[King's Landing, the Red Keep, the night before the Melee]
Alaric was sharpening his sword when the knock came.
Not the grinding work of a whetstone for battle, he had men for that, but the final, deliberate strokes he had always insisted on doing himself. Dorren stood near the window of their borrowed chambers overlooking the inner yard of the Red Keep, watching squires hurry past with helms tucked under their arms and shields freshly painted for the melee.
A nock soon rang out, calm and measured.
Dorren did not need to look to know who it was.
Alaric set the blade aside and wiped it clean. "Let him in."
Ned Stark entered without escort. He wore no armor, only a dark doublet and a look that had grown more lined in the weeks since they had come south. He closed the door behind himself.
"Alaric, Dorren," he said, nodding toward the two of them, looking as if he had aged a decade in the last three days.
"Uncle, you are welcome as always," Alaric said evenly. "I can see something troubles you. Come, sit, please."
Ned did not sit immediately. He paced once across the chamber, then stopped near the hearth. There was no fire burning. The morning was already warm.
"I would have your counsel," he said. "And your silence."
Alaric inclined his head. Dorren felt something tighten in his chest.
Ned drew a breath that seemed heavier than the air required. "Jon Arryn was most likely murdered for what I am about to tell you."
Dorren did not move. Alaric did not speak.
"I cannot yet prove it," Ned continued, "but I am certain of it."
He began to explain, not wildly, not accusingly. He laid out the facts, a book of lineages, the coloring of hair, the pattern repeated through generations. Jon Arryn's last questions. The same questions Ned himself had asked.
Dorren listened carefully. He had been trained to listen when lords spoke in measured tones. Those were the moments that mattered.
"The children," Ned said at last, "do not resemble Robert in even the slightest."
He did not say more. He did not need to.
Silence filled the chamber.
Dorren felt the scale of it immediately. This was not court gossip. Not rivalry between houses. This was the throne itself.
"If this is true," Dorren said slowly, "then the realm stands on false ground." The implications of the heir and future king to the Iron Throne were not lost on him.
Ned's eyes shifted to him. "It may."
Alaric folded his arms across his chest. "Have you spoken to the king?"
"No." Ned's answer came at once. "I will not shame him publicly. I will speak first with the queen."
Alaric's jaw tightened slightly. "Alone?"
"I must give her the chance to flee with her children."
Dorren's thoughts moved faster than he expected them to. "If she refuses?"
"Then I will inform Robert, gods help us all, I can only imagine his fury." The image of Robert plunging the realm into war, no doubt playing in Ned's mind, from the look he gave them
Alaric studied Ned for a long moment. "And if Robert does not believe you?"
Ned did not answer at once.
The silence was answer enough.
Dorren stepped forward. "Uncle, if this is true, and the king learns of it while the queen and her kin still hold the city, the response will not be measured."
"I know what I risk," Ned said quietly.
"Do you?" Alaric asked. Not accusing, simply direct. "Because if you are correct, this is not merely dishonor. It is succession. The Lannisters will not yield easily, you and I both know how obsessed the Old Lion is with his legacy."
Ned's gaze hardened. "Jon Arryn died for this truth. I will not ignore it."
Dorren felt both admiration and unease. Honor had guided his uncle all his life. South of the Neck, honor did not always rule.
"You trust us with this?" Dorren asked.
"I trust you," Ned said. "And I trust that you understand the cost of silence."
Dorren did.
If Robert died without knowing, the wrong Baratheon would sit the throne. If Robert learned and acted, blood would follow.
Alaric stepped closer. "Then you must move swiftly. And carefully."
"I intend to."
Ned placed a hand briefly on Dorren's shoulder before leaving. It was not a gesture of comfort. It was weight.
When the door closed, the chamber felt smaller.
Dorren turned to Alaric. "You think he misjudges this."
"I think he underestimates desperation," Alaric replied. "When a house fears extinction, it does not bargain."
Dorren considered that. "If the king were to die before this came to light—"
Alaric's eyes sharpened. "Do not speak trouble into the world lightly, little brother."
But the thought remained.
[The Tourney grounds, 30th day, 9th moon, 298AC]
The next day, the tourney grounds were louder than before. The melee drew a different crowd than the joust. Less pageantry. More anticipation.
Robert sat high in the stands, flushed already, laughing with Renly. A cup was never far from his hand. Lancel Lannister stood close behind him, attentive.
Dorren stood with the other northmen at the edge of the lists. Alaric wore plain steel, unadorned. Around him gathered Ser Torrhen, broad-shouldered and steady; Ser Desmond Manderly, heavier but quick on his feet; Smalljon Umber, restless and grinning, his brother Derrick beside him, calm, but no less eager.
