SANSA
Ser Loras came to her tent while she was preparing to break her fast.
Sansa heard the light rap at the entrance and looked up to find him ducking through the flap in his riding leathers, the rose of House Tyrell already at his breast even at this hour, his dark curls neat and his smile already deployed in that easy way he had, as if his beauty was a thing required no upkeep and simply continued of its own accord.
He had been Joffrey's companion for years now and had been at Winterfell only a handful of days before Sansa had decided she found him entirely insufferable, in the best possible sense.
He reminded her of the sort of knight in the mummers shows who appeared in the second act and did his honest best to make everything more complicated.
"My lady," the knight greeted, bowing with a flourish that managed to be both courtly and slightly mocking. "His grace wonders if you would care to break your fast with him this morning."
Sansa was already reaching for her a good dress before he had finished the sentence, and then collected herself, because a ladies were not ment to lunge.
"It would be my pleasure, ser." Sansa said, in the measured tone she had been practising. "Please tell his grace I am grateful for the invitation."
"He'll be pleased to hear it, I'm sure." Loras helped himself to a piece of her bread with the casual presumption that had vexed her slightly since they'd left the north and settled against the tent pole to wait, a smile at his lips.
Septa Mordane appeared from behind the curtain that divided the tent, already dressed, already disapproving. She had a unique gift for arriving precisely when needed. "Shall I braid your hair, my lady? The blue dress, I think, with the silver pins—"
"No, no, no. Of course not! He's already seen that one. …The teal one, we can use the silver pins as well." Sansa was already unlacing her current dress. "And I want to bring Lady."
Septa Mordane sniffed in disapproval. "A direwolf—"
Sansa had heard all her complaints before. "Prince Joffrey likes Lady. He told me himself I should keep her close always." This was true. He had said it as they were leaving Winterfell, with the wolf's great grey head under his hand, and the kind of quiet certainty he brought to everything. A direwolf by your side is better than any knight, my lady. Keep her close. Sansa had endeavoured to.
The septa's expression did not change, but she said. "As you wish. But you know how the Queen feels about the wolves, Lady will need to stay with the others when you go to the wheelhouse."
This was reasonable and though not exactly happy, Sansa allowed it, and stood still while the septa worked at her hair with the silver pins, thinking about the morning ahead with her prince.
Joffrey broke his fast with someone different every morning. She had learned this about him through the thorough observation—not spying. Jon on some mornings, Loras on others, Lancel and Tyrek, his mother and siblings, his father when the king could be persuaded to rise before midday, Ser Barristan, Ser Jaime, Ser Boros on one occasion which Joffrey had apparently declared an act of principle rather than preference.
He had broken his fast with Sansa twice before since they had left Winterfell. Each time had been — she searched for the word and found only wonderful, which she was aware was inadequate, but it was the truest one available.
Sansa was ready in twenty minutes. Loras looked her over with the assessing eye of someone who had his own opinions of what was good for Joffrey. Having found the result satisfactory, the flower knight offered his arm.
They walked through the camp, which was already awake and loud with the business of another day's ride— horses being led to water, wagons being loaded, the distant sound of someone shouting about an axle.
The morning air was cool and smelled of grass and cook fires. Sansa breathed it in. There is not a day since we left Winterfell that I have not been happy.
It was true. She had examined the statement for dishonesty and found none. Even the Neck, with its bogs and its damp and its curtains of pale fungus. Even that had been an adventure, experienced from horseback beside Loras at times, who complained about it with such sustained creativity that she had spent four days quietly laughing.
Without Arya underfoot to make things complicated, the whole journey had unfolded with the clean narrative pleasure of a well-told story. Every obstacle encountered was quickly resolved. And every morning promised something new.
It is just like the songs, she thought, and did not feel foolish for thinking it.
"There," Loras said.
Jon was in the small clear space to the east of the main camp, unhorsed, with a sword in his hand. Bran was opposite him, working through a form with great excitement, and Jon was watching with the particular focused patience he must have developed in his seven years at court. He called a correction. Bran began to adjusted. Jon nodded.
Two of my brothers in the Kingsguard, Sansa thought, and felt something so warm she pressed her hand briefly to her chest to contain it.
She had known about Bran's plans when he had begged father to came south. He wanted to squire for Ser Barristan the bold, with the eventual hope of the white cloak and the words that came with it.
Their mother had been uncertain about it, had pressed her lips together and asked, and pleaded and begged for Bran to stay in Winterfell with her, Arya, Rickon and Robb.
Joffrey had convinced and assured her that Ser Barristan had agreed the boy had promise, and their mother had acquiesced in the end when faced with a unified front of Joffrey and Bran and her reluctant husband.
When they had left, mother's expression was one of deep longing. Sansa understood that expression well. She had worn it herself, once, in the early days of letters and careful hopes and the long wait to see whether the thing she had been quietly tending would become the thing she was waiting for it to become.
It had.
If Bran earns the white cloak, and Jon decides he still wishes to be a kingsguard, I will be the best-protected queen in the history of the Seven Kingdoms. The thought made her so happy she had to work to keep it from showing on her face and screaming. Nobel ladies betrothed to future kings didn't do that. Especially not in a camp with hundreds of people.
Jon saw her as they passed and raised a hand in greeting. Bran turned, saw her, and began to wave with enthusiasm that nearly took his sword with it. Jon caught the blade with a look and Bran corrected himself, looking sheepish and stood straight. Loras laughed at her side and Sansa raised her hand in return, and then they were past, and she smiled at their backs.
The prince's tent was the largest after the king's, which seemed correct and proper to Sansa.
He was standing when Loras showed her in, dressed in an expensive doublet with a gold chain around his neck that Sansa thought highlighted his hair and eyes in the best way.
The prince was reviewing something on parchment that he set aside when she entered. Lady pressed forward to sniff his hand and was scratched behind the ears in the way she had apparently decided was her right.
Joffrey leaned back against his desk and Sansa was pleased to his eyes racked over her, catching each detail she had prepared to please him.
"Sansa," Joff said. "You look radiant today. I'm glad you came."
