Chapter 4: He Saw Us

—At Winterfell—

The festivities had ended, every attendee had a full stomach and were escorted to their rooms to sleep for the night. In one chamber, Eddard Stark was still awake – contemplating on King Robert's offer to make him the next Hand of the King. A blast of cold night air blows into the chamber. Catelyn pulls the furs up to her chin. Eddard breathed deeply, taking the cold into his lungs, staring into the distance before turning to face his wife.

"I'm a Northmen. I belong here with you, not down south in that rat's nest they call a capital..."

Catelyn looks up at her husband, her face softening as she sees her husband's feeling of emotional conflict. "I won't let him take you," she proclaims.

"The King takes what he wants. That's why he's King."

Catelyn smiles as she playfully pokes Eddard's cheek. "I'll say, 'Listen, fat man, you are not taking my husband anywhere. He belongs to me now.'"

Eddard chuckles at his wife's sense of humor as she starts to cuddle him. "How did he get so fat?" he asks quietly in surprise, still having a hard time believing that his childhood friend Robert gained so much weight.

"He only stops eating when it's time for a drink," Catelyn jokes again, causing the two to start laughing again.

Such a comforting moment was ruined when a sentry knocked at the door.

"It's Maester Luwin, m'lord," they call out.

"Send him in," Eddard calls out.

He slowly gets out of bed as he slips on a heavy robe. The door opens and Maester Luwin enters, waiting until the door is shut behind him before speaking.

"Pardon, m'lord, m'lady," the maester apologizes for disturbing their rest. "A rider in the night from your sister."

Luwin draws a tightly rolled paper waxed in a blue moon-and-falcon seal from his loose sleeves and hands it to Catelyn, who removes the seal and begins to read, recognizing the symbol of the falcon.

"This was sent from the Eyrie," she realizes in astonishment. "What's she doing at the Eyrie? She hasn't been back there since her wedding."

As she continues reading the content of the letter, Catelyn begins to show a worried look on her face and looks up in alarm before throwing the message into the fire to burn it.

"What news?" Eddard asks.

"She's fled the capital. She says Jon Arryn was murdered. By the Lannisters. She says the King is in danger."

"She's fresh widowed, Cat. She doesn't know what she's saying."

Catelyn shakes her head. "Lysa's head would be on a spike right now if the wrong people found that letter. Do you think she would risk her life, her son's life, if she wasn't certain her husband was murdered?"

Eddard looks at Maester Luwin, imploring the old man for his opinion.

"If this news is true, and the Lannisters conspire against the throne, who but you can protect the King?" he says.

"They murdered the last Hand! Now you want Ned to take the job?"

Luwin looks at her in sympathy, but points out the facts. "The King rode for a month to ask Lord Stark's help. He's the only one he trusts," he says before returning his attention to Eddard. "You swore the King an oath, m'lord."

Catelyn continues to remain adamant about the decision. "He spent half his life fighting Robert's wars. He owes him nothing," she argues. "Ned, your father and brother rode south once on a King's demand. And they never came home again!"

"A different time. A different King."

But Ned's thoughts are belied by the resignation in his face. She is right and he knows it. He sits heavily in a chair beside the hearth. "Does the Crown Prince know anything about this?" he asks.

"It's difficult to say, m'lord. I believe if the Prince was made aware of the plot against his father, I believe he would have acted on it sooner before the King's decision to ride this far North. It's possible that the Prince knows nothing about the conspiracy surrounding the Lannister's involvement in Lord Arryn's death."

"Then that means Daveth's also in danger..." Catelyn theorizes, not liking this disturbing news.

Eddard says nothing, watching the flames devour the wood.

—At Pentos—

Magister Illyrio Mopatis and his guests Daenerys and her brother Viserys stand outside in the gardens. It is obvious that they are waiting for someone's arrival. Today was a big day, and Viserys was rather impatient.

"Where is he?"

"The Dothraki are not known for their punctuality."

On que, a host of Dothraki bloodriders come riding up to the front entrance of the mansion. In the front stands their chieftain, Khal Drogo, a large muscular man and legendary warrior who has never lost a battle in his life and expanded his mighty tribe into the largest khalasar Essos has ever seen.

