Chapter Text
The wind blew, coming strong from the left of Edric’s face, causing his hair to blow violently to one side. He felt grateful, however, that he had chosen Prince’s Pass and was on the meadow rather than not - had they been on the Boneway, the sand would surely be in his, and the horses, eyes by now - other knights, and their squires, and some caravans, seemed positively exhausted by the sun’s heat. Not him, the sun was invigorating, the light refreshed him, it was almost enough to make one forget the revolting stench of rot and excrement from the capital.
Although he wasn’t bothered like the others, Edric didn’t think the weather was mild, for the sun really didn’t help with the stifling smells. The shields painted with sigils from Highgarden seemed ready to turn their chests and return to their beautiful green trees. Edric, too, for the first time, felt glad not to have a squire. If a boy were chattering in his ear, he would probably be more concerned with the squire’s well-being than with the prospect of reaching the tournament, which would do neither of them any good.
But somehow, the ordinary, yet incessant, chatter of the knights, pantomimes, and whatever occupations those people travelling the roads might have, those common loud commotions of any wanderer, have been hitting his guts. He felt as though milk might be the liquid replacing the blood in his veins, so many lords, so many lances and tents, and vassals… What chance did he stand? A solitary heir, fleeing his duties, going to take up a lance, to avoid taking his rightful seat. Edric Dayne had already celebrated his eighteenth name day, meaning, of course, that for four full years he had been considered a man, a grown lord. The prospect, the wording, it all terrified him. For he believed that, surely, by now, he would possess the prowess necessary to be a proper lord, worthy of the Starfall tradition. Believed, that was the right word.
His horses, however, seemed increasingly irritated: Grain, the red sand steed Lord Beric had gifted him, was neighing terribly, though she followed his path, remaining unfazed by the rough terrain, though she did not seem to appreciate it. And just behind the sand steed he rode was his faithful Gravel, carrying his gears. Edric suddenly began to forget about worrying over his chances and, instead, wondered where he might find suitable places for his animals.
There were, of course, other reasons that made him anxious, most of which were linked to his name, some old comparisons, older grudges, and, to top it all, murky tales from even further back. Perhaps that was why he jumped out of his skin when he, unexpectedly, heard:
“Dayne! Dayne!” A panting voice called out to him.
He signalled to Gravel to stop, “Yes?”
“I have… the King…” The man calling him wore puffed sleeves in the colours of House Baratheon and looked, decidedly, like a cooked pepper, boiling cook type. Whether it was the heat that was clearly affecting him, or perhaps he’d been calling him for quite some time, there was no way to know for sure. Even so, Edric pursed his lips, and the mortification had already gnawed at him, briefly. It was a blessing that his long blond hair formed a curtain, he wouldn’t want to see how the other knights were reacting to this interaction, especially the hedge knights. The last thing he needed now was a reminder of being a lordling…
“Breathe,” Edric said calmly, and dismounted from Gravel. His cream-coloured robes, black trousers and knee-high leather boots made the descent look more athletic than if he had been wearing the official court attire, for which he was grateful.
“I have a letter from Our Grace, King Robert, who has personally entered you into the lists. Along with other knights of high birth. However, the Hand of the King, Lord Eddard, as you must know, has made it clear that no knight is to be coerced into…” he took a breath, and his tone suggested he had said such things many times before. That, and the look in his eyes that suggested he thought he was about to be interrupted, “…taking part in the tournament in his honour. So, do you intend, and agree, to take part, my Lord?”
“I do,” Edric said, and the relief in the young man’s eyes was palpable, “Would you like some water?”
“Oh!” exclaimed the man, “Thank you, Lord Dayne, there’s no need. The Hand made sure we were full.” And he raised a huge earthenware jug and cheerfully drank wine from it. In here, men quench their thirst with wine, Edric noted to himself, he knew the ways of the rest of the kingdom through his time with lord Beric, but it wouldn’t hurt to exercise those reminders. The messenger seemed more than satisfied, which led Edric to conclude that his weariness was due to having to call incessantly on a man lost in his thoughts, or rather, on him.
