"His Grace is here my lord, and the queen with him," Poole announced softly.

Ned shifted in the bed, wincing as his leg trembled with pain. Beside him, Edric sat in a chair, leaning forward with his arms on his knees, his expression unreadable. Ned hadn't expected Cersei to come; her presence did not bode well. "Send them in, and leave us. What we have to say should not go beyond these walls." Poole withdrew quietly.

The door opened, and Robert Baratheon entered. He wore a black velvet doublet adorned with the crowned stag of Baratheon in golden thread, a golden mantle over a cloak of black and gold squares, and his face was already flushed with wine. A flagon hung from his hand.

Behind him came Cersei Lannister, resplendent in a jeweled tiara and silk gown. Her green eyes gleamed as they landed on Ned, and then flicked to Edric. She stopped short, her mouth tightening into a thin line.

"Lord Stark," Cersei began icily, her voice carrying a pointed edge, "and young Edric. I believe this conversation would be best handled by the king and his Hand alone. Surely, Edric, you know your place is not here."

Edric stood slowly, his eyes locking with hers. He gave a slow, mocking bow. "Your Grace," he said, his voice dripping with scorn. "I wasn't aware the queen was now dictating who does and does not belong in conversations of state. Should I leave, or will you be excusing yourself first?"

Cersei's lips tightened, but Robert barked a laugh. "Gods, boy, you've got more spine than most in this den of vipers. Sit, if you'd like. I don't care who hears this nonsense."

Edric smirked slightly and resumed his seat, ignoring Cersei's glowering stare.

Ned inclined his head slightly. "Your Grace. My pardons. I cannot rise."

"No matter," Robert grumbled. "Does the leg still pain you?"

"Some," Ned admitted. "But it will heal."

"Pycelle says it will heal clean." Robert frowned. "You're lucky to be alive. You know what Catelyn has done, I take it?"

"I do," Ned said, his tone calm. "My lady wife is blameless, Your Grace. All she did, she did at my command."

Cersei's eyes narrowed. "Then by what right do you dare lay hands on my blood?" she demanded. "Who do you think you are?"

"The Hand of the King," Ned replied with icy courtesy. "Charged by your own lord husband to keep the king's peace and enforce the king's justice."

"You were the Hand," Cersei began, Cersei's glare could have burned through steel, but Robert bellowed, "Quiet, woman! He answered your question, didn't he? Leave it."

Cersei subsided, her face cold with anger. Robert turned back to Ned. "Keep the king's peace, you say. Is this how you keep my peace? Seven men are dead."

"Eight," Cersei corrected. "Tregar died this morning, of the blow the boy gave him."

"Abductions on the kingsroad and drunken slaughter in my streets," Robert said. "I will not have it, Ned."

"Catelyn had good reason for taking the Imp—"

"I said, I will not have it! To hell with her reasons. You will command her to release the dwarf at once, and you will make your peace with Jaime."

"Three of my men were butchered before my eyes because Jaime Lannister wished to chasten me," Ned said, his voice hard. "Am I to forget that?"

"My brother was not the cause of this quarrel," Cersei interjected sharply. "Lord Stark was returning drunk from a brothel. His men attacked Jaime and his guards, even as his wife attacked Tyrion on the kingsroad."

"You know me better than that, Robert," Ned said. "Ask Lord Baelish if you doubt me. He was there."

"I've talked to Littlefinger," Robert said. "He claims he rode off to bring the gold cloaks before the fighting began, but he admits you were returning from some whorehouse."

Edric's eyes flashed dangerously, and his voice dropped to a deadly calm. "We were investigating matters related to the realm, Queen Cersei. What we were doing at that brothel is none of your concern. But your brother's cowardly actions—and his subsequent flight—most certainly are."

"Her Grace will have no liking for anything I am to say," Ned replied, his voice as cold as the northern winds. "A sEdric said, the Kingslayer has fled the city. Grant me leave to bring him back to face justice."