"You honour me, your grace." They had moved past formality at some point in the journey south — she was not sure when, exactly, only that there had been a moment, somewhere in the middle of a conversation about which of their preferred deserts were better, where the forms of address had become optional rather than mandatory.
"Leave us." Said the prince. The servants who had brought and prepared the meal did as ordered.
When they were alone he smiled at her with the warmth she had seen him give only a few people, the smile that was not the court smile, not the performing-for-the-realm smile, but his real one. She had catalogued every version of his smile in the way she catalogued everything about him, with the helpless attention of someone who could not look away.
They sat across from each other at the camp table laid with bread and cheese and honey and fruit. Sansa poured and served for them both, which she had learned he preferred to a servants hovering, and he told her about King's Landing and court.
Joffrey was a good storyteller, but that should not have been a surprise. Her prince was good at everything. Her betrothed spoke, selecting the details that made the thing visible rather than impressive. The street markets near the harbour, he said, where you could find Braavosi glasswork next to Dornish spice next to a blacksmith who made the finest hinges in the known world and wanted everyone to know it. The Sept of Baelor in the early morning when the light came through the windows and the whole building became a colour she would not have a word for until she saw it. The singers in the small taverns near Flea Bottom who were sometimes twice as talented as the ones at court. The street performers at the bottom of Aegon's high hill who could do things with fire that she would think were impossible until she had stood in front of them herself.
"I want to see all of it," Sansa said, dreaming they were there already.
"You will." The kings son smiled. "Once you arrive, I'll have letters sent to lords far and near. They'll send their daughters —You'll have your pick for your ladies in waiting. Some of them you'll like immediately no doubt, some of them mayhaps you won't like at all, and some of them you'll think you don't like and then discover you were wrong. All of them will be valuable." He paused. "Lady Desmera Redwyne shall be there if things go as I wish. Her father's sailing up with her brothers. I think you'll like her. She's sensible and she reads, which is rarer than it should be."
Sansa filed this away with the careful attention she brought to every piece of information he gave her. She had been doing this since the first feast at Winterfell, doing her best to assemble a map of the world she was moving toward, placing each new detail in relation to the others, trying to understand the shape of what she was stepping into.
"Court is not always kind," Joffrey admitted, meeting her eyes directly in the way that still caught her off guard even after moons of it. "Especially to a new face. Especially to my betrothed. There are people who will want to manage you and use you and pretend to like you for reasons that have nothing to do with you. You know this, yes?"
"Yes, your grace." Sansa affirmed said.
"Good." He nodded slightly. "Observe everything and everyone. See what's underneath. The double, triple meaning lacing every word. You have no doubt noticed my mother's feelings about the betrothal." A pause. "She has not exactly been subtle. But you'll win her over. And you shall do well in the capital. I have faith in you."
Sansa felt something warm move through her that was not quite pride but was adjacent to it. Her mother had said something similar before she had left — had taken both her hands, the morning of their departure, spoke to her calmly. You are ready for this, sweetling. More ready than you know.Sansa had carried the words in her heart like a talisman. She would carry her love's words the same way.
Joffrey had clasped one of her hands and was speaking softly to her. Sansa felt her heart racing. "I want you to go in with clear eyes. Court is a place worth loving. It's also a place that rewards careful attention." He let go of her and reached out for his cup. She felt a pang of loss.
"Are you frightened?" Joffrey asked after his sip.
She considered this honestly. "A little."
"Good." He said it not unkindly. "A little fear is healthy."
They ate. The conversation moved through subjects with ease as it always did when they were together. Music, history, the small observations they had accumulated during the journey south, a discussion about which kings had most affected the realm. He told her things that made her laugh. Lady dozed at her feet and Sansa felt at peace.
At some point she became aware that the breakfast had ended and neither of them had moved to conclude it.
"Your grace." Sansa said it carefully, feeling the colour start to rise from her neck to her cheek. "When will we... how soon do you think that we'll..."
Joffrey looked at her. His lips twitched. He always seemed to know what she was trying to say before she had fully assembled the attempt.
"The small council will want to ensure the succession before long," The prince told her. "They'll set a date. Not immediately—" Sansa felt a little sorrow at that "—there is no crisis at hand so we needn't rush." He leaned forward and cupped her cheek with his hand, and she stopped breathing.
"We have time to know each other properly first." His eyes were very close. She was quite certain that her face was doing something undignified. "Don't worry."
He did not kiss her. He withdrew his hand after a moment, exercising a deliberate choice, and she understood somehow that this was its own kind of message, that the deliberateness was itself a thing being communicated to her. She was not sure she could have articulated it to anyone else. She understood it regardless.
"Enjoy the wheelhouse this morning, my lady" the crown prince said, and his expression had returned to its usual self, warm but settled, the private edition. "I'll come find you after midday. We can ride, or do whatever you'd like."
"I would like that, my prince." Sansa said. And meant it absolutely.
The wheelhouse was as vast as a small room and considerably louder. Tommen had commandeered the best cushioned seat and was telling her about a time that Joffrey had carried him on his back all the way from the training yard to the royal chambers without stopping, a journey that Tommen was willing to retell in exhaustive geographical detail.
Myrcella was working on her embroidery with a focused intensity, pausing occasionally to add a detail about her brother that Tommen had omitted, which she did not phrase as corrections but functioned as such. They were charming, both of them, in their own childish way. They spoke about Joffrey with genuinely love. It reminded her of how Bran spoke of Robb.
Sansa was working on a length of black wool that she was shaping, slowly, into a doublet. She had started it three weeks ago. The cloak that would accompany it was folded in her sewing box, deep black with gold thread at the hem. It would take her another month at least. She did not mind. She was working carefully. It had to be perfect.
"He used to bring us sweets from the market," Myrcella said, without looking up from her embroidery. "He'd come in at night when he thought we were asleep and leave them on the table by the door."
"He thought we were asleep," Tommen clarified, giggling. "We weren't asleep."
"You weren't?" Sansa gasped, faking outrage.
"We were never asleep," Myrcella looked to her mother and whispered quietly to Sansa.