Illyrio welcomes Drogo and his khalasar in their native language; he soon redirects his attention to Viserys and Daenerys. "Athchomar chomakaan, zhey khal vezhven (Respect to one that is respectful, great khal). May I present my honored guests? Viserys of House Targaryen, the Third of His Name. The rightful King of the Andals and the First Men. And his sister, Daenerys of the House Targaryen. Azha anhaan asshilat.."

Daenerys looks at the menacing Dothraki. She is wearing the lilac gown Viserys gave her, her make-up has been artfully applied but somehow, she looks even younger than before. She stands before him, seeming terribly nervous.

Viserys grins as he leans forward and whispers into Daenerys's ear, never taking his eyes off Drogo. "Do you see how long his hair is? When Dothraki are defeated in combat, they cut off their braid so the whole world can see their shame. Khal Drogo has never been defeated. He's a savage, of course, but he's one of the finest killers alive. And you will be his Queen."

Daenerys swore she felt her heart stop in sheer terror as she now becomes fully aware of his brother's intentions: Viserys plans to marry her off to Khal Drogo in exchange for an army he desires to retake the Seven Kingdoms.

"Come forward, my dear," Illyrio beseeches as he holds his hand out to her.

Daenerys quickly averts her eyes as soon as the fearsome Dothraki warriors began to stare at her. She reluctantly did as she was told and slowly made her way down the steps, approaching Khal Drogo himself as Daenerys begins to lift her head up to look into the Khal's eyes – although there is fear on her face.

His eyes dark as onyx, Drogo examines Daenerys up and down, gazing her with his face as cold and brutal as he continued to not say a word. Drogo, immediately afterwards, leads his horsemen on a charge away.

"Where's he going?!" Viserys protests, running down the steps as Drogo's khalasar rides away.

Illyrio looks at the exiled Targaryen king. "The ceremony is over."

"But he didn't say anything! Did he like her?"

"Trust me, Your Grace. If he didn't like her, we'd know."

The scene soon shifts to all three of them on a garden balcony overlooking the Narrow Sea.

"It won't be long now. Soon you will cross the Narrow Sea and take back your father's throne. The people drink secret toasts to your health. They cry out for their true King."

Viserys, still impatient, rudely cuts him off. "When will they be married?" he asks in a rather demanding tone of voice, implying the arranged marriage between his sister to Khal Drogo.

"Soon. The Dothraki never stay still for long."

As they walk along the garden balcony, Viserys begins to ask questions about the Dothraki people. "Is it true they lie with their horses?"

"I wouldn't ask Khal Drogo."

"Do you take me for a fool?"

Illyrio politely gives a slight bow. "I take you for a King. Kings lack the caution of common men. My apologizes if I've given offense."

Viserys simply shakes his head. "I know how to play a man like Drogo. I give him a Queen and he gives me an army."

Daenerys, on the other hand, stops in her tracks. "I don't want to be his Queen," she pleads. This abruptly stops Illyrio and Viserys, who turn to look at her. "Please, please, I want to go home."

Viserys maintains a mask of politeness and keeps his voice low, but there is fury behind his eyes. "So do I. I want us both to go home. But they took it from us. So tell me, sweet sister, how do we go home?" he asks as he grabs her arm, his fingernail digging deep into her.

"I... I don't know," she answers as tears begin to form in her eyes.

"We go home with an army. With Khal Drogo's army. I would let his whole tribe fuck you. All 40,000 men and their horses, too, if that's what it took."

Daenerys sniffles and wipes away the unfallen tears. Viserys gives his sister a brotherly kiss on the forehead and walks away with Magister Illyrio. She simply follows behind them.

Outside the city walls of Pentos, hordes of Dothraki warriors ― along with their women, children, and slaves ― have gathered to celebrate their Khal's wedding day. It is a wild celebration, consisting of fighting and fornication. An earthen ramp has been raised in the middle of a vast grass field. Daenerys sits beside Khal Drogo. Beautiful as she is in her wedding silks, she looks as scared at everything around her like a trapped animal. Drogo does not seem to notice her. He shouts commands and jests in his own tongue to his bloodriders, who sit below him on the second-highest level of the ramp. Also seated on that level are Magister Illyrio and Viserys, who looks splendid in a new black wool tunic with a scarlet dragon insignia on his chest. They are in the midst of an urgent conversation, keeping their voices as low as possible.

