"Well, he has more than you, for a start."
"How many?"
Littlefinger gave a nonchalant shrug, brushing at his cloak as though dismissing the question itself. "Does it matter? If you bed enough women, some will bear your children. His Grace has never been shy in that regard. I know he's acknowledged the boy at Storm's End—the one he fathered the very night Lord Stannis wed. He could hardly do otherwise. The mother was a Florent, niece to Lady Selyse, one of her bed maids. Renly loves to tell the tale of how Robert carried the girl upstairs during the feast and broke in the wedding bed while Stannis and his bride were still dancing. A charming anecdote, wouldn't you say?" Littlefinger smirked, but his eyes gleamed with a sharper edge.
Edric's lips tightened, but he said nothing.
"Lord Stannis, unsurprisingly, did not find it charming. When the boy was born, he shipped him off to Renly as if he were an unwanted gift, lest his wife's House feel insulted," Littlefinger continued, with a glance toward Ned. "Then there are the whispers, of course. A pair of twins by a serving wench at Casterly Rock—born three years ago during Lord Tywin's tourney. Cersei had them killed, or so the story goes, and sold the mother to a passing slaver. Apparently, it was too much of an affront to Lannister pride to have Robert's bastards so close to home."
Ned grimaced, the shadow of disapproval darkening his face. Ugly tales like these followed every great lord, but they weighed heavier when they touched the king. He struggled to reconcile the man Littlefinger described with the Robert he had once called brother. Yet, over the years, Robert had grown adept at turning a blind eye to things he wished to ignore.
"Why would Jon Arryn take a sudden interest in the king's baseborn children?" Ned asked, his voice heavy with suspicion.
"The King's Hand must account for the king's appetites," Littlefinger replied lightly, though his tone carried a hint of something darker. "Perhaps Robert asked him to ensure they were provided for. That would be the charitable explanation."
Ned's face hardened. "It had to be more than that. Otherwise, why kill him?"
Littlefinger tilted his head, a faint smile playing on his lips. "Lord Arryn learns His Grace has filled the bellies of a few fishwives and serving girls, and for that, someone silences him? A logical leap, I suppose. Allow a man like Jon Arryn to live, and next, he's likely to declare the sky blue and the sun rising in the east."
Edric's face tightened his shoulders stiff with tension. "Careful with your jests, Lord Baelish. You mock a good man's memory."
Before Littlefinger could retort, Jory Cassel's voice rang out, sharp and urgent. "My lord!"
In an instant, the street was alive with the glint of steel. Soldiers emerged from alleys and doorways, their armor catching the midday sun. Golden lions adorned their helms and breastplates, unmistakable emblems of House Lannister. A line of them blocked the street ahead, a dozen or more, their spears and longswords held ready.
"Behind us!" Wyl called, his voice tight with alarm. More soldiers appeared, cutting off their retreat.
Jory drew his sword with a rasp of steel. "Make way, or die!"
The leader of the Lannister men stepped forward, his face hard and impassive. "The wolves are howling," he said, his voice cold. "But this pack is small."
Littlefinger walked forward cautiously. "What is the meaning of this? Lord Stark is the Hand of the King."
"He was the Hand of the King," came a voice as smooth as silk. The soldiers parted, revealing a golden-haired figure astride a blood bay stallion. Jaime Lannister's gilded breastplate gleamed, the lion of his house roaring its defiance. "Now, I'm not so sure what he is."
"Lannister, this is madness," Littlefinger protested, his composure cracking. "Let us pass. We are expected at the castle. Do you think you can act with such impunity?"
"He knows exactly what he's doing," Ned said, his tone even but steely.
Jaime Lannister smiled, his white teeth flashing in the sunlight. "Quite so. I'm looking for my brother. You remember him, don't you, Lord Stark? Fair-haired, mismatched eyes, quick of wit, and sharp of tongue? A short man."
"I remember him well," Ned replied.
"It seems he's run into some trouble on the road," Jaime said, his smile fading. "My father is rather vexed. You wouldn't happen to know who might wish my brother ill, would you?"
"Your brother has been taken under my command," Ned said, his voice cold. "He will answer for his crimes."
Littlefinger groaned audibly. "My lords, surely we can—"
Jaime interrupted with a flash of movement, his longsword gleaming as he drew it. He urged his horse forward, its powerful strides eating up the distance. "Show me your steel, Lord Eddard. I'll butcher you like Aerys if I must, but I'd prefer you die with a blade in hand."
Edric instinctively stepped forward, his hand going to the hilt of his sword, but Torrhen grabbed his arm. "Stay back," the older Karstark growled. "This isn't your fight."
Ned remained calm, his hand steady as it rested on the pommel of his blade. "If you wish to end this here, Ser Jaime, I will oblige. But you'll find I'm not so easy to butcher."
