Arya Stark
The wind stung Arya's cheeks as she ran through the underbrush, her boots crunching over fallen leaves. Her hands gripped Needle tightly, even though the slender sword wasn't much use for hunting. She didn't care. It made her feel like a real warrior.
Beside her, Boryn moved silently, his eyes fixed on the trail. He was taller than her, of course, his dark hair almost as black as Jon's, but his eyes were more like a brewing storm, always brooding and distant. Arya hadn't spent much time with him. He was royal and all.
They'd left Joffrey and Sansa behind, probably fussing over something stupid. Arya couldn't care less what those two were whispering about. All that mattered to her was finding the boar before anyone else did. She wanted to show them all she could hunt just as well as anyone.
"You're quiet," Arya spoke up after a long silence, glancing up at Boryn. "Quieter than our crypt. Maybe you should've been born in Winterfell."
The Prince huffed, a sound that could have been a laugh but didn't quite make it. "It's easier to think when you're quiet."
Arya rolled her eyes. "Then you think too much."
"I've heard that before," he muttered, stopping to examine some tracks. "Maybe it's because there's too much to think about."
Arya crouched beside him, mimicking the way Jon had shown her to track. "Like what?"
Boryn hesitated, his face hardening. "Your sister."
Arya groaned. "Sansa? She's the worst, and a liar. You don't have to marry her, you know."
"I know," Boryn said quickly, and Arya could hear the frustration in his voice. "I don't want to."
"She's always been talking about you, wondering what you're thinking. She's all over the place, so... romantic." She said the word like it was something sour.
Boryn stood up, his jaw tightening. "I don't want her to think I feel something that I don't. I don't want her, and I don't want to be forced into a marriage for the realm at the expense of my wants. I want to choose my own wife."
Arya stared at him for a moment, her brow furrowing. She hadn't thought boys worried about that kind of thing. She always thought it was girls who got stuck being told what to do.
"I get it," she said after a beat. "I don't have much choice either. They all want me to act like a lady. I want to be a warrior, but no one listens. Just because I'm a girl, they think I can't be what I want."
Boryn looked down at her, his face softening just a little. " Duty makes slaves of us all. My father... does things because he has to. It's the same for all, even the King."
Arya clenched her jaw, feeling her anger rise again. "Like what happened with Micah. Joffrey lied about him. And your father had him whipped... It wasn't right."
Boryn sighed, shaking his head. "No, it wasn't. But Joffrey's my brother. You don't get to choose your family either."
Arya scowled but didn't argue. She couldn't imagine having a sibling that she hated. Boryn seemed to have truly hated Joffrey, and what Joffrey had said to him was something awful. She'd never talk to Jon that way, no matter his heritage.
Family was all you got. It would be a terrible thing to turn against one another.
Sansa Stark
The sunlight filtered through the trees, dappling the forest floor as Sansa walked beside Joffrey. His golden hair gleamed in the light, and for a moment, she forgot her troubles, forgot about Boryn, about Arya's wild ways.
Joffrey had been kind to her, far kinder than her betrothed Boryn. And now, as they walked alone, Sansa felt a flutter of nervous excitement in her chest.
"My lady, if it pleases you," Joffrey spoke up suddenly, breaking the silence between them. "I could go to my father and have you betrothed to me instead."
Sansa's heart skipped a beat, her steps faltering as she looked up at him. Marry Joffrey? The idea filled her with warmth. She had always dreamed of a gallant prince—someone who would protect her, care for her. Joffrey could be that prince, couldn't he?
"I would like that," she said softly, her voice barely above a whisper. "But... why is Boryn so cold to me? Why doesn't he speak? And why did you call him that name the other day?"
Joffrey's face darkened for a moment, his lips curling in distaste. "Boryn is... different," He chose his words with care, rubbing a hand along his still bruised cheek. "This isn't the first time that he's hurt me you know. He's always been a brute. I've never trusted him."
Sansa felt a chill run down her spine. Different? In what way? But then Joffrey's expression softened, and he looked at her with those intense, almost hypnotic green eyes.
"He's strong though," Joffrey added, a reluctant admiration in his tone. "But he doesn't know how to treat a lady, not like I do."
Sansa blushed at his words, feeling a warmth spread through her. "You're strong too," she said quickly, hoping he would see that she appreciated him, that she was different from the coldness of Boryn. "And you're kind."
Joffrey smiled, a small, proud smile, and Sansa felt her heart swell. This was what she wanted—someone who noticed her, who cared about her. Not someone who was cold and distant like Boryn. No, she didn't want to marry Boryn.
She wanted Joffrey.
They walked in silence after that, the tension between them easing into something softer, more comfortable. Sansa glanced up at him, catching his eye, and they both smiled. For the first time in what felt like forever, she felt hopeful.
Eddard Stark
Ned rode into the courtyard of the Red Keep, where the walls of King's Landing casted long shadows. The air was heavy with the smell of salt from Blackwater Bay and the stench of the city itself.
His daughters, Sansa and Arya, rode quietly beside him, and Jory, his loyal captain, followed just behind, leading the remaining men of the North.
As they dismounted, a group of gold-cloaked guards stepped forward, their commander offering a sharp bow. "Lord Stark, the small council awaits your presence in the Tower of the Hand."
Ned gave a brief nod before he then turned to his daughters. "Sansa, Arya, you'll be shown to your quarters."
