The banners of the crowned stag hung heavy in Maegor's Holdfast, their gold and black seeming dull in the torch-glow, as if they too felt the weight upon the hall. Laughter tried to live here tonight, thin, brittle things that cracked as soon as they left a throat. A feast, Robert had called it. A welcome. A balm upon fresh wounds. To Eddard Stark it felt more like a wake no one dared name.
He sat at the king's right as duty demanded, a place of honor that felt more like a chain. His daughters were distant, as he had insisted, and yet not far enough. Arya fidgeted with a child's wild spirit, too fierce for velvet walls and southern smiles; Sansa sat still as carved ivory, beauty fit for a court she did not yet understand, the boy at her side gleaming in lion's gold.
Ned kept to water. Wine clouded thought, and the hour was dark enough without a fogged mind. He would sooner have refused this revel entirely, yet refusal would draw blood he could not afford to spill. Not while questions still walked Westeros like restless shades: Bran's fall. Jon Arryn's death.
There were darker haunts before him. Quiet knives in quiet shadows. Rage would not unmask them; patience might. A show of peace must be held while he hunted for the truth.
Ned's mind drifted to Catelyn's whispered fears in Baelish's house of sin. Tyrion Lannister, she had said. The Imp. Ned had bristled even then. Treachery from Lannisters was no strange thought, yet even serpents struck for reason. What reason to kill his son? What gain in a child's blood? Unless the blow was meant to silence the truth Bran had glimpsed. Some hand had guided that blade, other than the dwarf's.
And then her other fear, quieter, yet it cut deeper still. Arthur. Catelyn had spoken the name like a warning bell. Beware the boy, she had urged. Your fosterling seeks more than you see.
Ned's jaw tightened. He had raised Arthur Manderly as one of his own, near enough as any true-born son. Arthur had ambition, Ned would not deny that, yet ambition was not rot. Catelyn had feared ambition in him. Ned had seen only fire, and fire could warm as well as burn. Loyalty lived in that lad, in heart and blood both. Ambition was not betrayal. Caution was not proof.
His jaw set. There were foes enough without suspecting his own. He would not turn sword or doubt against a son of his hearth. Arthur was not his enemy. He would stake steel on that truth.
A great roar of laughter shook Ned from thought. Robert's fist struck the table like a warhammer, jostling goblets and plates.
"Seven hells, Ned, do you remember the bells?" he boomed, wiping grease from his beard with the back of his hand. "The bells! Every bloody one of them, ringing their tits off. You, William, and old Jon stormed in before the cunt Connington could sniff glory. I would've taken Rhaegar's mutt right there if the red-haired rat hadn't run squealing."
"Aye," Ned said quietly. "William had led the van that day."
His cousin's name was a blade to the gut even now. Three boys raised like brothers in the Eyrie, dreaming of honor won bright like the songs. They had all believed such things once, but war had given them mud, blood, and a chill that never left a man's bones. Robert had gained a crown of gold, Ned a crown of grief, and William…now wore a crown of dust that fed the crows.
Robert slapped the table, "Gods, that was a proper fight! William rode atop that great destrier of his, cutting through men as if he were carving up ham for the Stranger itself. No army alive could stand before us that day!"
Ned forced a nod and thought grimly. Even so, thehungryStranger had come for Williamintheend.
From below the dais, Baelish lifted his cup, voice like silk, "To the bells of the Stoney Sept," he said, smiling, "And to His Grace's triumph upon the Trident, where the dragon prince learned the taste of a Stag's fury."
Cups lifted, voices rose. Cheers for the Hammer of the Dragons. Robert basked in it like a hound near a hearth.
Ned lifted his cup as well, though wine tasted like dust on his tongue. The queen's green eyes flicked toward Ned, cool, measuring. Ser Jaime stood behind her in careless ease, one hand on the lion-pommel at his hip, half-smiling as if the whole world were a jest he'd already heard.
Music followed the shouting, strings turning harsh revel into something softer. Ladies and lords drifted down like colored leaves, velvet and jewels sweeping the floor. Graceful, practiced, hollow.
Joffrey, all polished malice beneath golden curls, led Sansa to the floor with a princeling's pride. She followed with head bowed, face serene as still water, though Ned knew his daughter's heart quivered beneath.