He bid farewell to the happy man, took hold of the animals’ reins, and set off to enter the fortress, as quickly as he thought he could manage. As Edric dodged skipping children, old men spitting out fruit seeds, and women drying clothes, he began to think how everything, so far, resembled what he had expected to see. Not exactly the tournament, but it’s reason - Lord Eddard, Ned Stark - he had never met him in person, but knew everything there is to know about his character. His mother, his father, the servants of Starfall, they all seemed to have emotional stories and similar descriptions, all evoked the same thing: how Ned Stark was an honourable man, a good man, a great friend to House Dayne, a great commander, an even better brother, brave, dutiful, honest… The great love of his aunt Ashara, though those whispers were lower, and painful. Thus, all the reverence and affection his house held for Lord Stark made him cherish being called ‘Ned’, ever since he was a boy. That pleasant sensation now flickered against the shadows of, perhaps, disappointing him.
He knows I’m coming. That prospect made him feel the sun as, for the first time, something inhuman, something that exposed him, and the sensation made the hairs on the back of his neck stand. Edric felt a bit stupid, though, since the Hand had many concerns, matter of fact, the Tourney was a celebration the King did because of his success in dealing with the kingdom that had prospered like it never had before, with six years of, as the men called, peace and gold… Many concerns, indeed, and he was not one of them. So it was relatively simple, he just had to think of something pertinent to say, something polite. It was a pity that, in all these days of road, he did not think of anything good enough.
His horses found the stable before he did, which didn’t surprise him all that much, what was shocking was realising that none of the riders were there. So alone, the stable boy was sitting on a wooden bench, cutting a pear with a short dagger. He looked up at Edric and waited.
“Good morrow,” said Edric, and received a polite nod, somewhat surprised, “I have a mare and a stallion, spare only single place, they’re used to sharing space and food.”
“Aye,” said the man, and his left hand stroked Grain’s mane, which closed its eyes in enjoyment. “M’lord, are you sure you don’t want to choose more than one side? Your horses can sleep better than some men.”
Edric smiled at the jape, but shook his head, and took an apple from the leather bag to feed Grain, always the hungriest. The man stretched, and added: “They’ll send servants to carry your belongings, m’lord.”
“Aye,” said Edric, in a tone of gratitude, and decided to leave only his armour, and Gravel’s, to be carried. He hoisted his chest of clothes onto his shoulder, slung his leather bag across his body, and fastened his sword to his belt. Edric walked towards the fortress itself, it felt good, and he could feel his legs tingling with the movement. And perhaps it was the absence of the constant riding that was throwing him off balance, but he realised he was hungry.
If there were no knights in the stables, and he still hadn’t understood why, there were a dozen of them running back and forth at the gates. Edric had to hold his chest against his neck once or twice to prevent it from falling onto a troupe of actors, but, finally, he reached the foot of the nearest staircase. He had no idea where the stairs led, but they went up, which was already a lot. The idea of carrying the chest tired him down, just by thinking about it, but the promise of exhausting himself enough to sleep without dreams seemed appealing enough. He pressed the palm of his left hand to his forehead, and as the sweat gathered on his index finger, Edric realised, feeling dizzy, that he had already ridden himself to exhaustion.
A squire would be useful now, to look for someone… But, in any case, he would have to find one for the jousts, later. Surely the castle was not short of protégés, and he was relatively good with children.
“Did you come on your own?” asked a voice, cheerful and fresh, the very opposite of how Edric was feeling.
Edric turned, and the one asking was a red-haired lad, not like Lord Beric’s hair, this boy was a dark redhead, a quite sophisticated color. His eyes were blue, and they sparkled in the sunlight. His smile was gentle, and he seemed to feel a touch of pity for Edric’s situation. He was tall for his age, but he must have been thirteen, no more. A nobleman, judging by his fine clothes and the eloquence of his speech.
“Yes, yes,” he replied.
“Would you like to go to the Hand’s Tower?” asked the boy, raising his eyebrows towards the stairs. Edric had to summon all his strength not to let the chest fall.
“No, no,” he replied, as if he were a trained parrot. The boy made no move that suggested he thought him ridiculous, but he naturally expected a better answer, “I’d like a room, I haven’t brought anyone with me, yet I could sleep in a tent, if it’s not all full...”
“My father said there were rooms,” the boy offered, “do you need me to carry your chest? Do you have a squire? I imagine not, since you haven’t brought anyone… Do you have a house? Not that it matters, it doesn’t matter.”
There it was, the gods have sent me a squire. As the red-haired lad carried Edric’s chest, and his back finally caught a glimpse of rest, he sized the boy up. He was helpful and athletic, he would do. Even though he knew nothing about him, that had never defined the qualities of a good squire, and Edric wasn’t fussy.
“I don’t have, I mean, I don’t have a squire, but I do have a house,” Edric replied, though this didn’t seem to shock the lad. Just as I’d guessed he was an noble, “I am Ned Dayne, Lord of Starfall.”
