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Year 298 AC/7 ABY
Kingslanding, The Crownlands
Tyrion Lannister nursed his wine as he surveyed the tourney grounds from his perch on the viewing stands. The smell of horseshit, sweat, and roasting meat hung in the air, a perfume that reminded him why he preferred the controlled stink of brothels to the chaotic reek of nobility at play. Knights pranced about on destriers worth more than most peasants would see in a lifetime, while the smallfolk roared approval from makeshift scaffolds that looked ready to collapse beneath their collective weight.
His father sat in the royal box, cold and imperious in his new role as Hand. Tywin hadn't wanted this tourney—had called it "wasteful frivolity"—but Robert had insisted on celebrating his new Hand, though most likely the King just wanted another tourney. The king himself was conspicuously absent, no doubt sleeping off last night's excesses with some whores.
Tyrion spotted his quarry near the refreshment tables. Petyr Baelish stood alone for once, watching the proceedings with that perpetual half-smile that never quite reached his eyes. The Master of Coin wore a doublet of silver-grey silk with his mockingbird pin glinting in the sunlight.
"Now's our chance, Pod," Tyrion murmured to his squire. "Wait here. I'll signal if I need rescue from Lord Baelish's crushing wit."
Tyrion waddled through the crowd, ignoring the sideways glances and poorly concealed sneers. The wine sloshed in his belly, just enough to dull the edges without blunting his mind. He would need his wits for this conversation.
"Lord Baelish," he called as he approached. "How fortunate to find you momentarily unencumbered by your many admirers."
Littlefinger turned, his smile widening fractionally. "Lord Tyrion. A pleasant surprise. I expected you'd be celebrating your father's ascension with something stronger than that watered piss they're serving here."
"The day is young," Tyrion replied, taking a position beside Baelish that allowed him to watch both the tourney field and the man's face. "And I find sobriety has its uses when discussing matters of state."
"Matters of state?" Littlefinger raised an eyebrow. "How dreary. I was hoping for your usual repertoire of whore jokes and witticisms."
Tyrion laughed. "Those I save for friends. Speaking of celebrations, I hear congratulations are in order for Lord Renly and Lady Margaery. Their betrothal announcement seems to have caught everyone by surprise."
Littlefinger's gaze flickered briefly across the stands to where Renly sat with several Tyrell retainers, resplendent in green and gold. "Indeed. Love strikes in the most unexpected places."
"And what will the Crown be gifting the happy couple? Something appropriately magnificent, I trust?"
"Your lord father has already ordered an appropriate gift," Littlefinger said, his voice dropping slightly. "Something to honor both houses." His eyes remained on Renly, a calculation in them that Tyrion found unsettling.
"How efficient of him," Tyrion remarked. "My father wastes no time. Much like your recent adjustments to the grain tariffs. I was reviewing the ledgers this morning—fascinating reading, truly—and noticed the duties on shipments to the North have tripled."
Something hardened in Littlefinger's eyes, though his smile remained fixed. "You've developed an interest in ledgers? How unexpected. I'd have thought you preferred more... carnal entertainments."
"I contain multitudes, Lord Baelish." Tyrion swirled the dregs of his wine. "Interesting timing, wouldn't you say? The North reports more wildling attacks, and suddenly their food costs triple."
Littlefinger's smile didn't reach his eyes. "Supply and demand, Lord Tyrion. Winter is coming, as the Starks are so fond of reminding us. Prudent merchants adjust their prices accordingly."
"Prudent merchants, yes. But the Crown?" Tyrion placed his empty cup on a passing servant's tray. "One might think we'd wish to support a region facing increased threats."
"One might think many things," Littlefinger replied smoothly. "But revenue is revenue, and the royal coffers remain distressingly empty despite my best efforts."
Tyrion watched a knight from the Vale unseat some minor lordling from the Crownlands, steel ringing against steel as lance met shield. The crowd roared its approval.
"Speaking of the North," Tyrion said casually, "have you heard about any unfortunate business at Winterfell? An attack on a Stark, I'm told."
He watched Littlefinger's face with the same intensity a maester might study a rare specimen. The man's reaction was minimal—a brief tightening around the eyes, an almost imperceptible shift in posture—but it was there.
"Troubling news indeed," Littlefinger said after the briefest pause. "Though I wonder at your sources. I've heard nothing of the sort."
