"Arya Stark, where have you gone?"

Septa Mordane's distinctly annoyed voice rings shrilly down the hall. But while her piercing shouts can surely be heard by the guards all the way in the Great Hall, her own old ears do not detect the light scampering of feet as her young ward darts away down the hall. Itchy grey dress hiked up around her knees, long brown hair trailing behind her, Arya runs like a wolf in the night. She stays ever two steps behind her twin, Edward, as he swings himself around the corner and leaps down a short flight of stairs. They're almost safe, and she thanks the gods he had come to rescue her from another wretched stitching lesson.

It was oh, so easy to distract the septa. A single chicken snuck into the room sent her into a frenzy. Sansa had been hysterical, she would surely be out for their heads tonight at dinner, but how could they be blamed if a stray chicken wandered out of its pen and into the septa's chambers? Arya chuckles at the thought and then they are there – the window to freedom – freedom from needles and thread and dresses and proper ladies.

Edward leaps feet-first through the window and lands with a thud on the slick, mossy stone wall directly below. He catches his footing and pauses for just a moment, looking out at the godswood, all fierce shade and green and brown, with the striking red of the hearttree poking up from the sea of leaves. As his sister lands lithely beside him, Edward is moving again, grabbing tight hold of a clinging vine to guide him crashing down through branches and leaves to the ground below.

Out of sight, he lets himself slow and breathe in the deep, dank taste of the wood, a sense of moist darkness, heavy with life and shadow. There was no place else in Winterfell that Edward would rather spend his time. It was here that he painted and drew, here that he studied his strings and lute. While his brothers played as knights at war in the yard, he preferred to learn songs of their legends here in the woods - Duncan, Prince of Dragonflies; The Dragonknight; Baelor Breakspear. His father had defeated the Targaryens. But it was their tales that always pleased him the most.

"Keep moving!" Arya urges him on, brushing past as she runs down the path. She was the one thing that could move Edward from the artistic contemplation he held so dear - Arya with her sense of adventure, her love of fights and flights, swords and duels, horses and lances. Theon used to jape that the gods had played a jest, and made Arya a girl and Edward a boy when they ought to have been the other way around. But Theon could be cruel behind his smiles, and Robb had quickly put a stop to such teasing.

The twins in fact are nearly identical. Few even here in Winterfell would ever be able to tell them apart, were Lady Catelyn ever to let Arya cut her hair as short as she wished. Each the same height, each bearing the long face, dark hair and grey eyes of the Stark line. Edward kicks up his feet again and follows his sister until he sees the tracks in the dirt and knows they have found their goal.

Their pups are waiting for them, crashing out of the undergrowth as the children draw near. The direwolves were growing faster every day it seems. Nymeria, grey with golden eyes, comes first, followed close behind by Tessarion, black fur that seemed almost blue in the right light, brindled with white on his belly. And his eyes, one cold, white and blue as ice, the other burning orange amber. Edward had named his pup for the dragon of Prince Daeron the Daring, one of his favorite heroes. Not that he had let anyone know, especially not Arya, but the direwolves had frightened Edward when they first found them on the road home when Father had executed the deserter. The huge dead mother had been a horror to behold, and Old Nan had told tales of direwolves that were so big they could eat little boys with one bite. But when he had first seen Tessarion, with his queer little eyes, the fear had gone away. And boy and wolf had been near inseparable since.

Arya grabs a hefty branch and hurls it away. Nymeria bounds off to retrieve it, but Tessarion slowly meanders afterwards, only ever half-interested. He would not do tricks. He seemed apart from his brothers and sisters, half in the pack and half out, just like his eyes. Nymeria was already back, still clumsy, as pups are, tumbling through the brush to hurl the branch back at Arya's feet.

"You throw this time," she thrusts the wood into his hands.

Edward took the branch, heavier than it seems and slick with dark moss and wolf slobber. He swings his arm out widely, letting his fingers loose halfway through the arc and the stick goes flying, low in the air, crashing with a splash into one of the nearby hot springs. Undeterred, Nymeria bounds in after it, emerging with the branch again in her jaws, furiously shaking the steaming water free of her coat. Tessarion, as always, only watches from the side, and Nymeria returns her prize to Arya, Edward's time at play clearly done.