“Dayne?!” the lad choked, and he was indeed very helpful, for he didn’t let the chest fall, “like the Sword of the Morning?” he was absolutely ecstatic.
Although this exchange had happened many times before, Edric gave an affectionate smile and nodded. Despite the pressure, it was always good to be associated with the legacy of his uncle, Arthur, though he hadn’t known him, Edric had often been treated very well by having his name, “He was my uncle, the sword is at home, however.”
This didn’t seem to faze the boy, he looked as though he might fly with joy. Edric felt pleased with his choice, perhaps another lad would have preferred a more prominent house, but this one seemed delighted. And he seemed to know the fortress well, navigating the wide corridors with ease, whilst Edric felt as though he were stumbling along behind him like a blind dog. He also noticed that the boy leapt from step to step with impressive grace, almost as if he were levitating. Edric’s leather bag swung from side to side, occasionally bumping against the sword at his waist, his boots provided comfortable support for the walk, and he allowed himself the small indulgence of feeling confident.
“On the Tower of the Hand, there’s a spare room right by the windows. The room isn’t very big, but you haven’t brought much with you, have you?”
Rooms on the side of the Tower of the Hand? He wasn’t quite sure how close the boy meant, but in any case it seemed a surprising luxury, he’d expected to stay in the temporary court quarters, not the permanent residences. To be honest, Edric had imagined it would be a little harder to secure accommodation, “It seems perfect,” he said, as the boy led them to a wide marble staircase, far less rudimentary than the one visible from the outside.
“Don’t worry about your armour, I’ll check if one of the servants has it before sending it to the tents. So I can get used to it in time for the tournament,” the lad said, as he climbed the stairs two at a time, “I’ve been a squire before, but only to my older brother. He’s good with a lance, but he’s never taken part in a tournament, Father thinks war shouldn’t be a game,” he added, excitedly.
“A good opinion,” he said, and felt a fool for saying it. After all, he was going to take part in a tournament, in the game, and he’d been a squire in many with Lord Beric, though none of them compared to the grandeur of this one. He found himself lamenting the pity of it all, how Beric had to stay at Blackhaven with his wife, Edric’s aunt, Lady Allyria, and neither of them could attend such a grand occasion. From the window he caught a glimpse of the greatest number of coats of arms he had ever seen together in his entire life. Whether it was that sight, or the absence of such a dear friend, it only made him think of how right his new squire’s father had been. It did look like a pantomime of a battle. “You’ll do well, I was a squire at your age,” said Edric, as if he were an old woman lost in nostalgia. He immediately bit his tongue, in his experience, boys don’t like being reminded of their lack of years.
But the boy gave a hopeful smile, as he glanced back for a moment. The climbing was so swift that Edric didn’t even realise they had already reached the floor. The boy set his trunk down on the floor in front of a door, leapt over it, and opened it without the slightest difficulty, without knocking anything over. With the door open, his squire calmly walked around the room, “You must be tired. I’ll ask them to send some food up here, and a servant to sort out your clothes… And I need to tell my father that you’re with us… Ah! And I must go and see your horses.”
And he whizzed off like a metallic clang, before Edric could say anything about how enormous the room was. What sort of place does the boy consider to be large, then? Edric realised he’d forgotten to ask the boy’s name, but he didn’t mind much, he was sure to find him at the feast later.
Edric looked around at the immaculate candelabra, with no dripping wax. A large bed, with uniform feathers and splendid bedspreads, heavier than those found in Dorne, but far lighter than a thick fur would be, in any case, they were spotless, and the window panes were equally unblemished. He kicked his chest to the foot of the bed and tossed his bag onto the solid wooden desk, which he believed to be made of pine. He managed to catch his breath seconds before the door was flung open.
“Your meal, Lord Dayne,” said a maid, carrying a tray and a large plate. It contained slices of bread, a small pot of butter, and dozens of slices of pork that smelled fantastic, served with an olive-oil-based sauce. Edric felt his stomach react before he could, his new squire’s speed impressed him as much as the appearance of the plums beside the cutlery.
He moved his bag away from the table and restrained himself from sitting down and eating immediately, “Thank you, I know none were expecting me,” he said, offering a smile as he watched the tray being placed on the table, and, he hadn’t even noticed, a jug of wine and a goblet, too.