Alaric looked at them all.
"You will not hold back," he said, his voice leaving no room for negotiation.
Smalljon barked a laugh. "We would not dare, my lord."
"I mean it," Alaric said. "Strike to win. Test me as you would any man."
Ser Torrhen inclined his head, a wry smile on his face, no doubt having seen this coming. "As you command."
Dorren felt a quiet pride in the discipline of it. No boasting or theatrics, only readiness.
Once the various Knights and warriors, southern and northern alike, took their places, weapons and armor, polished and ready, the horn sounded.
The melee began not with order but with collision. Men rushed in groups, alliances forming and breaking in moments. Shields rang. Steel struck steel. The sand churned beneath armored boots.
Alaric did not wait. He drove forward directly into his own men.
Ser Desmond met him first. Their swords clashed in a sharp exchange that forced both back a step. Smalljon came from the side, aiming low. Alaric pivoted, taking the blow on his shield and answering with a short strike that rang against Smalljon's helm.
Ser Torrhen pressed in from the front, disciplined, precise. Derrick circled, looking for an opening, his attention soon being taken elsewhere as a man, no doubt drunk, erupted into laughs, his sword on fire.
Dorren watched carefully. This was no display. They fought as they had been ordered, with full force.
Alaric absorbed the pressure without retreating. He moved economically. A step here, a turn there. He did not waste strength. He let their eagerness overextend them.
Smalljon charged again, driving hard. Alaric shifted at the last instant, catching the heir of House Umber off balance and sending him to the sand with a hooked strike of shield and shoulder.
A roar went up from the crowd.
Robert leaned forward, laughing loudly. "That's it! That's it! Show me more, Alaric, show them why those squids all fear you." The King boomed in laughter, gaining multiple wry looks from various courtiers.
Joffrey, beside him, did not laugh.
Torrhen and Desmond attacked together now, disciplined and deliberate. Their blows forced Alaric back three steps. Derrick joined them, and for a moment, they surrounded their lord.
Dorren's pulse quickened.
Alaric did not panic. He drove forward suddenly, smashing into Torrhen's guard, forcing him sideways into Desmond. The brief tangle broke their formation. Alaric turned sharply, striking Derrick cleanly across the chest. The younger man stumbled and fell.
Torrhen regained footing and came again. The exchange between them was longer. Measured. Steel ringing in a steady rhythm. Torrhen was no fool, he waited for an opening.
Alaric created one.
A feint high drew Torrhen's guard. The true strike came low, hooking behind the knee. Torrhen went down heavily.
Desmond lasted longer than the others. He absorbed two blows before yielding ground. The third strike disarmed him entirely.
Within minutes, Alaric stood alone among his fallen men.
The crowd erupted.
Robert threw his head back and laughed, booming and delighted. "That's how it's done! A lord worth the name!"
Joffrey's jaw tightened. He spoke sharply to someone beside him, though Dorren could not hear the words.
Smalljon rolled onto his side and laughed breathlessly as he removed his helm. "We'll have you next time, my lord."
Alaric extended a hand and pulled him up. "You pressed too hard."
"Aye," Smalljon admitted.
One by one, the northmen rose. There was no resentment in their faces. Only respect.
Dorren felt something steady settle within him. Whatever storm gathered in the halls of power, the North still stood firm in its own strength.
As the melee continued around them, Robert called for more wine. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and declared loudly that he would bring back a stag from the kingswood before the week was out.
The crowd cheered him.
Dorren looked up toward the stands. Lancel leaned close to refill the king's cup.
Beside him, Joffrey watched the field with thin displeasure.
Alaric came to stand at Dorren's side, removing his helm.
"Well?" he asked. The grounds filled with armored men groaning and calling for squires to pick them up alike, the drunken flaming swordsmen from early, rolling in laughter, muttering something about R'hllor.
"You won," Dorren said.
Alaric gave a small nod. "As I was meant to."
Dorren's gaze drifted back to the royal box.
"And the king hunts soon," he said quietly.
Alaric followed his eyes.
"Yes," he replied. "He does."
[Later that day, the Royal feast hall]
The feast was louder than the melee had been.
Men who had crossed swords hours before now sat shoulder to shoulder, boasting of strikes that had never landed and blows they had surely felt more keenly than they admitted. The air was thick with roasted meat, spilled ale, and heat from too many bodies pressed into too little space.
Robert dominated the center of it.
He sat high at the long table, already flushed, a goblet in one hand and a carving knife in the other. He spoke loudly, laughed louder, and called for more wine before his cup was ever empty.