"Curious. I thought your pretty faces had eyes and ears." Tyrion studied his nails. "A shame. I'd have thought news concerning Catelyn Stark' or her brood would interest you particularly."
"Lady Stark's welfare has always concerned me," Littlefinger said, his voice dropping to a near whisper. "We were... close... as children."
"So I've heard." Tyrion met the man's gaze directly. "Close enough that you'd notice if someone wished her family harm?"
Littlefinger's laugh was light, practiced. "Lord Tyrion, if you're implying something, I encourage you to speak plainly. These veiled accusations ill become a man of your stature."
"Nothing veiled about it. I recently heard that a Valyrian steel dagger was used. Took a bit of coin to get that one. Such weapons are rare and costly. One might wonder who could afford such an extravagance."
"One might indeed." Littlefinger's eyes narrowed slightly. "Though if I were investigating such a matter, I might look closer to home before casting aspersions abroad."
"Meaning?"
"Meaning families are complicated things." Littlefinger adjusted his mockingbird pin. "Lannisters above all should understand that."
The threat lingered between them like the scent of something rotten beneath perfume. Tyrion forced himself to smile. "My father has taken a personal interest in this matter. He finds threats to great houses... destabilizing."
Littlefinger raised an eyebrow. "It would be a shame if His Grace discovered Lord Tywin approved the new taxes on the North. Robert has such affection for the Starks. Imagine his reaction upon learning we're squeezing them during troubled times."
Tyrion blinked, caught off guard. "My father approved—"
"Oh, not directly," Littlefinger waved a dismissive hand. "The proposal came from your sister. She approached me most discreetly. Something about ensuring the North remembers its place."
Tyrion felt the pieces shifting in his mind, a cyvasse board rearranging itself. Cersei. Always Cersei.
"How interesting," he managed. "My sister rarely concerns herself with financial matters."
"She concerns herself with many things these days." Littlefinger leaned closer, his breath smelling faintly of mint. "Your brother as well. They've been quite... inseparable since your departure for Winterfell. Sharing burdens, no doubt."
The implication hung in the air, delicate as spider silk but just as dangerous.
"Family loyalty is a Lannister trait," Tyrion said carefully.
"Indeed." Littlefinger's smile widened. "Some might say unnaturally so."
Before Tyrion could respond, a trumpet blast announced the next joust. Littlefinger straightened, adjusting his sleeves with practiced elegance.
"If you'll excuse me, Lord Tyrion, I promised Lord Renly I'd join him for this bout. Do give your lord father my regards. And perhaps suggest he look to his own house before concerning himself with others."
Tyrion watched him go, that slight frame moving with deliberate grace through the crowd. Podrick appeared at his elbow, silent as always.
"He's lying about something," Tyrion said quietly. "The question is what."
Podrick said nothing, waiting for instructions with puppy-like devotion.
"We need someone watching him," Tyrion continued, thinking aloud. "Someone skilled, someone he wouldn't notice." He turned to his squire. "Pod, I need you to find me a certain sort of person. Someone from the bowels of King's Landing who knows how to watch without being seen."
"What kind of person, m'lord?" Podrick asked, his voice barely audible above the crowd's roar as another knight fell.
Tyrion considered the question. Not the Gold Cloaks—too obvious and too corrupt. Not Varys's little birds—the Spider had his own agenda. He needed someone loyal only to gold, with skills honed in the city's shadows.
"Someone who's survived by being invisible," Tyrion decided. "A cutpurse, perhaps, or a street child who's managed to grow to adulthood. Find them, bring them to me, and ensure no one sees you do it."
"Yes, m'lord." Podrick nodded, his earnest face betraying nothing but determination.
As his squire slipped away through the crowd, Tyrion turned his gaze back to where Littlefinger now sat beside Renly Baratheon, laughing at some jest. The Master of Coin caught his eye briefly across the distance and raised his wine cup in mocking salute.
Tyrion didn't return the gesture. His mind was already racing ahead, calculating angles and connections. Cersei requesting tax increases on the North. An assassin with a Valyrian steel dagger targeting Sansa Stark. And Littlefinger, somehow, in the middle of it all.
The game was growing more dangerous by the day.
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Winterfell, The North
The solar felt colder than usual despite the crackling hearth. Ned stood at the window, watching snow descend in thick flakes outside Winterfell's walls. Five days since Jon had departed with Luke Skywalker for Oldtown. Five days of wondering if he'd made the right choice in letting his sister's son venture south, even with the protection of that strange green blade.