Arya refused Renly's easy coaxing, scowling at her plate as if the gaze alone would break it. The young man only laughed, unoffended, and took instead a girl wrapped in roses. Curly brown hair, green silk fluttering, Margaery Tyrell, unless all heraldry lied. The Tyrells came like summer storms, loud and perfumed, their banners filling the city's gates. For the tourney. For show. For power dressed as celebration.
Then he saw Arthur.
The boy, no, the young man, moved with sure feet and knight's bearing. Silver and blue suited him, his pale hair brushed neat, his smile easy as wind off the sea. He danced first with a shy, freckled girl who blushed near crimson by the end, then with the queen, whose smile held frost instead of warmth. After her came Margaery Tyrell, who smiled bright and pure, their dance seemed to catch every eye, and lastly Sansa, who seemed steadier in his hold than she had anywhere near Joffrey.
Arthur had called on them the previous day, humble in black doublet, eyes soft with apology. He had asked gently of Sansa's sorrow, of Arya's fury, and offered his sword for any task Ned might name. The boy had always known courtesy, but the grief of his youth had tempered him further.
There is loyalty in him still, Ned told himself. Gods know I need honest hearts in this place.
The feast dwindled slowly. Robert sagged into drink, voice slurred, laughter turning wild, like a man chasing echoes of battles already won and wars lost. Men drifted toward Ned one after another, lords of Reach and storm, crown and court, heavy with perfumes and promises. Congratulating, flattering, hinting, all wanting a piece of the realm, as wolves took meat from bone. Only wolves were honest. These were carrion birds in silk.
Littlefinger drifted close, all soft steps and softer smiles, "A fine evening, enjoying the feast, my lord?" Baelish muttered with a smile genial as a cat before milk.
"I find little pleasure in it," Ned muttered before caution caught his tongue.
"Ah," Baelish breathed, feigning hurt. "And here I was thinking even a Stark might enjoy a night's warmth, good drink, and prettier company than snow."
"I prefer quiet halls," Ned replied flatly. "And honest company."
Petyr's laugh was low, amused. "That sort of company is rare here. Best learn to make do with charming liars."
"A poor lesson," Ned said. "Tonight has shown enough greed to sicken a man. Half these lords come offering praise with one hand and scheming with the other."
"More than one brought their wives to bargain for land," Baelish murmured. "Merryweather among them, no doubt."
Ned's jaw tightened. "If men trade their honor for coin or flesh, I want no part in it."
"You refused?" Baelish smirked. "A pity, Stark. His Myrish lady is quite an exotic treasure. Beautiful as a sin. And honor rarely tastes as sweet as her, or so I am told. Some men take their pleasures where they find them. Some take… power."
"It disgusts me." Ned's glare could have frozen a river. "The lack of honor among you lot."
"Then steel yourself," Baelish said lightly. "Many will come with subtler coin than Lord Orton. Honeyed words, loyal smiles. Quiet promises."
Ned turned to face him at last. "And what is it they seek from me?"
"For the same prize men have sought since Aegon the dragon shaped the first swords into a throne... Power," Baelish leaned closer, breath wine-sweet, eyes sharp as razors. "You hold the king's ear. Those who cannot whisper to the king, will whisper to the man who does."
Ned's patience thinned further. "They waste their breath. I care not for sweet songs and schemes."
Baelish sighed with theatrical sorrow. "Yet songs have swayed kings, and schemes toppled thrones. Even you may be moved, should the tale be told well enough."
"I am not so easily led."
"Yet, try they will," Littlefinger said. "They'll speak not of gold, but of honor… duty… friendship. They'll promise peace, or war, or both. And more than one will ask you to… tidy the council. They'd see the king's council replaced."
Ned's head snapped up. "Replace Robert's counsel? With whose men?"
Baelish raised a brow. "Whose do you think?"
"The king chooses his council," Ned said flatly.
Littlefinger's smile thinned to a knife's edge. "Does he?"
Ned's fingers curled into a fist. "I will not play their game."
"Then pray," Petyr murmured, bowing as if in jest, "that they do not play you."