Queen Cersei watched this exchange from across the carriage with a small smile that did not reach her eyes. The smile reached her mouth and stopped there, and beyond it was something that Sansa had been observing and cataloguing since Winterfell without quite being able to name. Not dislike, precisely. Something more complex, something with more moving parts to it, some of which were in conflict with each other.
After a while, the queen of the seven kingdoms spoke and said: "Come and sit beside me, Sansa."
The children settled. Sansa moved to the seat at Cersei's right, folding her sewing into her lap. The queen smelled of lavender oil and looked at her with green eyes that had a similar arresting quality to her sons.
"Do you love my son?" The question arrived cleanly, without preamble. Sansa did not have to think about it.
"Yes, your grace."
Cersei gave her a small cutting smile. Sansa could see that the queen was not surprised and for some reason that answer did not please her. Her future goodmother looked at her for a moment, as if weighing the quality of the yes against some internal measure. "And what do you imagine it will be like? Being… Queen."
"I imagine it will be..." Sansa picked her words with care, trying her best not to cause further offence. "An honour and a responsibility. I know it's more complicated than the stories. I know there is a lot work to it."
"Yes, a great deal of work in fact." Cersei's voice was even, "There is childbirth, which is not what the songs make it. It is long and brutal and frightening, and you will do it more than once, and each time you will wonder if this is the time that the gods decide to balance the account. But then you will look at your children…" Tommen and Myrcella were busy with their work, paying no attention to their mother's words. "…And perhaps it shall be worth it.
Sansa held her composure.
"And there are the years in between," the queen continued, "when your husband is occupied with the business of kings, which is a business that does not always include you, and you must find the shape of your own authority in the spaces that are left. That is the real work. Anyone can perform the ceremonies." Cersei's were crawling over her skin, stripping her bare, past the dress and her well washed skin to the essence within. They seemed to find her wanting. "Although — I will say this — you are more fortunate than I was. Joffrey will not leave you screaming at the childbed for huntsmen and whores." The Queen spoke from experience and seemed lost in a memory.
"No," Sansa said softly, feeling pity for this woman. "I don't think he will."
Cersei looked at her, and for just a moment the thing behind the queen's eyes shifted into something almost open — something that might, in someone whose walls were less thoroughly constructed, have been called envy.
Then someone knocked on the side of the wheelhouse. A sharp rap, the sound of a gauntleted fist.
"Your grace," a voice called through, "Riders from kingslanding."
The riders were brought four. Sansa saw them from the wheelhouse steps.
A kingsguard in his white cloak, young and clear-eyed; A man, who from Prince Joffrey's description could only be Renly Baratheon, stood in forest green with golden antlers on his helm. He was without a doubt the second most handsome man she had ever seen. By his side was a man she dreaded, Ser Ilyn Payne, the voiceless, the king's justice, who made the hairs on her arms rise even from a distance, a silent gaunt man with eyes like pale stones and a two-handed sword on his back; and the fourth figure, still helmed, in a suit of plain blue armour that had been worn hard and used thoroughly and not chosen for beauty.
The queen descended the wheelhouse steps, and greeted them. "You and the council do us a great honour my lords."
The men knelt. Sansa came down behind her, remembered her courtesies, and performed them — a small curtsy for Ser Arys, Ser llyn and the blue knight, and a slightly larger one for Lord Renly, because he was the king's brother and deserved the extra depth. Ser llyn looked at her strangely with those pale colourless eyes before he turned and faced the queen. Sansa watched him look away found she did not mind.
"My lady Sansa," Lord Renly said, with the warmth of a man who distributes charm on principle and means all of it simultaneously. "I have heard a great deal about you from the Joffrey's letters. He speaks of nothing else."
"His grace is most kind," she said.
"He can be when he's winning." Renly said cheerfully. "Though he does have a tendency to rub one's losses in their face." Sansa knew not what he spoke of but nodded anyway.
The fourth knight removed his helm.
Sansa had expected… she did not know exactly what she had expected. Some gallant face to go with the armour.
What she found was a woman, very tall, with close-cropped straw-gold hair and a wide, plain homely face, with earnest blue eyes that moved over the gathering with the quick assessment of someone used to measuring environments for threat. She was not beautiful, and would likely never be, but she didn't not cower or seem particularly bothered with this lot in life. She smiled at Sansa with what seemed like recognition.
She smiled at Sansa with what seemed like recognition.
"Brienne of Tarth," the woman stepped forward introduced herself, simply, and bowed.
"Well met, my lady." said Sansa, despite the strange circumstances.
"The king is gone hunting, but I know he will be pleased to see you when he returns," the
queen was saying to the two knights, a note of displeasure in her voice. At what, Sansa could not say.
Then Joffrey was there, his golden hair shining like a crown in the sunlight, appearing from behind Ser Boros, crossing the space to embrace his uncle with the ease of genuine affection. "Nuncle," He clapped him on the back. "I was wondering who they'd send."
"Littlefinger and Pycell seemed about ready to fight for the honour. But I reminded them that I am the king's brother and they must needs concede." Lord Renly laughed. "Word in King's Landing is that you've been terrorising the northern wastes."
"I wouldn't say that. The beer is strong, though the taverns are few and far between." Joffrey said. He turned to the lady in plate and smiled. "Brienne." She flushed, and the flush went all the way to her ears, and she stood slightly straighter.
"My prince." Brianne went to a knee.
Joffrey chuckled and pulled her up. "Rise my lady." The prince looked to his uncle. "Thank you for bringing her."
"Of course," Renly said softly. "Though she would have came with or without me." The lady looked away but did not deny it.
Joffrey turned to Sansa and gestured. "I have asked the lady Brienne of Tarth to serve as your sworn sword, my lady. She is one of the finest fighters I have come across." He paused. "And she won't fall entranced with your beauty."
There was a laugh from somewhere in the crowd, and Sansa blushed, and pressed her hand to the dragonglass stone at her collarbone. Joffrey had thought of everything. With his every word and gesture he became more beautiful to her.
