Edric froze mid-step, his pacing interrupted as if struck by an unseen force. The air in the room seemed to thicken, growing oppressive under the weight of the news. "What?" he whispered, his voice scarcely audible, trembling with disbelief. "Dead? How?"

Ned Stark exhaled deeply, the lines on his face deepening as he braced himself to deliver the grim truth. "It happened recently. Word crossed the Narrow Sea only days ago." He stepped closer, his presence heavy with somber authority. "Viserys Targaryen was killed by Khal Drogo. They say the Khal poured molten gold over his head."

The color drained from Edric's face as he stumbled backward, grasping the edge of the table to steady himself. "Molten gold?" he repeated, the words fragile and halting, as if speaking them aloud made the horror more real. The grotesque image burned into his mind. "Why… why would he do that?"

Ned's expression darkened, his voice low and even. "Viserys disrespected the Khal. He demanded his crown—demanded that Drogo honor his promises to provide an army for the Iron Throne. But Drogo would not be commanded. He gave Viserys a 'crown' in the only way he deemed fitting."

Edric's breathing quickened, his heart pounding as the implications began to unravel in his mind. "Then the Targaryens' claim… it's shattered." He paused, struggling to organize his thoughts. "Does Doran know? Does Arianne know?"

"I can't say," Ned admitted, his tone heavy with unease. "If they do, they've said nothing. But if Doran's plans hinged on Viserys… If this was the cornerstone of everything they've worked toward—" He let the sentence hang, its conclusion too fraught to utter aloud.

Edric sank into a chair, his fingers curling tightly around the armrests as if to ground himself against the storm of uncertainty. "What does this mean for me? For everything they've drawn me into? If Viserys is gone, do they turn to Daenerys? Or…" His voice faltered, fear flickering in his eyes. "Or does this mean they'll abandon the plan entirely?"

Ned leaned against the table, his stance weary but resolute. "We are in a sea of unknowns," he said after a moment of thought, his voice steady but laden with caution. "Doran Martell is not a man to easily abandon a scheme. If Viserys is no longer part of the equation, they will likely shift their focus. But where that focus lands…" He trailed off.

"Elsewhere," Edric echoed bitterly, his jaw tightening. "And where does that leave me? Am I still just their contingency—a tool for convenience? Or worse… am I expendable now?" His voice cracked, the weight of his fears spilling out into the open. "What if I'm nothing more than a pawn, Father? A piece to be sacrificed when the time comes?"

Ned crossed the room, his face carved with a grim resolve. Placing a firm hand on Edric's shoulder, he gripped it with the strength of a father determined to shield his son. His voice, though quiet, carried the weight of unyielding conviction. "You are my son, Edric. Whatever they've planned, whatever games they play, we will face it. I swear it."

Edric's chest heaved as he fought to control his breathing, his father's words a lifeline in the storm. Yet the enormity of what lay ahead pressed down like a storm cloud that refused to break. He looked up at Ned, his voice faltering under the weight of uncertainty. "What happens now, Father? What do we do with this? With Doran's schemes? With me?"

Ned's brow furrowed, the shadows on his face deepening as he studied his son. "We tread carefully," he said at last, his tone deliberate. "We cannot act rashly, not with so many unknowns. But neither will we ignore the danger."

Edric swallowed hard, his hands gripping his knees. "And the betrothal?" he asked hesitantly, the words heavy with apprehension. "To Arianne? If this is all part of their plan… do we still go through with it?"

Ned's expression darkened, the question clearly weighing on him. "I cannot give you an easy answer," he admitted, his voice low and thoughtful. "This union was meant to forge peace between our houses. But if it is being used to further ambitions that threaten the realm…" He let the words linger, his jaw tightening.

Edric leaned forward, his knuckles whitening as they pressed against his knees. "So I remain bound to a scheme that isn't mine? Or I refuse, and risk undoing everything—everything you've tried to build?" His voice wavered, breaking under the strain. "What if this marriage isn't a bond at all, but a chain? One that binds me to a future I never chose?"

Ned moved closer, his presence a steadying force. "You are right to question it," he said softly. "But before we act, we must understand. We need clarity—on Doran's intentions, on the path that best safeguards your future, and the realm's."

Edric exhaled sharply, his frustration bubbling to the surface. "You say we tread carefully, but every step feels like it's over a chasm. What if there's no solid ground, Father? What if I'm walking straight into their trap?"

"Then we will find a way out," he said, his voice unyielding. "You are no pawn, Edric. No one—not Doran Martell, not anyone—will decide your fate. You are a Stark, and that will always mean something."

Eddard Stark stepped back, his gaze hardening as he absorbed the gravity of their predicament. The death of Viserys might have splintered one piece of Doran's strategy, but it had not crushed the Martells' ambitions. The dream of a Targaryen restoration still smoldered in the ashes, and Ned knew the storm was far from over.

"We need answers," Eddard said, his voice low and resolute. "If Doran Martell has been scheming for a Targaryen resurgence for the better part of a decade, the question is not whether his plans have ended with Viserys, but whether they've already shifted to another path."

Edric frowned, his anxiety rekindled as his father's words sank in. "You believe they're still pursuing it? Even with Viserys gone?"

Ned gave a slow, deliberate nod. "The Martells are nothing if not patient. Doran has always been a man of long-term vision, and Daenerys Targaryen remains a viable thread in his web. If his goal was to ally with the Targaryens, her survival keeps his ambitions alive. What we must uncover now is whether Viserys's death has unraveled his plans—or merely redirected them."

Edric leaned back against the wall, crossing his arms as he absorbed the implications. "But how do we even begin to unravel that? Doran's not the kind to show his hand."