I should have told him years ago. The thought gnawed at him like a winter wolf. Years of lies, and then to thrust the truth upon him so suddenly...
Jon's face when he'd learned of his true parentage haunted Ned's dreams. The shock, the betrayal, the rage that had summoned fire without touch. Another reminder of the Targaryen blood that flowed through his veins. Blood that would see him dead if Robert ever learned the truth.
A knock interrupted his brooding.
"Enter," he called, not turning from the window.
"My lord." Maester Luwin's voice carried a note of concern that made Ned finally face him. The old man clutched a scroll in his weathered hand, chain links clinking softly as he approached. "A raven from King's Landing."
Ned frowned. "Robert again?"
"No, my lord. The royal seal, but not the king's personal mark." Luwin extended the scroll. "The Hand's signature."
Tywin Lannister's mark. Ned broke the crimson wax, unfurling the parchment with growing unease. His eyes scanned the flowing script once, twice, a third time, as if repetition might change the words before him.
"Gods be good," he breathed, a cold fury settling in his bones. "The crown has tripled our tax burden. Effective immediately."
"Tripled?" Luwin's eyebrows rose toward his receding hairline. "On what grounds?"
"Military necessity. Preparations for potential Targaryen threat from across the Narrow Sea." Ned's laugh held no humor. "As if we don't face a far greater threat from the North."
"This is most unusual, Lord Stark." Luwin's fingers stroked his chain anxiously. "Such increases typically require approval from the king's council, with proper notice—"
"The proper notice is here, signed by the Hand himself." Ned tossed the scroll onto his desk, where it curled back into itself like a wounded animal. "They know exactly what they do. With winter coming, with the smallfolk already struggling to fill their storehouses..."
Ned pressed his palms against the desk, leaning his weight on them as if the physical pressure might somehow contain the anger rising within him. The Lords Tallhart, Glover, and Cerwyn had already arrived for the northern council he'd called to discuss the Wall's defenses. The other lords slowly trickling in. Now he would have to tell them their people must somehow find coin for both the Watch and the crown's suddenly insatiable appetite.
"Send for Lady Stark and Robb," he said finally. "And close the door behind you. This conversation must remain private for now."
Luwin bowed. "At once, my lord."
Alone again, Ned moved to the hearth, staring into the flames as if they might contain answers. First an assassin with Valyrian steel, now this deliberate provocation. The south reaching its gilded fingers north, just as a darker threat gathered beyond the Wall.
Threats from both sides, he thought grimly. And the North caught between.
The door opened to admit Catelyn, her face composed but eyes wary. Their relationship had frayed since the truth of Jon had emerged, not broken, but strained by fifteen years of unnecessary pain. Behind her came Robb, looking more a Stark than ever with his stern expression and straight posture. The boy—no, the young man—had shouldered leadership admirably during Ned's absence, but the shadow of Jon's revelation hung between them still.
"You asked for us, my lord?" Catelyn's formality cut deeper than her anger would have.
"Close the door, Robb."
His son complied, then took position beside his mother. Neither sat. The room felt suddenly smaller, filled with unspoken words and buried hurts.
"A raven from King's Landing." Ned gestured to the scroll. "The crown has tripled our tax burden, effective immediately."
Catelyn's sharp intake of breath was the only sound for several heartbeats. Then Robb stepped forward, snatching up the parchment with barely controlled fury.
"They cannot do this," he said, voice low and dangerous. "The North already struggles to feed itself with winter approaching. The smallfolk will starve."
"They do not care," Catelyn said bitterly. "It's the great houses they mean to humble."
Ned studied his wife's face. "You see a pattern in this."
"I do." Her blue eyes met his, and for a moment the coldness between them thawed in shared purpose. "First an assassin with a Valyrian steel dagger, a failed attempt to strike at our family. Now this—a successful strike at our treasury." Her voice hardened. "The lion flexes his claws."
"Tywin Lannister," Ned agreed. "Though I doubt he acts without at least tacit approval from Robert."
"Robert cares nothing for coin," Catelyn countered. "He drowns himself in wine and leaves governance to his wife's family. This reeks of Lannister scheming."
Robb paced the solar, reminding Ned painfully of Jon in his agitation. "What will we do, Father? We cannot possibly meet these demands and still prepare the North for winter."
"And the darkness beyond the Wall," Ned added grimly. "No, we cannot do both."