Sansa thought of the good Queen Alysanne, whose sworn protector had been a woman knight. She had always loved that part of the story.
I am in a story, she decided. I am in my own perfect story.
"You have news for my father? He is away, but I can deliver it to him later." Joffrey said to Renly. "Come, Nuncle. We can walk and talk."
As they were going past, her prince took her hand and whispered to her. "You should hear this too, my lady. Come and see what the affairs of the realm look like. You will need to know them well enough."
She fell into step beside him as they walked. Brienne followed at a respectful distance. Sansa felt eyes glaring at her back, she turned and locked eyes with the queen. Sansa flinched and looked away as quickly as she could.
The morning sun was bright and the day was clear as they walked.
"The small council?" Joffrey asked.
Renly glanced between her and Joffrey and then shrugged. The kings brother spoke, and though his words were serious, his tone was joking. Routine business, the disputes, a petition from the Riverlands, and Stannis, still on Dragonstone, still not writing, still sulking. Renly's voice when he spoke of Stannis had a quality she could not quite read — all exasperation, half something more complicated.
"I'll speak to Father about it," Joffrey said. "Nuncle will come back to his senses."
"As you say nephew," The Lord of Storms end laughed. He bent, picked up a rock, tossed it at a tree and continued speaking. "Your grandfather's fleet. The letters from Lannisport indicate the construction is progressing well. Those bravosii men are doing their best to demonstrate the process."
"That's good." Joffrey nodded. "Though things would move faster if the crown weren't in such debt." He said it without drama, the way he said most things — as a fact in the world, a thing to be worked with.
"We'd be a worse position without Baelish, he truly is a wizard."
"I wish he were a better one." Joff sighed and ran a hand through his hair.
"Don't we all." Renly chuckled.
"When Lord Paxter arrives, I want him on the council. Some advisory role. He knows shipping and he knows finance and I would rather have that knowledge inside the room than outside it."
"I see no reason for him not to accept," Renly said. His lips settled into a smirk. "His daughter is also arriving with him. Lord Paxter has been very attentive about ensuring you knew she was coming."
"I see." Joffrey looked slightly amused. "Lady Desmera will do very well for our purposes." He glanced at Sansa. "She'll be part of your household, my lady. Her father is Lord of the Arbor. That makes her useful to have close, you remember what we spoke of.
Sansa nodded. "Of course, my prince."
"Nuncle, is that all?" Joffrey asked.
"Unless I'm forgetting something." He said, his smile dancing at his lips.
"I shall take it to father when he and Lord Stark return."
"Good, then my work here is finished." Renly said. He turned to her, bowed, and brought her fingers to his lips. "My lady, Joff, I'll leave you now, I haven't eaten in what feels like moons."
Lord Renly made his leave after that. Sansa and the prince continued on. Brianne's footsteps echoing paces behind them.
"Most lords are managed through their interests," Joffrey said to her, instructing carefully. "Through what they want and what they fear and what they believe. But most men of that station are led, eventually, in the end, by their wives or their women. Their wives know them better than any councillor does, and their wives' friendships matter more than any alliance I can forge over a table." He looked at her. "The women you gather to your household, the friendships you build — they are part of the work. Do you understand?"
"Yes," she said. "I've been thinking about how I can help you since Winterfell, your grace. I won't fail you."
Joffrey looked at her for a moment with those gold eyes, steady and warm, and then leaned over and kissed her cheek, his lips warm and brief against her skin, and she felt the heat of it spread all the way to her hairline and she pressed her lips together and looked at the road ahead because did not trust herself to speak.
The horses were being brought up for the afternoon ride, Ghost was padding at Jon's heel in the distance. The day was ahead of them, long and bright.
"Come," Joffrey said, and offered his arm, and she took it. "The sun is out, let us make a day of it."
Last edited: Jun 8, 2026
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DDragonman
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#23
EDDARD
The city roared.
Ned had forgotten that about King's Landing. The noise of it, the particular quality of sound that three hundred thousand people in such close proximity could produce when moved to the same emotion at the same moment. It was not like the roar of a tournament crowd, which had shape and direction. This was something larger, something without edges, without aim, a sound that came from the walls and the streets and the bodies pressed deep along the Kingsroad as the royal column wound its way through the Mud Gate and into the city proper. It pressed against him like a physical thing.
"The King! Robert! Robert! Robert Baratheon!"
"The stag! The stag! King Robert!"
The king rode at the column's head his crowns golden antlers catching the midday sun, and the sound the city made for him was large and genuine and told Ned something true about the man's relationship with his people. Whatever Robert had let himself become in the privacy of the Red Keep, out here, on horseback, he was still that warrior king who had won their freedom, and they had not forgotten it.
Then the chant shifted. Or did not shift, precisely, but doubled.
"Joff! Joffrey! Prince Joffrey!"
Ned turned in his saddle and found his son beside him, watching, his smile knowing. The column had separated somewhat as they entered the city — the press of bodies and the narrowing of streets did what three hundred miles of kingsroad had not managed to do, breaking the long procession into sections.
Joffrey had ridden ahead with Ser Barristan and Renly, his golden hair no longer visible at a distance, and still the sound the city made for him was not smaller than what it had made for his father.
The same, Ned thought. Near enough to the same that a man would have to listen twice to be certain of the difference.
He had known the prince was loved. You could not spend a fortnight on the road with hundreds of people without learning what they truly thought, and what they thought of Joffrey had been consistent and clear. It was respect from the knights, and affection from the servants, with something approaching reverence from the men of the household who had served longest.
But there was a difference between knowing a thing and watching the evidence of it fill a street from wall to wall, ten thousand people pressing forward to call a boy of fourteen's name.
He has earned this, Ned thought, they would not be so enamoured with him otherwise.
Ned looked down the column, where the Lannister banners hung comparatively still around the queens wheelhouse. The lions were there, red on gold, and they were recognised — yes. Men pointed, there was muttering, there was acknowledgement of the queen's power and her family's, but there was no roar for the name Lannister, and no love in its utterance. There was no reaching forward, no wreathes thrown, no bodies pressing against the guards' line to see better. The city knew its Lannisters and greeted them with the careful reserve of people who had long learned to be careful.