Robert swirled the wine in his cup, his gaze distant and brooding. After a long swallow, he shook his head. "No. I want no more of this. Jaime slew three of your men, and you ten of his. It ends here."

"Ends?" Ned's voice sharpened, the indignation clear in his tone. "Is that your notion of justice, Your Grace? If so, I am relieved I am no longer your Hand."

Edric, sitting quietly in the corner, raised an eyebrow. "Fled or conveniently allowed to leave?" he muttered under his breath, loud enough for Cersei to hear. She shot him a sharp glare but said nothing.

He raised an eyebrow. "A curious definition of justice, My lord. One would think the scales tipped unfairly in favor of those with golden lions stitched to their banners."

The queen's emerald eyes flashed dangerously as she turned her gaze to Robert. "If any man had dared speak to a Targaryen as he has spoken to you—"

"Do you take me for Aerys?" Robert snapped, cutting her off. His anger flared, but it was tinged with weariness.

"I took you for a king," Cersei said, her voice sharp as a blade. "Jaime and Tyrion are your own brothers, bound to you by the laws of marriage and the bonds of family. The Starks have driven off one and seized the other. And yet here you stand, meekly asking after Lord Stark's leg and offering him wine while he dishonors you with every breath."

Robert's face darkened with fury, his jaw tightening. "How many times must I tell you to hold your tongue, woman?"

Cersei's lips curled into a disdainful smile, her contempt palpable. "What a jest the gods have made of us two," she said softly, her words dripping with venom. "By all rights, you ought to be in a gown and I in armour."

Before anyone could speak, Robert's rage exploded. With a savage backhand blow, he struck Cersei across the face. She staggered into the table and fell hard, yet not a sound escaped her lips. Her slender fingers brushed the reddening mark on her cheek, a mark that would surely bloom into a bruise by morning.

"I shall wear this as a badge of honor," she said, her voice steady despite the venom behind it.

"Wear it in silence, or I'll honor you again," Robert growled, his voice echoing in the chamber. He bellowed for a guard. Ser Meryn Trant appeared in the doorway, tall and somber in his white cloak and armor. "The queen is tired. See her to her bedchamber."

Without a word, Ser Meryn helped Cersei to her feet and escorted her out. She kept her back straight, her pride unyielding, though her fury smoldered just beneath the surface.

Robert refilled his cup and sank heavily into a chair. "You see what she does to me, Ned," he muttered, cradling the goblet in his massive hands. "My loving wife. The mother of my children."

"I should not have hit her," Robert admitted, his voice quieter now, almost shameful. "I was always strong, wasn't I? No man could stand before me. But how do you fight someone you cannot hit?"

"By outthinking them, perhaps," Edric suggested from his corner, his tone dry. "But that might be asking too much."

The king drained his cup ignoring Edric, and Ned said "Your Grace," Ned said carefully, "we must talk—"

Robert pressed his fingers to his temples, shaking his head. "I am sick to death of talk. On the morrow, I go to The Kingswood to hunt. Whatever you have to say, it can wait until I return."

"If the gods are good, I shall not be here when you return," Ned said firmly. "You commanded me to return to Winterfell. Remember?"

The king rose, unsteady, grasping a bedpost for support. "The gods are seldom good, Ned." From a pocket in his cloak, he produced the heavy silver hand clasp and tossed it onto the bed. "Here, take it. Like it or not, you are my Hand. I forbid you to leave."

Edric smirked faintly, his arms crossed. "So much for justice," he muttered, loud enough for Robert to hear. "Or freedom, for that matter."

The king scowled but said nothing, his frustration turning inward as he shuffled out of the room, leaving father and son to their thoughts.

The godswood was serene, bathed in the soft, dappled light of the late afternoon sun filtering through the canopy. The air was still, heavy with the weight of tradition and the quiet murmurs of those gathered. The heart tree loomed before them, its carved face watching solemnly as the witnesses took their places.

