7 Chapter 7: The Trident

Character Ages:

- Mycah: 12

On the Kingsroad…

Whilst on the journey south back to King's Landing, the group stopped for a quick rest in the Barrowlands along the Kingsroad. King Robert had been galloping ahead, driving his huge black steed hard as Eddard Stark galloped alongside him trying to keep up. They soon took off across rolling plains. By then the guard had fallen back a small distance, safely out of earshot, but still Robert refused to slow down.

Overviewing a plain open meadow, Robert had already set up a mini table full of wine and food. The King took a moment to relieve himself against a tree, crested at a low ridge before pulling up his pants and making his way towards the table.

"Gods," Robert swore, laughing as he sat down, " this is country! I've half a mind to leave them all behind and keep going. I swear, Ned, this creeping along is enough to drive a man mad."

Eddard smiled. "I've half a mind to go with you."

King Robert was never a patient man.

"That damned 'carriage', my son's insistence that I 'maintain a steady pace so the rest of our family can keep up'…" he complained, "I swear if have to listen to it creaking, groaning one more time… Seven hells! If that wretched thing so much as breaks another axle, I'm going to chop it to little pieces, burn it down and Cersei can walk the rest of the way!"

As soon as Robert finished venting, he leaned in towards Eddard.

"What do you say, Ned? Just you and me on the Kingsroad, swords at our sides, a couple of tavern wenches to warm our beds tonight?"

"You should have asked me that 20 years ago," Eddard said. "We have responsibilities now, Robert… to the realm, our children. I to my lady wife and you to your Queen. We are not boys anymore."

"There were wars to fight, women to marry…" Robert grumbled. "More's the pity. Never had the chance to be young."

"I recall a few chances," Eddard says, scratching his beard slightly.

Robert let out a wheezing laugh. "There was that one… Oh, what was her name?" he thinks. "That common girl of yours? Becca? With the great big tits you could bury your face in."

"Bessie," Eddard corrected him. "She was one of yours."

"Bessie! Thank the gods for Bessie and her tits."

Eddard chuckled, before Robert brought up something he didn't want to hear again.

"Yours was… uh, Aleena? No. You told me once. Err… Meryl? Your bastard's mother?"

"Wylla," Eddard replied with cool courtesy.

"That's it," Robert exclaimed, extending his finger in acknowledgment. "She must have been a rare wench to make Lord Eddard Stark forget his honor. You never told me what she looked like."

Eddard was not amused and shifted in his seat uncomfortably, his mouth tightening in slight annoyance. "Nor will I. Just leave it be, Robert, for the love you say you bear me. I dishonored myself that day and I dishonored my wife, the sight of gods and men."

Robert rolled his eyes. "Gods have mercy, you scarcely knew Cat."

"I had taken her to wife. She was carrying my child."

"We were at war, Ned," Robert stated plainly. "None of us knew if we were gonna go back home again. You're too hard on yourself. You always have been. I swear if I weren't your King, you'd have hit me already."

"The worst thing about your coronation… I'll never get to hit you again."

"Trust me, that's not the worst thing." Robert said as he pulled a sealed-up paper from his belt and handed it to Eddard. "There was a rider in the night."

Eddard unsealed the document with trepidation and carefully looked it over, initially thinking of his wife's sister Lysa and her accusation - to his surprise, it didn't concern the widow Arryn.

"Daenerys Targaryen has wed some Dothraki horselord. What of it? Shall we send a wedding gift?"

"A knife, perhaps," Robert frowned, "a good sharp one, and a bold man to wield it."

Eddard wasn't surprised; Robert's hatred of House Targaryen was a madness that plagued him. He remembered the heated exchanged almost eighteen years ago when his father-in-law Lord Tywin Lannister of Casterly Rock presented the corpses of Prince Rhaegar's wife Elia Martell of Dorne and their young children Princess Rhaenys and Prince Aegon in front of everyone as proof of loyalty to the new King. Eddard called it murder; Robert called it war. When he protested that the young children were no more than babes, his newly-crowned King had merely replied: "I see no babes. Only dragonspawn."