No wonder, Ned thought. He remembered what this city had looked like the last time he had entered it through these gates. He remembered Lannister gold everywhere, the city sacked and burning, and Aerys dead on the floor, Jaime up on the throne—his sword dripping blood, Prince Rhaegar's children wrapped in red cloaks so that Tywin Lannister's men would not have to look at what they had done.
The city remembered too, whatever the smallfolk pretended in the daylight hours.
The hand of the king followed the column in and tried not to think about it, and thought about it anyway.
He had hoped for a bath. He had hoped for a bath and a meal and an hour of silence in which to adjust to the fact that this place, which he had left without looking back some sixteen years ago and sworn never to return to, was now to be his home for however long Robert needed him.
What he received instead was a nervous steward.
The young man was waiting in the inner courtyard as Ned dismounted — tall, with the broad shoulders and solid build of someone who had not been allowed to stop training since he was old enough to hold a sword, but with a face that did not match the body. The face was round and uncertain, with quick intelligent eyes that flickered from Ned to the approaching household and back again, and he held himself as if at any moment he may have to flee. He was perhaps sixteen.
"Lord Stark," he said, with a bow that was correct but slightly too enthusiastic, betraying the effort and anxiety behind it. "I am Samwell Tarly, son of Lord Randyll Tarly. I have the honour of serving as acting lord steward of the Red Keep in his grace's absence. Grandmaester Pycelle has called for an urgent meeting of the small council. Your chambers in the Tower of the Hand have been prepared. If there is anything you require—"
"Grand Maester Pycelle has called for a meeting," Ned repeated.
A slight wince moved across the young man's face. "He has, my lord. At your earliest convenience."
Ned looked at the boy. He looked at the boy's shoulders and his arms, which were those of someone trained from childhood and at the boy's face, which was that of someone who had absorbed the training but did not seem any sturdier for it. The contradiction was marked.
"My earliest convenience will be after I have changed into something that does not stink of weeks on the road," Ned said. "Can you find me something more presentable?"
The relief in Samwell Tarly's face was disproportionate to the simplicity of the request. "O-of course, my lord. Immediately."
"And your father…" Ned added, "is he well?" Because Ned had known of Randyll Tarly and the Tarlys were sworn to the Tyrells and the Tyrells were looking to be part of this new arrangement whether Ned had fully reconciled himself to it or not.
The boy hesitated, contemplating whether or not to answer. "Very well, my lord. Thank you."
Ned let the boy lead him toward the Tower, and turned to find Vayon Poole working his way through the press of arriving horses and wagons with the ease and certainty that years of serving had brought.
"The Tower of the Hand," Ned told him. "See to the rooms. I'll want everything unpacked before nightfall."
"My lord," Poole said, and was already moving.
Sansa appeared from the crowd with Lady at her heels and Brienne of Tarth just a step behind, ever his daughter's shadow.
The Maid of Tarth, men had taken to calling her. Though Ned suspected she did not love the name, she had not complained about it either. She was watching the courtyard with a methodical attention, her eyes flitting quickly from body to body, assessing, dismissing, moving on.
She's good, Ned thought, for not the first time. He had watched her spar some with the knights on the road and he had watched her work twice during the march south, once when a freerider had managed to find himself too close to Sansa's position while drunk, and once when a Lannister man-at-arms had said something he should not have said within earshot of the Hand's daughter.
Both incidents had been resolved before Ned had finished registering that they were incidents. Brienne of Tarth was simply there, and then the problem was not.
He was grateful for it. It was one less thing to worry about. The hand had enough worries.
It was good of Joffrey, he thought, and then let himself think it fully rather than shying from it as he had been shying for weeks. It was a thoughtful thing to do.
Brianne is a lady, no matter what some may whisper. The prince had said. Without her sister or her mother here with us, I felt it best to ask another lady to protecther. They'll get along and you and I shall both be at ease my Lord.
He had been watching the prince with a northern lord's caution since Winterfell, looking for the seam in the gold, waiting for the thing underneath to show itself. He had not found it yet. He was not certain whether this relieved him or unsettled him more.
"Father," Sansa greeted when she noticed him, with a smile that had been her default expression for the last six weeks. She launched at him to hug him and he stumbled back a step.
That forced a laugh out of him. "Not that I'm complaining, but what's brought this on?"
Sansa beamed up at him. "They were shouting my name father! When they called out for the prince they called out for me too."
"Of course they did." Ned explained. "You shall be their queen one day." He had had seven years to think about it since Robert had first spoke to him of the idea. Ned had been unsure of it still, all these years later. Starks did not fair well in the south and he wasn't sure if this betrothal was what was best for Sansa.
Catlyn had not understood. "Our daughter shall be queen, Ned."
But every time he thought of the word queen, he remembered Elia Martell and her children. Just the thought of that or something similar being Sansa's fate made him want to shut down the entire thing.
But…
Eddard stark was a weak man. He could not deny his daughter this. Not when he had not seen her unhappy since the column left Winterfell. Ned was glad of it, and he stored it with the other gladnesses and tried not to think too much about how many things could go wrong.
"I have a meeting, Sansa." he told her. "I must go."
"We know." Ned looked over his daughter's shoulder to see his son. Jon looked at ease, it was sobering to realise that he looked more comfortable here in the redkeep than he ever had at Winterfell after Ned had confessed in the Godswood. "Samwell's been telling everyone who'd listen. I wish you good luck, father."
The note in Jon's voice was affectionate and dry simultaneously, it spoke of what he thought of the small council meetings.
Ned looked at him for a moment. This boy who was not his boy, who had grown into a man under his name and care and whom he loved as truly as he loved Robb, who now knew a truth that could end him—end them both and all Ned held dear.
"No doubt I shall need it." He said to his son, before looking back down at his happy daughter. "Stay close to Lady,"
He placed a quick kiss on her head, braced himself and went to the meeting.