“Your clothes will be placed whilst you are away, m’Lord,” she said, gave a brief nod, and left. Edric didn’t know if his exhaustion was so great that it made everyone move faster than him, or if the pace of the fortress had quickened because of the event. In any case, he ate the bread and realised, with delight, that it had just come out of the oven.
As he chewed a succulent piece of pork, he rested his boot against the wood and untied the laces, pushing his heel to release it. He held the goblet, realising just in time that it was full, as he drank, he tasted the unmistakable flavor of Arbor Red, sweet enough to make him take two more sips. Edric preferred cider to wine, even tree wine, but he knew it was an acquired taste, that was why he was used to drinking the wines of the Reach. He drew the sword from his belt and laid it on the table.
Feeling his arms grow heavy and his stomach warm, Edric sank onto the bed, carefully, he remained motionless once the mattress touched his exhausted face. His limbs relaxed, and he didn’t even bother to draw the curtains to block out the sun, he felt his tongue grow heavy and his eyelids close. He must have sighed when sleep finally overtook him.
The window banging, with no rest, against its own latch, woke him. A gale was making the night howl, relentless. Edric opened his eyes and immediately placed his right hand on his forehead. He didn’t know what had, precisely, knocked him out, the wine, the tiredness, or the sudden nervousness that had gripped him, but he knew for certain that he had slept for a long time. The darkness of the room seemed to confront him with that fact. It would be a tremendous shame to miss the first feast, it was usually the event where the mood was set: whether the men were too keen on glory, whether the bets varied, who the underdogs were, who seemed to be waiting for the first opportunity to defeat a specific enemy, or whether there was a silent competition over the adornments of the armour…
Hopefully, my squire will have gathered something. It was the first coherent thought he managed to organise, before sitting up in bed. The curtains fluttered like flags against his face, or perhaps he was still half-dreaming.
Gripping the wooden sides of the bed, he stood up like an elderly maester. Edric tasted his own saliva and realised that, despite everything, he was still hungry. He picked up a single plum that was left on his desk and bathed with him, in moonlight, and as he bit into it, he thought its juice might taste of one of the seven heavens, everything tasted like that when one was hungry. As Edric chewed, he glanced around the room and noticed that his clothes were tidied, his chest was empty, and a bath had been prepared for him. How nice that they didn’t wait for me to wake up, he thought, and didn’t even bother to light a candle. His eyes were already accustomed to the dim light, as he undressed.
The water was lukewarm, and he took care not to get his hair wet, he’d already washed it in a clear river that morning, on the way, and besides, his mother always said it wasn’t good to wash one’s hair so late. Scrubbing himself felt good, especially for waking up his muscles and his mind, as well. It was also a blessing that there were no servants present to offer to do it, he would have had to refuse, and that always caused him embarrassment. He had never liked being washed by someone else, it was one of the wonders of adulthood, choice.
Once he was dry, Edric walked over to his leather bag and rummaged through it until he found the small glass bottle of lavender oil, he put two tiny drops on his fingertips and rubbed them into his neck. He then made his way over to his clothes, and it occurred to him to light the candles to see them properly.
Once lit, Edric chose for his lilac doublet, brown trousers, and leather boots. A waist-length star-patterned cloak would do the trick of identifying his house, since the doublet did not identify him as a Dayne. Beric used to joke about the similar colours of their respective houses, perhaps that was why he’d avoided black clothes and preferred washed leather, a foolish notion. After slipping his feet into the boots, he ran his hands through his hair and hoped it looked decent, it was reaching his collarbone, and he didn’t particularly feel like cutting it.
Taking his sword to the feast would be going too far, so it was better to take a small dagger, just so he wouldn’t be walking empty-handed. Edric crossed the room and finally opened the door. The breath of fresh air that greeted him was pleasant, but the sea of servants and young noblemen, and women, he could see from the top of the stairs, carrying cushions, cups, and a torrent of objects, was not. Perhaps the volume of the voices and the chaos were so overwhelming that he simply failed to notice the sounds all around him.
But a short, low wolf’s howl made him turn his head immediately. When he looked towards the sound, a majestic direwolf was barking at a door, its back to him. Edric rubbed his eyes, the beast was still there. It had a glorious, brushed-back, grey fur, and at a glance, he saw its golden eyes, which glinted against the torches in the corridor. Its size was not clumsy handled, it seemed quite at ease, and accustomed to the threshold. Before Edric could think of what to do next, another giant wolf, equally grey but slightly smaller than the first, yet still frighteningly impressive, leapt up beside the other.