"You're going to have to throw further than that, Ed," she smirks, her impish grin that never seemed to end well for him. With a laugh, she throws the branch ever further, watching it fall until, with a gasp, a long arm reaches out from behind a thick oak to grab it. Nymeria comes to a halt in her pursuit as Lord Eddard Stark steps out from the shadow of the tree. Jaw dropped, Arya turns and flees into the brush, her direwolf quickly turning to follow, but Ned does not pursue. Instead, he turns to Edward, tossing the branch to the ground. At last, Tessarion lazily pulls it back to silently gnaw on it as the Lord of Winterfell kneels to look eye-to-eye with his son. Edward is reluctant to look back, embarrassed. He should have run, he thinks, but he could never bear to run away from Father, who shared his same eyes and hair, only touched by the wear of time.

"You're going to have to get that chicken back to the kitchens before Gage sees it's missing."

"I'll never catch it."

"You had an easy enough time getting it up to the septa's chambers."

Shame creeps into Edward's face, reddening it around the edges as his eyes drop down to his shoes. "Arya…"

"I have no doubt this was her idea, Edward. But that doesn't change what happened. It was still your hands that took the chicken,was it not?" Ned's weathered palms grasp his son's small, soft fingers, turning them over to see.

"Yes, father."

"We must all take responsibility for our actions. That is what will truly matter, even after the deed is long done. Find the chicken. Give it back to Gage. And see to it that this doesn't happen again. The king is going to be here on the morrow. We mustn't have any stray chickens wandering into his quarters."

The king! Edward had almost forgot! He looks up, grateful to have avoided punishment for now. But he can see in his father's eyes that his mind is elsewhere. Any escape he has earned is more a matter of preoccupation. Ned Stark rises, giving Tessarion a final pat on the head, and walks heavily off to find Arya, no doubt to give her the same speech.

That night Edward dreams. He dreams that the king arrived: A huge man he was in the great night realms of sleep, seven feet tall at least, with antlers sprouting from his head. A great savage dog and a majestic golden lion ran at his side. But that dream frightened Edward. When he awoke, he could not remember why. The king was Father's friend. He was good and just, everyone knew that. There was no reason to be afraid of his coming.

The rest of the dreams were more pleasant, the types of dreams he often had – running in the godswood with his siblings, flying high above Winterfell, sliding on top of the Wall or meeting Prince Duncan to dance among the dragonflies with Jenny and her ghosts. It was so beautiful there that he forgot all about the nightmare that came before. Or that even here he was dancing with the dead. There was only peace for the rest of the night.

But, as with every night, even the most pleasant of dreams must pass and give way to the drab hues of day. But this morning, at least, brought the promise of something new. The king would be here soon. Edward could smell change on the crisp morning air as he rushed out of his room, leaving Bran and little Rickon still fast asleep, only to be hustled back in by the servants. No simple leather jerkins would do for today, not for the second son of Lord Eddard Stark.

Edward is stretched and pulled and prodded into the itchy wool doublet of dark grey, with darker black thread embroidering dueling direwolves across his chest. Nymeria and Tessarrion, he thinks, looking down at the sigil as his younger brothers are dressed in their own finest wear. For all his fuss, the boy secretly admitted to himself that he liked the way he looked in such clothes. But no one could ever know, or Arya would never let him forget it.

The Starks break their fast that morning with barely a word spoken nor bite eaten. The excitement was breath enough for the lungs, and anticipation filled the children's bellies. Lord Eddard himself was at the table for a scarce few minutes before being called away once more. When a king visits, it is enough to throw any castle, even one as great as Winterfell, into disarray. And Ned could not allow disorder when the King of the Seven Kingdoms could be at his gates at any minute.