Ned's lips pressed into a thin line, his mind already at work. "We start by observing and listening. The truth will reveal itself—whether through word, deed, or silence. The politics of King's Landing have a way of unmasking even the most careful of players. If Doran or his allies remain committed to their ambitions, they'll leave traces."

Edric glanced away, his unease evident. "And me? What do I do? Pretend I know nothing? Pretend there's no hesitation?"

"For now, yes," Ned said, his gaze steady. "You remain the honorable man you are. Don't let them sense doubt, but don't let yourself be swept into their games either. Your place is here, with your family. Let me worry about the rest."

Edric hesitated before giving a small nod, though the tension in his posture didn't ease. "And if we find they're still pursuing it?"

Ned's jaw tightened, his voice dropping to a graver tone. "Then we'll face decisions we'd rather not make. But we will do what we must to protect the North—and the realm."

The weight of his father's words settled over Edric like a storm cloud. He rubbed the back of his neck, his voice quieter, tinged with apprehension. "If Viserys is gone… doesn't that mean Doran might push for the marriage sooner? His first choice is gone, and if his ambitions still lie with a Targaryen alliance—or any consolidation of power—he'll want to secure his fallback plan."

Ned frowned, the shadows deepening across his face. "It's possible," he admitted, his tone thoughtful. "A marriage alliance would strengthen his position, whether his original plan remains intact or not. If his focus shifts to Daenerys…" He trailed off, leaving the unspoken possibility hanging in the air.

Edric resumed pacing, his anxiety building with each step. "That's what worries me. What if I'm just being maneuvered into place as part of a contingency? What if they're already sending envoys across the Narrow Sea to find her, to resurrect their schemes? And Arianne—" He stopped mid-step, his brow furrowing. "I don't even know where she stands in all this. She's loyal to her father, sure, but beyond that? I don't know what she truly wants."

Ned's hands rested heavily on the table, his face lined with concern. "Doran's moves are deliberate, Edric. If he acts quickly, it's because he feels time slipping away. That makes him more dangerous—but also more vulnerable to scrutiny."

Edric paused, turning to face his father, his voice trembling. "And me? Am I supposed to go along with this? Marry her and chain myself to a scheme that could destroy everything?"

Ned stepped closer, his presence a calm amidst Edric's turmoil. "For now, we proceed cautiously. You've always been perceptive, Edric. Use that. Watch Doran, Arianne, and everyone around them. Pay attention to every word and every silence. This marriage may happen, but it will be on terms that protect you and the North, not just Doran's."

Edric's gaze dropped, his shoulders tense with uncertainty. "And if we're too late? If I'm already trapped?"

Ned placed a firm hand on his son's shoulder, his grip steady and grounding. "Then we'll face it together. You are not a pawn, Edric. You are a Stark. And no one—not Doran Martell or anyone else—will dictate your future."

The words brought a flicker of comfort to Edric, though his unease lingered. After a moment, his thoughts drifted from the tangled web of politics and schemes. He glanced up at his father, his voice softening with a rare bit of vulnerability.

"How is everyone back home?" he asked quietly. "Arya, Sansa, Robb… Rickon? And Mother? Letters only skim the surface. I feel like I haven't heard anything real in months."

Ned's expression softened, a tired but warm smile crossing his face. "Winterfell stands strong as ever. Your mother misses you, though she doesn't say it outright. I see it every time she looks past the walls. Robb's been taking on more responsibilities in yours and my absence. He's growing into his role—a steady hand and a good heart."

Edric nodded, though guilt pricked at him. "And Rickon? How is he?"

A soft chuckle escaped Ned "As wild as ever. But I think he feels the emptiness of the halls more keenly than the rest of us. He talks about you often, you know. Misses the stories you'd tell him. He even carries one of your old books around like it's some sort of treasure."

Edric's lips curved into a faint, bittersweet smile, the ache in his chest softening. "Rickon always did love those stories," he murmured, a small comfort amidst the storm of uncertainty surrounding him.

Edric smiled faintly at his father's words, warmth blooming in his chest. "I'll make it up to Rickon somehow. Maybe I'll send him a letter—or a new story to keep him entertained."

Ned nodded approvingly. "He'd love that. Arya and Sansa are here in King's Landing, attending the tourney with the king and the court. Arya is… well, Arya. She's thriving in her own way, though I've no doubt she's causing her fair share of trouble. Sansa, on the other hand…"

His voice trailed off, and his brow furrowed slightly. "She's taken to court life well—perhaps too well. She admires Queen Cersei, dreams of knights, gallantry, and becoming the perfect courtly lady. It worries me."

Edric frowned, sensing the unease behind his father's words. "You're afraid she's losing herself? That the court might blind her to reality?"

Ned gave a grave nod. "The court is full of lies and schemes, spun in every shadow. Sansa doesn't see it yet. She's young, idealistic. Arya, on the other hand, refuses to be ensnared in such traps—but that brings its own set of challenges."

"I miss them," Edric admitted, his voice faltering slightly. "Even Sansa. Though she'd probably roll her eyes at that."

Their conversation was abruptly interrupted as the chamber door slammed open, revealing a small figure with wild brown hair streaming behind her. Arya darted into the room, her face lighting up at the sight of her father and brother.

"You're here!" she exclaimed with infectious energy, throwing herself toward Edric. Her arms wrapped tightly around him, clinging with the unabashed affection only a ten-year-old could muster.

Caught off guard, Edric froze for a moment before his surprise melted into a chuckle. He returned the embrace, warmth flooding him. "You're getting taller," he teased, ruffling her unruly hair.

Arya pulled back just enough to look up at him with sparkling eyes. "I'm still shorter than Sansa!" she protested, her pout quickly giving way to a mischievous grin. "But that doesn't matter—I'm faster! I can already outrun Robb." She stepped back, crossing her arms with mock seriousness. "You know, I could beat you with a sword now. I've started my lessons."

