Arya Stark sipped her soup in calm. In her heart, Gawen was a friend—this would be easy.
Sansa Stark stared, stunned. Why send me home?
"Father, I'll never quarrel with my sister again—please, I don't want to go back."
She racked her brain. Perhaps he was angry over her squabbles with Arya, and that was why he meant to send her to Winterfell.
The wolf of the North blinked at his daughter's sudden contrition.
"Sansa, my girl, I am not angry with you."
For the sake of her love for Joffrey, Sansa mustered her courage to argue with the father she revered… but tears came first, and her voice turned pleading.
"Father, I swear I'll be good—truly! If only you let me stay. I'll be as gracious and polite as the queen herself."
Ned: "…"
How can the pup of the North idolize a woman like Cersei? He blamed himself for neglecting the girls' guidance since coming to King's Landing.
"Sansa, I'm sending you home for your safety—and your sister's."
A chill premonition stabbed her—if she left now, perhaps she would never see Joffrey again. Sobbing, she wept harder.
Her father winced, rubbing his brow. From the doorway he caught sight of a pale face lingering there: Jon Snow.
"Sansa, when you reach home, you'll know why."
Arya, who had been smirking at her sister's tears, sobered. Sansa seemed truly hurt this time—not pretending.
Arya touched Sansa's arm. "Don't cry. We'll all be together again soon—and the road will be full of adventures."
"I want only Joffrey!" Sansa shouted, wrenching free of Arya's hand and storming from the hall.
Father and younger daughter watched her go, then exchanged a look: "…"
…
"At least you're not my family!" came Sansa's furious cry from the door.
Arya sprang up on her small legs. "Sansa! Don't run! I'll box your ears!"
Clever as she was, Arya knew: her sister loved to play the lady. Only two people could drive her to such words—Arya herself, and their… brother Jon.
Before Arya could bolt, her father's big hand caught her.
"You've little time. Septa Mordane is packing your things—go see to them."
His face was grave. Arya scowled but let Sansa go—for now.
…
At the stair outside the hall, Ned Stark laid a hand on Jon Snow's shoulder—the boy looked white as chalk.
"She's angry with me, Jon. Not with you."
Jon forced a thin smile. "I'm all right, my lord."
After a silence, he raised his eyes. "My lord Stark… who is my mother?"
Ned opened his mouth, but Jon pressed on. "Is she alive? Does she know I exist? Does she know where I am?"
His voice fell to a whisper. "Does she care?"
Sorrow crossed Ned's face. He gripped the boy's shoulder. "I swear to you—she loved you best."
Joy flashed over Jon's features, then anger washed it away. He shrugged free.
"F—My lord… I am no child. I need no pretty bedside tales. I want the truth."
"I have not lied to you," Ned said softly.
Jon's eyes reddened. "Was she a— a camp follower? Or— Forgive me, my lord."
He turned aside, scrubbing at his eyes with the back of his hand. "I have not forgotten I am a baseborn bastard. Pardon my insolence."
He left in silence. Ned stood unmoving as a statue. Lyanna—your child is grown. Perhaps it is time he knew.
…
Maegor's Holdfast.
Cersei Lannister held Sansa in her arms, her voice warm and kind. "Sweet child, do not grieve. I will help you."
"I love Joffrey so," Sansa sniffled, eyes swollen. "Father won't even let me say farewell."
Cersei patted her back and smiled. "If you did not love him, would you have come to me? Would you have told me of your father's plan to send you away?"
Sansa blushed and nodded, shy. She was ever an obedient daughter; to slip from the Tower of the Hand, to defy her father—she felt wicked, like Arya. She would never have done it, save for love of Joffrey.
With gentle hands Cersei stroked her tear-streaked cheek. "You have helped him, dear heart. Thank you."
Sansa gazed at the queen in adoration. I will be like her—noble and tender—a good wife and a good queen.
"Lancel."
At Cersei's word a fair young man came and bowed before them. Sansa could not help but steal another glance. He's so handsome…
"Lancel, Sansa needs rest. Find her a comfortable room and see to her, for me."
Cersei smoothed Sansa's hair. "He is my cousin. Go with him. I'll send for you when Joffrey comes."
Sansa nodded, flustered and pleased.
…
Alone together, Cersei sipped Summer Red, then set down the cup with a cold snort.
"The wolf means to move."
Jaime frowned. "From the girl's tale, are they not leaving the city?" he asked, refilling her wine.