The golden lion smirked, his blade steady as he eyed Ned. "We'll see."
Edric wrenched his arm free from Torrhen's grip and drew his sword in a fluid motion. The blade gleamed in the sunlight as he stepped forward to stand beside Ned.
"You're supposed to fight with me, not for me, Torrhen," Edric said sharply. His eyes, bright with determination, locked on Jaime Lannister. "And I'll not stand idle while wolves are threatened."
Torrhen scowled, his jaw tight. "This isn't your place, Edric. Your father would have my head if—"
"My father taught me to stand beside my kin," Edric interrupted. "And so I shall."
Jaime's smirk widened as he observed the young Karstark, amusement dancing in his green eyes. "Bold words for a pup. Tell me, boy, do you know how to use that blade, or do you simply enjoy waving it about?"
"I've trained enough to know your kind," Edric shot back, gripping his sword firmly. "A lion's roar is loud, but it's still just noise."
Jaime laughed, a rich, mocking sound. "A brave one! I'll make sure to carve that on your tombstone, should it come to that."
"Enough!" Ned barked, his voice commanding. He stepped forward, placing himself firmly between Jaime and Edric. "If this is to be settled by blood, let it be between us, Jaime. You need not drag others into it."
"Ah, but they've dragged themselves in, haven't they?" Jaime said, his tone mockingly conversational as he gestured to Edric with his blade. "Look at this one. All eager for a fight he cannot win. Are you so willing to let him die, Stark?"
"I'll not die cowering behind others," Edric snapped, stepping even closer. His voice was steady, but his heart thundered in his chest. He could feel Torrhen's disapproving glare boring into him, but he stood firm, his sword raised.
Torrhen finally stepped forward, his own blade sliding free of its sheath with a hiss. "If this is how it's to be, then I won't stand by and let the lad fight alone," he said grimly. He turned to Edric, his expression softening just slightly. "But don't make me regret this."
Edric gave a brief, resolute nod, then turned his gaze back to Jaime, who watched the exchange with undisguised delight.
"The wolves have a pack, I see," Jaime remarked. "How quaint. Shall we see how quickly this one scatters?"
"I'd not underestimate the North," Ned said coldly, drawing his own blade. "You may find we're not so easily broken, lion."
The street had gone deathly silent, the Lannister soldiers watching intently, hands on the hilts of their weapons. The tension was a coiled spring, ready to snap at any moment.
Jaime Lannister raised his sword, his smile razor-sharp. "Very well, Lord Stark. Let's see if the wolves truly have teeth."
Ned's men had drawn their swords, but the odds were starkly against them—five against ten. Shadows flickered in the light of distant torches, and eyes watched from the safety of windows and doorways, curious yet unwilling to intervene. The tension was palpable, the kind that weighed heavy on the chest. His party was mounted, the Lannisters on foot save for Jaime, who sat astride his blood bay stallion, the very image of careless arrogance.
A charge might win them free, but to Eddard Stark, there was a surer and safer path. His voice, firm and unyielding. "Kill me," he warned the Kingslayer, "and Catelyn will most certainly see to it that Tyrion dies."
Jaime's golden sword tapped against Ned's chest, the weapon that had once tasted the blood of a dragonking now glinting in the faint moonlight. The Kingslayer's lips curled into a smirk. "Would she?" he mused, his tone light but mocking. "The noble Catelyn Tully of Riverrun, committing cold-blooded murder? I think... not."
He sighed theatrically, sliding the gilded sword back into its sheath. "But then, I'm not inclined to wager my brother's life on a woman's honor." With a flick of his wrist, he pushed his damp hair from his eyes and wheeled his horse around, the motion lazy and deliberate. He called over his shoulder, "Tregar, see that no harm comes to Lord Stark and his son."
"As you say, m'lord," came the gruff reply from the captain of the Lannister guards.
Jaime paused, his smile flashing white in the dim light. "Still... we wouldn't want him to leave here entirely unchastened." His gaze swept over Ned's men. "Kill his followers."
"No!" Ned roared, his hand flying to the hilt of his sword, but Jaime was already cantering down the street, the sound of hoofbeats fading into the night.
Wyl's shout rang out as the Lannister soldiers closed in. Swords gleamed in the torchlight, and red cloaks billowed as the men surged forward. Ned spurred his horse and charged, carving a path through the press of soldiers, cutting at the crimson phantoms that darted before him. Jory Cassel followed, his mount rearing as he spurred it into the fray. A steel-shod hoof connected with a guardsman's face, the sickening crunch audible even over the clash of steel.
Torrhen Karstark rode alongside Ned, his sword held high. "Hold fast!" he shouted, his voice booming. "We're not dead yet!"
Edric was slower to react, his inexperience showing as he hesitated. But when he saw a Lannister soldier lunging for Torrhen's side, something in him snapped. He raised his sword and charged, his blade meeting steel with a loud clang. Though his strikes were less refined than his father's, they were fueled by determination and a stubborn refusal to stand idly by.