Edric raised a skeptical eyebrow, amusement tugging at his lips. "Is that so? You think you can take me on?"

Arya's grin widened, her confidence unshaken. "I'm quick, and you're slow! You're always reading instead of practicing." She tilted her head, as if sizing him up for an imaginary duel. "I'm going to be better than Robb too. Just you wait!"

Laughing, Edric shook his head. "You've got the spirit, Arya. But don't be too sure—I might still surprise you."

As Arya beamed proudly, Edric's gaze shifted to the doorway, where Sansa stood silently, her posture composed, hands clasped in front of her. Her expression was hard to read—curiosity mingled with something more guarded.

The room seemed to still as Sansa's presence added a subtle tension. For a moment, Edric felt the weight of their history pressing down on him.

"Sansa," he said at last, his tone measured. "I see you decided to join us."

She inclined her head, offering a thin smile. "I've been looking for you," she replied, her voice cool but not unkind. "I thought you'd meet us at the tourney."

"I wanted to speak with Father first," Edric said softly, a hint of reluctance in his tone. Then, surprising himself as much as her, he stepped forward and embraced her.

Sansa stiffened slightly but didn't pull away. After a moment, her arms rose to return the gesture, her touch light but genuine. It wasn't a grand reconciliation—just a tentative bridge spanning the distance between them.

Ned watched the exchange from his place by the desk, a faint smile softening his stern features. The moment of familial connection seemed to bring him quiet joy, though the concern lingering in his eyes betrayed the weight of the larger world pressing in on them all.

"The tourney seems to be over for everyone," Edric remarked, offering Sansa a faint smile. "Soon enough, Arianne and I will have to meet the court and the royal family, won't we?"

Ned nodded, his gaze drifting toward the door where the faint hum of the bustling Red Keep echoed. "Yes," he said quietly. "The court will be eager to see you both."

Just as the words left his mouth a soft knock interrupted the conversation, followed by the slow creak of the study door opening. A servant entered, bowing low. "My lord," he said, his voice calm yet laced with urgency. "Princess Arianne awaits in the gardens. She requests your presence before you join the King, Queen, and the royal family in the throne room."

Edric inclined his head in acknowledgment. "Thank you," he replied, his tone steady, though his thoughts were already shifting toward what awaited him.

Sansa gave him a knowing glance but remained silent. The tension from their earlier conversation lingered, but the moment for addressing it seemed to have passed. She stepped aside, allowing him room to leave.

Edric turned back to Ned. "I suppose I'm needed elsewhere. We'll talk more later," he said, offering his father a small nod before striding toward the door.

The cool stone of the Red Keep met his measured steps as he made his way through the corridors. His thoughts churned, a blend of anticipation and unease shadowing his movements. The gardens loomed ahead—a tranquil haven amidst the castle's turmoil.

As he entered, the soft rustle of leaves greeted him. Arianne stood by a stone fountain, her back turned to him, gazing at the horizon. The setting sun bathed the city in hues of amber and crimson, and its glow seemed to frame her in an almost otherworldly light.

Her presence was magnetic. The rich tones of her olive skin glimmered in the fading sunlight, her thick black hair cascading down in lush ringlets. She wore flowing layers of purple silk and yellow samite, each movement of the fabric catching the breeze with a grace that mirrored her poise. The jeweled girdle cinched at her waist sparkled faintly, while the copper sunband adorning her head lent her an almost regal air.

The intricate snake bracelet coiled around her forearm seemed alive, its copper and gold scales gleaming. The snakeskin sandals laced up her thighs emphasized the sleek curve of her legs.

Edric paused for a moment, his earlier frustrations fading in her presence. Despite the complexity of their relationship, there was something about her—her calm, her confidence—that silenced the storm within him, if only briefly.

She turned, sensing his arrival, her dark eyes meeting his with a faint, knowing smile. "You've finally come," she said, her voice low, tinged with amusement. Yet there was something guarded in her gaze, a mystery that always seemed just out of reach.

"I hope I didn't keep you waiting too long," Edric replied, the tension in his chest easing, though his words carried none of the sharpness they might have in another moment.

Arianne tilted her head, studying him as if searching for something unsaid. "I have nothing but time," she murmured, stepping closer, the gap between them shrinking.

Edric glanced toward the palace doors in the distance. "Shall we go inside?" he asked, his voice softer now, almost hesitant.

Her gaze flicked back to the horizon, lingering as though she might prefer to stay just a moment longer. Then she nodded, her smile widening slightly. "Yes. The game begins soon enough."

Offering his arm, Edric waited, his fingers curling slightly in anticipation. Arianne's dark eyes flicked to the gesture, her lips curving into a small, knowing smile. She stepped closer, slipping her left arm through his with effortless grace.

The soft fabric of her silks brushed against him as her right hand rested lightly on his sleeve, a delicate yet deliberate touch. The simple gesture carried more weight than words could convey—a blend of tradition, duty, and something unspoken.

As they began walking toward the palace doors, Arianne's voice broke the silence, soft and teasing. "You seem more serious than usual," she observed. "Is it the court, or something else that troubles you?"

Edric glanced down at her, his heart quickening. "It's… everything," he admitted after a pause. "The expectations, the roles we're meant to play. It feels heavier than I thought it would."

Arianne studied him for a moment, her expression unreadable, before her lips curled into a faint smile. "It always does," she said softly, her tone carrying both understanding and challenge. "But the weight is easier to bear if you learn to play the game well."

Edric swallowed, her words lingering in his mind as they approached the grand doors of the throne room, the echoes of their footsteps blending with the distant murmur of the court.