Not even Lord Jon Arryn, who fostered both Robert and Eddard at the Vale when they were children, had been able to calm them down. Eddard stormed out that very day in a cold rage to fight the last battles of the rebellion alone, lifting the siege of Storm's End and routing the remnants of Targaryen loyalists near the Tower of Joy. It only took the death of Eddard's sister and Robert's betrothed, Lyanna Stark, to reconcile the two men; the grief they had shared over her passing.

This time, however, Eddard learned to keep his temper in check.

"She's little more than a child."

Robert's mouth grew hard. "And how long will this one remain innocent? Soon enough that child will spread her legs and start breeding."

"Tell me we're not speaking of this," Eddard shook his head.

"Oh, it's unspeakable to you?" Robert roared and pointed an angry finger at Eddard. "What her father did to your family… That was unspeakable! What Rhaegar Targaryen did to your sister… the woman I loved! I'll kill every Targaryen I get my hands on."

Eddard knew better than to defy King Robert when the wrath was on him. If the years had no quenched Robert's thirst for revenge, then none of his words would help.

"You can't get your hands on this one, can you?" he said quietly.

"This Khal Drogo, it's said he has 100,000 men in his horde."

"Even a million Dothraki are no threat to the realm, as long as they remain on the other side of the Narrow Sea. They have no ships, Robert."

The Stag King shook his head in disagreement. "There are still those in the Seven Kingdoms who call me 'Usurper.' If the Targaryen boy Viserys crosses with a Dothraki horde at his back, the scum will join him."

"He will not cross," Eddard said. "And if by chance he does, we'll throw him back into the sea."

"There's a war coming, Ned," Robert says calmly, looking into the sky. "I don't know when, I don't know who we'll be fighting, but it's coming."

At the Inn at the Crossroads…

Arya Stark was having a bad day.

Among those traveling with her was her older sister Sansa, Septa Mordane, Beth and Jeyne Poole. Since they were resting at the Crossroads Inn, the Septa decided that now was the time to practice their knitting. Arya frowned deeply as she looked at her stitches. They were crooked again. She glanced over to see Sansa and noticed her needlework was exquisite by comparison before her sister was allowed to leave the room early to take her direwolf Lady on a morning stroll.

'Sansa has such fine, delicate hands,' Arya recalls Septa Mordane telling their mother. 'Arya has the hands of a blacksmith.'

Arya glanced furtively across the room, worried that Septa Mordane might have read her thoughts, but the septa paid her no attention today. She was sitting with the Princess Myrcella, all smiles and admiration. It was not often that the septa was privileged to instruct a royal princess in the womanly arts, as she had said when Queen Cersei brought Myrcella to join them. Arya thought Myrcella's stitches appeared to look crooked, as well, but felt her great irritation rise from the way Septa Mordane was cooing towards Princess Myrcella.

She wanted to scream. "Here," Arya said as she surrendered her work to Septa Mordane.

The septa examined the fabric. "Arya, Arya, Arya," she said. "This will not do. This will not do at all."

Everyone was looking at her. It was too much. Even Princess Myrcella looked sorry for her. Arya felt tears filling her eyes, abruptly pushing herself out of her chair and bolted for the door.

"Young lady, come back here!" Septa Mordane called after Arya. "Don't you take another step! Your lady mother will hear of this. In front of our royal princess too! You'll shame us all!"

Arya stopped at the door and turned back, biting her lip. The tears were running down her cheeks now as she managed a stiff little bow to Myrcella.

"By your leave, m'lady."

Myrcella briefly blinked at Arya before nodding her head in sympathy of the girl's plight. The Princess knew her manners and always did what her mother and older brother (mostly her brother) had instructed her to do.

"Just where do you think you are going, Arya?" The septa demanded.

Arya glared at her. "I'm going to practice swordfighting," she said smugly, taking a brief satisfaction in the shock on Septa Mordane's face. Then she whirled and made her exit, running out as fast as her feet would take her.