"Edric, fall back!" Torrhen barked, parrying a strike and shoving the attacker aside.
"I'll not stand behind you like a child!" Edric retorted, his voice cracking with defiance. His blade found its mark, slicing through the arm of a soldier who had underestimated the young Karstark.
Wyl cursed as he was dragged from his horse, swords flashing around him. Ned turned his mount sharply, his longsword crashing down on Tregar's lion-crested helm. The blow sent the man staggering to his knees, blood streaming down his face as his helm split. Heward was hacking at the hands gripping his reins when a spear thrust into his belly, the cruel point driving deep.
"No!" Ned shouted as Jory came hurtling back into the melee, his sword a blur of red rain.
"We can't hold them!" Torrhen called, his blade deflecting a thrust aimed at Edric.
"Jory, away!" Ned commanded, his voice hoarse with desperation, but it was too late.
Ned's horse lost its footing, its legs slipping in the mud slick with blood. The world tilted, and he crashed to the ground in a blur of pain. The impact jarred his senses, and he tasted the copper tang of blood in his mouth.
Torrhen and Edric stood shoulder to shoulder now, the older Karstark shielding his charge as best he could. "Stay alive, boy," Torrhen growled, his strikes growing more ferocious.
Edric nodded, his face pale but resolute. "For the North," he muttered, gripping his sword tightly as he prepared to make his stand.
The clash of steel and the thundering of hooves drowned out everything else. The mud sucked at their boots, the heavy air filled with the acrid scent of sweat, and blood. Torrhen Karstark swung his blade with a practiced brutality, driving back the soldiers who sought his life. His strikes were precise and deadly, his strength keeping the attackers at bay.
Edric, though less seasoned, moved with a frantic energy born of desperation. He sidestepped a thrust aimed at Torrhen's flank, his blade darting forward to slash at the soldier's exposed wrist. The man cried out, his weapon clattering to the ground.
"Damn it, Edric, fall back!" Torrhen shouted, blocking a strike that would have cleaved Edric in two.
"No!" Edric snapped, his voice sharp with defiance. "They're trying to kill you, not me!"
The words were true enough. The Lannister soldiers were reluctant to harm a prince of the North, their hesitations apparent in the way they directed their strikes toward Torrhen. But the Karstark knight was no easy prey, his blade a whirlwind of steel and fury.
"Let the boy go," one of the soldiers growled, circling Torrhen. "It's his shield we're after."
Edric's eyes darted around, taking in the positioning of the soldiers, the mud slick beneath their boots, and the gleam of steel. His mind raced. They couldn't outlast this fight—they had to end it swiftly.
"Torrhen, drive him back!" Edric shouted, nodding toward the soldier closest to him.
Torrhen didn't hesitate. He surged forward with a roar, his blade hammering into the soldier's shield with enough force to knock the man off balance. The opening was all Edric needed. He darted in, plunging his sword into the man's unguarded side. Blood sprayed, and the soldier crumpled with a gurgling cry.
The remaining three hesitated, their eyes flickering to Edric.
"He's the prince," one hissed. "We're not to touch him—"
As the three charged again Edric feigned a stumble, falling to one knee and lowering his sword. "You don't want to hurt me," he said quickly, his voice shaking just enough to sound convincing. "I'm a prince! Let me go."
The soldiers hesitated, glancing at each other. Torrhen cursed under his breath, but Edric shot him a look.
The leader sneered. "We don't want you, boy. Just stay out of the way while we deal with your friend here."
Edric's lips twitched in a faint, almost imperceptible smile. "Fine," he said, rising slowly. His hand darted to his belt, where he had a dagger sheathed. In one swift motion, he flung the blade forward.
The dagger found its mark, burying itself in the leader's throat. The man choked, clutching at the hilt as blood spurted between his fingers. The suddenness of it broke the soldiers' focus, and Torrhen seized the moment, driving his blade through the gut of the nearest man.
"That's a mistake you know," Edric interrupted, his voice cold. "You're not touching me... but I'll have no such qualms."
"Two left," Torrhen snarled, his breath ragged.
The last pair hesitated, their confidence faltering. But Edric pressed forward, feinting a wild slash that forced one soldier to sidestep directly into Torrhen's reach. The older Karstark's blade was waiting, plunging into the man's gut.
The final soldier tried to run. Edric's sword was faster. He drove the blade into the man's back, pulling it free as the soldier collapsed into the mud, lifeless.
Edric stood panting, his chest heaving. Torrhen wiped the blood from his blade, his sharp eyes scanning the street for any other threats.
"You're reckless," Torrhen growled, his voice low but not without a note of grudging respect.
Edric sheathed his sword with shaking hands. "And you're welcome."