Arianne, ever attuned to subtle shifts, cast Edric a sidelong glance. Her lips curved into a faint smile, a blend of amusement and something more enigmatic. "It's never simple, Edric," she murmured, her tone steeped in a quiet, almost wistful understanding. "But it's our choice to make it work, isn't it?"

Their footsteps echoed softly as they traversed the grand hallways of the Red Keep, the anticipation in the air palpable. The towering doors of the throne room loomed ahead, each step drawing them closer to the heart of power. Beyond the thick oak, muffled voices and the shuffling of feet hinted at the court gathered within.

The massive doors creaked open, revealing the throne room in all its austere splendor. Banners bearing the sigils of House Baratheon and House Lannister hung from the cold stone walls, their vibrant colors contrasting sharply with the somber gray of the chamber. The Iron Throne dominated the far end, a jagged monstrosity of melted swords that exuded both menace and authority. King Robert Baratheon sat slouched upon it, his broad frame a shadow of the warrior he had once been, though his presence still commanded the room.

As Edric and Arianne stepped inside, the herald's voice rang out, cutting through the murmur of the assembled lords and ladies. "Princess Arianne Nymeros Martell, Daughter of prince Doran Martell, Heiress to Sunspear, and Edric Stark, Son of the Lord Hand Eddard Stark, and Prince of Winterfell."

The words reverberated in the cavernous chamber, drawing every eye. The weight of their gazes pressed heavily upon Edric, a tangible force that quickened his pulse. He straightened his posture, striving to emulate Arianne's effortless composure. She moved beside him with an elegance that seemed almost otherworldly, her expression calm yet inscrutable.

King Robert's eyes flicked toward them. Beside him, Queen Cersei's emerald eyes gleamed coldly, darting between Arianne and Edric with a disdainful edge before turning away as if they were beneath her notice.

Scattered among the court, familiar faces watched with varying degrees of interest. Petyr Baelish leaned against a column, his lips curled in a faint, knowing smirk, while Lord Varys stood nearby, his serene demeanor masking whatever machinations churned in his mind. Jaime Lannister reclined with casual arrogance, his sharp gaze betraying a flicker of curiosity. And Joffrey Baratheon, seated stiffly beside his mother, regarded Arianne with a mix of entitled fascination and something darker.

Edric's heart thudded in his chest as they advanced toward the dais, each step measured but heavy with the weight of expectation. Arianne's arm rested lightly on his, a silent assurance that steadied him in the tumult of his thoughts. She radiated a quiet confidence, the kind born from years of navigating courts where every word and gesture carried consequence.

King Robert's booming voice shattered the silence. "Ah, the Martell heir and the Second Stark," he declared, his tone gruff yet laced with amusement. "Took your time getting here, didn't you?"

Arianne inclined her head gracefully, her tone warm but resolute. "Your Grace, the honor is ours. To stand before the King and Queen and the esteemed court is a privilege."

Edric followed suit, bowing slightly. Though his outward composure held, his thoughts churned beneath the surface. He could feel the room watching, weighing, and judging. This was only the beginning—a prelude to a world of veiled intentions and dangerous games.

As they moved toward the center of the room near the throne, Edric steeled himself, drawing on every ounce of poise he could muster. "Your Graces, Lords and Ladies," he began, his voice steady though his chest tightened with each word. "It is an honor to be here. House Stark and House Martell share a history of mutual respect, and I hope to strengthen that bond for the benefit of Dorne and the North. I look forward to learning from the wisdom of this court and serving the realm to the best of my abilities."

His words hung in the air, met with a mix of polite murmurs and pointed silence. Beside him, Arianne's gaze remained fixed forward, her expression unreadable.

Edric's eyes flickered to Joffrey, whose gaze had latched onto Arianne like a hawk on its prey. The young prince's stare was unsettling, a blend of admiration and something far more possessive. Edric's jaw clenched involuntarily. He glanced away, unwilling to betray his unease, but the tension lingered, sharp and unyielding.

The throne room hummed with tension as Edric shifted his weight, his gaze sweeping over the assembled courtiers. The grandeur of the Red Keep seemed almost oppressive now, every carved stone and glittering banner a reminder of the stakes at hand. He forced himself to focus, though his thoughts kept drifting back to the unsettling intensity of Joffrey's gaze on Arianne.

With a deep breath, Edric turned back to the king. "Your Majesty," he began, his voice steady yet carrying an edge of sincerity. "I am certain that the realm stands to gain much from the union of our houses. Together, we can forge a stronger bond, ensuring prosperity not just for Dorne and the North, but for all of Westeros. I hope my presence here can contribute, however modestly, to that cause."

The court stilled, the whispers of lords and ladies fading into a palpable silence. Edric could feel the weight of their scrutiny, but it was Arianne's voice that cut through, commanding attention like a blade unsheathed.

"As a gesture of goodwill," Arianne began, her tone regal and composed, "House Martell has brought a gift for the court—a taste of Dorne itself." She extended a graceful hand toward the servants who now entered, each bearing barrels adorned with the blazing sun-and-spear sigil of her house. "These barrels contain the finest Dornish wine, a token of hospitality and friendship. It is our hope that you will enjoy it as much as our people do."

Her voice carried effortlessly through the room, drawing eyes and murmurs of approval—or envy. King Robert's booming laugh shattered the fragile silence, his deep, mirthful tone echoing through the vaulted hall.

"Dornish wine!" Robert exclaimed, his heavy form shifting forward on the Iron Throne. His ruddy face, already flushed from indulgence, seemed to brighten further. "Now that's a proper gift! You Martells know how to win a man's favor." He slapped his thigh with an open hand, his grin wide and unabashed. "I've had my share of it, and by the gods, there's nothing quite like it. Sweet, Sour and strong, it'll knock you flat on your back before you know it."