Her direwolf Nymeria stood waiting for her mistress, bounding to her feet as soon as she caught sight of Arya. The wolf pup loved Arya, even if no one else did. They went everywhere together, and Nymeria slept in her room, at the foot of her bed. Even if Catelyn had forbid it, Arya would glady take the wolf with her to needlework regardless.

Nymeria nipped eagerly at her leash as Arya untied her, licking her ear - causing Arya to giggle. By now Septa Mordane would have sent word to Catelyn. If she went to her room, Arya wouldn't be found. She instead had something else in mind; the boys were practicing in the yard near the banks of the Trident.

"Come," Arya whispered to Nymeria. She got up and ran, the wolf coming hard at her heels.

Sansa Stark was given permission to be excused from her needling with Septa Mordane's praise to take her direwolf Lady on a stroll.

She already looked her best, having already brushed out her long auburn hair until it shone and was wearing her nicest blue silks. Sansa had been looking forward to today for more than a week. It was a great honor to ride with Queen Cersei Lannister, and besides, Prince Daveth Baratheon might be there.

Her betrothed! She was going to marry the Crown Prince and heir to the Iron Throne! She would soon be Daveth's queen, his queen!

Just thinking about it made Sansa blush with glee. She didn't really know Daveth yet, nor he her, but she was already in love with him. Tall, handsome and strong, to Sansa, Daveth "the Oathkeeper" Baratheon seemed to appear out of nowhere - someone who existed only in fairytales about princes and knights. The only thing that scared her was the thought of whether or not Daveth would like her.

'Just look pretty,' she told herself. 'Gods, behave yourself… !'

All Sansa wanted was for things to be nice and pretty, the way there were in the songs.

The Crossroads Inn was bustling with 400 people in addition to her father's household and freeriders who joined them on the road. The air had been damp and clammy, the pathway was so narrow they couldn't make camp at night so they had to stop here. Huge flowers bloomed in the mud and floated on pools of stagnant water.

Lady brushed against Sansa's leg. She scratched her direwolf's ears the way she liked and gave Lady a quick little hug; Lady licked her cheek, making Sansa giggle. The kennelmaster at Winterfell once told her that an animal takes after its master.

As she neared the center of the camp, a crowd had gathered around the royal carriage. Anxious to see, Sansa permitted Lady to clear a path through the crowd. When she got closer, several of Queen Cersei's handmaidens caught Sansa's eyes.

'So pretty!' she thought with excitement.

*BUMP!*

Sansa briefly stumbled backwards and Lady began to growl. The person she bumped into seemed to feel the weight of her gaze. Slowly, he turned his head to face her.

"Pardon me, ser," Sansa apologized.

The man said nothing as he continued staring at her, with terror as overwhelming suddenly filled Sansa. She stepped backwards and bumped into someone else. Strong hands grasped her shoulders, and for a moment Sansa thought it was her father but when she turned it was the burned face of Prince Joffrey Baratheon's bodyguard Sandor Clegane, looking down at her.

"Do I frighten you so much, girl?" Sandor asked mockingly, his voice rasping. "Or is it him there making you shake? He frightens me too. Look at that face."

Sansa returns to the person she accidently bumped into. "I'm sorry if I offended you, ser," she apologized again.

Again, the man said nothing - cold eyes still staring at Sansa before coolly walking away.

"Why won't he speak to me?" Sansa asks Sandor.

Sandor shrugs his shoulders. "He hasn't been very talkative these last 20 years," he says before leaning closer. "Not since the Mad King had his tongue ripped out with hot pincers."

"I'm afraid he only speaks with his sword now," someone says. The voice belonged to none other than Crown Prince Daveth Baratheon himself.

The Prince was here!

As the Oathkeeper made his presence known, Sansa turned to Daveth and smiled warmly. Tall, clean, handsome, and well-groomed, his attire consisted of royal crimson wool and black leader with gold embroidery.