Ned's breath came in sharp gasps, and he dragged himself through the mud with a grimace, each movement sending fresh waves of agony through his wounded leg.
Edric and Torrhen ran to him. Torrhen's gaze was hard, his eyes fixed on Ned's frail form, while Edric's mind raced, seeking the right words, to ease the sense of helplessness that lingered in the air. But there were no words. They reached him just as Littlefinger and the City Watch arrived, the flickering lanterns casting long shadows over the grim scene.
Edric sank to his kneed, his hand reaching instinctively for his father's shoulder, his heart tight in his chest. Torrhen did the same, but his focus was already shifting toward Jory Cassel's body, his face pale with the understanding of what had been lost. Neither of them said anything at first. Edric could feel the weight of his father's exhaustion, his pain seeping into his own bones as he tried, and failed, to offer some comfort.
Littlefinger's voice cut through the quiet, his presence as unsettling as ever. "We need to move him, my lord."
But the journey back to the castle was a blur of agony. Edric's father drifted in and out of consciousness, the blood that stained his clothes and flesh trailing behind them. Edric could hear their voices—his father's, his own—sounding muffled, lost somewhere behind the fog of pain. Torrhen's silent strength beside him gave him little solace. The fight, the coldness of it, was far from over.
Edric's hands were trembling. His heart thundered in his chest, the sensation of the battle still fresh in his body, and he was uncertain whether the blood he tasted in his mouth was his own or someone else's. He had seen death before, but never like this. Never so close. Never with his own hands. His mind wandered, back to the fallen men that surrounded him earlier.
He could still hear the clanging of steel, the cries of men. Torrhen had fought beside him, with an ease that made the violence seem almost graceful, but Edric had never held a sword before with this kind of weight. He wasn't like his father, Robb or like Torrhen. He wasn't a seasoned soldier. He had been a prince. He had been trained in politics, in courtly manners, in the ways of ruling—not in the ways of war. But now, here in the blood-soaked mud, it was as if he was cast into a different world, one where the old rules no longer applied.
Then, as if pulled from a distant dream, Edric saw the Red Keep looming ahead of him. The massive stone walls, bathed in the first pale light of dawn, loomed like a silent sentinel. The pale pink of the stone had darkened under the relentless rain, now streaked with the color of blood, as if the castle itself mourned the weight of what had transpired.
In a haze, Edric felt his father's limp body being lifted from the litter, felt the cold weight of his unconscious form, and heard the faint sound of footsteps echoing against the stone walls. Grand Maester Pycelle was the first to arrive, his round face as impassive as ever, his voice a hushed whisper. "Drink, my lord. Here. The milk of the poppy, for your pain."
Pycelle's voice faded into the background as Edric's mind took a darker turn. "Wine. Clean silk," he heard, but even those words seemed far away.
Edric's mind was still buzzing with the aftermath of the fight, the taste of blood still fresh in his mouth, the weight of his first kills pressing down on him. His hands still shook as he walked to the Tower of the Hand.
As he entered, the cold stone walls seemed to swallow him whole. The familiar sight of the Red Keep's corridors offered little comfort. He had not expected comfort, though.
Inside, the servants who tended to the family's needs were clustered in a flurry of activity. Edric's eyes flicked over the room, taking in the faces of those who looked up at him. Some of them hesitated, unsure whether to address him or not. They had no idea what to make of the young prince standing before them, his hands still covered in blood, his face a mask of command.
He spoke sharply, his voice cutting through the air like a blade. "Gather everything. All of Sansa's, Arya's, and my Father's belongings. Pack them for departure. Immediately."
There was a brief pause, and then some of the servants began to murmur amongst themselves, exchanging uneasy glances. One of them, an older woman who had been in service to the Starks for years, stepped forward cautiously, her hands shaking slightly as she spoke.
"Your Grace, we cannot—" she began, but Edric silenced her with a wave of his hand.
"I did not ask for your opinion," he said, his voice low and unwavering. "I gave an order. I expect it to be followed. No questions, no protests. You will pack their things as I instructed."
Some of the servants exchanged looks of confusion, others appeared reluctant, but Edric's eyes darkened, and his next words carried the weight of authority far beyond his years. "I am the son of the Hand of the King, and my words hold as much weight as my father's. If you do not wish to find yourselves in the king's dungeons, you will do as I say."
The room fell silent. Edric's eyes burned with intensity, and the air was thick with tension. The servants, at first hesitant, now understood. They had no choice. The older woman took a step back, nodding quickly. "As you wish, Your Grace," she said, her voice trembling, and the others quickly followed suit. The sound of rustling fabric and hurried footsteps filled the air as they began to gather Sansa's delicate dresses, Arya's worn tunics, and the various trinkets and belongings his father had accumulated over the years. Edric stood at the doorway, his back straight, his face set in an unreadable mask.