His laughter rolled on as he gestured grandly toward the barrels. "Bring it here, let's not waste a drop! We'll all raise a cup to Dorne tonight, eh? And perhaps a few more after that!" His eyes flicked to Arianne, lingering for a heartbeat longer than was proper, his grin taking on a roguish edge.

Arianne returned the gaze with an unshaken smile, her composure unflinching. "Your praise honors my house, Your Grace," she replied smoothly. "It is said that wine is best when shared among associates. May it warm your halls as the Dornish sun warms our sands."

Robert let out another hearty chuckle, his laughter masking the quiet but palpable shift in the room's atmosphere. Edric, ever observant, caught the subtle glances exchanged among the court. Beneath the joviality, there was calculation—there always was.

Queen Cersei, seated regally beside the king, tilted her head slightly as she observed the scene unfold. Her green eyes, sharp and discerning, glimmered with a hint of mockery. She leaned back, the golden crown atop her head catching the light, and let her lips curve into a faint, enigmatic smile.

"How thoughtful," Cersei purred, her voice as smooth as silk yet laced with an unmistakable chill. "Dorne does have a talent for hospitality." Her gaze lingered on Arianne, appraising her in a way that seemed equal parts compliment and challenge. "And such... captivating emissaries. Princess Arianne, heir to Sunspear, gracing the court of King's Landing. A rare honor, indeed."

Edric felt his chest tighten at Cersei's words. The queen's tone was polite, even flattering, yet beneath it lay the unmistakable edge of a predator testing the waters. Arianne, however, met the queen's gaze without flinching, her dark eyes unwavering.

"The honor is mine, Your Grace," Arianne replied, her voice honeyed but firm. "It is said that the strength of a queen is reflected in the prosperity of her realm. By that measure, King's Landing shines brighter than ever."

Cersei's smile widened, though her eyes remained cold. "How charming," she replied, her words as sharp as a needle. "And how very... diplomatic."

As the exchange played out, Edric's attention flicked to the rest of the court. Petyr Baelish leaned casually against a pillar, his sly smile betraying nothing but suggesting everything. Varys stood nearby, his hands folded neatly, his serene expression masking whatever schemes undoubtedly brewed behind those watchful eyes. Jaime Lannister reclined in his seat, his golden hair gleaming, his gaze flitting between Arianne and Edric with an amused curiosity.

Edric's heart pounded as he took a step forward, inclining his head respectfully. "Your Graces, Lords, and Ladies of the court," he said, his voice steady but measured. "House Stark and House Martell are proud to stand together, united in friendship and purpose. May this be a new chapter in the story of our great houses—one that brings honor and strength to the realm."

The room remained silent for a moment, the weight of his words hanging in the air. Then, slowly, Robert Baratheon clapped his hands together, the sound booming like thunder.

"Well said, boy!" the king roared, his laughter chasing away the tension. "A Stark with a tongue as sharp as a blade! The North might be colder than a dead man's arse, but by the gods, it breeds fine men."

The court erupted in scattered applause and polite laughter, but Edric could still feel the currents of intrigue swirling around him. As he stepped back beside Arianne, her hand briefly brushed his arm—a fleeting gesture, but one that steadied him.

Arianne met Cersei's penetrating gaze with a calm and unwavering poise, her expression a perfect mask of grace and subtle confidence. She inclined her head slightly, the faintest trace of a smile playing on her lips—a smile that spoke of both acknowledgment and quiet defiance.

"Thank you, Your Grace," she said, her tone warm yet laced with an unspoken sharpness. "It is a great honor to stand before such esteemed royalty. I trust your journey to King's Landing from Winterfell was a pleasant one, despite the wear of travel?"

Cersei's smile widened, though it carried the edge of a blade concealed in velvet. "The road to King's Landing is never quite as pleasant as one hopes," she replied smoothly, casting a brief glance at Robert, who sat slouched in his throne, red-faced and half-lost in his wine-induced stupor. Her tone lowered, her gaze sharpening as it returned to Arianne. "But the crown is always worth the trouble, wouldn't you agree? And Dorne... Dorne has always been a land worth the trouble. Its beauty, its... customs, and of course, its ambitions. One can only imagine the plans Prince Doran weaves so delicately from his sunlit palace."

The room seemed to hold its breath as the queen's words hung in the air, veiled with polite intrigue but brimming with implication. Edric, sensing the growing tension, shifted on his feet, but Arianne did not falter.

"Our customs are indeed dear to us," Arianne replied, her voice smooth as silk. "But I assure you, they are rooted in honor and a desire for prosperity—not just for ourselves, but for those we call allies. My father believes in building bridges, not walls. After all, it is through unity that we thrive, is it not?"

Cersei tilted her head slightly, her smile remaining in place as her golden hair shimmered in the torchlight. "A noble sentiment," she said, her tone sweetened but not without its usual undercurrent of calculation. Her gaze flickered to Edric, her lips curving into an amused smile. "And what of you, Lord Edric? You are your father's son, are you not? Such a promising young man, here to represent the hopes of your house. I trust you share your father's... patience and wisdom?"

Edric straightened, his dark eyes meeting Cersei's with calm resolve. "The hopes of my house," he said carefully, his voice measured but steady, "lie in the strength of understanding and shared purpose. That is what my father has always taught me, and I intend to honor those lessons in all our dealings."

"Well said," Cersei replied, her tone laced with a faint, mocking undertone. Her gaze darted back to Arianne, lingering for a moment as if weighing her words. "It is a rare thing to see such young representatives carrying the weight of their houses so gracefully. I am certain Prince Doran chose wisely when sending you both."