Daveth motions his head towards the man Sansa met earlier. "Think nothing of it. Ser Illyn Payne has a fearsome aspect since he was named the King's Justice."

Sansa tilts her head slightly in confusion.

"The royal executioner," he elaborates.

Noticing her discomfort, Daveth politely cups Sansa's chin. "What is it, sweet thing? Does the Hound frighten you?" He looks up at Sandor. "That will be all, Clegane. You're scaring my betrothed. Go find my little brother and have him escorted back to the inn. No excuses. The Queen has been looking for him all day."

Ever faithful, Sandor bowed and slid away quietly through the crowd to find Prince Joffrey. Sansa felt relief wash over her as she is now face-to-face with her betrothed.

"Are you well, m'lady?" Daveth inquires.

Sansa finally found her words. "I am, my sweet prince," she explains.

"I am pleased to hear it, however irregular the manner of our meeting this morning was," Daveth said formally. He then looks down and notices Lady smelling him. "Your… direwolf, I presume?"

"Yes, my prince," Sansa nods. "Her name is Lady."

Daveth, still treading caution when confronting a direwolf, slowly held out his hand. Lady sniffed and gave the Crown Prince a lick. Daveth interpreted it as a sign of acceptance and scratched Lady's ears; the direwolf panting in approval.

"She likes you," Sansa said.

"It would appear so," Daveth responded. He took a moment to look up, noticing the sun breaking through the clouds to shine brightly onto the earth.

"Will you walk with me?" Daveth asks, courteously offering his arm as a hook to which Sansa gladly accepted, holding onto to the prince closely.

"Stay, Lady," Sansa called out to her direwolf - which Lady hesitantly obeyed as she let out a small whine.

As Daveth led her away from the inn, Sansa's spirit took flight. A whole day with her betrothed!

Near the Trident…

The air was warm and heavy with the scent of flowers, and the woods here had a gently beauty that Sansa had never seen in the North. She and Daveth sat near the riverbanks of the Trident, catching a few fresh trout when they grew hungry. Still taking the rest of the day of leisure, Sansa never broke eye contact with Daveth as he poured her a cup of wine.

"You look beautiful, m'lady," Daveth spoke up.

Sansa had the grace to blush. "My prince is very kind. Thank you," she said, possibly feeling a little dizzy from the wine. "Shouldn't we be starting back soon?" she asked.

"We will soon," Daveth promised.

*SMACK!*

*SMACK!*

*SMACK!*

Floating through the woods, a kind of wooden clattering reached the pair's ears.

"What's that sound?" Daveth asks, raising an eyebrow in curiosity.

Sansa heard it too. "I don't know," she said. It made her nervous, though. "Someone's there."

"I know. Just stay close to me, alright?" Daveth said as he gripped the sword on its sheath. Slightly drawing his blade, it had a rather unique design foreign to Westeros.

Beyond in a clearing overlooking the river, Daveth and Sansa came upon a boy and a girl playing knights. Their swords were wooden sticks, broom handles from the look of them and they were playfully rushing across the grass, swinging at each other. The boy was a year older, a head taller, and much stronger, and he was pressing the attack. The girl, a scrawny thing in soiled leathers, was dodging and managing to get her stick in the way of most of the boy's blows, but not all.

"I'll get you!" the boy exclaims.

When she tried to lunge at him, he caught her stick with his own, swept it aside, and slid his wood down hard on her fingers. She cried out and lost her weapon.

It turns out to be Arya Stark practicing her sword work with Mycah, the son of the party's butcher.

"Arya!" Sansa called out incredulously.

Prince Daveth rolled his eyes, groaning quietly as he put his sword back in its sheath. The boy looked around, wide-eyed and startled, and dropped his stick in the grass. Arya glared at them, sucking on her knuckles to take the sting out.

"Go away!" she shouted back at them. "What are you doing here? Leave us alone."

Daveth was amused by this one's spirit; glancing from Arya to Sansa and back again.

"Let me guess: she's your sister?" he asked.