"Then we refuse," Robb said immediately. "The North can stand alone if need be."
"The North has never stood alone," Catelyn corrected him gently. "Even during the Conquest, Torrhen Stark knelt rather than see his people burned."
Ned moved to the map table where carved wooden pieces represented the great houses of the North. He stared at the tiny direwolf marking Winterfell, feeling the weight of every Stark who had held these lands before him.
"I had planned to return to the Wall after our council," he said slowly. "To meet with Mance Rayder if possible, to learn what drives the wildlings south." He looked up, meeting first Catelyn's eyes, then Robb's. "But now I must go to King's Landing instead."
"No." The word escaped Catelyn's lips before she could stop it. Her hand covered her mouth, but her eyes betrayed her fear.
"I must," Ned insisted. "Someone must make Robert see reason. The Crown's coffers overflow with Lannister gold—they have no need of northern taxes. This is deliberate provocation."
"It's a trap," Catelyn said, moving closer. Their recent estrangement forgotten in her concern. "They want to draw you south, away from your power base. Away from the North's protection."
"I agree with Mother," Robb said. "Send an envoy. Delegate this to-"
"To whom?" Ned's voice cut through their objections. "Who speaks with the authority of the Warden of the North? Who can make Robert Baratheon remember the friendship that forged a kingdom?"
Silence answered him. Outside, the snow fell harder, blanketing Winterfell in white.
"I don't like it either," Ned said more gently. "But winter is coming. The Long Night gathers its strength. We cannot fight enemies on two fronts—not the crown and the Others."
"And if you go south and never return?" Catelyn's question hung in the air, echoing fears none of them could dismiss. "Like your father before you?"
"I will not go as a rebel or a traitor," Ned answered. "I go as Warden of the North, to speak with my king about the realm's security. About the true threat that gathers beyond our borders."
Robb's face had gone carefully blank, the way it did when he struggled with difficult emotions. "And what of the northern council? The preparations for what we saw at Castle Black?"
"I will hold the council," Ned said firmly. "But you shall lead the actual efforts and it's time the northern lords saw you as more than a boy." He turned to Catelyn. "And you will advise him, as you've advised me."
Something passed between them then—not forgiveness, not yet, but perhaps understanding. Catelyn nodded slowly. "When will you leave?"
"After the council. Two weeks, perhaps three." Ned rubbed his beard, thinking of all that must be arranged. "I need the northern lords to understand what we face. What I saw at Castle Black. The dead walk, and we must be ready."
"And if the south will not listen?" Robb asked.
"Then the North remembers." Ned's voice hardened. "And the North prepares alone."
The three stood in silence, each lost in their own thoughts as the snow continued its relentless descent outside the window. Beyond Winterfell's walls, beyond the Wall itself, Ned knew the true enemy gathered strength. But for now, the game of thrones demanded his attention—a game he had never wanted to play, yet found himself forced into once more.
For the living, he thought grimly. For the realm. For my family.
"Send Luwin back," he said finally. "We have ravens to dispatch and preparations to make."
Robb nodded and moved to the door, but Catelyn lingered, her eyes searching his face.
"Be careful in the south, Ned," she said softly. "You are too honest for their games."
"I know." He reached for her hand, relieved when she didn't pull away. "But sometimes even the wolf must venture from his woods."
"Just remember," she said, "the lion sleeps in the sun, but the wolf endures the winter."
Their fingers entwined briefly before she followed Robb from the solar, leaving Ned alone with the snow, the flames, and the weight of the North upon his shoulders.
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Castle Black, The Wall
Samwell Tarly's knees trembled beneath his black woolen breeches as he stood before Lord Commander Mormont's desk. The Old Bear's solar was warm—too warm, with the hearth blazing and the windows sealed against the bitter northern winds—but Sam couldn't stop shivering. Maester Aemon sat nearby, his milky eyes fixed on nothing, chains clinking softly whenever he shifted his ancient frame.
"You're no fighter, Tarly. But that head of yours might serve the Watch better than any sword." Mormont's gruff voice cut through the crackling of the fire. The Lord Commander ran a weathered hand through his beard, studying Sam with those hard eyes that missed nothing.
Sam swallowed, his throat clicking audibly in the quiet room. "M-my lord?"
"The ranging beyond the Wall..." Mormont didn't finish the thought, but Sam understood. The rumors had spread through Castle Black like wildfire—dead men walking, brothers vanishing, wildlings fleeing south in numbers unseen for generations.