Edric thought, rather foolishly, that perhaps the floor might crumble away. The larger wolf might have been a little bigger than a pony, with appropriate proportions, the other was smaller, but was no slouch…
“Lady,” a steady, feminine voice called out.
Surely he must still be dreaming; it was impossible that one of these beasts could be called Lady. Yet that was exactly what the animal’s ears suggested, pricking up sharply when they heard the call. The other wolf seemed impassive, standing guard at the door. Before Edric could react in any way, a Lady, a human one, who must have been about his age, came thundering in. With her long red hair, and her crimson dress, both seemed to heighten the mood she was in, which was decidedly very upset.
“Hurry!” the woman said, not exactly shouting, but in a louder tone than usual. She crossed her arms, standing perfectly upright, her hands clasping each forearm. The smaller she-wolf approached her happily and rubbed her muzzle against the beautiful dress, her eyes closed. The woman did not seem to fear the beast in the slightest.
Edric must have breathed a little heavier, because she turned round, and as soon as she saw him, her eyes widened. They stood there staring at each other for what seemed like an agonising eternity, though it was only seconds. Edric felt he was witnessing something he shouldn’t, so he began:
“I didn’t know…”
“My Lord…”
They both spoke in unison, feeling awkward. Edric was a little more so, with the she-wolf’s yellow eyes staring at him. So he offered a slight bow, not daring to lower his gaze quite to the animal’s level; instead, he merely gave a brief nod. The woman was kind enough not to mention it, and seemed, to some extent, to understand his apprehension.
“I am stationed at the door on the right, my Lady,” and as he said this, the she-wolf raised her eyes to him, “I had no intention of… Well…” he didn’t even know what he was witnessing, or how he should react, what would be the most courteous way?
The woman also seemed a little lost, but not at all shaken, she smiled, and just as her mouth opened to reply, the door swung open. And along with the larger wolf, a shorter woman landed on the other side. Her figure was slimmer and paler, but she seemed to radiate life, her brown hair, two spans below her shoulders, vibrating with movement.
“Tournaments are stupid, and the feasts to start them off are even more so,” she remarked, still with her back to them both, concentrating on scratching the ears of her magnificent beast, which, somehow, didn’t knock her over when it reared up on its hind legs and towered over the girl. Edric instinctively gripped his sword, but it was foolish, the wolf was panting happily, its enormous mouth and tongue hanging wide open, its claws retracted, and the girl let out a delightful laugh.
“We must hurry!” the woman said, turning to her, completely forgetting about Edric, “It would be a great insult not to be at the reception,”
Ah, so it’s only just begun. He thought, relieved.
“I find it hard to believe that people will take their eyes off their portions of roast boar, with fine horseradish sauce, to take offence at our timing,” the shorter girl said, and he, inexplicably, laughed out loud. Only then did Edric look directly into her beautiful silver eyes, like a well-tempered sword, like the starry sky on a summer’s night, like the polished steel of a new shield, like the polished pearly shells he used to collect for Allyria in his childhood, “and that one there, who is he?”
“I was just about to ask, but you had to go and ruin your dress with Nymeria first,”
Nymeria, now that was a fitting name for this beast. That was Edric’s first thought, his second was less coherent, and tended towards the view that her dress wasn’t ruined in the slightest and was, in his opinion, very elegant. It was a thick, matte fabric, light green, which could make her blend into a beautiful garden. The sleeves reached her wrists and displayed delicate white-coloured embroidery with dotted circles, the buttons, of the same colour, were tied with linen thread. Edric noticed she was wearing white, scaly boots instead of delicate shoes. His third thought was that he ought to introduce himself.
“My ladies,” he began, and saw the dark-haired girl frown, which did nothing to ease his nervousness, “my apologies if I have interrupted or disturbed you, as I was explaining, I had been taken to the next room and was planning to join the feast when…”
“What is your name?” the brown-haired girl asked, interrupting him. There was no doubt that, with such elaborate dresses, they were both of high birth, but if there had been any doubt, their behaviour would have given them away.
“Arya, it is not polite to interrupt like that!”
“I don’t care what he’s doing in the corridor! Of course he’s just passing through, like everyone else in a corridor…”
“But a courteous lord feels the need to clarify such matters, it’s only proper.”