He knew this was only the beginning. This was not a task of comfort; it was a task of control, of power. He was not the young boy who had dreamed of riding dragons or becoming a scholar. He was not a prince untouched by the harshness of the world. Today, he had crossed a line, and he would never return to the life he once knew.
His eyes flicked over the servants one last time, watching them pack with quiet efficiency. His pulse was still racing, the blood still fresh on his hands. He wasn't certain of what lay ahead, but he knew that whatever it was, he would face it with the same determination he had shown today. No one would dare challenge him now.
Edric stood by the window, his gaze fixed on the storm that continued to rage outside. The servants moved quietly, packing up the belongings of Sansa, Arya, and his father with a mix of reluctance and obedience. Edric's mind, however, was elsewhere—spinning with plans, the weight of his new responsibilities pressing down on him.
Turning from the window, he strode across the room, his boots echoing in the silence. The servants, focused on their work, barely noticed him approach. But one, a young man with nervous eyes, looked up as Edric neared.
"Yes, my lord?" the servant asked, voice trembling just slightly under the weight of Edric's gaze.
"Arrange a carriage," Edric said, his tone flat, his orders coming out with the same cold precision he had used when commanding the servants to pack. "A large one, strong enough to carry all of this." He waved a hand over the piles of clothing, trunks, and personal effects. "I want it prepared now."
The servant blinked in surprise, but Edric's stare brooked no argument. "The carriage will carry these to the Dornish Estate. It's the former house of House Vaith, outside the Red Keep's walls."
As Edric made his way toward the door, his thoughts consumed by the plans he had set into motion, the door swung open, and in stepped Arya and Sansa. Their eyes immediately locked on him, taking in his bloodstained tunic, the dark crimson that clung to the fabric like a grim reminder of the battle he had faced.
Sansa's eyes narrowed with suspicion, and Arya's sharp gaze flickered to the bloodstains before meeting his eyes, her expression unreadable.
"What's going on?" Sansa's voice was cold, her usual elegance strained with concern. "Where's father? And why is there blood on you?"
Edric paused, the weight of their questions pressing down on him, but he didn't flinch. His eyes flickered briefly to the bloodstains on his tunic, then back to his sisters. He stood tall, his composure steady, despite the turbulence inside.
"I've arranged for a carriage," Edric said flatly, his tone carrying an edge that both Sansa and Arya could not mistake. "We're leaving. The Red Keep is no longer safe."
Sansa took a step forward, her brows furrowing as she took in the serious tone of his words. "What do you mean we're leaving?" Her voice rose, a mix of frustration and fear creeping into her words. "Where are we going? Why?"
Edric's gaze met hers, and for a moment, he hesitated. He could see the panic starting to rise in her, the worry flickering in her blue eyes. Arya, standing just behind her, looked far less troubled, though her expression remained cautious. She always had a way of masking her emotions—unlike Sansa, who wore her heart on her sleeve.
"Things are changing," Edric replied, his voice still measured, though there was an underlying urgency in his words. "The Lannisters have too much control here. We need to get out, for our safety and for the family's. The Dornish estate is our best option for now."
Sansa opened her mouth, likely to protest, but Edric raised a hand, cutting her off before she could speak.
"You may not like it," he said quietly, "but we have no choice. We cannot stay here. The Lannisters have too much sway. And, as for the blood…" He glanced down at his tunic, then back at them. "There was a confrontation. It's over now. But we can't stay here to clean our wounds and lick our pride. We must leave before they come for us."
Arya's gaze didn't waver. "A fight, then?" she asked, her voice calmer than Sansa's, though there was a sharpness to it. Her eyes flicked to his bloodstained tunic again, then back to his face. "Who did you fight?
Edric's expression hardened, but he did not look away from Arya's intense stare. "We'll discuss the details later."
Sansa remained quiet for a moment longer, her eyes searching his face, then glanced down at the packed trunks. "And Father?" she asked, her voice small now.
Edric's eyes darkened, and for the first time, the weight of his father's situation fully settled in his chest. "He's being taken care of," he said, his voice steady. "But for now, we must move. Everything is in motion. We'll be safer at the Dornish estate."
Sansa nodded slowly, though there was still uncertainty in her eyes. She looked like she wanted to argue, but she didn't.
The trunks and belongings were packed hastily, and everything was ready for their departure that very evening.
Upon arrival, the estate felt like a small but necessary refuge—a place far removed from the Lannister's influence.
When they stepped through the doors, Arianne's eyes immediately found Edric. She took in the bloodstains on his tunic, her gaze narrowing slightly, though she said nothing at first. The silence between them hung thick, her expression unreadable. Edric could feel her scrutiny, but he made no move to explain, knowing she would ask when she was ready. For now, there was only the quiet hum of the estate and the knowledge that they were safe, for the moment at least.