"When do I meet with the Khal?" Viserys asks. "We need to begin planning the invasion."

"If Khal Drogo has promised you a crown, you shall have it," Illyrio whispers.

"When?"

"When their omens favor war."

"I piss on Dothraki omens. I've waited seventeen years to get my throne back."

Daenerys turns to see what he's watching: Dothraki drummers pound on their horseskin drums as a dozen young Dothraki women begin dancing for their Khal. The Dothraki are not a repressed people. The dance is overtly sexual, so overt that a warrior soon steps into the circle, grabs a dancer by the arm, pushes her to the ground and takes her right there in front of the cheering crowd. Evidently this is appropriate wedding behavior. Daenerys watches with horror. Soon a second warrior has grabbed a dancer, and then a third. The trouble begins when two warriors try to lay claim to the same woman. Both men draw their scimitars and begin swinging at each other.

Khal Drogo grins and nods. "Itte oakah! (Test your might!)"

The combat is fast, brutal and efficient, the steel blades blurring in the sunlight. Finally, one man misses a parry. An instant later his entrails spill onto the dust and he falls. The victor seizes a girl, not even the original girl they were fighting over, and the crowd roars in approval. Daenerys struggles to keep from vomiting. The platter of blood sausages in front of her do not help.

Illyrio notices Viserys, who looks confused as to what's going on. "A Dothraki wedding without at least three deaths is considered a dull affair," he explains to Viserys, who grins with excitement.

As gifts continue to be placed down at Khal Drogo's feet, a knight in Westerosi garb appears. Drogo greets him in his native tongue, who in turn returns the greeting. He comes bearing books and gives it to Daenerys.

"Jadi, zhey Jora Andahli. (Come, Jorah the Andal.)" Drogo greets him.

"Khal vezhven. (Great khal.)" he returns the gesture. "A small gift for the new Khaleesi. Songs and histories from the Seven Kingdoms."

Daenerys kindly accepts the books. "Thank you, ser," she smiles and speaks for the first time at her own wedding. She takes a moment to look at the man, studying his features. "Are you... from my country?" she asks curiously.

"Ser Jorah Mormont of Bear Island," he introduces himself. Looking roughly past the age of 40 and slightly balding, he remains strong and fit. "I served your father for many years. Gods be good, I hope to always serve the rightful King."

Viserys looks at Jorah and gives a slight nod, pleased by the obeisance. Illyrio snaps his fingers. Four slaves hurry forward, bearing between them a great cedar chest bound in bronze. Illyrio bows low and gestures for Daenerys to open the chest. As she begins to open the chest, inside rest a pile of fine velvets and damasks, as well as three large eggs: one green, one cream, one black. She takes on into her hands. The egg shimmers like polished metal, the surface of the shell covered with tiny scales.

"Dragons' eggs," Illyrio explains. "From the Shadow Lands beyond Asshai. The ages have turned them to stone, but they will always be beautiful."

"Thank you, Magister," Daenerys nods.

Viserys, standing with Illyrio, rolls his eyes.

Khal Drogo stands and raises one hand, and immediately the Dothraki horde goes silent. The only noise is the bleating of a lost sheep.

Drogo looks at Daenerys. There is no sign of mercy in his face. She realizes that everyone at the wedding is watching her. Finally, she stands and walks down the ramp into the center of the field towards a white mare with Khal Drogo alongside her. Daenerys stands behind her new husband, encircled by her new tribe, looking very small and pale in comparison to Drogo.

Daenerys tries to hide her anxiety. The Dothraki look back at her. To her, they are an exotic people, but to them she is a foreigner. They have never seen a girl with silver hair and violet eyes before. Everyone waits to see how Daenerys will react. Hesitantly, Daenerys reaches out to stroke the horse's neck, running her fingers through its mane. "She's beautiful," she murmurs before turning to Jorah. "Ser Jorah, I don't know how to say 'thank you' in Dothraki."

Jorah shakes his head slightly. "There is no word for 'thank you' in Dothraki."