Arianne's smile remained, though there was a subtle shift in its quality—something sharper now, almost daring. "And I am certain, Your Grace, that our houses will find much to celebrate in the days to come. Unity, as you say, is worth the trouble."

The unspoken challenge in her words did not escape anyone's notice. Edric felt the air between the two women crackle with unspoken tension, the weight of their political maneuvering pressing against the boundaries of courtly civility.

"Let us toast to that unity," Arianne said finally, her voice soft but commanding. "And to the prosperity that comes when alliances are built on mutual respect and goodwill."

The conversation shifted after that, though the tension remained like a current beneath the surface. The courtiers resumed their chatter, their laughter and polite exchanges filling the throne room. King Robert's booming laugh occasionally cut through the din, though his attention wandered, his mind far from the intricacies of diplomacy.

As the evening unfolded, Edric noted the lingering gaze of Joffrey, the young prince watching Arianne with a poorly concealed fascination. Arianne, ever composed, seemed entirely unbothered, navigating the attention of the court with a practiced grace that left no room for misstep.

Later, the festivities moved to the ballroom, where the nobles danced and mingled beneath the glow of golden chandeliers. Arianne and Edric shared a dance, their movements precise and elegant, every step calculated to maintain appearances. Arianne's gown flowed like liquid sunlight, catching the flickering light of the torches as she moved. Each turn of her wrist, each glance, was a deliberate performance, designed to captivate and disarm.

Edric, though less comfortable in the spotlight, played his part as a dutiful companion, all the while keeping a watchful eye on the shifting dynamics around them. The laughter and music could not entirely mask the sense of unease that gnawed at him—a reminder that every word spoken, every gesture made, carried the weight of expectation and consequence.

As the night wound down, Arianne and Edric excused themselves, leaving the festivities behind. The quiet of their estate offered a reprieve from the clamor of the court, though the weight of the day's events lingered in their minds.

"You handled yourself well," Edric said as they settled into the sitting room, his voice low but sincere.

Arianne gave a small, knowing smile. "So did you."

The soft sounds of the night enveloped them, a momentary peace in a world ruled by politics and ambition.

As Edric walked through the dimly lit corridors of the estate, the quiet hum of the night wrapped itself around him like a cloak. The grand halls, though impressive, felt unusually still, as if the very walls absorbed the weight of the day's events. His mind was heavy with thoughts of the evening—of the subtle, yet palpable, games of politics being played, the shifting allegiances, and the quiet tension that had simmered beneath every conversation.

Passing Arianne's room, he noticed the door slightly ajar. His steps faltered as his gaze was drawn to the opening. There, standing just within the threshold, was Arianne. Her fingers were tightly wound around a letter, her posture composed yet betraying an undercurrent of tension. She held the paper as though it were both an anchor and a burden, the weight of it more than mere parchment.

Edric paused, uncertain whether to intrude on her quiet moment or to continue his path down the corridor. But before he could decide, her voice, soft yet unwavering, broke the silence between them, carrying a weight that made his chest tighten. "You knew," she said, her words slow and deliberate, laced with something Edric couldn't immediately name—perhaps weariness, perhaps something deeper, something more vulnerable.

His breath caught in his throat. He had known, of course—he had been told by his father a few hours before Arianne had received the news of Viserys' death at the hands of Khal Drogo. The political tremors had rippled through the land, a whispered truth long before it reached Arianne's ears. But hearing her voice, feeling the force of those words directed at him, made the knowledge feel more real, more personal, than it ever had before.

Edric glanced at the letter she held, then back at her face, which remained unreadable despite the clear tension in her eyes. "Yes," he replied, his voice steady but edged with discomfort. "I knew."

For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The air between them seemed thick, the unspoken truths pressing down on them both. The death of Viserys hung between them, a silent acknowledgment of the shifting tides—tides that would carry them both into a future neither of them had truly chosen, but one that now seemed inevitable.

Arianne's fingers tightened around the letter, and Edric felt the weight of her unspoken thoughts. He knew well enough what it meant for her—what it meant for both of them. The marriage, which had always been a distant possibility, was now no longer a matter of if, but when. His own path, which had always felt more dictated by circumstance than choice, had become even more certain. The alliance was no longer something they could defer—it was something that would happen, soon, and without delay.

With a deep breath, Edric took a tentative step toward the room. The floor beneath his feet was smooth and cold, the sound of his steps muffled by the stillness of the night. He entered, his presence quiet but undeniable, and Arianne didn't move. She didn't push him away, but she didn't welcome him either. Her gaze remained fixed on the letter, her posture unreadable, her expression a study of contained emotion.

"My father told me today," Edric said, his voice a mixture of resolve and tension, breaking the silence. "In his study. He confirmed it. The marriage—now that Viserys is dead, the path isn't very clear though."

At his words, Arianne's fingers twitched, her grip on the letter tightening, but she didn't speak immediately. Instead, her gaze lifted slowly to meet his, her dark eyes intense, as if she were reading something more than just his words. For a moment, neither of them moved, and the silence stretched between them, thick with the weight of shared knowledge.

Edric swallowed, unable to shake the unease that lingered in the air. He glanced at the letter once more before his curiosity overcame him. His voice was quieter now, but there was a note of something deeper in it. "What else does your father say in the letter, Arianne?"

Arianne's fingers ran gently over the edges of the parchment as if savoring the touch, though there was something reluctant about it, as if she feared the words she might have to speak. She took a breath, her eyes flicking to the letter one last time before meeting Edric's gaze once more. When she spoke, her voice was calm, yet beneath it lay a thread of something more—perhaps resignation, perhaps determination.