"Alaric Stark!" the king bellowed, spotting him across the hall. "Get yourself up here. I'll not have the victor skulking in the shadows."
A ripple of amusement passed through the gathered lords.
Alaric did not rush. He crossed the hall at a steady pace, Dorren half a step behind him. The northmen followed more loosely, Ser Torrhen with a faint limp he refused to acknowledge, Ser Desmond smiling through a swelling lip, Smalljon and Derrick already arguing about which of them had struck harder.
Robert clapped Alaric hard on the shoulder when he reached the table.
"That was a fight," the king declared. "You set upon your own men like they'd insulted your mother."
"They were ordered to give no less than their best," Alaric replied evenly.
"And they did!" Robert roared. "Seven save me, I've not seen such a display all week. You northmen fight as if the cold bites at your heels."
Renly chuckled softly beside him.
Joffrey did not.
The prince's expression was composed, but there was no approval in it. His gaze lingered on Alaric longer than courtesy required before turning back to his plate.
Robert waved for more wine. Lancel stepped forward immediately, filling the king's goblet without a word. The red liquid sloshed near the rim.
"We ride in two days," Robert announced to no one and everyone. "I'll not leave this city without bringing something worthy back with me."
There were cheers at that. Promises of good sport and better stories.
Dorren watched the king drink.
Alaric offered a few words more, brief and respectful, then withdrew as courtesy allowed. The Northmen gathered at the lower end of the hall, where the benches were less crowded, and talk was more honest.
Smalljon dropped heavily onto the bench and winced only slightly as he removed a gauntlet.
"I had you for a moment," he insisted.
"You had my shield," Alaric corrected calmly.
"That counts." His signature Umber smirk adorned on his face
"It does not," Alaric replied in kind, a small growing smile appearing for but a moment
Laughter followed.
Ser Torrhen sat opposite Alaric, studying him with open respect. "You broke our line cleanly. I did not expect that."
"You pressed too tight," Alaric said. "You left no room to adjust."
Desmond nodded, thoughtful despite the wine in his cup. "We assumed you would yield ground longer."
"And give you time to settle?" Alaric shook his head. "Never."
There was no edge to the exchange. Only evaluation. The kind of talk that strengthened men rather than divided them.
Dorren listened more than he spoke.
The southern knights had fought hard enough, but there had been something different in the circle of northern steel. No showmanship. No lingering for applause. When Alaric had ordered them to strike without restraint, they had done so without hesitation.
Not because he was their lord.
Because he had earned it.
Smalljon leaned forward, lowering his voice only slightly. "If we face one another again, I'll not charge so quickly."
"You will," Derrick said dryly.
"And you'll fall quicker than today." Smalljon replied, punching his younger brother in the shoulder, both of them wincing at the impact.
Another round of laughter followed.
Alaric let it run its course before speaking again. "You fought well," he said simply. "All of you."
The words mattered. They settled the table.
Across the hall, Robert's laughter rose again, loud, unrestrained. He called for a song, then changed his mind and called for more wine instead. Lancel obliged him swiftly.
Dorren's gaze drifted toward the royal table once more.
Joffrey sat rigid beside his father, speaking in low tones to a Lannister knight Dorren did not immediately recognize. The prince's eyes flicked once toward their table before returning to his cup.
The hall felt divided without openly being so. Groups formed along familiar lines. Stormlords with stormlords. Reachmen with Reachmen. Lannisters near the head of the table.
The Northmen remained together.
Alaric leaned back slightly, resting his forearms on the table. "Enjoy this," he said quietly, though the noise of the hall would have hidden his words from all but those nearest. "Moments of ease are rare."
Torrhen gave a short nod. "You expect trouble?"
"I expect nothing," Alaric replied. "But I trust little."
Dorren understood the distinction.
Smalljon raised his cup. "Then we drink while we may."
And drink they did.
No oath was spoken. No grand declaration made. Yet the feeling at the table was solid. Not loud loyalty, not pride shouted to be heard, but northern steadiness.
Dorren felt it settle in his chest.
Whatever storm brewed beyond their sight, whatever truths Ned carried in silence, whatever choices were soon to be forced upon them, these men would not falter lightly.
At the high table, Robert stood unsteadily and lifted his cup once more.
"To the hunt!" he declared. "At first light in two days. I'll not have this city thinking its king has gone soft."
More cheers answered him.
Dorren watched as Lancel stepped in again, refilling the king's goblet before it was fully drained.
Robert drank deeply, and the hall roared around him, blissfully unaware of what was to come.