They were four when he entered: Renly, green and decorative, looking like a young Robert just stepping out of the trident. Speaking with him was a short man Ned knew could only be Littlefinger, who turned to smile at him as if the two of them were privy to a joke that no one else knew. There was Varys—the eunuch, the spider—who smelled of flowers and said Lord Stark, we are so pleased you've arrived with warmth that was neither wanted nor appreciated. Pycelle, the aged grandmaester sat vast and slow in his chair, his chains clinking softly as he folded and refolded his hands.
The king's seat sat empty, which could not have boded well.
"Perhaps we should wait for his grace and the others," Ned said once they were all seated. "We are but five."
Renly laughed. It was not unkind. "If we wait for Robert, my lord, we shall be here until the sun sets in the east."
"Our good king has graciously entrusted certain smaller matters to the council," Varys said, "We serve at his — and now your — pleasure, my Lord Hand."
"And the others?" Ned asked, looking around and wondering what he had gotten himself into.
"Ser Barristan was with the prince last I saw." Said Renly. "Though our aged knight is rarely in attendance anyway if the king is not."
"And Lord Stannis continues to enjoy dragonstone with his lady wife." The Grand Maester supplied.
"Enjoy is one word for it I suppose," Renly chuckled. "Though I doubt my brother has enjoyed a day with Selyse since he took her to bed to do his duty."
"Who would?" Japed Baelish. "His 'duty' has a more hair on her lips than Stannis has on his head."
There was a smattering at laughter and tittering at the comment, the loudest being from Renly, though Ned felt not a flicker of amusement.
Ned looked at the empty seat and then at the four men arrayed before him and it was clear: I do not belong in this room. He had thought it at Winterfell, when Robert had asked him, and he had set it aside because Robert needed him and duty was duty.
He thought it again now, more precisely, looking at four faces that all understood something about this place that he did not and were not planning to explain it.
Then the door opened, and Prince Joffrey strode through looking none the worse for wear. The prince was dressed in a dark blue velvet with a chain around his neck, dozens of gold stags embroidered on his doublet and a gold threaded half cape over one shoulder.
Behind him came a man in his middle years with the high-bridged nose and precise bearing of a lord from the Reach, who took in the room and its occupants with a measured glance. Ned knew this man. He was older than he had been at Greyjoys rebellion and when Ned had arrived to lift the siege from Storm's end, silver strands visible in his hair.
The council had been making to rise.
"Be seated my lords," Said Joffrey, gesturing them down. "Forgive the delay, the High Septon felt a blessing was in order."
The returning blessing was meant to be given to the king upon a return after a length away from the city. He would be anointed with the seven oils to give thanks to the seven. It would not be surprising for anyone to learn that Robert found it tedious and found what he thought was a better way to enjoy his return to the city. It seemed the high septon felt a prince would do where a king could not.
The King's son glanced at the empty chair. "My father sends his regrets and his directives, as you know." He took a seat — not the king's seat, but the seat to its left, which was its own statement. "No doubt some of you have met him before, but this is Lord Paxter Redwyne of the Arbor, recently appointed to an advisory role on matters of trade and finance. I thought his perspective might be useful today."
Lord Redwyne bowed his head slightly, "My lords, it is an honour to sit this council with you."
"My lord Redwyne," Renly said, lifting up his wine glass. "The honour is ours, you shall fit right in."
"I did not know you were coming my lord," Ned started. "I trust all was well on the trip?"
"It was, it was. My daughter and I arrived safely a few days ago." Redwyne gave a smile to Robert's son as he said it. "And might I congratulate you on your appointment, Lord Eddard. A fine hand of the king you shall make."
"Thank you, my lord."
Redwyne spoke to each member and the council simply adjusted to the new reality that their prince had engineered.
He does this naturally, Ned thought, watching. He walks into a room and the room rearranges itself without issue.
"Shall we get to business then? My father has one directive for this meeting," Joffrey said. He nodded to his uncle.
Renly produced a tightly rolled paper from with his sleeve and handed it to Ned. "A tourney. In honour of the new Hand and the betrothal."
Ned unfolded the paper and read it.
He read it twice, because he thought he must have misread it the first time. He made to read it a third time, sure his eyes were failing him.
"Lord Stark, you look faint." Varys noted with what might have been worry.
"Fourteen days," Ned muttered with dismay.
"Of tourney and feasting," Renly confirmed. "He was quite enthusiastic about it."
"How much?" Littlefinger asked, his tone mild.
"The prizes alone—" Ned looked at the numbers again. The prize money was staggering. "Fifty thousand golden dragons to the champion. Thirty thousand to the man who comes second, another thirty to the winner of the melee, and fifteen thousand to the victor of the archery competition. This is outrageous."
And that was just to start. Everything beneath it; the arrangements, the provisions, the construction required, the performers…
"One hundred and twenty five thousand golden dragons." Said Lord Redwyne, he looked to the master of coin. "Will the treasury handle the debt?"
There was a silence with a particular quality. Littlefinger blinked at him. "What treasury my Lord? I must needs do what I do best when money needs to appear—borrow."
Ned could not believe his ears. "Why would we need to borrow?"
"The crown is in substantial debt," Littlefinger explained to him as if he were simple.
"How substantial?" Ned was dreading the answer.
"Some four million gold dragons," Joffrey said simply, looking down at the kings letter.
Ned looked at him, aghast. "Four million!—"
"It might have been worse," Joffrey said. "Lord Arryn and I spent the better part of three years limiting my father's expenditures and convincing Lord Tywin to absorb certain obligations that were more properly Lannister family matters than crown debts." Something moved briefly in his eyes. "Jon Arryn was a good financial steward as well as everything else. He will be dearly missed."
Still. Ned turned to the supposed 'master of coin'. "Aerys Targaryen left a treasury flowing with gold. How could you let this happen?"
Littlefinger gave a shrug. "The master of coin finds the money. The king and the Hand spend it."
"I will not believe that Jon Arryn allowed Robert to beggar the realm," Ned said hotly.
"My Lord hand," Prince Joffrey began patiently, "you knew my father well, but you do not know the king."