"The records in our library are inadequate," Maester Aemon's voice rasped, his frail fingers trembling as they traced the links of his chain. "Ancient knowledge fades. What was once common wisdom now exists only in fragments, hidden in the dustiest corners of the Citadel."
Sam's heart skipped. The Citadel, that great sanctuary of knowledge he'd once dreamed of before his father had crushed those hopes with the same brutal efficiency he'd crushed everything else about his eldest son.
"The Citadel must be warned of what comes," Aemon continued. "And I am too old for such a journey."
"Me?" Sam squeaked, then flushed scarlet. "You want me to go to Oldtown?"
"You can read. You can write. You've devoured every book in our sorry excuse for a library." Mormont pushed a map across his desk. "And unlike most of these sheep-witted recruits, you understand what you read."
Sam stared at the map, yellowed parchment showing the long journey from the Wall to Oldtown. His fingers traced the route involuntarily, lingering on the Citadel's mark—a tower inked at the mouth of the Honeywine River.
"You'll research everything about the Long Night," Mormont continued. "The Others, the last hero, ancient defenses—anything that might help us understand what we face."
"The Watch needs a new maester, and we need answers," the Old Bear stated flatly. "You'll most likely to find both in Oldtown."
Sam's mind raced. The very place he'd once begged his father to let him go. "But who will serve as steward to Maester Aemon while I'm gone?"
"Clydas will attend me," Aemon said with a gentle smile. "And when you return with your chain, you'll bring the wisdom we need to face the darkness."
"My chain?" Sam's voice cracked. "You mean become a maester?"
"Why not?" Mormont growled. "You've the mind for it. Unless you'd rather spend your days counting turnips in the storeroom?"
"N-no, my lord." Hope—dangerous, fragile hope—bloomed in Sam's chest, though he tried to smother it before it could take root. Good things didn't happen to Samwell Tarly. His father had made that abundantly clear.
"Come with me, Samwell." Aemon rose shakily to his feet. "I will try and get you ready for the archmaesters."
Sam helped the old man down the winding steps to the library beneath the rookery. The familiar smell of parchment and leather binding calmed his racing heart. Here, among the books, Sam had always found refuge.
"These." Aemon's fingers found specific volumes with uncanny precision despite his blindness. "The accounts of the last ranging during the Long Night. Records of wildling migrations. Legends of the children of the forest and their pact with the First Men."
Sam gathered the books, stacking them carefully. When his fingers brushed an ancient leather volume bound with ironwood clasps, a strange warmth spread through his palm. He nearly dropped the book in shock. A soft blue light seeped from between his fingers, illuminating the dust motes that danced in the library's gloom.
"M-maester Aemon?" Sam stammered, but the words died in his throat as the glow faded when he shifted his grip.
Aemon's head tilted, as if listening to something beyond mortal hearing. "Did you find the chronicle of Azor Ahai, Samwell?"
"I—I think so." Sam examined the book's spine, finding no title. "The binding seems very old."
Aemon nodded but said nothing of the light. Instead, he continued selecting volumes until Sam's arms were laden with knowledge centuries old.
"You'll depart on the morrow," Aemon said as they returned to the solar. "Lord Commander has arranged passage on a trading galley from Eastwatch. The Blackbird will take you that far."
"So soon?" Fear clenched Sam's belly. He hadn't left the Wall since taking his vows, had scarcely had time to consider what this journey might mean.
"The nights grow longer," Aemon said simply. "We haven't the luxury of delay."
That night, as Sam packed the precious texts along with his meager belongings, his hands trembled not just with fear but with a strange anticipation. He lifted the ironwood-bound volume again, but the glow did not return. Had he imagined it? Some trick of the light, perhaps, or his overwrought mind conjuring wonders where none existed?
Morning came too soon. As the brothers gathered in the courtyard to see him off, Maester Aemon beckoned Sam close.
"Knowledge is a weapon, Samwell," the ancient maester whispered, his breath frosting in the bitter air. "Learn to wield it well. And trust in what you feel, not just what you read."
Sam mounted his garron, adjusting his cloak against the biting wind. Castle Black's gate yawned before him, opening to a world he scarcely remembered. Sam felt something strange stirring beneath his fear—a pull, as if some unseen force tugged him southward. As if something waited for him at the Citadel, something beyond the knowledge he sought.