He drifted away, swallowed by silk and sound, as though he had never stood there. For one heartbeat, the hall noise seemed to dull. Ned felt the weight of every torchlit shadow watching.
Renly Baratheon laughed somewhere across the hall, a sound smooth as polished brass, and Ned remembered the locket. Rose-gold, delicate as a maiden's dream. A painted girl with doe's eyes and chestnut hair, cheeks soft as new petals. Renly had asked, Does she not put you in mind of someone dear? and watched Ned as if waiting for revelation, for the ghost of Winterfell's lost daughter to step from memory and into paint.
Lyanna. Always, her namethey dragged into their songsandgames.
She had never worn sweet perfumes or gold petals in her hair. Lyanna smelled of horse, frost, and winter roses, hair wind-tossed, laughter sharp as steel. That southern girl Margaery was no more Lyanna than a glass rose was a wildflower.
The girls kissed his cheeks goodnight, small warm hands and voices bright with youth. He watched Sansa and Arya go, jewels of his heart, and felt a weight settle in his chest. Let them sleep. Let them dream of home.
In Winterfell, night brought peace and the soft breath of wolves beneath the moon. Here, night felt like eyes peering from behind velvet curtains. Secrets nested thicker than ravens upon the rookery.
A knock, solid and familiar.
"My lord Hand?" Jory's voice, honest as iron, unpolished and loyal. He'd never master the southron habit of muttering secrets behind silk. "Ser Arthur asks leave to speak with you. Says he'd be grateful for a moment."
A rare warmth stirred in Ned's chest. The boy, one of the few remnants of William, and of the days when their honor had not yet been bartered away in return for this cursed city. Robert and Arthur, perhaps the only two souls in this wicked city who did not wish his ruin or use. And that was a comfort he very much treasured.
"Aye," Ned said, rising. "Bring him."
He looked to the window, the battlements beyond. Black sky, a sliver of moon caught in cloud. Somewhere, the sea murmured against the cliffs like an old god weary of men.
"I'll speak with him on the balcony," Ned finished. "Better the night air than this perfumed rot."
Jory bowed and withdrew. Ned followed him out, into cold stone halls where torches flickered.
Moonlight lay across the courtyard like frost, blanching stone and stilling noise. Ned drew a long breath, one a man takes after being held too long beneath troubled waters. The city's clamor felt far away here, where wind whispered instead of scheming courtiers.
Steps approached, soft, respectful. Arthur bowed low. "My lord."
Ned felt that rare tug of warmth at his mouth. A smile. Strange, how unfamiliar it had begun to feel. "Arthur, come sit. Gods, you grow more each time I see you."
"Or you grow older, my lord," Arthur said with a sly grin.
"Aye, mayhaps you're right," Ned said with a chuckled sigh.
Arthur's smile was small and earnest. "I am glad to see Arya and Sansa recovering. It would harden any heart to watch children carry such grief. It could not have been easy."
"No... it wasn't," Ned's voice softened. "Yet they are still children, whatever sorrows they have are forgotten easily with distractions. Arya spends her days at swordplay, gods help me, and Sansa… Sansa blooms like she were born to silk and song. She fits here more than I ever shall."
"Well, you never had a singing septa," Arthur teased, soft and respectful.
Ned huffed, a low sound almost like laughter. "Thank the gods for that mercy."
The moment passed as smoke does when wind shifts. His mirth faded, leaving weight behind.
"I grow weary of this place, Arthur. Weary to the bone, as some old hound dragged back to hunt after his teeth are gone. I fear for them here. For Robert as well. These halls are bright, but every smile hides a knife."
"King's Landing breeds enemies behind courtesy," Arthur agreed. In the pale light, his face looked older than his years. "And burdens no man ought to bear alone."
Ned let the truth of that sit between them a moment. "Never thought peace could trouble me more than war. At least in battle, you can defend against an enemy's sword. Tell me, how can a man ever fight against his ledgers?"
Arthur watched him carefully. "You speak of the crown debts?"
Ned's head snapped around. "You know of it?"
Arthur lifted his hands in mild apology, though pride glimmered beneath his humility, as always with him, "My bank is small, yet it reaches far enough to hear footfall when it comes. Also, Lord Baelish had come seeking coin."
