The Way Of Winter | Robb Stark

ARYADNE - XII

A COMET BURNED in the sky one morning. Some took it as a sign of Joffrey's magnificent rule to come but Aryadne saw it for what it was: a death omen. It streaked through the sky, leaving a trail like blood.

It happened again and again. Almost a week had passed and yet it was still fresh. Every time Aryadne closed her eyes, the same scene greeted her. Ned's severed head. Blood trickling down the steps of the Sept. Sansa had fainted in her arms. She had not been afforded such a mercy.

She had been naïve enough to believe her safety guaranteed if she did not draw attention to herself. Her mother may have favoured her the least out of all her children, but the death of any of them was a threat she would never allow. The truth was clear now. Cersei was not in charge, she just liked to think that. Joffrey had called for Ned's execution, knowing full well that his mother couldn't stop him. If it was Aryadne's head he wished for next, he would have it.

The more she thought, the more she realised the gravity of her predicament. She had to escape.

She was permitted out of her room now. No doubt the death of her friend and suspected conspirator was been warning enough to keep her in line. After all, she was only a girl — a pathetic, cowardly girl, one who kept her head down and flinched before the blows were even aimed. No one expected much from her.

She could no longer confide in Kastor. His duties were accompanied by Lannister guards, their every word and movement watched. That morning was no different. She walked along with the three men close behind. A dress of black swished around her, its neckline embroidered with golden antlers. The symbol was one of the few things she had to keep herself going now. Craven though she was, it was an act of rebellion to wear it. As King Robert Baratheon's only legitimate child, she owed it to his memory.

Another group emerged from the wing up ahead. Sansa led them. She was a vision, in a moonstone hair net Joffrey had gifted her and a gown of lilac silk. Even in the heat, it had long sleeves that clung to her. And thus the act began.

Aryadne opened her arms wide as she hurried over, putting on a beaming smile. "Sweet Sansa! My, you are more radiant than ever today."

The girl unlinked her arm from the knight beside her and curtsied. "Thank you, Your Grace."

"None of that, please. How many times? You must be Aryadne. May I cut in, Ser Arys?" The knight hesitated. His apprehensive gaze was on the guards behind her. Rolling her eyes, she turned to glare at them. "What, does my mother forbid me from walking with my future sister-by-law?"

One offered a curt nod. She took the girl's arm and they walked on together. Sansa winced so she took care, stroking the back of her hand. "Which one was it?" she whispered.

Sansa tensed. "I— I do not understand."

"Come, child, do you think my brother has never sent his knights to rough people up before?" At the widening of the girl's eyes, she sighed, "I should have warned you. When we spoke in Winterfell, I wanted to... but you were still so young and, as I expect you know by now, we do not get a say in such things. Love is an illusion. It exists only in stories. I am sorry you had to learn it this way."

She took in a trembling breath, her eyes glazing over. "I am afraid."

"I know. Just trust that—" Glancing at the guards behind them, she lowered her voice even more. "Trust that I will do my best to free us from this place. It is the least I can do for you, for your father."

—

The tourney for Joffrey's nameday was a pitiful thing. He had decided to host it within the safety of the Red Keep and a gallery had been erected for all the spectators — spectators who filled only half of the seats and did not show much interest at all in the events. Aryadne found a spiteful side to herself that often kept itself hidden, only coming out in moments such as this to silently gloat about her brother's failings. She did not enjoy such a feeling and buried it instantly.