Edric Stark stood beneath the great weirwood, clad in a simple but finely made tunic of grey and white, the Stark colors subtly woven into the fabric. His hair was brushed back, his expression a mixture of composure and quiet nervousness. This was not how he had envisioned his life's trajectory, yet here he was, taking a step that would irrevocably bind the North to Dorne.

Eddard Stark stood beside his daughters, his leg still splinted but his presence unyielding. Sansa was in her finest dress and Arya is what would barely qualify to be a dress, though their expressions betrayed their confusion about the swift proceedings. Oberyn Martell stood tall, exuding his usual confidence, a subtle smirk playing on his lips as he held Arianne's arm. Tyene Sand and Daemon Sand flanked them, while Lord Dagos and Torrhen Karstark observed silently.

Arianne Martell approached with an elegance that made even the quiet godswood feel grander. She was wrapped in flowing silks of deep crimson and gold, her hair loose and perfumed, cascading down her shoulders. Her steps were deliberate, her head held high. Oberyn led her forward, his movements graceful yet commanding, until they stood before Edric.

Oberyn's voice broke the stillness, smooth and clear. "I am Oberyn Nymeros Martell, uncle of this bride, and I give her away."

Edric met Arianne's gaze, steady and unwavering, as he spoke next. "I am Edric Stark, son of Eddard Stark of Winterfell. I await my bride."

Arianne's voice was soft but firm. "I am Arianne Nymeros Martell, daughter of Prince Doran Martell of Sunspear. I come to you willingly."

Oberyn stepped back, his role completed, leaving Arianne standing before Edric. The moment hung in the air, heavy with the weight of what was to come.

"Do you take this man as your husband?" Eddard asked, his voice carrying through the stillness.

Arianne's lips curving into a faint, almost teasing smile. "I take this man."

With that, Ned stepped back, their role complete. Arianne moved to stand beside Edric, her silks brushing against his tunic. They turned together to kneel before the heart tree, bowing their heads in silent submission. The world seemed to hold its breath in that moment, the old gods bearing witness to this union. The only sound was the rustle of leaves and the faint murmur of the wind.

After a long pause, they rose together. Edric reached for Arianne's cloak, a maiden's pale fabric fastened with the sun-and-spear sigil of Martell. His hands moved with careful precision as he removed it, setting it aside. In its place, he draped a new cloak over her shoulders—dark grey with the Stark direwolf emblazoned proudly in white. It was a symbol of her new role, her place now tied to the North and to him.

Arianne tilted her chin slightly, meeting Edric's eyes as he adjusted the cloak. The faintest of smiles played on her lips, though her expression remained unreadable.

"Hold on," Edric murmured, his voice low and steady. He glanced down at Arianne, his gaze softening as he stepped closer to her.

With ease Edric lifted her, Edric bent slightly at the knees, strong arms encircling her waist, his hands finding the soft curve of her waist. Arianne didn't resist, her arms looping loosely around his neck as he carried her back toward the garden, where the small feast awaited.

The gathered guests followed, Oberyn leading the way with Tyene and Daemon at his side. Sansa and Arya lingered a little behind.

A small table had been set up in the garden, as they reached it, Edric set Arianne down gently into the chair next to his, their union now sealed. The feast began soon after, a quiet celebration of what had just transpired. Though the air between Edric and Arianne remained complex, there was a sense of resolution. The old gods had witnessed their vows, and the course of their futures had now been set.

Lord Eddard Stark was reading in a massive, leather-bound tome when Septa Mordane strode into the solar, Sansa trailing behind her. His leg, still stiffly encased in plaster, was propped beneath the heavy oak table. Beside him stood Edric poring over the same book.

"Come here, Sansa," Eddard said, his tone as measured as the wind over the Wolfswood. "Sit." He closed the book with a deliberate weight that made the air seem heavier.

Sansa curtsied gracefully and took her place, casting a wary glance at her father and brother. Edric gave her a brief nod but said nothing, his fingers idly tracing the edge of the book.