Grand Maester Pycelle shook his great bald head, his chains clinking together softly. "Lord Arryn was a prudent man, but I fear that His Grace did not always listen to wise counsel. It was only through Prince Joffrey's, and the hand's, effort that our king deigned to allow some limit on his spending at all."
"My royal brother loves his tournaments and feasts," Renly Baratheon said, "and he loathes what he calls 'the counting of coppers.' "
Ned absorbed this. The realm was millions of gold dragons in debt, and it would have been worse if a fourteen-year-old prince and an old man had not worked it down. And now Robert wanted to spend a meaningful fraction of that progress on fourteen days of feasting.
"I will speak to the king," Ned declared.
"You are welcome to," Renly said. "Though we'd best make our plans anyway."
"Another time." Ned said, perhaps a bit too sharply. He felt their eyes on him, Joffrey's most of all. He had forgotten himself, here he was not lord of Winterfell where his word was law but the first among equals and in the presence of the Prince of the realm at that.
"Forgive me, my lords." The hand called out in a softer voice. "The journey was tiring."
"Think nothing of it, my Lord hand. I know the debt is staggering. But we are chipping away at it, little by little. It should be of some comfort to you all to know that the Faith will be manageable in time," the crown prince said. "I have some thoughts about that specific situation, but they'll have to wait for some years at least until I'm in a position to act on them formally." He did not say until I'm king, but the meaning was present. "For now, I expect we can convince my father to trim the ambitions of the tourney somewhat. He'll want some feasting regardless, but not fourteen days of it. How long would the wedding last then I wonder? A moon? Two?" Joffrey laughed. "Don't worry my lords, I shall get him to reconsider." He peered at Littlefinger. "You'll find the coin."
"I find it where I always find it, my prince." Littlefinger said, in the tone of a man who has made peace with performing miracles on a schedule. "It may be a touch slower this time."
The conversation took a different turn.
"It should wait," Ned said, when the Grand Maester brought the subject of the royal marriage up. Littlefinger's smile seemed less natural on his face.
"Yes," said Joffrey, easily. Then, with the glimmer of something, "Though the delay is more for the realm's comfort than the lady Sansa's. She would have married me yesterday, if I'd but asked." He looked at Ned with those gold eyes, steady and entirely without guile. "I am not unaware of my good fortune in that regard, Lord Stark. I intend to deserve it."
Ned looked at him for a long moment. He thought of Sansa's face in the courtyard, of weeks of smiling, of the blue favour on Joffrey's wrist in every yard and training ground between Winterfell and the capital.
He thought of himself and Robert at sixteen, and at twenty, and at the age they were now, and what he knew of men and what he still didn't know.
For some reason, Ned believed him. He was not entirely sure what to do with that either.
"I believe you shall, my prince. I think that will be enough for today," Ned said after a time. "I am tired. Let us resume at another time."
Robert's son rose, speaking with Lord Redwyne and his uncle as they made their leave. Renly did not seem at all displeased to be in the company of the man who besieged his home and left him eating rats. Stannis on his return from dragonstone would not be as quick to forgive as his brother.
"Grand Maester, could I have a word?" Ned said once his saw the man struggling to his feet.
They sojourned in the maester's chambers, which smelled of old parchment and a dozen competing medicinal preparations. The Grand Maester moved with the careful deliberation of a very old man that had learned to make his slowness look like gravitas, and had iced milk brought without being asked, which Ned found he was grateful for, though it was a bit too sweet for his taste.
"I would like to speak of Jon Arryn." Ned said, when they were settled.
Pycelle's hands folded over his enormous chain and spoke softly. "A good man. A great man. The realm is diminished by his loss."
"His illness, Grand maester." Ned said. "What can you tell me?"
The old man blinked curiously at him for a moment. "A fever of the gut, my Lord. Not uncommon in men of his age. I have seen quite a few go that way. He had been weakening for some moons, you see. No doubt you have heard all this before Lord Stark."
He had, it was always the same story. What Jon had told him, what Robert had said, what the ravens from King's Landing had reported to Winterfell before they departed — all of it told the same story. An old man, weakening gradually, then rapidly, then gone.
"And you are sure that it was a natural illness that took away Lord Arryn." Ned said carefully.
Pycelle was quiet for a moment. His eyes, which were rheumy and suggested a man somewhat diminished by age, seemed to gain clarity all at once. "You feel there is something amiss my Lord?"
"Not I," Ned shook his head. "His wife believes it to be murder."
Pycelle frowned at that. "In the near forty years since I was appointed grand maester by the conclave, I have seen all manner of illness. Jon Arryns was no stranger than any other. And if you'll forgive me my bluntness, Lord stark, but the lady Lysa is no doubt deranged by grief, by which she has had no lack off." A sad look came upon the aged maesters face. "She endured many a miscarriage during her union with Lord Jon and each one seemed a blow to her mind. It is why she cleaved to little Robert so, at all times seeing daggers in the dark that she no doubt thought were meant to bring harm on her son. The death of her husband would have been a further devastating blow to her mental humors. It surprises me not to know that she believes it murder."
The picture painted of Lysa Arryn by all who knew her was giving no credence at all to the letter he had received at Winterfell.
"And you are sure Jon could not have been poisoned?"
The aged maester shifted in his seat, clearly uncomfortable with the topic. "A disturbing thought. This is not the Free Cities, where such things are common. Grand Maester Aethelmure wrote that all men carry murder in their hearts, yet even so, the poisoner is beneath contempt." Pycelle took a sip of his iced milk and was quiet for a moment. He chewed his lips before speaking. "It is possible, even the slowest of hedge knights could brew poison. But Lord Arryn was loved. He was honest, he was fair, he served the realm genuinely. I can think of no one who wished him ill." He paused. "No one with both the motive and the means."
"Poison is said to be a woman's weapon," Ned said, without inflection.
"Sometimes," Pycelle said, with the care of a man selecting his words from a very small number of safe ones. "A cravens, a woman's… a eunuchs." He looked at Ned. "Did you know that the spider hails from Lys? I would not trust Varys, my lord. I would not trust what he tells you or what he seems to offer you. He has served three kings and every one of those kings was diminished by the service."
