Ned Stark POV
Eddard Stark's quiet life had been upended in the space of a single moon. Jon Arryn's death, Robert's coming to Winterfell, being named Hand of the King, and father to a future queen—none of it was asked for. None of it was wanted. He felt like a ship tossed upon high seas, driven by forces beyond his choosing. He had wanted only the North: Winterfell, Catelyn, his family. This life had been meant for his brother Brandon. Brandon was gone, and the burden had fallen to him instead.
The prince's death had been a blow to the realm, yet before Ned had even begun to reckon with it, another rider arrived from Winterfell bearing darker news. Bran had fallen from a tower. Ned could scarcely breathe when he heard it. His second son—the eager one, the climber, the boy who dreamed of swords and knighthood—lay broken. Bran had been ecstatic at the thought of becoming a page at the Eyrie, of setting out on an adventure as Ned himself once had. The gods, in their cruelty, had crushed those dreams without mercy.
Artys had come the day before, Jon Snow trailing behind him as his squire, or so the pretense went. Catelyn had scowled at Jon's presence, but Sansa had persuaded her mother to leave with her so she might eat. Bran's wolf refused to leave his side, pacing the tower entrance and baring its teeth at anyone who drew too close. It had been Artys who suggested the wolf remain with the boy. Ned had noticed then that Bran's breathing grew less ragged when the animal lay near him, and so he had allowed it.
Now Ned stood by the window, holding Catelyn's hand, staring out at the grey sky. A knock sounded at the door.
"The King wishes to have words with you, Lord Hand," said a knight of the Kingsguard.
Ned sighed. Robert would not summon him without cause. He did not want to leave Bran, not even for a moment, but Catelyn scarcely seemed aware of him now. Her eyes never left their son, fixed on his chest, watching it rise and fall as if her will alone might keep him breathing.
"Do not be long, Ned," she said, without looking at him.
"I shan't," Ned replied.
He was summoned again before he reached the stairs.
The godswood was quiet except for the wind in the leaves. Robert sat beneath the heart tree with a wineskin in his hand, his shoulders slumped. Ser Barristan stood nearby, helm under his arm.
Robert looked up when Ned approached. The King's eyes were sunken as he guzzled from the wineskin. "Sit, Ned," he commanded. Ned sat before the king on the gnarled roots of the weirwood. Robert thrust a parchment at him. "Read it. The eunuch sent word from King's Landing."
Ned read slowly.
"Daenerys Targaryen," Ned said. "Wed to a Dothraki khal."
"A horse lord! The beggar prince has sold his sister to a bloody horse lord!" Robert spat. "A savage with forty thousand riders. And I let it happen! I should have had them both killed—if it weren't for Jon."
Ned sighed, knowing Robert's hatred for the Targaryens ran deep. "It was wise counsel. You would have dishonored yourself if you had sent hired knives to slay children."
"Jon Arryn is dead," Robert snapped. He drank. "And now my son is dead too."
"He would have made a worse king than me, that son of mine…" Robert said, ashamed of the words coming out of his own mouth. "How could I have made a son like that, Ned? It shames me to say these things. Now Tommen… I won't fail him."
They sat in silence for a moment.
"You should have killed them all," Robert said. "Every last dragonspawn. I wanted it done years ago."
Ned folded the parchment. "She is a girl. No threat to us. I would fear the Dothraki the day they teach their horses to ride on water."
"Are you mad? There are those who call me usurper behind my back to this day," Robert growled. "They hide under rocks, and when that inbred whoreson lands on our shores, they will join him!"
"They are half a world away," Ned said, though he was not so confident anymore. It was common knowledge that Prince Oberyn had once tried to rally Dorne to crown Prince Viserys. Only when Jon Arryn went to Dorne with Prince Lewyn Martell's bones had peace been reached between the Iron Throne and Dorne.
"For now," Robert said.
Ned said nothing. He looked up at the sky and saw Artys's falcon grooming its feathers. Ned would have to tell Robert of his conversation with his nephew. The horses' heads had been brought to Winterfell for Maester Luwin to examine. The maester had been busy nursing Bran and preparing Joffrey's corpse for travel. If Luwin confirmed Artys's suspicions—which Ned now shared—he would have to inform his liege and his friend, and then… Robert's wrath would set the realm on fire.
Robert passed the wineskin. Ned drank.
"I have not changed my mind about joining our houses," Robert said. "Tommen is a boy of eight. Sansa is four years older—it makes no matter in this regard. After you come to King's Landing, I will announce it in court."
Ned's jaw tightened. "You honor me and my house, Your Grace."
Robert laughed once. "It should have been me and your sister… we will do now what we could not then."
Robert stared up at the tree. "I lost Jon. I lost Joff. Now with your boy… how is he?"