Sansa nodded, blushing in embarrassment.

"Boy," Daveth called out to Mycah, examining him up and down. "What is your name?"

Mycah recognized the Crown Prince and averted his eyes. "M-Mycah, m'lord."

"He's the butcher's boy," Sansa said.

"He's my friend," Arya said sharply. "You leave him alone."

Daveth held up a hand. "Calm down, girl. I'm not here to cause anyone trouble," he said as he looked at Mycah. "Especially your friend here."

Mycah stood there, breathing a sigh of relief.

"Now… Mycah, was it?" Daveth begun. "I trust that a lad like yourself has been going easy on the girl?"

"She asked me to, m'lord," Mycah said. "I swear."

Sansa had only to glance at Arya and see the flush on her sister's face to know the boy was telling the truth.

Daveth sighs, not wanting to waste more of his time. "I believe you. Just try not to get too carried away, alright?"

Mycah allowed small smile and nodded, "M'lord is very kind to show me such lenience."

Arya looked at Daveth in confusion, not quite certain what to make of him. But before she could resume her play with Mycah, someone else made their presence known.

"So this is where you're at," a voice called out.

Daveth immediately recognized that voice and tensed up, gripping his handle once more. It was his younger brother, Prince Joffrey Baratheon; and judging by the look on his face, he had seen everything.

And something told the Crown Prince that conflict was inevitable.

"And I see a butcher's boy who wants to be a knight?" Joffrey said, his eyes bright with amusement. "Show me. Show my brother how good you are."

Daveth could tell by Joffrey's stance that he had his fair share of wine, making him rather unruly and wild; a rather dangerous combination.

"I thought I told you to return to the inn, Joffrey," Daveth says in a calm yet slightly irritated tone.

"I got bored," Joffrey brushes him off rather rudely, clearly in no mood to listen. "Besides, you've had your fair share of fun, Brother. And it's only fair that I have mine."

Daveth wasn't buying it. He knew trouble was coming. "Not when you voluntarily choose to behave in such a brazen manner. Now enough."

"Let me think about that," Joffrey said as he lifted his sword Lion's Tooth and laid its point on Mycah's check below the eye. "How about 'no'? Are you going to pick up your sword?"

Mycah stood trembling as Joffrey pressed even further. "A common boy hitting a lady's sister? You know that's considered a crime, do you know that?"

"It's only a stick, m'lord," Mycah shook his head. "It's not no sword, it's only a stick."

"I'm your prince, not your lord. And you are a mere butcher's boy, nothing else."

A bright bud of blood blossomed where Joffrey's sword pressed into Mycah's flesh, and a slow red line trickled down the boy's cheek.

"STOP IT!" Arya screamed, grabbing her fallen stick.

Sansa was afraid. "Arya, you stay out of this."

Daveth had enough. Moving quickly towards the two, he seizes Joffrey by the wrist and moves Lion's Tooth away from Mycah.

"I said enough, Joffrey!" Daveth warns him.

Joffrey grinned wickedly. "Don't worry, brother. I won't hurt him… much," he said, never taking his eyes off the butcher's boy as he struggles to free himself.

Then… it happened.

*WHACK!*

"LEAVE HIM ALONE!" Arya went for Joffrey.

Swinging with both hands, Arya hit the back of Joffrey's head. There was a loud crack as the wood split against the Prince, and then everything happened at once before Sansa's horrified eyes.

Joffrey staggered and whirled around, roaring curses. Mycah ran for the trees as fast as his legs would take him. Joffrey had disarmed Arya of her broken stick and swung again, screaming obscenities, terrible words, filthy words. His eyes were on fire.

"Filthy little bitch!" Joffrey shouts in a fit of rage.

"No, no, stop it! Stop it, all of you! You're spoiling it! You're spoiling everything!" Sansa shrieked, but no one was listening. "Stop it, don't, stop it!" she continued screaming. Sansa didn't know what to do. She watched helplessly, almost blind from her tears.