“Oh! Who’s being discourteous now? You’ve just interrupted me…”
“You’re doubly discourteous…”
“You interrupted me again…”
“Girls!” a firm male voice called out. From the opposite side of the staircase, more precisely, from the tower on the right. Both stopped, they didn’t seem the least bit concerned, or really interested in continuing the argument, and not a single hair had moved whilst they were arguing. The taller one had her arms crossed over her chest, but remained singularly upright, the one with brown hair, Arya, had her hands on her hips, her face tilted to one side. Edric, just as he noticed how easily his presence there could be ignored, instantly thought of how the girl in green, Arya, a voice repeated in his head, had a pretty face, even when she was mocking him.
If they weren’t worried, the man who entered that bustling corridor certainly was, “Honestly, how have you two already found something to disagree about before the feast?” His tone was affectionate, and…
It was the Hand of the King. With his brown hair, solemn face, grey eyes, and neatly trimmed, slightly greying beard, his features were as sharp as a blade, yet his expression was one of kindness, and he shook his head gently, causing a small, solitary plait in his loose hair to sway. If his appearance wasn’t revealing enough, his nice silver doublet bore the hand pendant, near the clasp of the dark cloak he wore. Edric froze, the moment seemed as unreal as the wolves. Wolves! If the girls had wolves, then they were surely… Gods, how could he be so stupid, and blind, when he was nervous?
“Father, we were just talking,” said the redhead, innocently. Arya nodded in agreement, and the sight of the two of them agreeing might've, should’ve, shocked Edric, but Ned Stark was standing right in front of him! Well, he was more in front of his daughters, with palpable affection in his eyes, whilst each of them moved to take one of his arms.
“I see, Sansa,” he said, “I hope you can talk a little more quietly, then.”
“Yes, Father,” said both Arya and Sansa, with all the certainty their voices could muster, though from the tone, it seemed they said this often.
The daze passed, and he saw that the three of them, father and daughters, were facing him. Arya had her head resting lightly on her father’s arm, her hand firmly clasped in his, not the least bit concerned with anything other than holding him as tightly as she could. Sansa had offered her arm, palm-side out, in the classic manner, and seemed more than happy to be led, as if she were already in the hall. That is, she would be, if he weren’t standing in the way. Lord Stark raised an eyebrow from beneath his steely eyes, which was probably not meant to be threatening, but Edric began to worry about his nervous rambling. Pull yourself together.
“Girls, aren’t you going to introduce me to…” he gestured politely.
“If we knew,” said Arya, “I’m not even sure he knows.”
“Arya,” Lord Stark chided gently, he seemed incapable of not being gentle with his daughters. Before another scene could unfold, and he was interrupted, Edric replied.
“Ned,” he said immediately, and Lord Stark frowned. Panic seized his tongue for a moment. Edric had always planned, ever since he was a child, that he would introduce himself first, formally, representing House Dayne and stating his house before his name, but thinking about it was pointless now that he’d ruined everything. “I mean, my name is Edric Dayne, of House Dayne, of Starfall, of course, and… My friends call me Ned, everyone, actually, everyone calls me that,” he said, concentrating on keeping his hands still to avoid gesturing, for he knew he would ruin it all more.
“Ah! Bran’s knight!” Arya said excitedly, her eyes now sparkling as she looked at him and smiled. By the gods, she had such beautifully shaped lips.
“It was very kind of you to take Bran on as a squire so close to the tournament, Lord Dayne,” said the Hand, and Edric looked away from Arya, with an irrational fear that Ned Stark might somehow know what he just thought about his daughter.
Bran? The red-haired boy couldn’t be… Of course, for what other reason would he be in the Tower of the Hand? Edric didn’t know how to reply without looking like a complete fool, but it didn’t seem like something he could manage, he suspected, in fact, that he was playing a decidedly foolish role, whether he spoke or remained silent. Mainly because the Hand’s lovely daughter seemed to be making a tremendous effort not to laugh at him.
He decided to be honest, then, “My Lord, I didn’t know who he was… He didn’t introduce himself, but he was very helpful and capable right away, so it was no kindness, he’ll make a fine squire, I’m very pleased to have found him,”
“Bran is pleased too, he made up his mind he wouldn’t choose ‘just any knight’ to squire, and spent weeks telling us how he was going to find the…” the girl began, excitedly.
“Arya,” Sansa called, very gently, “I imagine Lord Dayne would prefer to go to the feast rather than chat in the corridor,” she said, looking at her sister.
Arya looked as though she was about to reply, but Lord Stark stepped forward, and with that, both of them forgot their feuds. And, to Edric’s astonishment, he found himself heading for the banquet, with two direwolves breathing hot on his heels.