It took more minutes than expected for the horns to sound from the walls that the royal party had been spotted approaching down the Kingsroad. In a rush, the whole household assembles in the yard, with the Starks at the head. Walking down the line, Lady Catelyn Stark pokes and prods each of her children in turn to ensure they are suitably prepared to present to the king. Only Edward and Sansa seemed to please her, receiving only a smile while their siblings received tugs on their clothes and fingers hastily brushing aside stray hair.

As Catelyn finally takes her place beside her husband, Edward steals a glance down to where Jon Snow waited and watched, far from the family. Edward wished Jon could stand with them. But Mother would never allow that. She didn't trust bastards, they were all Bittersteel to her. But not to Edward. Jon would never hurt them, he knew, he was no Blackfyre rebel. He was like Addam Velaryon, loyal to the end.

The thunderous clamor of the royal party could be heard long before the gates began to creak open. Have they brought the whole of King's Landing with them, Edward wonders as the noise echoes inside his head. But no, as the entrance to Winterfell swung open, it was not a city that pounded down the frosty ground beneath their feet and hooves, but still the largest and most spectacular parade that Edward had ever seen. Lines of knights ride in, behind them - rocking and shaking violently over ruts in the road - a massive, gilded wheelhouse that grinds to a halt, too large to fit under the portcullis.

Which one is the king? Edward wonders, looking from face to face. The frightful imagery from his haunted dream the night before comes rushing back. But there were no horned men here, unless they hid their antlers beneath their helmets. And while there was one giant man in a hound's helm, the prowling beasts of the night were not here either. At last, a massive, bearded fat man dropped down heavily from his horse to greet Father. This must be the king.

And sure enough, King Robert Baratheon, First of his Name, King of the Rhoynar and the Andals and the First Men, was soon walking down to look at each of the Stark children in turn. This Robert was a far cry from the image Father and Old Nan had left in Edward's head. He was a giant of a man, that much was sure, but Edward was ashamed to have the thought cross his mind that he'd stand more a threat from being sat upon by the king than having his chest crushed by Robert's legendary warhammer.

"This one's just the image of you Ned," the king laughs, pulling up on Edward's hair a little too hard to see his face more clearly. "Remember those days in the Eyrie? Ha, that was the life men ought to sing about, to keep boys from getting fool ideas about wanting to be king!" Another deafening laugh and his eyes were back on Edward. "Yes, boy, I was right. You're going to be a warrior, just like your father. A wise choice on my part."

Choice? What choice? Father seemed just as confused, but the king had already moved on, down to Arya, then Bran and little Rickon. Edward nervously swats his tousled hair into place before Mother could chide him for being uncouth.

Soon enough, the greetings were over. The rest of the royal family has disembarked, the king and Father headed for the crypts. Edward had even caught sight of The Imp, the queen's dwarf brother, though he was not quite the twisted monkey-demon Edward had heard the guards whisper about when they thought no one was listening. Free from the formalities, Edward spies Arya running off towards the godswood. He turns to follow, and it is then that he runs directly into the path of the knight.

Stumbling back, Edward looks up, following the pure white armor and flowing white cloak up to the face that emerged atop the breastplate. That face seems to glow of its own, not unlike the way the cold sun glistened on the man's armor. Bright blonde hair tumbled down his scalp as he smiled. The Kingslayer, it must be. The closest to a monster he'd ever heard father speak of. But if this man was a creature from his dreams, it was the dreams of the legendary knights of old, not dark monsters.

Ser Jaime Lannister leans down to place a light hand on Edward's shoulder, nearly a mother's touch compared to the king. His eyes are deep green.

"So you're the little wolf who's to be my squire?"

A/N: Hello, and welcome to The Good Squire, a story request on behalf of SketchyWolf. Thanks for reading, I hope you enjoy what you've seen so far. This chapter largely serves to introduce Edward, SketchyWolf's OC. I'm very excited about the story he has in store, as his new presence and pairing with Jaime will have profound ramifications for how the fate of House Stark plays out. I'm excited for you to come along on this journey with us, any thoughts, critiques, questions or suggestions are always welcome in the comments below. I can't wait to hear what you think! Until next time, bamf-ing out!