Ned watched the hawk perched in the branches grooming its feathers. "He is health is … delicate. But Luwin believes that if he lives another ten days, he may yet survive."
Robert nodded. "Aye. That is good to hear."
Artys POV
The midday meal had been set in one of Winterfell's smaller solar rooms, away from the noise of the great hall. Sunlight filtered through the narrow windows, catching on polished cups and the pale stone walls. Artys sat at the table with Myrcella beside him. Myrcella fed him a strip of bacon burnt nearly black from her own royal plate. Artys nibbled at her finger, making her giggle, though he tried to suppress the guilt stirring in his chest—not for killing Joffrey, but for hurting Myrcella.
His thoughts were interrupted by the door opening. Tyrion Lannister entered with Tommen at his side, Ser Meryn Trant following close behind.
Myrcella smiled. "Uncle—Tommen!" She rose from her chair, her blue silk gown whispering as she crossed the room to kiss Tyrion on the cheek.
"There you are, lovely as ever, my dear niece," Tyrion said lightly, though his voice lacked its usual humor.
Artys inclined his head. "You're welcome to join us."
Tyrion took a seat opposite them and poured himself wine. "I'm welcome everywhere today," he said. "No one has the heart to turn me away."
"I thought I smelled bacon. I'm famished," the Imp added, hoisting himself onto the chair and helping himself to sausages, bacon, and buttered bread. "My lord of Arryn, I hope you'll join me for a drink tonight. Did you know I plan on going to the Wall?"
Artys nearly spat out his wine. "The Wall? Now, now, Lord Tyrion. I know you're guilty of many crimes, but I'm sure your sweet sister the Queen could persuade His Grace to grant you a pardon."
Tyrion chuckled. "Me, taking the black and depriving you all of my wit and counsel? Never."
Tommen sat beside Myrcella, picking at a piece of bread. The plump boy was far from his usual cheerful self. Myrcella patted her younger brother's back and glanced at Tyrion. "How is Mother?"
Tyrion's mouth tightened. "She's still grieving and hasn't eaten. Jaime's with her, but…" He shrugged. "All we can do is let the grief run its course."
Myrcella swallowed. "I tried to see her this morning. She wouldn't let me in."
"She will," Tyrion said. "When she's ready."
Tommen finally spoke, his voice small. "Uncle Tyrion… is Joffrey really gone?"
The table fell quiet. Myrcella reached for Tommen's hand and squeezed it gently. "Yes," she said. "He is."
Tommen's lower lip trembled. "He always threatened to skin Ser Pounce and beat me, but… he was still my brother."
"I know," Myrcella said softly. "And it's natural to miss him."
Tyrion watched them for a long moment. "The gods have a cruel sense of timing," he said at last. "They take one child and maim another."
"Bran," Myrcella murmured.
"I hope he lives," Tommen said softly.
Myrcella patted his back. "Let us have faith," she said kindly.
Artys looked at the boy. One day, if he wished to rule, Tommen would have to die. The thought sat cold and unwelcome in his mind. Tommen had always looked up to him, watched him spar in the Red Keep, cheered him on at tourneys—much to Joffrey's contempt.
Tyrion nodded. "Yes. The Stark boy."
Artys leaned forward slightly. "Have you heard anything new?"
"No," Tyrion replied. "Only that he still breathes. Lady Catelyn hasn't left his side."
Tommen looked up at Artys, eyes wide. "Will Bran be all right? If he wakes…"
Artys held the boy's gaze. "We don't know yet," he said evenly. "But he's strong and getting stronger by the day."
Tommen nodded, as if storing the words away, and returned to his food, though his hands were still clumsy.
Tyrion turned to Artys. "You were with the hunt. Did you see what happened?"
"I was with Robb, on the other side of the party," Artys answered. "I only came after His Grace summoned us. It was rather gruesome."
Myrcella flinched.
"Rather queer," Tyrion said, swirling his wine. "Two horses throwing their riders and turning on them. You were the only one to notice, and have the wisdom have their heads brought to Maester Luwin."
Artys gave him a cool look. "Most were too deep in shock to think clearly when the heir to the realm lay mangled on the forest floor. I advised Lord Stark on ensuring that we are through ....in our examination before we come to conclusions."
Tyrion raised an eyebrow. "Aye. True enough. Most men wouldn't."
"My father taught me to look at what others ignore," Artys replied calmly. "Horses don't turn vicious without cause."
Myrcella glanced between them. "You think something frightened them?"
"Perhaps," Artys said.
Tyrion studied his face. "You seem to have suspicions, Lord Arryn."
"I'm saying," Artys replied, "that hunts are chaotic, and accidents are often blamed when answers are inconvenient."
Tyrion smiled faintly. "Careful words."