Moments later, Septa Mordane returned, half-dragging Arya by the arm. The younger Stark girl wriggled and twisted, her face defiant. Unlike Sansa, who had chosen a lovely pale green gown for the occasion, Arya wore the same rough leathers and scuffed roughspun tunic that she did at the wedding earlier. "Here is the other one," the septa announced brusquely.

"My thanks, Septa Mordane," Eddard said with a weariness that even the sharpest blade could not cut. "I would speak with my daughters alone."

The septa bowed and retreated, closing the door softly behind her.

"Arya started it," Sansa blurted before anyone could speak. Her words spilled out in a torrent, eager to claim the first strike. "She called me a liar, threw an orange at me, and ruined my ivory silk gown—the one Queen Cersei gifted me for my betrothal. She hates that I'm to marry Prince Joffrey and seeks to ruin everything beautiful or splendid."

"Enough, Sansa," Eddard interrupted, his voice carrying the weight of command. "I did not summon you here to bicker over dresses."

Edric raised an eyebrow, glancing up from the book. "A ruined dress seems a trivial thing to spill so much venom over," he murmured.

"I'll… make you a new one," Arya said, though the doubt in her tone made the offer sound almost absurd.

Edric smirked, leaning slightly toward their father. "I'd like to see that," he said softly. "Arya Stark, tailor of the North."

Sansa tossed her head back in scorn. "You? You couldn't sew a dress fit to clothe a swineherd!"

Eddard sighed heavily. "I summoned you both not to discuss gowns but to deliver news. I am sending you back to Winterfell."

The words fell like a hammer upon the room. Sansa's breath hitched as her face paled. Arya's jaw tightened.

"You can't!" Arya exclaimed.

"Please, Father," Sansa pleaded, her voice trembling. "Please don't send me away!" Her eyes grew moist, and she clutched at the edge of the table. "I love it here—King's Landing, the court, the tournaments. It's like living in a song. Please, Father, send Arya back if you must, but let me stay. I promise to be good and noble and courteous, just like the queen."

Edric's gaze shifted to Sansa, his expression unreadable. "Like the queen?" he said softly, a touch of incredulity in his voice.

Eddard gave his elder son a pointed look before returning his attention to his daughters. "Sansa, my decision has nothing to do with your quarrels or promises. I am sending you home for your own safety. Three of my men were slain, not a league from here, and the king… he hunts."

Arya chewed her lip in her usual defiant manner. "Can we take Syrio with us?" she asked.

"Who cares about your stupid dancing master?" Sansa retorted hotly. "Father, I can't leave. I'm to marry Prince Joffrey. I love him, truly I do, as much as Queen Naerys loved Prince Aemon, as much as Jonquil loved Ser Florian. I want to be his queen and bear his children."

"Sweet one," Eddard said gently, his voice tinged with sorrow. "When the time comes, I will find you a husband worthy of you, someone strong, brave, and kind. This match with Joffrey was a mistake. That boy is no Prince Aemon. You must believe me."

"He is!" Sansa insisted, her eyes glistening. "I don't want someone brave and kind—I want him. We'll be as happy as the songs, you'll see. I'll give him a son with golden hair, and he'll be the greatest king who ever lived."

The moment Sansa said it, it dawned on them. Edric's eyes narrowed slightly. He looked at his sister and then their father. "A golden-haired son," he said, his voice quiet but deliberate. "Isn't that curious, Father?"

Eddard froze for a moment, his gaze locking with Edric's. Then, with a deep sigh, he pushed back his chair and called for Septa Mordane.

"I am arranging for a ship to take you north," he said. "You will sail as soon as I find a proper vessel. Septa Mordane will accompany you, along with guards... and Syrio, if he agrees to serve me. Say nothing of this to anyone. We'll speak again tomorrow."

As the septa led the girls away, Edric lingered, his sharp eyes meeting his father's. "A lion's pride and a stag's strength," he murmured. "But the golden mane? That's not the stag's way, is it?"

Eddard's face was grim as he clasped a hand on Edric's shoulder. "No," he said softly. "It's not."