Drogo says nothing as he steps forward, putting his hands on Daenerys's waist and lifts her as easily as if she were a small child and places her on her horse. The Dothraki stare at their new Khaleesi.

Viserys approaches Daenerys. He looks very pleased as he grips his sister's leg, digging his fingers into her thigh as Daenerys flinches. "Make him happy," he smirks triumphantly.

Khal Drogo trots off on his stallion and Dany follows behind, looking back at Viserys and Illyrio and Ser Jorah. The exhilaration that brightened her face a minute before is gone. The fear is back.

Dusk has now fallen upon the meadow. Near a stream, Drogo stops at a grassy spot beside a gently-flowing stream. He swings off his horse and lifts Daenerys off hers. She stands there, helpless and trembling in her wedding silks, while Drogo secures the horses to a nearby tree. When he returns Daenerys starts to cry. Drogo stares at her, towering over Daenerys, his face strangely empty of expression. He rubs away her tears with a callused thumb.

"No," Khal Drogo tells her, not speaking his native language for the first time.

Daenerys looks at her new husband. "Do you know the Common Tongue?" she asks.

"No," he simply answers.

"Is 'no' the only word that you know?" Daenerys doesn't understand, but somehow sees there is warmth in his tone, a tenderness she did not expect.

"No," he says again before taking off Daenerys gown.

She winces slightly, trying to cover her breasts. Daenerys averts her eyes, but her arms are pulled apart by Khal Drogo – gently, but firm.

"No," he says as he shakes his head.

Exposed, Daenerys shivers in the evening wind as Drogo bends her down. He runs his hand gently down her leg. He strokes her face, tracing the curves of her ears, running a finger over her lips. He turns her around, kissing her from the nape of her neck to the small of her back. He pulls her down into his lap. Daenerys is flushed and breathless. He cups her face in his huge hands and she looks into his eyes.

"No?" Dorgo asks.

Daenerys hesitates, but simply shakes her head. "Yes," she says as she takes his hand and moves it between her thighs.

—At Winterfell—

Tyrion Lannister wakes up outside, seating next to Sandor Clegane. It was obvious that the dwarf had a serious bad hangover and his head was throbbing, moving his body very, very slowly.

"Rough night, Imp?" The Hound implores.

"If I get through this without squirting from one end or the other, it will be a miracle," Tyrion groans as he holds his head to keep it still.

"I didn't pick you for a hunter."

"The greatest in the land. My spear never misses."

"It's not hunting if you pay for it," Sandor retorts.

A few yards deeper into the courtyard, Eddard mounts his horse as his ward Theon hands him a pair of leather gloves. Strapped in a leather-and-steel vambrace to his forearm, he seems preoccupied and careworn as King Robert steps up towards him and gives him a friendly greeting.

"You as good with a spear as you used to be?" Robert asks.

Eddard smiles. "No. But I'm still better than you."

Robert laughs. "I know what I'm putting you through. Thank you for saying yes," he says before softening his tone, almost feeling sorry he's putting a huge burden on his friend without considering his feelings. "I only ask you because I need you. You're a loyal friend. You hear me? A loyal friend. The last one I've got."

"I hope I'll serve you well."

"You will. And I'll make sure you don't look so fucking grim all the time!" The King laughs again and snaps his fingers. "Come on, boys, let's go kill some boar!"

As the King's party rides off to go hunting, Eddard notices Bran standing at the other end of the courtyard and nods goodbye. As his wolf pup Summer begins sniffing at his feet, Bran wanted to go hunting with his father very badly, but was reminded that he is too young.

About fifty yards to his right, he sees Winterfell's Master-at-Arms, Ser Rodrik Cassel – a stout man with thick white sideburns tied under his chin – observe a training exercise between Robb Stark and Prince Daveth Baratheon. The young men, armed with sparring swords, were matching each other blow-for-blow with neither of them landing a decisive hit on the other. A dozen spectators call out encouragements, the loudest among them being Arya Stark, and Princess Myrcella and Prince Tommen Baratheon – who clapped and cheered for their respective brothers. Theon watches with wry contempt; Joffrey, on the other hand, merely stood at on side of the corner folding his arms, glaring at his older brother – envious of Daveth's prowess.