"My father..." Arianne began, her voice steady. "He has never believed in the Targaryen restoration. He's always been pragmatic—he's never seen the Targaryens as anything more than an unlikely chance. But with Viserys dead, he sees a different path. He believes the time is now." She paused, her eyes scanning the letter once more, her fingers tightening around it as if it were the only thing tethering her to something solid. "He wants the marriage to happen quickly—before any other forces can complicate matters. He believes a swift alliance will strengthen his position, ensuring no one moves against us."

She lowered her gaze for a moment, her voice softening just slightly as she added, "And my father believes, as does much of Dorne, that the future belongs to those who can act quickly. He has never been one to hesitate, not even now."

Edric listened intently, the words settling in his chest like stones. He understood the logic in her father's reasoning, but there was something unsettling about the swiftness of it all. Something that made him uneasy.

He exhaled slowly, his mind turning over the implications. "Why should I agree to the marriage now, Arianne?" he asked, his voice sharp with an edge he hadn't intended. "I'm here in King's Landing now, with my father. I could return to Winterfell, leave this all behind. What's stopping me from doing that?"

The question hung in the air, charged with tension. Arianne's gaze remained fixed on him, unreadable and cool.

Arianne moved closer, she stood before him, her fingers now gently toying with the buttons of Edric's tunic, her touch light but deliberate, each motion seemingly thought through before it was made. She did not rush, her movements slow and calculated, as though she were measuring the distance between them not just in steps but in significance. Her gaze, heavy with intent, never left his face as she inched closer. The space between them, once ample, slowly thinned until the subtle heat of her body was palpable, almost unbearable.

She exhaled softly, lowering her gaze to his chest for a moment, her breath a quiet tremor in the air before her eyes lifted again, seeking his. Without a word, she placed her head gently against his chest, the warmth of her touch pressing into him like an unspoken plea. The faint scent of her perfume lingered, rich and spicy, enveloping them both in an intimacy that Edric hadn't expected to feel. It was a moment that caught him off guard, unsettling in its quiet intimacy, as if the room itself had shrunk to accommodate the tension between them.

"I need you to understand something," Arianne whispered, her voice barely a breath in the stillness of the room. The words seemed to hang there, heavy with meaning, as though each syllable were wrapped in the weight of an unspoken truth. "If I fail in this, it will be a failure for me... for all of us."

Edric's chest tightened at the quiet desperation in her tone. She hesitated, as if weighing her next words, the pause hanging in the air like a thread pulled too tight. Then, her voice dropped further, laced with a vulnerability he hadn't expected. "My father... he told me to make sure that you are wrapped around my finger. He said I need to make it impossible for you to leave. He believes that once we are bound together, you'll see that you have no choice but to follow through with the marriage. It's not just about the politics, Edric. It's about control. It's about survival."

Arianne's words swirled around him, each one heavier than the last. She lifted her head, her eyes searching his, as if trying to gauge how much of her truth he could bear. "And I can't fail him, not now. Not when everything depends on it."

Edric's heart began to race—not from the closeness, not from the intimacy—but from the sudden weight of the situation, the way the very air seemed charged with it. Her words, once laced with a subtle plea, now felt like chains. He felt as though she were wrapping him in something far tighter than the fabric of his tunic—something suffocating. His breath hitched as he felt the truth of her father's expectations settle on his chest like a boulder.

His hands, at his sides, clenched into fists. Without thinking, he reached for her wrists, gently pulling them away from his chest and guiding them to her sides. The contact was brief, but enough to pull him back from the whirlwind of emotions threatening to consume him. He forced himself to focus, to hear her words clearly, not just the silence between them.

"Arianne," he began, his voice thick with skepticism, "you're contradicting yourself. First, you tell me this is a failure for you—one that could cost us both. Then you tell me it's about control, about ensuring I can't leave. You make it sound like you're trapped in this just as much as I am, but everything you say only proves my fears."

He stepped back slightly, his frustration mounting as he pieced the puzzle together. "You're proving what I've already feared—that this marriage is nothing more than a tool for you. A way to manipulate me, to bend me to your will. You tell me I can't leave, but all I hear is how you're trying to make sure I stay. This is about securing your future, not about us."

The words spilled out of him, sharp and unrelenting. "You act as if you have no choice in the matter, but you've already chosen to play this game, haven't you? If I'm just a pawn in your father's plan, then what does that make me to you, Arianne? What do you really want from me?"

He stopped, his gaze locking onto hers with a quiet intensity. The frustration was unmistakable in his expression, but beneath it was a deep, gnawing confusion. "Don't you see it, Arianne? Every word you say, every move you make, only makes me want to leave more. It proves that this is all about control and manipulation—and it makes me question why I'm even here at all."

Arianne's eyes flickered, a brief flash of something softer—something human—before it was hidden again, her posture stiffening as the tension between them seemed to increase. She didn't pull away from him, but something in the air shifted. For a moment, her breath caught, as if the weight of his words had struck her harder than she had expected.

"I don't know what else to do," she said, her voice quieter now, but still edged with the same steel that had always defined her. She took a hesitant step closer, but her hands remained firmly at her sides. Her gaze fell to the floor for a moment, as if searching for the right words to explain herself. "I don't know how to show you that I care without it all seeming like another game, another manipulation. I've spent my whole life learning how to survive, how to navigate the world my father created. Every move, every word—it's all been calculated, all for a purpose. And when it's something as important as this..." She swallowed hard, the vulnerability in her voice making his chest tighten. "I can't even show you that I care for fear it will be seen as weakness—something you can use against me."

Her gaze lifted again, meeting his with a rawness he hadn't seen before. "I've never been able to just care, Edric. I've never been able to simply... be. So if you think I'm manipulating you, I don't know how to prove otherwise. I don't even know how to be anything but what I've been taught to be."