Eddard Stark wearily ran a hand across his face, the weight of the day settling in his bones like a stone. The lines etched into his brow deepened as he looked at his son, Edric, standing beside him. There was a tiredness in his eyes, the kind that came not only from the burdens of leadership but from the quiet toll of worries and discoveries.

With a deep sigh, he turned to Edric, his voice carrying the weariness of the hour. "It is late, Edric," he said, his tone measured, almost gentle. "Perhaps it would be wise for you to return to your estate for the night. You've duties of your own to attend to, I trust."

For a moment, Eddard hesitated, his fingers tapping the edge of the book absentmindedly. His thoughts seemed to linger in the air between them. He lowered his hand, then added with a hint of discomfort, "And... as I am certain you are aware, there are certain marital duties that await your attention as well."

Edric's eyes widened, the directness of his father's words catching him off guard. A flush of color crept up his neck and across his cheeks, an awkward warmth rising at the unexpected bluntness. He quickly looked down, unable to meet his father's gaze for a moment, as his thoughts scrambled to keep pace with the words he'd just heard.

"Well... I... yes, Father," he stammered, his voice betraying a hint of unease. "I shall take my leave, then. It is late, after all."

He cleared his throat, trying to regain composure, but the blush lingered, a reminder of how suddenly the conversation had turned.

The carriage was dimly lit, the soft creak of the wheels on the cobbled street the only sound as it rumbled toward the estate. Edric sat stiffly across from Sansa and Arya, who were nestled together on the opposite bench. The weight of the situation hung heavy in the air, thickening the silence that stretched between them.

Sansa, her eyes still red from earlier, turned toward him, her gaze sharp but pleading. "Why is Father doing this, Edric?" Her voice trembled, a mixture of anger and sadness that reflected the turmoil inside her. "Why would he send us back to Winterfell when—"

Before she could finish her sentence, Edric's hand moved swiftly, covering her mouth with startling urgency. Her eyes widened in surprise, and for a moment, she was frozen, her words trapped beneath his palm.

"Do not speak of it, Sansa," he whispered softly, his grip gentle but firm. "Father gave us his command, and he told us not to speak of this to anyone, not here, not in public." His voice softened, almost pleading. "You cannot risk making this known. It must remain a secret."

"This isn't the time to question Father, Sansa," he added, his tone softer but still firm. "Trust me, he's doing what's best."

The carriage came to a slow, steady halt at the entrance of the Dornish estate. Edric took a breath, steadying himself, and then, with a practiced motion, he stepped down from the carriage first.

Edric reached back to offer his hand to Sansa, who hesitated for just a moment before taking it. His touch was gentle but firm as he helped her down, his eyes briefly meeting hers in an unspoken understanding. She seemed to hold back a thousand questions, but none were voiced, and he was thankful for that.

Once Sansa was safely on the ground, Arya, as always, wasted no time. She bounded from the carriage with a sprightly leap, landing with a soft thud on the cobblestones. With a brief nod to both sisters, Edric led the way, his mind still heavy with the secrecy of their departure.

As they entered through the entrance of the estate, Edric turned to face both Sansa and Arya. His expression softened, but there was a heaviness in his voice that matched the weight of their unexpected journey.

"Go to your rooms and rest," he instructed, his tone firm yet tinged with an unspoken compassion. "The next few days will be long, and there will be much to deal with. I need both of you to be prepared."

Sansa looked as though she might protest, her mouth opening as if to speak, but Edric's gaze silenced her. She said nothing, her eyes cast downward in resignation. Arya, ever defiant, crossed her arms with a glare but said nothing either. She, too, knew better than to argue.

Edric offered a final nod. "Get some sleep. We'll speak more in the morning."

With that, he turned and began walking toward the corridor that would lead him to his own chambers, the weight of his responsibilities settling heavier on his shoulders with each passing step.

As Edric approached Arianne's chambers, a familiar sense of anticipation settled in his chest. The events of the evening had shifted something between them, He raised his hand and knocked gently.

