Game of Thrones Iron Stark

Asor Dayne had come with a serious offer. Trystane Martell, Doran's son and Oberyn's nephew, wanted Sansa's hand in marriage. If it happened, Dorne in the south and the North in the far north would be tied together. From both ends they could squeeze the rest of Westeros.

Eddard knew the numbers didn't work. The North was cold and empty. Dorne was desert and snakes and just as empty. Even allied, they didn't have the men to take the whole continent. Besides, Sansa wasn't even in the room. She had stormed out earlier.

He turned Asor down politely. "My lady wife isn't here. I'm just a blunt northern man. It wouldn't be right to speak for my daughter without her mother. Come back another day, Ser."

Asor left with nothing.

Jon watched him go, then said quietly, "Father, Dorne is too hot. Sansa would never be happy there. Please don't send her."

Eddard looked at his bastard son and smiled for the first time that day. "You're a good brother, Jon. Even if Sansa doesn't always treat you well. Come. Let's drink."

Tywin Lannister had called the whole family together in the Red Keep. Jaime and Cersei sat on his left, Kevan and Tyrion on his right. The old lion wore the new sword at his hip like it had always belonged there.

"Bring them," he said.

Four long boxes were carried in. Inside each lay a blade forged from the strange black metal they had taken from the bear's belly during the royal hunt. Tywin had kept one for himself. The other four were for his children.

"These were made by a master smith from the Free Cities," Tywin said. "Better than most Valyrian steel. Each one has a name."

He pointed as he spoke. "Mine is Lion's King. Jaime, yours is Lion's Heart. Tyrion, Lion's Roar. Kevan, Lion's Claw." He looked at his daughter. "Cersei, yours is a lady's longsword. Golden Crown."

Cersei's blade was the most ornate—gold-washed steel set with red and blue gems. She ran her fingers along it and actually smiled.

Tywin's voice stayed flat. "The dead are walking. You will learn to use it, Cersei. All of you will."

Jaime was already testing the balance of his new sword, eyes bright. Tyrion just stared at his own blade like it was the first real gift his father had ever given him.

"I want to go north with Jaime and Uncle Kevan," Tyrion said.

"No." Tywin didn't even look up. "You stay in King's Landing. Your mind is worth more than your sword arm. You inherited that from me. Use it here."

Tyrion felt something tighten in his chest. He knew it was manipulation, but it still landed.

The Tyrells hosted a dinner for Lord Tully and his son, along with Brand Hightower. Samwell Tarly sat at the long table trying to disappear into his chair.

A light tap hit his back. He turned and found Margaery Tyrell smiling at him with those big doe eyes.

"You're not fat," she said. "You're taller than half the men here."

Sam flushed. "I'm not small either. If I could swing Robert's hammer I'd prove it."

Margaery laughed like a bird. "Then swing it and I'll believe you. So you're with the Night's Watch? What do you do up there?"

"I assist Maester Aemon. He's over a hundred years old. Older than Lord Commander Mormont."

Margaery tilted her head. "Aemon? What's his full name?"

Sam hesitated. He knew the truth—that Aemon was a Targaryen—but some secrets were safer small. "We just call him Maester Aemon. His brother's grandsons have grandsons of their own now."

Margaery gave up and patted his shoulder. "Come drink with us. Highgarden wine will make you forget the Wall for a night."

At the head of the table Mace Tyrell was speaking with Randyll Tarly and Brand. Garlan stood beside his father, listening.

"Command is yours, Lord Randyll," Mace said. "My son has never seen real battle. I ask you to watch over him."

Randyll gave a short nod. "Garlan will make the realm remember his name."

Garlan smiled, modest as always. "I'll be happy if I'm half as dangerous as the Knight of a Hundred Birds."

Brand raised his cup. "We'll see what the Wall makes of us all."

Robert, Stannis, and Renly sat together for once, something that almost never happened.

"Stormlands men are ready," Renly said. "They can march north whenever you give the word."

Robert grinned into his wine. "Good. Maybe you should go with them, little brother. Even the Imp pissed on the Wall. Don't tell me you're afraid of a little cold."

Renly didn't rise to the bait. Instead he called toward the door. "Brienne. Come in."

The tall woman in mail and plate stepped into the room. She moved like someone who knew exactly how dangerous she was. Robert felt it the moment she entered.

Stannis frowned. "A woman?"

Brienne took off her helm. Her face was plain, square-jawed, and completely calm. She met Robert's eyes without flinching.

Robert laughed. "I remember you from the feast. I was drunk and rude. My apologies, lady."

"I'm not a knight yet, Your Grace," Brienne said.

Robert studied her for a long moment. "You fight like one. When you come back from the North, plenty of lords will want the honor of knighting you. Mark my words. That day isn't far off."