of thorough protection. He wants any reason to send their heads back over the walls of Stone Hedge with a catapult, he can see. But if the treacherous knight is offended, he gives no sign of it, sitting across the table in Ned's tent as if he is about to break fast on a sunny summer's morn. His squire sits on a stool in the corner, beside young Edric Dayne. Ned tries to remember the lad's name – A Morrigan, for certain. Perhaps another Robert? There were so many of them, born of young lords eager to please their new king.
Behind Ned stand his closest remaining commanders – Lord Beric Dondarrion, Ser Byron Birch, Ser Archibald Pyle and Ser Neville Buckwell. Harwyn and Godric Sand tensely guard the door while Harry Rivers, the bastard of Stone Hedge, broods in the back of the tent. A small group, tightly knit. If their guests bring dark tidings, Ned does not want the men to catch wind of it. He was loathe to bring Beric to the parlay for that very reason, but there was no choice with a man of his rank. He could only pray the Marcher lord stayed sober enough to keep his head.
"Edric, get our guests something to drink," Ned commands gently.
"Is the little lord Dayne your squire now, Ned?" Gladden smirks. "Did Beric lose him in a wager?"
"Mind your tongue," Ser Byron snaps. "You are speaking to the Hand of the King. You will be expected to use his proper titles."
"Of course," Gladden neatly folds his hands in front of him, leaning forward. "My lord Hand, I fear that the larders of House Bracken have all burnt up. A drop of wine would be a great blessing upon my parched tongue."
"Burnt at your hand, you bastard!" Harry shouts from the back of the tent, lunging forward past the other knights, but Neville holds him back.
"Bastard? Me?" Gladden scoffs. "Have you forgotten who your mother is, boy?"
"My lord, this man has nothing to offer!" Harry writhes in the big knight's grasp. "Let me kill him for you! It is my home he has defiled!" Ned rises slowly, turning to block the line of sight between the bastard and the traitor. Harry stops moving as he leans in to whisper.
"Control yourself, or you will have to leave. We will avenge your people in time. He is playing games with us. Don't let him win." Waiting upon an affirming nod, Ned returns to his seat and Harry lumps back to the shadows of the tent corners. "Edric, no wine. Give our guests water, if they are truly so parched."
"A poor gift," Gladden scowls. "When I come to offer so much."
"Bold words for one who has not yet declared their purpose."
"I have counselled Ser Gregor to broach a parlay with you. We have not the supplies for a siege and another battle would destroy us both. It is you he wants, you he was sent for."
"What are you talking about?" Ned asks with a sinking feeling in his throat. Edric returns with a cup of water for the knight, but he holds it back.
"Haven't you figured it out yet?" The smile returns to Gladden's face as he leans forward. "This is all about you. All this murder, all this destruction, the blood that waters these scorched fields – all for the great and noble Ned Stark. How else to lure the King's Hand out from beyond the walls of the capital? How else to drag you back to Tywin Lannister in chains."
"He's lying," Neville scoffs.
"You know I'm not," Gladden takes the water for himself. "You've always known. The Mountain rides for you."
"Then what do you want from me?" Ned raps his fingers on the table.
"You could give yourself up. One life for hundreds. Save all your men, end all this bloodshed. Perhaps Tywin will be merciful. But word is that Tyrion has disappeared. If he is dead, well… I would not wager for the mercy of a lion. But still – A small price to pay, if your honor truly is what they say." His eye narrow, reading Ned's face for a reaction, but finding none.
"He's a fool, m'lord!" Harwyn bellows. "Clegane knows he can't win a fair fight, so he's trying another trick."
"You can call off your wolf, Lord Stark," Gladden chuckles. "You see, there's another way. Instead of giving you to the Mountain, I can give the Mountain to you."
For the first time today, Ned is truly surprised, and he fears it shows. "You've betrayed me to Clegane once before. Why should I now trust that you will now betray him to me?"
"I am a simple man, my lord. The third son of a second son. There is no room for me at Shipbreaker Bay. I must find my own ways to make my fortune."
"And so you sell your honor?"
"Cruelly spoken. But true. To argue with the truth is a losing battle. And I do not fight losing battles, Lord Stark. Which is why I am here. I did indeed sell my honor, I sold it to House Lannister for a great deal of gold, with more awaiting when I delivered you, alive, to Castlery Rock. At the time, it seemed a winning bargain."
"Then what changed?" Ned glares suspiciously.
"This." Gladden slides a crumpled raven-scroll across the table, marked by the broken seal of the king. Ned gently picks it up and holds it to the light. This is not Pycelle's hand, he recognizes at once. And as he reads, he sees why. The others in the tent all look to him expectedly.
"Grand Maester Pycelle has been executed for high treason," he reads. "The queen and her children has been arrested on the same charge."
"By the Seven!" Beric's jaw drops.
"It must be a lie!" Byron gasps.