"My Jaime," Cersei said, eyes bright with scorn, "you are a child."
She rose. "He leaves only over our corpses. Today is the reckoning—his death or ours."
A tremor passed through Jaime's eyes. "Has Stark learned how Robert died?"
Cersei tipped up her chin. "How would that fool smell out my design?"
"Then—"
"Enough guessing." Impatience sharpened her voice. "He has uncovered the truth of Joffrey and the others. He will never let my son wear the crown."
Jaime stared, pupils narrowing.
She slapped him—hard. "Put away your knightly nonsense. What is honor? Victory earns the right to claim it."
Jaime touched his cheek and sighed. "You know I care only for you."
Cersei smiled at last, one hand on his chest, the other stroking his face.
"When we break the wolf, I shall be Queen Regent of the Seven Kingdoms. Then none will dare question us. Do you understand?"
Jaime closed his eyes.
…
Outside the Red Keep, Gawen halted a shabby wagon.
"Lord Crabb!" Arya cried, leaping down to clasp his leg.
He smiled down. "Lady Arya, plainly there is something I can do for you."
Her eyes went round. "How did you know? Are you a greenseer?"
"I only read your enthusiasm," he chuckled, ruffling her tangled hair. "Your face gives you away—learn to guard it, little one."
A lean, bald man strolled up and bowed with elegance when Gawen's eyes found him.
"Syrio!" Arya flew to Syrio Forel. "I was just wondering how to find you—and here you are!"
"The wagon drew Syrio's eye," he said in the singsong cadence of the Free Cities.
"You're amazing!" Arya beamed.
Syrio grinned. "Girl—use your eyes to see, your ears to hear, your—"
Arya set her hands behind her back and chimed in: "—your mouth to taste, your skin to feel, and last your head to think. Then you'll know the truth!"
"A clever girl," Syrio allowed.
Arya lifted her chin, proud, and tugged him toward Gawen. "This is Syrio Forel, my sword-master. May he come with us?"
Gawen spread his hands. "If the bravo himself agrees."
Syrio inclined his head. "Your lessons are unfinished. Syrio must go with you."
…
Gawen peered into the wagon and sighed to Cayn, Ned's man. "Where is Lady Sansa?"
Cayn blinked. "She got in ahead of the rest… She's not inside?"
"Lord Crabb, my lady said she was going to find you—"
Arya's face darkened. "She tricked me again! I never should've made up with her."
Syrio bared his teeth. "You listened, girl—but you did not look."
Jon Snow hurried up, pale. "I—I'll go after Lady Sansa!"
Arya flared. "It's not your fault, Jon. Sansa's awful—she snarls if you even go near her."
Jon shook his head. "It isn't her fault. I gave Lord Stark my word I would look after you both."
Gawen ran a hand through his hair and stopped Jon with a palm.
"Leave her to me."
…
In his solar, Ned Stark stood at the window, watching the square below. Lannister men in scarlet cloaks drilled in full war-gear, blades clashing, riders cutting down straw men.
A great hound of a man—Sandor Clegane—spurred through the hard-packed earth, couching his lance through a target as the redcloaks laughed and cursed.
Ned frowned. Is this meant as a show of force? Cersei was more foolish than he'd thought.
Damn her. Why won't she flee? He had given her chance after chance. Must it come to blood? He turned away. To him, their display looked like boys' games.
He reached up and took Ice from its hooks. Starks do not fear battle.
"Jory."
At once Jory Cassel entered and stood before him.
"We may fight today," Ned said. "Have the men arm and don their mail."
Jory bowed. He hesitated. "My lord—who will be our enemy?"
Ned remembered Gawen's counsel. "Any southerner might be."
…
A heavy, overcast morning.
Ned sent for the small council to meet in his solar.
Ser Barristan Selmy arrived first, white cloak bright as new snow, silvered mail spotless.
He bowed. "My duty lies with the young king, Lord Hand. Permit me to attend him."
"Your duty lies here," Ned said, face stern.
Soon Pycelle and Varys entered. Lavender clung to Varys; his round face was newly powdered, his slippers whisper-soft.
"Lord Hand," he cooed, "all my little birds sing a dirge. The realm weeps today."
Seating himself, he added, "Shall we begin?"
"Not yet," Ned said, cutting a glance at the eunuch's mournful mask. "Lord Renly is absent."
Varys blinked. "He did not seek your leave?"
Ned's brow creased. "What has happened?"
.
.
.
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