As the swords clash, Robb and Daveth held their ground. Without warning, Daveth fluidly kicks Robb's leg out from under him and circles around him, avoiding Robb's thrust before swiftly disarming him. The spectators grew silent as Ser Rodrik ends it. Daveth helps Robb to his feet.

"Well fought, my friend," Daveth compliments. "One more round?"

Robb grins with confidence, not ready to concede defeat yet. "Gladly."

Brann sighs as his brother and the Crown Prince begin their second bout, his mood sinking. But he hears Summer growling at his feet. He looks down at his wolf pup, jerking his head back and forth, with Bran's pant leg clamped between his jaws. Finally, he smiles. "Come on, you," he motions to Summer. As he runs off, his wolf bounds after him.

With his wolf at his heels, Bran runs toward a decrepit tower, one the oldest parts of the castle. He reaches the squat round tower and looks up. It had been deserted for years; its crown has begun to crumble, and moss grows between the stones. High above, it is festooned with gargoyles leaning blindly over empty space.

Bran turns to the pup. "Lie down. Now stay."

The wolf pup does as he is told. Bran scratches him behind the ears, then finds a handhold in the keep's wall and begins to climb, moving from stone to stone quickly and instinctively. When he is about ten feet up, his wolf rises to his feet and begins to howl — causing Bran to look down. His wolf falls silent. There's something eerily imploring the way the animal looks up at him through slitted yellow eyes. He doesn't want Bran to keep climbing, yet the boy starts climbing again. His wolf pup starts howling again.

"Quiet! Sit! Stay!" he shouts down sternly.

Summer continues to howl, until Bran is far, far above him. Then he drops back down onto his stomach and whines.

Bran scrambles up the rough-cut stones of the ancient tower, climbing with no fear and without hesitation. When he gets high enough, he begins swinging from gargoyle to gargoyle. He knows where to find every handhold and foothold. He is near the very top when a couple moans from inside the tower startles him, nearly causing him to lose his grip. Clinging to a gargoyle, Bran looks down, past his dangling feet. He reaches for the next gargoyle over until he hears a strange noise coming from inside; gripping a nearby stone ledge, he closely peers inside to investigate. From his vantage point, he is shocked at what he sees.

A fur cloak has been laid on the stone floor of the unlit chamber, laid a naked Queen Cersei having sex with her twin brother Jaime. Gripping Cersei's hips, Jaime continues to pound away, thrusting deep into her – causing her to moan loudly as skin slaps against skin. Her voice is low and she pushes back; the harder he thrusts, the more she moans. Startled, Bran has no idea what to make of all this and his arm accidentally brushes against the stone edge – making a brief noise.

Cersei's loss in pure ecstasy is broken when she hears it. As she turns and looks up, she sees Bran staring at the couple. "Stop! STOP!" she screams.

Everything happens at once. Jaime now sees Bran as well, and Cersei pushes herself away – still shouting and pointing at the boy as she covers herself up. Panicking, Bran tries to get away by reaching for a gargoyle's head. His hands scrape uselessly against the smooth stone and his legs slip, quickly grabbing the edge of the window ledge.

"He saw us!" Cersei continues to scream in terror.

Jaime runs at the window and grabs Bran by his collar. "Are you completely mad?!" he glares at the boy.

"He saw us!"

"It's alright. It's alright."

"He saw us!"

Annoyed, Jaime turns to Cersei. "I heard you the first time!" he says before returning his attention towards Bran. "Quite the little climber, aren't you? How old are you, boy?"

"Ten," he says terrified.

"Ten."

Bran trembles. "I promise I won't tell anyone, m'lord! I swear it by the Old Gods and the New! I won't tell anyone!" he desperately pleads, hoping the infamous Kingslayer would find it in his heart to show mercy and spare his life.

Jaime looks at Cersei, who in turn gazes back at her brother imploring him to do something. "The things I do for love," he sighs in resignation.

Without hesitation, Jaime immediately shoves Bran out the window. The boy falls backward out the window, screaming on the way down.

*THUD!*

The courtyard rushes up to meet him. Somewhere in the distance, a wolf howls. Crows circle the broken tower. The events that took place at the tower would only serve as a spark that would re-open old wounds, rivalry and tensions to flare up, and possibly spiral the country into chaos.