Ned's jaw clenched. Littlefinger, always a step ahead, "He spoke nothing of that to me."
Arthur's tone held calm. "Perhaps because I offered him no coin."
"You refused him?" Ned asked, slow and wary.
"I delayed him," Arthur said, gaze steady. "A refusal makes an enemy. A delay teaches intent."
Ned saw not the boy he remembered climbing tall towers of the keep, nor the grief-thin youth left in war's ashes. Something keener now, eyes that held too much winter for so young a man, the makings of a lord and more. William's legacy. His foster son. Blood of the North.
Yet Catelyn's warning whispered to him again, thin as frost at his ear. Be wary.
He pushed it down. He has been loyal. He is loyal. He must be. The thought felt more like a prayer than truth.
"You play a dangerous game." Ned's voice was low, but there was no censure, only tired understanding.
Arthur smiled, faint and sharp. "So they say. Yet better to know the board than stumble across it blind and hope honor shields you."
"You need not wade further into these waters," Ned replied, voice low. "You are young yet. You owe the realm nothing."
Arthur held his gaze. "I owe you, my lord. And House Stark. I would not see those I hold dear left to the mercy of those who sharpen blades in shadow."
There was steel beneath the courtesy. Ned looked out past the battlements. The city sprawled below, bright and rotted both. He longed for pine, snow, and honest wind. The night air tasted of stone and salt and distant smoke. Ned felt the weight of it upon his shoulders, heavier than plate and mail.
"Why delay the loan?" Ned asked at last. His voice sounded worn in his own ears. "Say the truth plain."
Arthur's easy smile slipped, as though cast aside like an ill-fitted mask. "Because Lord Baelish is a liar. I would not trust him with a purse of a beggar, let alone the kingdom's."
"I do not trust him either. Yet Jon Arryn did, and Robert does." Ned rubbed at the bridge of his nose, bone-deep tired. "And we cannot lay every debt of this realm at Baelish's feet."
Arthur's expression sharpened. "Oh, but we can. And I do. His clever sums enrich him more than the crown. You should remove him from the council."
Ned's brow creased. "And place whom in his stead? You?"
Arthur did not flinch. "I would serve the realm better than he."
There it was. Naked. No sly grin, no coy wordplay. Ambition lay plain, and it rang in the stillness like steel in a cold yard. Arthur is loyal, yes…yet hungry too. Ned felt the unease coil like a snake under furs.
A wind stirred between them, thin and chill. The boy did not look away. Neither did Ned. For a heartbeat, he saw not Arthur but ghosts, Brandon with fire in his blood, Robert before wine dulled him, Rhaegar beneath falling rubies. William standing against the Dawn. Men who strode too near the flame, and burned for it.
"You think me dangerous," Arthur said softly.
"I think you eager," Ned replied with a sigh. "For something that will haunt you, son."
Arthur bowed, deep and respectful. "I meant no offense."
"And I take none, Littlefinger has served the realm well," Ned said, voice stiff as iron. "Grand Maester Pycelle's reports show the crown's coffers are fuller than they were under Aerys."
Arthur gave a faint, quiet laugh, dry and unamused. "So too are the crown's debts. Coin flows like water, aye, and then vanishes faster than it can be counted."
A boy, Ned reminded himself. A clever boy, but a boy nonetheless. No northman ever asked for the Master of Coin's chair, that's no a seat for a swordhand, Ned thought, and yet Arthur sought it all the same.
"If you would be safe," Arthur continued, "surround yourself with friends, not strangers. Replace these men before they turn upon you. Give Baelish's seat to me… or to Lord Tyrion, it'll ease the lions." He started to tick off names like a seasoned courtier. "Dismiss Janos Slynt, appoint Ser Loras in his stead. It will tie the Tyrells to your service. Better still… bind them by blood. Lady Margaery would make a fine match for young Robb."
Ned's jaw clenched. The suggestion weighed like stone in his chest. Tyrion Lannister? Raise the Imp who tried to killmyson? Baelish's warning echoed, "You counsel me to place a Lannister there? Haven't they enough?"
Arthur's lips twitched, half-smile, half grimace. "He is clever. Shrewd, even. It would soothe some wounds left festering. We cannot have this… quarrel grow any further."