Edric didn't bother to explain himself as he walked past Arianne. He could feel her eyes on his back, but he refused to meet her gaze. His mind was still swirling with the chaos of the day, the blood, and the overwhelming realization of what he had just done. He needed to distance himself from it for a moment, to gather his thoughts.
When he reached his room, he closed the door behind him, the quiet settling over him like a heavy weight. His fingers moved mechanically as he began to unlace the top of his tunic, the fabric sticky against his skin. As it came free, Edric winced at the sight of the cut on his shoulder. It was longer than he had thought, a deep slash that had bled more than he expected. The wound was shallow, but the blood had stained through the fabric.
He ran his fingers over it carefully, the sting sharp against his fingertips.
A few moments passed before Edric heard the soft creak of the door behind him. He turned to see Arianne standing in the doorway, her eyes immediately drawn to the wound on his shoulder. For a moment, neither of them spoke. She looked at him, her expression unreadable, before stepping forward without a word.
Her hands moved with practiced care, untying the laces of his tunic to expose the wound fully. Edric could feel the warmth of her fingers as she gently probed the injury, her touch steady and sure, even if her gaze remained fixed on the blood-soaked skin. There was a certain quiet intensity about her in that moment, an unspoken understanding between them, though he had no words to offer.
She didn't ask questions. She simply worked. The soft rustle of cloth, the sound of the water she fetched, the faint hiss of a cloth dabbed gently on the wound—all of it filled the space between them. Edric's breath was shallow, the sting from the wound momentarily dulling as her hands moved over him.
He didn't speak either, too lost in the quiet aftermath of the battle that had been more than just a fight. The weight of his actions settled deeper into his bones, and he let the silence linger. Arianne's touch was the only thing that grounded him, her presence offering a quiet sense of reassurance, even as his mind raced.
Arianne's movements slowed as she applied a clean cloth to the wound, her brow furrowing in concentration. After a few moments of silence, she looked up at him, her dark eyes intense but calm. Her voice, soft yet piercing, broke the quiet.
"What happened?" she asked, her words simple but laden with concern.
Her gaze never left his face as she gently pressed the cloth against his shoulder, waiting for his response.
Edric took a steady breath, his gaze focused on the wound as Arianne tended to it. His words were flat, the events still fresh in his mind but processed without the weight of emotion.
"We were investigating a lead at a brothel," he began, his tone even. "A skirmish broke out—Lannister soldiers came at us. Jory… Jory was the first to fall. He didn't stand a chance. We were outnumbered, and they were set on killing everyone except me and my father."
He paused for a moment, catching his breath as the memory of the battle replayed in his mind.
"My father was hurt, a horse falling on his leg. He's alive, but it was bad."
Edric's expression softened ever so slightly as Arianne finished tending to his wound. His gaze turned distant, focusing on something far beyond the confines of the room.
"I left Torrhen with my father," he continued, his voice still looked directly at Arianne then, his tone taking on a subtle edge of urgency.
"I need you to call Oberyn. From whatever brothel he's at. Get him here, now. If anyone can help us figure out this mess, it's him."
His words were clear and direct. He was too tired to sugarcoat them. There was no time for hesitation. He wanted Oberyn's expertise, his ruthlessness—anything to ensure that they weren't left vulnerable any longer.
Arianne's eyes flickered with something like relief, though her face remained as composed as ever. She took a step back from Edric, still keeping her gaze on the wound she had just tended to.
"You're in luck," she said, her voice calm but with a hint of amusement, as though the turn of events had not shaken her. "Oberyn is here, resting. He arrived not long ago after some... business." She met Edric's eyes, her lips curling into a subtle, knowing smile. "I'll send for him. You won't have to wait long."
Edric stood before the mirror, donning a fresh tunic, his movements methodical. The dull ache from his shoulder still lingered, but the worst of the pain had subsided with Arianne's ministrations. He was far more concerned with what had transpired in the streets, and what needed to be done now.
Once he was dressed, he walked purposefully to the study. The room was quiet, lit only by the flickering light of a single candle on the table. He sat down, feeling the weight of the moment settle on his shoulders. His mind raced with thoughts of his father, Torrhen, and what had just happened. A plan was forming in his head, but he needed Oberyn's counsel to see it through.
The door creaked open, and both Oberyn and Arianne entered.
Arianne and Oberyn entered, Arianne finished up her relay of the events "He left Torrhen with his father to ensure he's properly cared for, but his father needs our attention,Uncle. The Lannisters are far too close to this situation. We need to act swiftly."
Edric glanced up at Oberyn, waiting for the inevitable questions and his thoughts on what they could do next.
Oberyn's lips curled into a smirk, the usual glint of cunning in his eyes. His presence was always sharp, his mind quick and precise. He leaned back in his chair, his fingers drumming lightly on the wooden surface.