The words were soft, sheathed with sadness, but they carried a weight of regret that hit Edric harder than any anger he had felt. She was more than just the strategist, the daughter of a calculating man. She was more than the walls she had built around herself. But in that moment, Edric couldn't see past the walls she had erected—and neither could she.

He stepped back, shaking his head, frustration surging within him like a storm. His chest rose and fell with the intensity of his breath, and his hands clenched at his sides. The air between them was thick with tension, with unspoken truths neither of them could quite grasp.

"You're not giving us a way forward," he snapped, his voice raw with emotion. "You keep telling me about how hard everything is, about how you've been taught to survive, but what about us? What about me and you? You want me to believe there's something real here, something that matters. But all you've given me is excuses and contradictions. You want me to stay, but you're not offering me a reason to."

He ran a hand through his hair, pacing in a tight circle as frustration bubbled to the surface. His voice grew louder, the words coming faster now. "You want me to stay, but you're not even offering me a reason to. And I've been stuck here in this mess, with everyone pulling me in different directions—my father, your father, the whole damn court. If you want me to choose this, to choose you, then give me something I can hold onto. Something real. Something that isn't just more manipulation, more lies, more games."

Edric stopped suddenly, his steps sharp and determined as he turned to face her, his eyes wild with a mix of frustration and emotion. "You want me to stay in this marriage, but you're not showing me anything that makes it feel worthwhile," he said, his voice rough with the weight of his words. "You've got me spinning in circles, Arianne, and I can't do it anymore. I can't keep going like this."

Arianne stood still, her gaze softening, the tension in her face betraying a flicker of regret, as though the words had struck deeper than she expected. She was quiet for a long moment, absorbing the force of his frustration. The air between them grew heavy, charged with everything unsaid.

Her fingers wrapped around the edge of the bedpost, an unconscious gesture as she turned her face away, not meeting his eyes. When she spoke, her voice was a contrast to her earlier certainty—gentler, more vulnerable. "I never meant for it to be like this," she admitted, her tone soft, as though speaking her truth was harder than she imagined. "I never wanted you to feel like this was all just a game. I don't know how to show you, Edric. I don't know how to stop everything from being tangled up in manipulation and duty. But if I could, I would. I would show you something different. Something that doesn't feel like a cage."

She paused, her breath a shaky exhale. "I've spent my whole life fighting for power, for control. But I didn't ask for this... us. This marriage, this arrangement... It's not what I wanted either. But it's the only path my father believes in. He's right, in a way. I'm trapped in this, just like you. Only I've learned to play the game in order to survive," she said, her voice becoming softer, almost pained. Her eyes met his, and in them, he saw something unfamiliar—a trace of vulnerability. "And maybe I've been playing it for too long. But I don't know how else to survive, Edric. I don't know how to get out of this and still keep what little is left of myself."

Stepping toward him slowly, Arianne's hands remained outstretched in front of her, palms open as though offering something—an apology, a truth, a glimmer of hope. "I know you don't trust me. I wouldn't trust me either. But I never wanted to hurt you, Edric. I never wanted to make you feel like you had no choice. I'm just... lost in this too. But I promise you, if there was another way, I would take it. You would be the one I chose, if it wasn't for everything else that's pulling us in different directions."

Her eyes locked with his, searching him, waiting for him to see the depth of what she was saying. "I don't know how to make this better. I don't know how to make this feel real. But I'll try, Edric. I swear to you, I will."

He stood still for a moment, the words washing over him, heavy with implication. With a deep breath, he exhaled slowly, his gaze softening. "I've already told my father," he said quietly, the confession almost strangling him with its truth. "About the Targaryen restoration. Everything you just said about your father, about Dorne's plans... I've already told him. I couldn't keep it from him any longer. When I spoke to him earlier, I couldn't hide it."

"You told your father?" Arianne repeated, her voice barely above a whisper, disbelieving yet not entirely shocked. There was a flicker in her eyes—a mixture of surprise and something deeper, a quiet understanding that had been veiled for so long. She breathed out slowly, her mind working through the gravity of his admission. "You really told him everything? About the Targaryen restoration... about Dorne's plans?"

Her voice trailed off as she grappled with the implications of his words. She turned away from him as if to distract herself, moving slowly as if needing the space to think, to process what was unfolding between them. Her hands reached up, and with deliberate motion, she removed her headband—the copper suns catching the light and falling softly into her palm. She looked down at the intricate piece of jewelry, her expression unreadable, as if the weight of it suddenly felt unbearable.

She set the headband on a nearby table, then moved to the armband—carefully unwinding the coiled copper snake from her arm. Each movement was deliberate, slow, as if removing each piece of adornment was an act of shedding something more than just jewelry. She worked with practiced grace, loosening the jeweled girdle from her waist, the fabric rustling softly as she pulled it free.

Arianne turned away from Edric, her shoulders tense but her movements graceful. One by one, the symbols of her power and status were placed aside. As she let her long, dark hair fall freely, her form seemed to lose the gilded edge of royalty, revealing the vulnerability beneath it all.

She stood there in her simple gown and sandals, her back still to him, the weight of the conversation hanging between them. She breathed deeply, the space around her heavy with everything they had said—and everything they hadn't.

Edric stood silently, frustration still simmering within him, his mind a jumble of emotions. He watched her, seeing her stripped of the usual trappings of power, and yet she still felt distant, as unreachable as she had been before. He longed to believe her, to understand that she wasn't simply playing a game. But every word she spoke seemed to contradict the next, and the weight of it all was more than he could bear.

"I've told my father, and should he choose to break everything off and dissolve this. I won't stop him." His gaze hardened as he continued, frustration rising again.

"And when he does make his choice, I won't interfere with whatever he chooses. I can't and I won't."