Ned exhaled slowly, rubbing his temple. "I know what must be done," he said, though the words felt too curt, too final. But he could not bear more.
Arthur bowed his head slightly. "Of course, my lord. I only sought to offer what counsel I could."
"Anything else?" Ned asked, though part of him regretted the question. The boy's mind was a sword unsheathed, and he was half afraid to see which way it swung.
"Aye." Arthur did not hesitate. "Summon Lord Stannis home. If there is one man in the realm who would stand beside you out of duty and not gain, it is he. And if Stannis cannot or will not answer… appoint another true admiral in his stead. Lord Paxter Redwyne. Or Lord Monford Velaryon."
Ned's lips pressed thin. Monford Velaryon. Wed to a Manderly. Always circling back to his designs.
"I will consider it," Ned said, voice flat.
Arthur rose and straightened, cloak brushing the cold stone. "Then I bid you good evening, my lord."
Three steps he took towards the door, suddenly Arthur paused and turned. Moonlight caught his fine pale hair, silvering it like the heart tree's pool at Winterfell. His eyes glinted. "One more thing," he said. "Find cause to dismiss Ser Jaime Lannister from the Kingsguard and send him home to Casterly Rock."
Ned's blood flared, sudden and hot, like steel drawn from a forge. "The Kingslayer deserves the black cloak," he snapped, voice heavy as iron. "If I must send him anywhere, it is the Wall. Not Casterly Rock."
Arthur merely smiled, "Perhaps. Yet this is not a question of justice. Only a clever way to settle the crown's debt. Three million dragons is a small price to Lord Tywin for his heir. And doing so might please Ser Barristan as well. With Jaime gone, you may name a worthier Warden of the East, young Lord Arryn in truth, with Lord Royce to guide him. That way, the Vale stays strong and in loyal hands."
Such calm plotting. Such cold clarity. Ned thought.
Arthur's face was calm. "There is one more thing, my lord," he said softly, almost a whisper. "I would be remiss if I left it unsaid."
Ned's hand tightened on the balustrade. Gods spare me. What counsel comes next? Dismiss the Grand Maester, or the High Septon himself? He braced himself, chest tightening.
Arthur met his gaze, voice low. "Do not trust Littlefinger. Nor the Spider. They are alike, one hides in silk, the other in smiles."
Ned's jaw tightened. "I have no trust for either," he said, perhaps more sharply than he intended. "Yet they both serve the king. And I must work with those the king names to his council."
Arthur shook his head, slow, deliberate. "They only serve themselves, my lord. And will do everything to meet their own ends. If ever you must choose between their counsel and your conscience, choose the latter." A pause, soft as breath. "For they would gladly see you fall if it benefited them."
Ned breathed, slow, the night air biting at his lungs. "Go, lad. Rest. The night grows long, and I have much to ponder."
Arthur inclined his head, "Goodnight, my lord." And then he was gone, swallowed by torchlight and stone.
Eddard Stark stood alone on the balcony, the city sprawling below like some great beast breathing slow and foul. How softly ambition spoke, in the voice of those he loved. How easily loyalty tangled with hunger.
Trust no one, they all whispered. And yet he could not bring himself to mistrust the boy, not wholly. Love clouded judgment just as surely as hate. He had learned that at the Trident, and again at the Tower.
"Gods keep you, Arthur," Ned murmured to the empty night. "And gods grant me strength enough to keep you from the path you tread."
For a long while, he stood alone, listening to the city breathe. Beneath the din of revel and distant hooves, Ned fancied he could still hear the faint, far cry of a direwolf, lost somewhere beyond the walls, a sound that no one else would heed, nor remember.
Ned laid his hands upon the cold stone of the balcony and closed his eyes. Behind the dark of his lids came the faces of his ghosts that time had not gentled. He thought of Arthur then. The boy had his father's courage, and that, Ned feared, would be the death of him. He had buried too many sons of the North to bear the thought of losing another.
The gods were cruel in their mercies, crueler still in their love. If only wisdom came as easy as love, he thought. The world would be a kinder place.
And standing there above the city of kings and liars, with ghosts for company and stone for comfort, Eddard Stark knew this much to be true, in the end, it was love that would undo them all.