Arya, now frightened, darted back and retreated into the woods, but she soon found herself backed against a tree as Joffrey was closing the gap between them and Daveth not too far behind.

"I'll gut you, you little cunt!" Joffrey shouts as he points Lion's Tooth inches closer to her face.

Then Daveth reached out and grabbed Joffrey from the back of his collar, and throws him to the side as he places himself in between Arya and his blood-raged brother. He turns to look at a frightened Arya and motions for her to run. The girl immediately nods and runs as fast as her legs could carry her.

Upon recovering from his sling across the floor, Joffrey redirects his attention from Arya to Daveth.

"You want a fight, Brother?! YOU JUST GOT ONE!" he cursed and charged towards his older brother, taking a giant swing.

Daveth, being the older and more experienced fighter, easily sidestepped to the right - still maintaining a firm grip on his sword - but again refused to unsheathe it. Joffrey stumbled regaining his balance and turned to charge again, only to miss once more. He continued to swing wildly, and the more Daveth dodged, the angrier Joffrey got.

"Stand down, Joffrey!" Daveth shouts.

"I'll kill you!" Joffrey violently threatens.

Swing after swing, miss after miss. Daveth easily predicted Joffrey's movements and parried before kicking Joffrey hard in chest, sending the golden-haired Baratheon flying backwards as he landed on the ground with a loud thud.

"I said… stand… DOWN!" Daveth shouts again, beginning to feel his patience wearing thin. He was tempted to draw out his sword, but fought to keep his emotions in check. He was fighting his own brother.

But before Joffrey could charge again, a grey blur flashed past him, and suddenly Nymeria was there, leaping in the air and clamped her jaws around Joffrey's sword arm. The steel fell from his fingers as the wolf knocked him off his feet. They rolled in the grass, the direwolf snarling and ripping at the man who threatened her mistress.

"Get it off!" Joffrey screamed, shrieking in pain. "Get it off!"

Daveth relented, but before he could make a move, Arya came back as quickly as she could.

"Nymeria!" Arya called out.

The direwolf let go of Joffrey and moved to Arya's side. Prince Joffrey lay in the grass, whimpering, cradling his mangled arm. His shirt was soaked in blood. Daveth walked over to his fallen brother, his face showing a display of disappointment towards Joffrey.

"No. Please don't," Joffrey whined in a scared whimpery sound. "Don't hurt me. Brother, please… !"

Daveth glanced at Arya, who picked up Lion's Tooth where it had fallen with both hands and stood over Joffrey holding it.

"Girl," he spoke in an authoritative tone.

Arya merely looked up at Daveth, still seething with rage at Joffrey.

"Enough," Daveth said plainly.

Arya angrily relented, whirling around and heaving Joffrey's sword into the air, putting every ounce of strength into the throw. The blue steel flashed in the sun as the sword spun out over the river. It hit the water and vanished with a splash. Joffrey moaned, his eyes closed in pain and breathed raggedly. Arya ran off once more, with Nymeria loping at her heels.

After they had gone, Daveth turned to face Sansa.

"Go to the holdfast and get help. Now."

Sansa sobbed, yet obeyed and ran back. Now alone, Daveth looked down at Joffrey.

"I see that your arrogance and stupidity continues to know no bounds. All these years, and you still go out of your way to cause trouble," he coolly berates, reaching out to take Joffrey's arm.

His green eyes snapped open and looked up, and there was nothing but loathing there, nothing but the vilest contempt.

"Don't touch me!" Joffrey spat at him.

Shaking his head, Daveth grabbed Joffrey's forearm and yanked him up to his feet, causing Joffrey to yelp in pain as he was being dragged away.

"You will never display such reckless behavior like that in front of me again," Daveth stated not caringly. "And you will remember your place, Illborn."

As he dragged his injured brother back to the holdfast to get his wounds tended to, Daveth's blue eyes coolly started into the distance. Incidents like this were bound to happen repeatedly. And whence it happened, it'll only serve to force Daveth's hand into action… even if it's against his own blood.