"So," he began, his tone almost playful, "you want to make sure that the Stark family is untouchable, do you?" His gaze flicked between Edric and Arianne, an almost imperceptible raise of his brow signaling that he already understood the implications of their request.
Edric met Oberyn's eyes steadily, though his mind was still racing. Oberyn's question was a shrewd one, and in truth, that was exactly what Edric needed. The Lannisters had made their move, and now it was time to counter it. But he knew that the man before him wasn't one for simplicity, and this would require more than just force.
Oberyn's smirk remained, but his eyes gleamed with a sharp, knowing intelligence. He leaned forward slightly, his voice lowering as if the answer was obvious.
"Marry her," he said simply, gesturing toward Arianne with a casual motion of his hand. "Go through with the betrothal."
Edric blinked, taken aback for a moment, his mind still processing the weight of the words. "What?"
Oberyn's gaze was unwavering, his expression unreadable, but the suggestion was clear—this was no mere suggestion. It was a plan, a way to secure power.
"You're worried about the Lannisters," Oberyn continued, his voice unyielding, "and their influence over the Starks. Marry Arianne, and you won't just tie your house to Dorne. You'll make it untouchable in the eyes of any who might dare to make a move. The Starks will have the Martells behind them, and that, Edric, will give you a power you've never had."
"Marrying Arianne doesn't just secure the North, Edric," Oberyn continued, his voice calm and measured. "It makes you heir to Dorne as well. When you marry her, you don't just tie your house to the Martells—you become a part of Dorne itself."
He leaned forward, his sharp eyes locked onto Edric's. "Harm to you wouldn't only be the harm of a Stark prince. It would be the harm of the Dornish prince as well. The North and Dorne would be bound by blood, and anyone who dared to touch you would risk war versus both."
Edric's breath caught in his chest as he realized the option he was given. This wasn't just about securing his family's future or making an alliance—it was about power, legacy, and the undeniable strength of two great houses.
"Do it, Edric. Marry her. Become the North's prince and Dorne's. No one will dare to challenge you. Not now, not ever."
Edric took a hesitant breath, his fingers tightening around the edge of the table as he stared at Oberyn. The weight of the decision was heavier than any sword, more complicated than any political maneuver he'd encountered. His eyes flickered to Arianne for a moment before returning to the man before him, the man who had always been clever, calculating—unafraid of the consequences.
Edric let out a sigh, his breath escaping in a soft, resigned rush. He leaned back in his chair, the weight of the decision pressing down on him. He had dreamed of this moment, in a way. Of being in control, of shaping his own destiny, but never like this. Never with so much at stake.
"I need time to think," Edric finally said, his voice quiet.
After a few moments Oberyn responded "I'll leave you to it then." he stood. His footsteps were soft but deliberate as he made his way toward the door. He paused for a moment, glancing over his shoulder at Edric with a faint, almost knowing smirk. Then, without a word more, he exited the room, closing the door behind him.
Edric's gaze hardened as he looked at Arianne, a surge of frustration rising within him. The weight of his words still echoed in his mind, but now they felt like an unyielding force, pressing down on him. He took a slow breath, then exhaled sharply, his eyes narrowing slightly.
"I take it you're delighted," he said, his voice tinged with bitterness, "forcing my hand, making sure that this betrothal goes through."
Arianne's eyes narrowed slightly at Edric's words, but she didn't flinch. Her expression remained calm. She stepped closer to him, her presence filling the space between them.
"Delighted?" she echoed, her tone even but carrying an edge. "No, Edric, I don't delight in this. But I do know that it is necessary. You want to protect your father, your family. You want to secure Winterfell's future." She paused, her gaze flickering briefly to the floor before meeting his eyes again. "So, yes, I'm ensuring that the betrothal goes through. I'm ensuring that we go through with it—because, in the end, it's not about what we want. It's about what we must do."
Her words cut through the tension like a blade. She wasn't here to comfort him. She wasn't here to argue about what he wanted. She was here to ensure that the future they both needed would unfold, whether he was ready for it or not.
Edric gave a dismissive sigh, his fingers brushing through his hair as he straightened himself up. "Whatever," he muttered, as though trying to brush away the heaviness of the conversation. "My sisters are probably really confused right now. I need to let them know what's happening."
He took a step towards the door, his hand resting on the handle. His mind was still reeling from the weight of the conversation with Oberyn, but he knew he had no choice but to face his family now.
Edric stepped into the quiet garden. The sight before him was almost normal. Arya, fiercely concentrated, was swinging her wooden sword at a tree, her movements swift and practiced, her brows furrowed in focus. Sansa sat nearby on a chair, her posture rigid, arms crossed tightly across her chest, her gaze sharp and unforgiving. Her eyes locked onto him the moment he entered, and though she didn't speak, her glare said everything—she was still angry, still resentful of the situation, of the changes that had been forced upon them.
