The Throne Room, the Small Council.
Warm sunlight spilled through the narrow, high windows across the floor. Where once a dragon's skull had loomed, now a tapestry depicting a hunting scene covered the wall.
"Should we assign men specifically to clear the dung off the streets…?"
"Ha, I can't conjure any more gold dragons out of thin air…"
"Perhaps the Gold Cloaks could handle it…"
"Law and order are still a problem…"
"The High Septon…"
…
Eddard Stark sat in the Hand's chair, his face stern as ever, though his eyes were somewhat vacant.
The great tourney Robert had staged in his honor had been magnificent, but with it came endless affairs of state. Ned could no longer bring himself to listen to the bickering of the councillors.
Why had Jon Arryn been looking into Robert's bastards?
The king's seed was scattered all across Westeros, yet he had publicly acknowledged only one boy, near Bran's age, whose mother was of noble birth. The child was being fostered under Lord Renly's stewardship at Storm's End.
Ned also remembered Robert's very first child, a daughter begotten in the Vale. A sweet little girl. Though Robert had soon tired of the mother, he doted on the babe, visiting her daily to make her laugh—and no matter Ned's own feelings, Robert had dragged him along as companion.
And then, inevitably, Ned thought of Lyanna.
The night their father betrothed her to Robert, Lyanna had told him: I've heard he already has a child in the Vale with another girl.
Ned himself had held that infant; he could not deny the truth. But unwilling to lie to his sister, he promised her that whatever Robert had done before their betrothal mattered little. Robert was an earnest man, he had said, and would surely love her with all his heart.
Lyanna had given him a look he still could not fathom. My dearest Ned, she said, love is precious, but it cannot change a man's nature… Robert will never be content with one bed.
That memory remained vivid. Now, thinking back, he realized Lyanna had never been satisfied with their father's choice.
Ned sighed inwardly. Surely Cersei Lannister could not be pleased with Robert's rutting either.
Still, the mystery gnawed at him: what had Jon Arryn found among Robert's bastards that was worth his life?
As the councillors bantered idly, Ned's brows drew together.
He had not the strength to set things right—perhaps when Stannis returned to the council, the chamber would regain some gravity.
From his very first meeting, Ned had wished to recall Stannis from Dragonstone. The very next day he had sent a raven, politely asking Lord Stannis to resume his seat at the council table. To this day, no reply had come.
At last he rose. "My lords, that will be all."
Without waiting for further quips, Ned strode from the hall.
…
Near the Tower of the Hand, he found Renly Baratheon seemingly waiting for him.
Renly had been absent from council that day. Petyr Baelish had quipped that the Master of Laws was often missing, a habit the younger Baratheon shared with Stannis.
Yet Renly was warm and smiling, and Ned could not help but like the Storm Lord, so like a younger Robert in appearance.
He hoped Renly might yet take his duties more seriously, and lend his strength to the realm. Ned meant to speak with him properly in time.
"Lord Ned," Renly greeted him, flashing a grin.
They exchanged a few pleasantries before Renly said suddenly, "Ned, look here—do you know who this is?"
He held out a finely crafted golden pendant in the shape of a rose, within which was set a painted portrait in the style of Myr. The face was that of a charming young girl, soft brown hair, eyes like a doe's.
"That is…"
Ned recognized her at once: Margaery Tyrell, whom he had glimpsed near King's Landing. She had struck him as both beautiful and clever. A good match, he thought absently—though Arya, enamored with her swordplay, was unlikely ever to fill such a role. Perhaps in time…
Renly's eyes lit eagerly. "So you do know her?"
Ned nodded slightly. "Yes. Is she not the daughter of Lord Mace Tyrell of Highgarden?"
Renly blinked in surprise. "You've met?"
"I saw her once, upon our approach to King's Landing," Ned replied.
Renly studied him, then pressed, turning the pendant so the face stared up at Ned. "And did she remind you of anyone?"
Ned looked again and shook his head.
Renly's disappointment was plain. "You don't think she looks like your sister?"
"Lyanna?"
Renly nodded firmly.
But Ned denied it. "They are not alike."
Though puzzled at Renly's notion, he kept it to himself; he trusted Robert's brother.
"You've seen my daughter Arya," Ned said instead. "She is the one who resembles Lyanna."
Renly remembered the tomboyish little girl, hardly worth remark at the time.
He sighed, shrugging. "Then I was mistaken. I had hoped to surprise Robert—and you as well."
Ned clasped his arm gently. "Renly, Lyanna has never left your brother's heart. Nor mine. But I thank you for the thought."
…
The Tower of the Hand.
As Ned entered, he found Arya balanced precariously on one foot upon the spiral stair, arms flailing for balance. The rough stone had already rubbed her little feet raw.