"Come in," Arianne's voice called from within, casual and effortless.

The door creaked open, and Edric stepped inside. The scent of her perfume lingered, intoxicating and sweet, filling the air around him. The room was softly lit by flickering candles, casting long shadows on the walls. Arianne stood before the mirror, her back to him, clad only in delicate negligee that clung to her curves. Her long, dark hair cascaded down her back in soft waves as she combed through it with slow, deliberate strokes. The movement was graceful, almost ritualistic, emphasizing her beauty in a way that felt too intimate, as if each motion was meant only for him.

She didn't turn immediately, her eyes fixed on her reflection in the mirror, waiting—silent, still—as though expecting him to make the next move. The tension that had built between them all evening hung thick in the room, and Edric could feel it. Her presence was commanding, yet almost too familiar, as though she knew exactly how to make him feel both at ease and utterly captivated.

Arianne's eyes flickered in the mirror as Edric stepped closer, the air between them thick with unspoken tension. She didn't flinch, didn't retreat, but there was a brief pause in her movements as her gaze sharpened, assessing him. She could feel the shift in his presence, a subtle change that signaled a shift in their dynamic. With quiet interest, she watched him, as though waiting to see how far he would push the boundaries that had always existed between them.

Her comb slowed, its movement becoming deliberate, measured. Edric's reflection in the mirror gave her a glimpse of his intent, and for a moment, their eyes locked—both of them silently communicating in the charged space between them. It was a moment of delicate, undeniable tension, a silent push against the boundaries they had kept for so long.

Her lips curled into a small, knowing smile, her voice soft and low, almost a whisper. "Is this what you've been wanting, Edric?"

Arianne turned slowly, her movements fluid and deliberate, every step carrying the natural grace that she was known for. As she faced him, her eyes locked onto his with an intensity that held him in place. The light from the candles flickered across her skin, casting soft shadows that only enhanced her beauty. The negligee she wore, patterned intricately, revealed more than it concealed, its simplicity only adding to its allure. Her curvy figure, confident and self-assured, spoke volumes about her presence in the room.

Her gaze did not waver as she stood before him, her posture poised, commanding. The silence between them felt heavy, the air thick with an unspoken tension, each second stretched as if waiting for something to give.

After a moment, she spoke, her voice low but clear, filled with a quiet confidence. "You know it too, Edric, it's not just seeing what's in front of you, but taking what you think you deserve."

She took a step closer, the distance between them shrinking, but she did not touch him. It was enough to feel the space close in, to know the intimacy that hovered in the air.

Edric swallowed, his voice steady though his heart raced slightly. "And what do you think I deserve?" he asked, the question hanging between them, daring to unravel the tension that had been building ever since they entered the room.

She steps closer, the fabric of her negligee whispering against her skin as she moves. She reaches out, trailing a finger along your jawline before cupping your cheek.

"That's a question only you can answer, Edric."

She pauses, then adds with a quiet intensity, "But... perhaps the real question is, are you ready to take it? Or will you keep holding back, as you always do?"

Without skipping a beat she slides her hand down to Edric's chest, feeling the heat of his body through his clothes. She presses herself against him, her bosom soft yet firm. She takes hold of the laces at the base of Edric's neck, deft fingers working quickly to undo them. As the fabric parts, she leans in to press hot, open-mouthed kisses along his neck and collarbone.

Arianne's voice sultry and breathy "We've waited ten long torturous weeks for this Edric… Take me. Claim your bride as you should have done the moment we exchanged vows."

Her words were his undoing. The restraint he had clung to for so long dissolved. Without a second thought, he let go of his inhibitions, his hands coming up to cradle her face. His lips met hers in a fierce, unrelenting kiss His hands roamed, exploring the curves of her body as if committing every inch to memory.

Arianne returns Edric's kiss passionately, her tongue dancing with his as she guides his hands to the fastenings of her negligee. The delicate fabric slips free, pooling at her feet. She breaks the kiss to shrug out of the garment, standing before him completely bare.