Ned did not plan to.
"What was Lord Arryn's state of mind in those last months?" Ned asked.
Pycelle considered this with what seemed like genuine remembrance. "Lord Jon had came to me with regard to a specific book, after which he spent a great deal of time with the prince. With Joffrey. They had always been close, but this was more than was typical in those final months — I had the impression he was anxious to pass something on. Some knowledge, some understanding perhaps. He was a man who knew he was dying before the fever declared itself fully." The old maester was quiet for a moment. "In that last week, when the fever had him properly, he called for them. His king and the prince. Robert. Joffrey. Their names were never far from his lips."
"What did he want from them?"
"I'm not certain he knew himself, by then. The fever was very high." Pycelle unfolded and refolded his hands. "Whether he wanted Robert to protect and guide the boy, or the son to protect and guide his king — I could not say. Perhaps both. Perhaps he simply wanted them near."
"Could he not have meant his own son, Robert?" Ned asked.
The grand maester took a moment to consider it, his nod was as slow and deliberate as any glacier in the shivering sea.
"That is a possibility." Said Pycelle, tugging at his beard. "Jon Arryn and I sat the council together for many a year. He was quite pleased when the prince began to attend the meetings. It was clear Lord Arryn viewed the prince to be like a son to him as well. Perhaps he meant for Joffrey to guide sweet robin, as Lord Jon knew his mother smothered him. Whether he meant king Robert or his own son, only the gods can say."
"I see. My thanks, Grand maester. You have been quite accommodating." Ned stood.
"Oh it was no bother my lord, no bother at all." The maester meant to rise but Ned had no need to witness the act again and gestured him down.
"Say, the book that Lord Arryn asked for, I should be curious to examine it."
"Ah," the grandmaester tugged his beard and spoke. "Unfortunately my Lord, the book was returned to the citadel. It was a dry tome on lineages. If it is your wish my Lord, I could request to have it sent back, but that wouldn't be for sometime."
Though the maester's words and seeming was apologetic, Pycelle's eyes were staring at him and held not a hint of remorse.
Ned thought about it but decided to leave it be. "That won't be necessary Grand Maester, thank you for your time."
It was after dark when Alyn entered his room.
"My Lord," he started. "Lord Baelish is without and begs an audience."
Ned frowned, looking up. "Direct him to the solar."
Littlefinger had made himself comfortable by the window when he arrived. The little man looked the same as he had during the meeting, with that same glib smile.
"What do you want my Lord?" Ned asked, his voice cooler than he intended, but it could not be helped.
He remembered Jon's words at Winterfell. 'Everybody trusts Lord littlefinger. There is little reason not to, but… and I mean no disrespect to Lady Stark but there have been rumours… some say the words came from Lord Baelish himself, that he deflowered both the Tully girls during his stay at Riverrun, and perhaps it is baseless boasting, but all knew that the Lady Lysa greatly favoured littlefinger and that it was her who convinced Lord Jon to bring him to court. I thought it best if you knew father.'
He had spoke to Cat about it and she had sworn it not to be true. To be slander and lies, she had not spoken to littlefinger in years, and she had never seen him as more than a little boy brought by her father to foster at Riverrun.
She came to his bed a maiden she swore. On all the seven and on the old gods as well, she would never have dishonoured him so. And Ned believed her. She had given him five beautiful children and had been a better wife that he could have asked for.
But though he said it was because of Rickon and watching over Arya and guiding Robb, deep down Eddard knew a part of the reason he had not let her come with them to Kingslanding had been because of Jon's words.
He knew now he had been wrong to doubt however. Perhaps if he had not been looking for it, he may have missed it. But looking into Baelish's eyes at the council and now, with the slight mocking in them, Eddard knew that this man hated him and that he could not trust a word he was to say.
"You've had a long day, Lord Stark," Baelish said pleasantly. "I'll try to be brief."
"I'd appreciate that," Ned said, keeping his face still and his voice calm.
"I had a letter from Lysa," Littlefinger said. "No doubt Cat has had one as well. She believes the Lannisters killed Jon Arryn."
Ned frowned slightly and thought of what to say. The words were easy to repeat, in part because he believed them. "Lysa is grieving, She has lost her husband. Grief does strange things to a person's—"
"I've known Lysa and Cat since we were children," Littlefinger said, Ned did not feel like he imagined the emphasis on the word known. He fought desperately against the urge to throttle the man. "Lysa is like a sister to me. I know the difference between Lysa grieving and Lysa seeing clearly." He looked at Ned. "She is grieving, yes. But she is also right."
Ned was quiet for fear his true feelings would show.
"I made her a promise," Littlefinger said. "That I would help you find the truth of it. I intend to keep that promise."
"The Lannisters have no motive," Ned ground out eventually. "Jon Arryn served them as well as he served anyone. He was not an enemy to their interests. He was—"
"He was beginning to ask questions," Littlefinger shook his head and cut him off again. "Quietly. Carefully. He came to me about more than financial matters in the weeks before he fell ill. He didn't tell me what it was exactly. Lord Arryn was a careful man as you know. But something had his attention, and then he was dead, and whatever had his attention died with him." He tilted his head. "I have had some months to think about what that something might have been."
"And?" Ned said, with a caution that was mostly instinct.
"Not yet." Littlefinger smiled, which was its own kind of answer. "When I'm more certain." He rose from the chair with an unhurried ease, apparently having said what he came to say. "You asked why the Lannisters would do it. I'll tell you why they might. Because a man with no obvious motive is the last man anyone looks at. Because the absence of motive is its own protection." He moved toward the door. "That is exactly why it would be them."
Ned stared at him, this little man with his little smile.
"Sleep well, Lord Stark," Littlefinger said. "Tomorrow the city will still be here, and all its secrets with it."
Ned sat and thought about all he knew, and of the man's words. A man with no obvious motive is the last man anyone looks at.
The kings hand painted a picture of it, a man with no motive. The last man anyone would think of. He thought of that mocking smile and those laughing eyes.
The answer was clear as day.