"It is the king's seal," Ned drops the scroll on the table and looks back to Gladden. "If I accept this offer, what do you want in return?"
"You take Ser Gregor. And you let the rest of us go."
Ned leans back in his seat, fingers crossed across his chest. His back is suddenly painfully stiff. He looks to the faces of each of the men in the room, all awaiting his response. And in the empty spaces between them, he sees the specters of the men who had stood there before, those who had fallen on his command. So many… and chief among them Alyn. Alyn with his shock of curly red hair. Alyn who had wanted so badly to be a knight. How many more will join you if I don't do this, he silently asks the ghost. But the weirwoods are far away. Here, the Northern spirits give now reply. He looks back to Gladden.
"You have all committed heinous crimes against the people of this land. I cannot stay the hand of justice. But if you give me Gregor Clegane, I will give you a chance. One day to flee to whatever dark crevice you and your reavers crawled out of. You may run, you may hide and you may pray that you never face the price of your misdeeds. But know that in the end, Ser Gladden, by the old gods and the new, you will all pay, one way or another."
Edward is sitting in the common room, holding Jalabar's carved parrot in his hands, when a sharp knock comes at the door. He has sat melancholy all morning, praying that Arya will return from the bowels of the tower or that Sansa will descend from her sealed off room. But neither comes. Fat Tom tried to liven his spirits with a song, Septa Mordane with his favorite pastries and Jory with fond memories of Winterfell. That had been the worst. For it made him yearn for his home, but ache even more for the bond of family that had been severed, even if he and his sisters did return. And so the knock is a blessed reprieve from the prison of his own thoughts.
Opening the door, he finds Lyman waiting outside with Ser Arys. His eyes light up to see his friend and his knight, Arys in his armor – slightly less gleaming without Edward to tend to it - and Lyman in his new riding jacket, courtesy of the king – brown leather with orange trim, the Darry plowman on his right breast.
"Good afternoon, ser," Edward bows to Arys, and nods to Lyman. "You look well."
"You look like shit," Lyman quips. Edward lets out a slight gasp. "You did tell me never to lie to you, didn't you."
"Leave the lad be," Arys chides the squire as they step inside. "You wouldn't want to be trapped in this creaky old tower either. Have you kept up your training, Edward?"
"The best I can, ser," Edward follows them in.
"What brings you here?" Jory steps into the room, arms folded sternly across his chest.
"A message from the king," Lyman bows curtly, but the captain is focused suspiciously on Arys, ever-distrusting of southern knights. "He has heard Ser Gunthor Hightower's petition to take Edward to Oldtown and complete his betrothal to Heleana Hightower. The king has granted this request and urges a hasty departure.
It's done then, Edward sighs. At least I don't have to choose.
"I've already discussed this with Ser Gunthor," Jory scowls. "I cannot allow my lord's son to leave my care without his permission." Lyman hesitates to respond, unprepared for a rebuttal.
"Lord Eddard had made his intentions clear to the king before he left for the Riverlands," Arys interjects with a forced smile. "When he returned, he meant to complete the betrothal himself. But given the situation…"
"That's not how I heard it."
"Well, that's how the king understands it," Arys steps forward, and imposing sight as the two men stand eye to eye, him in his white armor and Jory in his plain, drab clothes. "And if you truly know your lord, you would know that he and King Robert were of one mind. His grace wants only the best for the children of House Stark."
"You say I have no choice," Jory does not flinch. Arys gives no reply, but the answer is clear on his face, a face unused to defiance from those not even knighted. "Very well, Edward, finish packing your things. Ser Arys, I'm sure you have more pressing matters to attend to."
Edward turns to leave, but Lyman catches him. "Aren't you going to say good-bye?"
Without an answer, Edward lurches to embrace him, burying his face in the older boy's chest, his nose filling with the smell of fresh leather. "I'm going to miss you," he tries his hardest not to cry again. This time he succeeds, for now.
"I'll miss you too, little wolf. But don't you be sad, you hear me?" He pushes Edward back, hands on his shoulders, looking down. "Oldtown is the place for you. Just think of all those books to read! You're going to be the smartest person in all the world. And when you've read all the books they have, then you can come visit me in Harrenhal and tell me all about it."
"The Lord of Harrenhal," Edward smiles for the first time that day. "Do you know what your sigil will be when you take it?"
"I figured I'd let you make it up. You're the artist and the brains. I'm just the muscle and the rugged good looks."
"I'll draw it on the ship and have it sent to you the moment I land," Edward hugs him again.
"You take care of yourself," Lyman tussles his hair before turning him loose. "Don't do anything I wouldn't do. Or half the things I would!"
Edward hurries back up the stairs to his room, leaving the door open behind him. He grabs first his art supplies and moves them to the trunk, then his books, then his sword. At last, he is able to put aside the pain of his sisters' anger. At least for now, he can be himself again. He may not yet know just what that means. But Lyman is right, Oldtown is full of possibility. There's no better place in the world to learn who you are.