Ned stopped, his voice weary. "Arya, what are you doing?"
His youngest daughter always had a new "surprise" for him.
Beaming, Arya said, "Syrio says a water dancer can balance for hours on a single toe!"
She flapped her arms wildly to stay upright.
Ned chuckled despite himself. "Which toe?"
"Any toe!" Arya huffed, and hopped from right foot to left, wobbling until she steadied again.
"You can't practice here," Ned said gently. "Too high, too steep. A fall from there would not be amusing."
Arya puffed her cheeks. "This is part of swordplay! Besides—" She planted both feet, declaring proudly, "Syrio says a water dancer never falls."
Her eyes shone as she tilted her head. "Father, if I get as good as Syrio, could I be a knight? Or even a lord?"
Before Ned could answer, she rushed on, "I want to be both."
Ned came closer, resting a large hand atop her dark hair. "Arya… my daughter, you'll wed a lord, tend his castle, and your sons will be knights and lords."
Arya scowled. "No! That's Sansa's fate!"
She turned aside, sulking, and went back to her one-footed stance.
Ned sighed softly and continued upstairs.
…
Essos, near the Free City of Qohor.
Daenerys rode at the head of her small escort, gazing toward the distant walls. "Ser Jorah, can these sellswords truly take the city?"
Jorah Mormont looked at her. "Your Grace, Qohor's garrison has its walls, aye, but their numbers are few. Without reinforcements, it will fall in time."
Dany turned her mare aside. "Then let us return."
Her retinue wheeled about. A hot wind swept the plain, raising a veil of dust; she lifted her cloak to cover her mouth and nose.
After some distance, she slowed her horse and spoke again. "The losses in a siege are terrible, are they not?"
Jorah nodded. "Aye, princess."
She studied him. "I thank you for showing me. But tell me truly: I have heard Westeros is filled with castles strong as this. Could my brother conquer the Seven Kingdoms with ten thousand men?"
Her heart clenched with sudden dread for Viserys, having seen what real war meant.
Jorah hesitated, then bowed his head. "Forgive me, princess, but with ten thousand brooms, your brother could not even sweep clean a stable."
Dany found herself agreeing. Her brother's sword at his hip was nothing more than a bauble of pride.
She pressed further. "And if not Viserys? If it were another—someone stronger—would ten thousand be enough?"
Only after a long pause did Jorah answer. "The men of Westeros would crouch behind walls of shields, or sharpened stakes. Ten thousand could not storm many castles. Unless…"
"Unless what?" she pressed.
"Unless the Usurper Robert is fool enough to meet them in the field. Then, with fortune, one battle might decide all."
"Is Robert such a man? Foolish?"
Jorah's jaw set. "Robert is fearless, mighty in combat. He loves nothing more than to face his foe openly. If the Targaryens return with an army, I think it likely he would sally forth. But…"
His lip curled. "He is surrounded by others—pipers to his tune—who would not let him act so rashly. Stannis, and Eddard Stark among them."
Venom laced his voice at the last.
"You seem to hate this Stark," Dany said softly.
Jorah's eyes darkened. "He stripped me of all I loved—for a handful of poachers, and his precious honor."
The torment was plain upon him.
"Ser Jorah," she said gently, "what you lost, the Targaryens will restore."
His eyes flickered, and he bowed low in gratitude.
…
That evening, the Tower of the Hand's dining hall.
With a thump, Mondon Waters set a great platter of meat before Jon Snow.
"I roasted it myself," he said with a sheepish grin. "Eat up."
Jon looked at the heaping dish and chuckled. "Mondon, I can't eat this much—but thank you."
Mondon grinned wider. "Try it."
Jon took a piece, chewed, and nodded appreciatively. "It's excellent."
Mondon poured him a cup of wine.
Jon sighed. "You're making me uneasy, Mondon. What is it you want?"
Perhaps it was their shared birth as bastards, or the hardships they both knew, but from the first, Jon had felt at ease with Mondon. He liked the oafish boy's company.
Mondon was the first friend Jon had found in King's Landing. Robb, Bran, Rickon—he loved them, but they were Catelyn's children, trueborn sons of Winterfell. Jon knew he was never truly one of them.
The grey walls of Winterfell would always haunt his memory, but he had left them behind forever.
Now, with his father in King's Landing, Jon Snow would have to begin a new life.
…
"I want to sign up for the melee tomorrow," Mondon blurted. "The group combat."
Jon frowned. "Why not the joust?"
Mondon shook his head. "I can't joust. I've only got my hammer and shield."
Realization dawned on Jon. "You mean to drag me into it with you?"
.
.
.
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