Both girls looked up at him. Sansa with excitement, Arya with impatience. They had never seen King's Landing, and the city, for all its foulness, held a sense of wonder for them. Ned softened his gaze, forcing a small smile for their sake. "Go with Jory. I'll see you both later."
He walked through the corridors with the royal escort, his thoughts drawn inward. Soon, they entered the throne room, and his eyes immediately fell upon Jaime Lannister. The Kingslayer stood before the Iron Throne, cocksure, his golden hair gleaming in the dim light filtering through the high windows. Jaime's gaze met Ned's, a glint of appraisal in his expression.
"Lord Stark," Jaime said, his voice smooth, almost mocking. "We should really stop meeting like this."
Ned's jaw tightened, but he kept his tone steady. "I see you're still fond of guarding empty thrones."
Jaime smirked, but the smile never reached his eyes. "Tell me, would you rather the Mad King to be sitting before you?"
The air between them grew tense. The memory of Jaime's treachery afresh in his mind. He had forsaken his vow to the Mad King by stabbing him in the back. The Kingsguard were bound by honor to serve for life, but to betray the one that he was sworn to protect while his father sacked the city...
Jaime's smile suddenly faded. "I did what had to be done, Stark. The Mad King was beyond reason. And when I put a sword through his back, it felt like justice."
"Justice," Ned repeated bitterly. "Aye, you served justice to him well, when serving was safe."
Jaime's eyes narrowed, but he said nothing. For a moment, they stood in silence, the weight of old wounds between them.
Before the tension could break, the escort cleared his throat, reminding Ned of his purpose. He turned away from Jaime without another word, following the guards toward the Tower of the Hand and the small council chambers..
The chambers of the Red Keep were stifling.
Ned stood before the small council, feeling tension in his gut, one that accompanied him when in the presence of courtiers and sycophants. Here, in King's Landing, every glance and smile veiled a dagger.
Varys, the Master of Whispers, was watching him with those knowing eyes of his, lips curved in a thin smile.
Petyr Baelish leaned back in his chair, his fingers drumming lightly on the table.
Grand Maester Pycelle wheezed softly, shuffling papers with his liver-spotted hands.
Renly Baratheon, his youthful face a mask of amusement, lounged nearby, legs crossed lazily.
But it was Boryn Baratheon, the eldest son of King Robert, who caught Ned's attention most. The young man sat tall, bearing the same broad frame as his father, though his face was more angular, with the sharp Lannister cheekbones that reminded Ned of Queen Cersei. His hair was black as coal, a striking contrast to his mother's golden locks, and his eyes held a seriousness unlike the Robert of old.
"Lord Stark," Boryn began, his voice calm and measured, a stark contrast to Robert's usual bluster. "We are honored to have you here as Hand of the King. My father… regrets that he could not attend this meeting himself. Hunting, you understand. I am here in his stead."
Ned inclined his head slightly and took his seat. He understood well enough. Robert's love of the hunt was no secret, nor was his tendency to avoid anything that required careful thought or sober reflection. Still, he couldn't help but think how much Robert had changed from the man who had once fought beside him during the Rebellion.
"A tourney in your honor, Lord Hand," Renly said with a grin, cutting through the tension. "It should be quite the spectacle."
Ned frowned, his mind already racing through the implications. The crown's debt had been hinted at, and now the full measure of it was laid bare before him...six million in debt. Six million. The number sat like a stone in his stomach.
"The crown is in no position to host a tourney," Ned said firmly, looking around the table. "Six million dragons, you say? And yet we spend gold on frivolities while the realm suffers?"
Baelish's smirk widened. "Frivolities, my lord? I would hardly call it that. A tourney brings the realm together, inspires the people. A Hand of the King must be honored, don't you think?"
Ned's eyes darkened. "Honor is not bought with gold we do not have."
Boryn leaned forward then, his hands clasped on the table. "I understand your concern, Lord Stark, but the tourney serves more than one purpose. The smallfolk need distraction, something to cheer for while their bellies grow leaner and leaner. If we can give them this, it may stave off discontent for a time."
Ned studied the young man. The crown Prince's argument had been sound from a pragmatic view. A tourney was not just a celebration, it was a balm, a way to distract the realm from the growing troubles that lingered like storm clouds on the horizon.
"And when the tourney is done?" Ned asked, his voice low. "When the smallfolk are left with empty purses and the crown in deeper debt?"
Boryn met his gaze steadily. "We will find ways to climb out of the debt. We tighten the purse strings where we can, make alliances where it's needed. The smallfolk must believe their king is strong, that the realm is prosperous. If they do not… well, we both know what happens when the people lose faith in their rulers."
Ned's jaw tightened. Boryn was young, but his words carried the weight of experience. He reminded Ned of Jon Arryn, and of Robert in the early days of their rebellion, pragmatic, but with the edge of a man born to lead.
Still, he partly reviled such indulgence.
"We shall speak with the king," Ned said at last, his voice firm. "He must be made to understand the gravity of the situation."
Boryn nodded. "Of course, Lord Stark. But as you know, my father is not easily swayed once his mind is set."
The council concluded shortly after, with Varys offering his usual vague pleasantries, Baelish's feline smile, and Renly making a jape about the expense of hosting such an event. Boryn stood, extending his hand to Ned.
"Welcome to King's Landing," he said quietly. "I suspect you'll find it very different from the North."
Ned took his hand, feeling the weight of the young man's words. "Aye," he replied, his voice heavy. "That I will."