"We must keep our calm and get to the bottom of this sordid affair," Artys said. "I am not one to throw accusations or voice suspicions without evidence. Nor is this the place for such talk." He gestured toward Tommen.
Myrcella blinked at her husband and then at her uncle before turning back to Tommen, brushing crumbs from his doublet. "You'll be safe," she told him. "I promise."
Tommen looked up at her. "You won't leave me, will you?"
"No," she said at once. "Never."
Artys watched them both, his expression composed. Inside, his thoughts raced. Most of the realm's powerful players were distracted by Joffrey's death—or had yet to hear of it at all. He had a narrow window to act, and he had been cautious for too long. Ned waited on Maester Luwin to confirm the poison. Luwin seemed competent, but Artys could not afford delay. Cersei's grief would soon curdle into wrath, and he needed her to hear his suspicions in a way that did not lead back to him.
Tyrion drained his cup. "I suppose we'll all be expected to pretend this was ill luck," he said lightly, "until we find out otherwise."
"For now," Artys said.
"For now," Tyrion echoed. His mismatched eyes glinted with curiosity. Unlike most nobles, who saw Artys only as a gifted swordsman or Jon Arryn's perfect son, the dwarf knew better. He had long sensed that Artys's intelligence and competence far surpassed what his years suggested. Many an hour they had spoken together—of history, trade and coin. But the Dwarf was the least Arty's worries. Artys excused himself saying he would need to train his squires .
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It was the hour of the wolf, and in Winterfell that meant the constant howling of the direwolves echoing through stone and timber alike. Artys slipped from the bed quietly. Myrcella slept on, Marei wrapped around her, one arm flung protectively across the princess's waist.
Marei's eyes opened as Artys began to dress. He nodded once. She understood at once what he intended.
There was a spy among them.
A spy Cersei had placed among Myrcella's ladies-in-waiting.
Artys moved without haste, pulling on his clothes and stepping out into the adjoining chamber where Rosamund slept. He had instructed Alysanne to share the girl's bed that night, a small precaution among many. Rosamund Lannister was one of Cersei's many kin, thrust into Myrcella's service with little ceremony. The Queen had an endless supply of cousins and distant relations, each ready to serve as eyes and ears wherever she placed them.
The girl lacked Marei's quiet charm and sharp wit, and she did not have Alysanne's gentle sweetness either. Myrcella had taken an immediate dislike to her—too talkative, too eager—but endured her presence for her mother's sake. In time, Rosamund had managed to win some small measure of favor, enough that Myrcella permitted her to tend to her and even accompany her on hawking trips.
Artys had watched her closely. Rosamund was ambitious, that much was plain, and subtle in her questions. She asked many questions and seemed eager to learn every bit of gossip she could get her pretty hands on.
The Riverlands girls—Syra Bracken and Walda Frey—had erred badly by turning their noses up at Marei. Despite her beauty and wit, Marei was lowborn, a handmaiden rather than a noble lady-in-waiting, and they had made no effort to hide their disdain.Not to mention the longing looks that the Frey girl gave Artys even in Myrcella's presence, or the exaggerated giggles the Bracken girl let out at Artys's japes. All of this had earned them Myrcella's displeasure, which had been cold and curt.
While Myrcella was permissive of sharing her man with Alysanne and Marei, even her tolerance had limits, and she was as territorial and jealous as they came when it came to other women sniffing around her lord husband. The Lannister girl was far more cunning in this regard and kept a respectful distance from Artys and made sure never to seem eager or covetous.
Marei was her undisputed favorite, her closest confidant. Alysanne, sweet and eager as she was, came second. Artys opened the door to the adjoining bedroom where Alysanne and Rosamund slept. Alysanne rose gently from her bed and walked slowly toward him, embracing Artys. Artys slid his palm to the small of her back. "Good work, my sweet. Now light some candles and then join Myrcella in her bed."
Artys fed the dying hearth while Alysanne lit the candles as Rosamund Lannister slept, unaware. Artys latched the door shut as Rosamund Lannister of Lannisport began to stir in her bed, no doubt the brightness of the candles beginning to disturb her rest. Artys eyes bore into her still waking form, She was the third daughter of a second son of house Lannister of Lannisport. The girl was beautiful, her hair was Lannister blond but straight and she had nice hips and shapely breasts. A good prize for a landed knight or a wealthy merchant. It was the best she could hope for due to her birth. But the Lannister's were ambitious as they come and no doubt Cersei had promised her husband to buy her loyalty. Marei had informed him of Rosamund's intentions immediately but Artys had to bid his time, A spy that could be flipped was a valuable source of information and a way to misdirect his enemies . With Cersei debilitated with grief this was the perfect time to claim her pawn and feed her information Artys wanted her to know.