Edric took a slow, steadying breath. This wasn't going to be easy.
Edric's footsteps echoed softly as he entered the dimly lit chamber. He had been standing in the doorway for a moment, just listening, before he stepped forward. Poole looked up from his work, his expression unreadable as he acknowledged the presence of the young prince.
"My lord," Poole said with a slight nod.
Ned's eyes shifted to Edric, his brow furrowed. "You…?"
Edric moved closer to the bed, his face pale, his tunic still showing signs of the morning's stress. "Father, I'm here. I didn't want you to wake alone."
Ned looked at him through bleary eyes, and for a moment, the weight of everything seemed to settle into the room like a cold mist. The pain in his leg flared.
"Poole told me it's been six days," Ned murmured, his voice thick with fatigue. "I need to know what's happened."
Poole's hands hovered over the candle, his gaze flicking from Ned to Edric. "The Kingslayer has left the city, my lord," Poole said, taking a step forward. "The rumor is he's returned to Casterly Rock, joining his father. The story of Lady Catelyn and the Imp is on everyone's lips."
Edric's jaw tightened at the mention of his mother's actions, but he remained silent, his eyes dropping for a moment.
Alyn, who had been waiting just outside the room, stepped in, his expression grim. "The city is tense, my lord," he said to Ned.
Ned nodded, then turned his attention back to Edric and Poole, his gaze searching. "Arya and Sansa… have they been well? How are they?"
Edric met his father's eyes, his expression unreadable for a moment. "They've been here every day, Father. Sansa prays quietly, but Arya…" He trailed off, uncertainty flickering in his voice. "She hasn't spoken since we brought you back. She's angry, Father. Fiercely so."
Ned's heart tightened at the thought of his daughters, both of them forced into a world of danger and uncertainty far too soon. But before he could say anything more, Poole spoke again.
"The girls are safe, Lord Stark," Poole assured him, though his eyes shifted briefly toward Edric as though to gauge his reaction. "But your son has made arrangements for them."
Edric straightened at that, his jaw set, his gaze flicking to Poole, then back to Ned. "I've moved them to the Dornish estate, Father," he said, his voice steady. "It's safer there for now."
Ned blinked, confused for a moment, the fog of his own weariness clouding his mind. "The Dornish estate… good," he looked at Edric with weary gratitude. "And you... are you well, Edric? You're not—"
"I'm fine," Edric cut in. "But for now, they're out of harm's reach. It's the best I could do." He paused, glancing at Poole. "We'll be ready, Father. We won't let them take anything from us."
A solemn silence filled the room for a moment, then Ned's gaze softened. "Thank you, Edric. You've done more than I could have hoped."
Edric nodded stiffly. "It's nothing, Father." But inside, the weight of the decision he had made with Arianne and Oberyn felt heavier than ever.
Edric stood silently for a moment, his eyes shifting to the window, his thoughts racing. He knew the time had come to share the weight of his decisions with his father, even though the implications were heavy. He turned back toward Ned, his gaze steady but filled with uncertainty.
"Father, there's something else you need to know," Edric began, his voice quieter now, tinged with an edge of finality. He took a slow breath, steeling himself for what came next. "While you were unconscious, and in the absence of your counsel, I... I made a decision."
Ned's brow furrowed, his fatigue giving way to a flicker of concern. "What decision?" he asked, his voice barely a rasp.
Edric hesitated for a moment, then met his father's gaze with resolve. "I've decided to go through with the betrothal to Arianne," he said. The words felt heavier than he'd anticipated, but there was no turning back now. "And now that you've woken... the wedding will happen tomorrow."
Ned blinked, his face a mixture of disbelief and confusion. "Tomorrow? The wedding... you've already made arrangements without consulting me?"
Edric nodded, his expression firm but weary. "It's the only way to ensure our position. I've spoken to Oberyn, and he's been clear that it's the right course of action." He paused, watching his father carefully. "Arianne's marriage will unite Dorne with the North, and it will secure our safety. We can't afford the delay."
Ned's hand clenched around the edge of the bed, his gaze hardening. "And you think this is what's best, Edric?" His voice was low but sharp, the weight of his authority never fully gone, even in his weakened state.
"I can't ignore what's at stake. We're not safe here, Father. The Lannisters have too much power, and they'll continue to press us."
Ned's gaze softened, his frustration momentarily giving way to something else. "You've always been strong, Edric. But this is more than just strength. This is about being a leader. And what you've chosen... it's a heavy burden."
Edric nodded, feeling the weight of those words sink in. "I know, Father. But it's a burden I'm willing to carry, for the sake of our family."
There was a long silence between them, the gravity of the situation settling over both father and son. Finally, Ned spoke again, his voice quieter now. "Very well. If this is your choice, then I will support you. You'll need to stand firm, Edric."
Edric nodded again, his gaze unwavering.
"I'll be ready, Father."